‘We will lose this,’ Anna said, ‘when the bad weather comes. We won’t be able to sit around together. They might not even let the Little Ones out. It is cold already, today. I can’t believe it. What is God thinking of? Haven’t we got enough to fight against without an early winter?’
Neither Emil nor his father replied. All three of them were squatting in a row, watching Parni and Bobo. Around them, other families huddled or stood talking. Tekla and the others were grouped a few yards away. Eva and Ludmila had made friends with some of the Moravian Romnis and were talking with them. After the ordeal of the morning, there was a general sense of release. Anna alone seemed sunk in gloom.
Josef was chewing thoughtfully on a twig. It help eased his hunger pangs, he had told Emil, and reminded him of that time, back in another life, when it had been his habit to have his single smoke of the day, after supper.
‘At least someone has got away …’ said Emil awkwardly. He had never known what to say when his mother was unhappy, ever. Any comfort he tried to offer her seemed so paltry in comparison with what she could offer him.
Anna spat on the ground.
Emil glanced at his father and saw that he was indicating with raised eyes and a slight movement of his head that it would be a good idea for Emil to leave them alone. He rose resentfully and went over to Parni and Bobo. Typical of his father, to want his mother to himself. It was selfish, Emil thought, unbecoming of a true Rom. His father was forgetting how to behave, hoarding his wife. It would be roll-call soon, and who knew what would happen then? There would be more punishments for someone, after the escape.
Parni ran up to him. ‘Emil! Emil!’ she called. ‘Bobo is putting stones in his mouth. I told him he’s not allowed.’
Bobo was sitting in the dirt playing with a pile of pebbles which he and Parni had accumulated. His cheeks bulged. Emil went over and grabbed his brother’s chin, forcing his mouth open, then hooked his finger in and prised out the pebbles. Bobo began to cry. Emil grabbed one of his upper arms and squeezed viciously. Bobo threw back his head and howled.
Anna appeared behind them.
‘He was eating pebbles. He’ll choke!’ Emil exclaimed. Parni was nodding furiously, backing him up, pleased that their mother’s favourite was in the wrong.
Anna shot Emil a venomous look and scooped Bobo up into her arms, then turned back to Josef.
Parni and Emil gazed at each other, disconsolately. Parni kicked loosely at the pile of pebbles.
*
For the next few days, the mood of the guards was ugly. All leave had been cancelled because of the escape. Emil balanced his fear of them against the pleasure he derived from their being trapped in the camp as surely as the prisoners.
One morning, when the work detail gathered, the guard in charge came and pulled him from the line, then sent him to the staff hut to ask for Officer Čacko, who had a job for him, apparently.
Čacko emerged from the staff hut, grey-faced and sunk in gloom. He glanced at Emil but said nothing, then set off across the camp. Emil trotted behind him. When they reached the men’s block, Čacko strode round the side to the washroom, then pointed to a broom made of twigs tied in a sheaf to a branch. ‘It’s overflowed,’ he said wearily, waving an arm across the washroom floor.
The latrine was in a small annexe off the washroom. Brown filth had washed across the cement floor. The filth lived and bubbled with the insects crawling through it. Emil turned his head, swallowing.
‘I’ll be outside,’ said Čacko, and left him to it.
Emil stood for a moment, overwhelmed with misery. What was he supposed to do? The latrines were nothing more than pits. If they were full, they were full. New ones were being dug outside, surrounded by wicker fencing, but they were not yet finished.
There were six zinc tubs full of dirty water left over from that morning, ranged on a central concrete block. Emil put the broom down, picked up one of the tubs, and carried it carefully over to the latrine doorway, his arms shuddering with the weight of it. Little by little, he tipped the water out, swooshing it gently to wash the filth towards the outside door. When there was a large brown puddle at his feet, he put the tub down and took the broom, swishing the puddle outside.
The sluicing process took nearly an hour, by which time he had used up four of