Touching the Wire

by Rebecca Bryn

  ‘Shocking again… Clear...’

  ‘We have output.’

  Chapter Seven

  Walt pushed Lucy on the swing. Push and let go, push and let go. Bunting hung in gay garlands between the trees: triangles of cloth in breezy colours… red, yellow, blue and green.

  Red triangles had denoted political prisoners, Jews wore yellow stars sewn to their clothes, and green triangles were for criminals. Gypsies were considered asocial and wore black, like murderers who were recruited for the role of Kapo or Blockälteste and inflicted their own particular brand of savage control on their fellow inmates. Jehovah’s Witnesses wore purple, and homosexuals, pink. They were all considered enemies of the Reich. The swing came back into his hands. Push and let go.

  ‘Push, Grandpa.’

  He pushed.

  ‘Harder.’

  He pushed harder, hoping he wasn’t overdoing things. At eleven, the twins were growing tall, and heavy to push. The trip to the local park was their first family outing since his heart attack six weeks ago. He felt alive, if a little more mortal.

  ‘Higher, Grandpa.’

  Charlotte ran across to him and climbed on the next swing. ‘Push me too, Grandpa.’

  Jennie intervened quickly. ‘I’ll do it.’

  She meant well but it made him feel old. He shrugged the feeling away and pushed Lucy higher. He’d already lived far longer than he should: far longer than his sepia girl. He concentrated on her life, not her death, as he pushed and let go, pushed and let go with a hypnotic rhythm.

  Despite sealing Miriam’s photo away, he couldn’t seal away his guilt. More and more he found himself reading her written words, and every word accused him. Ma Darja megérintette a vezetéket. Could he have done things differently? The slides and climbing frames became watch towers and barbed wire. The leaves on the birch trees were turning yellow, and dust blew across the grey earth and stung his eyes. A voice called. Miriam?

  ‘Darja… Please…’ She tried to hold the woman’s arm.

  Pale tracks of tears streaked Darja’s dirty face. Somehow she found the strength to twist away and run.

  ‘Darja, nincs... nicht... no.’

  Darja ran with Miriam in pursuit. He pounded after them, sure of a rifle’s cross-hairs following their progress. ‘Darja… Miriam… Stop!’

  Darja leapt at the wire. Her hands gripped it. Her back arched and spasmed as the electricity arced through her, her face frozen in a mask of pain. Miriam screamed and reached for her. He snatched her arm away and held her in a grip of steel as she struggled to get free. Darja’s body hung on the wire. He’d killed her baby and broken her heart.

  Guards arrived with long, hooked poles to pull down the body and drag it away. For Darja it was over.

  ‘Why did I have to play God? She could have had precious hours with her daughter before they were both killed. I took even those from her.’

  Miriam’s eyes were soft with tears. ‘You did what you thought best, Chuck. How could she have taken her new-born to the ovens? Watched her burn alive… suffered the same fate. You saved her that horror.’

  ‘They say they use babies as kindling… efficiency…’ His voice broke. He let her go. It was dangerous to show love or compassion. ‘Come. There’s something we must do.’

  She followed him to the infirmary. Inside, he reached beneath the boxes of supplies and drew out the slim book he’d hidden there. ‘Miriam, this must be kept secret. If the SS know it exists… I record events here, things the outside world must be told. I want you to write too. What happens… yesterday, today, tomorrow… anything you want to write.’

  She turned the pages and her brow furrowed: she was used to conversing in a mixture of German, Hungarian, English, Italian and other languages, as all inmates learned to do to be understood, but she could only read and write in Hungarian. ‘What language is this?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It’s the numbers of sick who are selected, dates… conditions in the infirmary, diseases, injuries. A record of supplies, water and food allowed. A record of camp liquidations… estimates of the numbers gassed. I don’t see all that goes on outside the infirmary. You must write what you see, what you hear, what you suffer. The world must be told.’

  ‘The world will listen when we are saved. Rumour has it the allies are pushing towards the Rhine, and the Soviets are forcing the Germans westwards. Hope is high. We must keep faith.’

  He pushed a pencil into her hand. ‘Miriam, we may not live to be saved. Do you think the Nazis will leave anyone alive to tell the tale if they lose this war. We must put this somewhere it will be found, afterwards. It must speak for us, for Darja. Write the truth.’

  ‘So we die, either way.’ Her voice held anger softened with grief.

  He looked at what she’d written. Szeretlek. He smiled. ‘I love you, too.’

  She knuckled away tears. ‘Chuck, we saw Father yesterday in the men’s camp. He’s worn out. He has the look of a Muselmann. We have precious little… And we have Arturas and Peti to feed, now. Can we spare a little bread?’

  ‘If we break a piece from each portion we order for the dead.’

  ‘I’ll make a bundle. If I can throw it over the fence as I walk back to my barrack… If he has the strength to get to it.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’ll say I have orders to visit the quarantine camp. When will your father be there?’

  ‘If he understood us, straight after supper.’

  They broke tiny pieces from the rations, tied them in a scarf and weighted it with a stone. When they had eaten he pushed his bowl aside. ‘Let’s go now. The others will finish here.’

  They walked together along the road. ‘Look, there’s Mother.’

  The men and women faced each other, caged animals separated by the road and the wire. It was forbidden to approach the fence, forbidden to shout to husbands, wives or lovers. It was forbidden to love.

  He stared at the faces behind the wire. ‘Can you see him?’

  ‘There he is. Father!’

  Miriam’s mother drew closer to the wire. He glanced anxiously at the guard towers. Figures watched, as always, rifles slung over their shoulders. He looked back to the men’s compound: a pitiful scarecrow of a figure shambled towards the fence.

  ‘Father… we’ve brought food.’

  ‘Jani…’

  Emboldened, other internees approached the fence to call to loved ones and friends. The figure held out his hands and Miriam threw the bundle high into the air.

  Her mother urged him on. ‘Quickly, Jani.’

  Jani bent to retrieve the bundle and stood again: stepping towards the wire he stretched a helpless hand towards his wife and daughter. Machine-gun fire strafed the compounds: bodies twisted in the air and hit the ground with dull thuds.

  He wrestled Miriam to the ground and threw himself across her. ‘Miriam?’

  She struggled to push him away and sat up. ‘Father…’

  ‘Czigany…’ Jani hauled his riddled body towards them and lay still, one arm outstretched.

  ‘No… Mother, Father… no…’ Miriam stood in the road, torn between her parents, unable to reach either: finally she knelt by the wire, near to the body of her mother, and screamed her grief to the sky. An emaciated figure wrested the scarf of bread from Jani’s limp fingers and scurried away.

  If the guards on the watch-tower opened fire again they would all die. Miriam walked towards the wire. ‘Miriam, come away…’ What misery was he saving her for? She had no family left: no-one to go home to.

  ‘Let me die… please, let me die.’

  He supported her back towards the infirmary. Ilse, the only real friend she had left but him, was in the women’s camp, in a barrack near the infirmary. He’d find space on an infirmary bunk for Miriam: her mother didn’t need her now and he would not let her suffer this grief alone.

  Ma Darja megérintette a vezetéket. Today, Darja touched the wire.

&nbs
p; Push and let go, push and let go, push...

  ‘Walt, we’re going for an ice-cream… Walt?’

  The swing slowed and stopped.

  ‘Walt, are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes, love… Sorry. I was miles away.’ He hugged Jane, and smiled at Jennie and the twins. ‘Ice-cream… yes… wonderful idea.’

  Chapter Eight

  The twins asleep in bed, peace reigned at last. Walt sank into his armchair, happy to let Jane write tomorrow’s shopping list while Jennie finished the washing up. The day at the park had been wonderful, but he was weak with exhaustion. A bump and a scream shattered the silence.

  ‘Those damned bunk beds…’ He levered himself to his feet.

  ‘I’ll go, Dad.’

  He beat her to the bottom of the stairs and puffed up them. The top bunk had partly collapsed. ‘Charlotte, Lucy…’ He wrenched the sagging bunk away from the slight figure beneath it. ‘Lucy, where are you hurt? Can you move?’

  Lucy scrambled from her bed and he swept her into his arms. ‘Oh, thank God. Charlotte… are you hurt?’

  ‘I bumped my arm.’

  He glared at Jennie. ‘Now will you get rid of these bloody monstrosities?’

  Jennie’s eyes went wide. ‘Dad, one of the clips came loose, that’s all. Look, no-one was in any danger. It only startled them a bit.’

  ‘Startled them a bit? If you knew what injuries collapsed bunks can cause… I’ll take them down. They can use them as single beds.’

  ‘And where are you going to put them?’

  ‘Dobbin can live in the front room. They’re far too old for him anyway, now. And the dolls’ houses can go up the loft, if they don’t play with them anymore. I’m not arguing with you, Jennie. Give me a hand getting Dobbin down the stairs. Then we’ll dismantle the bunks.’

  Jennie stood her ground. ‘You’re over-reacting, Dad. I expect they’ve been bouncing on them.’

  Over-reacting… He heaved Dobbin towards the top of the stairs. ‘We may need your mother as well. He’s heavy.’

  ‘Okay, okay… I’ll fetch her.’

  He glanced back into the bedroom seeing the chaos of the infirmary. Screams echoed in the dark: cries of terror and pain in a universal language.

  He yelled. ‘Bring a light. Someone, bring a light.’

  Five women were trapped beneath a collapsed bunk, the weight of the four women on top of them crushing them. He dragged the four women from their bed and wrested the heavy timbers into the alleyway before the second bunk collapsed onto the bottom one. He grabbed at a nurse. ‘Clear this bottom bunk, quickly.’

  Blood flowed from smashed skulls and broken bodies. He felt for a pulse. ‘She’s dead.’ He turned to the next casualty. Her face was a pulped mess. ‘She won’t live… not like this… Miriam, more light…’ He beckoned and she held the lamp while he worked on the next casualty. ‘Can you move?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘My legs… I can’t feel my legs.’

  He rubbed sweat from his eyes with an angry gesture. ‘God in heaven… Haven’t these poor women suffered enough? How can you still believe in God?’

  Miriam moved the light so he could see better. ‘Faith is all I have.’

  He shook his head. It was the Jewish faith, their belief in the innate good of mankind that had made them an easy target for the Nazis. If this was God’s will…

  ‘Where do you want me to stand, Walt?’

  The dead and dying faded, leaving behind only rage. ‘Help Jennie this end… I’ll go first.’

  Jane pushed. ‘Walt, he’s very heavy.’

  ‘We’ll manage.’

  Together they bumped Dobbin down the stairs and dragged him into the front room. ‘Jennie, give me a hand to take that top bunk down.’

  ‘Dad, you shouldn’t be doing that…’ She followed him back up the stairs. ‘I still think you’re being overcautious.’

  ‘I’ve seen the injuries bunk beds can cause when they collapse.’

  ‘Where… when?’

  ‘The war…’ He clamped his lips shut.

  ‘Why won’t you talk about it, Dad? It was you who told me not to bottle things up, after Vince died… and you were right. Talking helps.’

  ‘I’ve seen more death than anyone should ever see. I don’t want to see more. Now, leave it be.’

  Jennie squeezed his shoulder, tidied Lucy’s bed and went to the top of the stairs. ‘Charlotte, Lucy… your beds are ready. Come on…’

  He tucked Charlotte in and kissed both twins. ‘Sleep tight, sweethearts.’

  The clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen meant Jane was making tea, her cure-all for life’s ills. He went back to his chair. The television blared but it didn’t hold his attention. The tragedy of war dragged him back. Callous, inhumane stupidity… and amongst it acts of selfless heroism and compassion that shone as beacons in the night when the gassings were at their greatest height, and despair at its greatest depth. One Greek Jew stood out in his memory: he would always be grateful to the Greeks. It had been September 1944, the month before the fall of Warsaw…

  Miriam ran into the infirmary, her voice an excited whisper. ‘A Greek Jew has escaped from a work kommando. He hit his guards with a shovel.’

  Outside, the camp buzzed with the news. Coming after the massacre of the young Greeks, who’d refused to work in the Sonderkommando killing Hungarian Jews, it elevated him to the rank of the ancient gods: Zeus, Apollo…

  The camp held its collective breath. The birch woods beyond the fence hung with gold. Beyond the woods were Poles willing to aid an escapee. The Carpathian Mountains seemed almost close enough to touch, but for the ever-present wire that tore rents through the landscape, ripping them from the outside world. Only the blue sky promised that elusive freedom. The days had grown shorter, as mercifully had the hours of hard labour that caused the infirmary to overflow, but winter hung on a bleak horizon. Every fine day was clung to as if they could stretch summer to its utmost limit.

  Figures appeared on the road between the barbed-wire fences. A man cowered beneath raised rifle-butts as he was beaten towards the command centre.

  Miriam and the other women stretched to see and the collective breath separated into a thousand sighs.

  Ilse was in tears. ‘Poor devil.’

  Miriam comforted her. ‘We’ll pray for him.’

  They went back into the infirmary. Miriam handed him a still-warm package from inside her blouse.

  He put inside his shirt, next to his heart. ‘You do trust your contact?’

  He’s rarely the same person.’ She fingered the bootlace tied around her neck. ‘He wears one of these, too. It’s how we recognise each other.’

  ‘I wish I knew how long we have to do this. It gets more and more dangerous. If you’re caught… After the bombing of Buna, they need no excuse to make an example of someone.’

  ‘You think I care?’

  ‘I care, Miriam. Ilse cares.’

  ‘You said the Allies knew what is going on here. So why do they bomb Buna? Why don’t they bomb the gas chambers and the crematoria?’

  ‘Maybe the world prefers to believe Nazi propaganda.’

  ‘Then we have no help but ourselves. If I can strike a blow against these monsters I’ll die happy.’

  ‘When this is all over… if we survive… I want to take you to England. Take Arturas and Peti with us. We could start a new life there. Be a family… have a little house with roses in the garden…’

  ‘Chuck…’ Her hand was soft against his cheek, her voice soft against his heart. ‘I dare think no further than today.’ She nodded to where the book of truths was hidden, moved for safety to a space hollowed in the floor beneath a stand of shelves. ‘If I die, make sure that book gets out. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise… and, if I die and you survive, you must tell everything… and I mean everything.’

  She nodded. ‘You are a good man, Chuck.’ The sound of heavy feet echoed on floorboards and she stepped away.


  He framed himself in the doorway and studied Miriam. ‘You are so efficient you have time to stand idle?’

  He drew himself up. ‘My nurses are the very best, Hauptsturmführer.’

  ‘My friend, I don’t doubt it.’

  He quelled the desire to shrug the camp physician’s hand from his shoulder. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I’m carrying out certain medical… comparisons.’

  ‘I’ve heard as much.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  He framed his answer carefully. ‘I question the usefulness of your work and the validity of your results.’

  ‘Then come and see for yourself. The facilities are much better in my surgeries than in this midden. I need an assistant and you’re an able doctor. I’d value your help… your opinion.’

  ‘I’m needed here.’ He paced across the small room, anger mounting, and turned to face the immaculate SS doctor. ‘And you know my opinion. Your methods are abhorrent and the whole principle is flawed.’

  The good-humoured smile disappeared. Dark eyes narrowed. ‘You question the Fuhrer’s vision.’

  He swallowed the words that were on his tongue. ‘It’s limited.’

  The doctor tapped his cane against a polished boot. ‘We have research opportunities most doctors can only dream of. I need an assistant and you, my friend, would be wise to consider your position.’

  ‘I want no part of it. It goes against everything I hold sacred.’

  He put a hand on Miriam’s shoulder: she froze. His finger stroked her neck. ‘And what if this pretty little nurse you are fond of was to come to harm?’

  Miriam stiffened. ‘Harm? Do what you want to me. You’ve killed everyone I loved.’

  ‘Silence!’

  It was forbidden to speak to an SS doctor unless spoken to: people had lost their lives for less.

  The doctor’s face resumed its amused smile. ‘Everyone? I think not.’ He tapped his boot with his cane. ‘You think I’m stupid, doctor? Two Zigeuner were unaccounted for when the camp was liquidated. Two boys… You were the last person known to be with them. The guard I spoke to said they were identical twins. I’m going to assume you’re looking after them for me?’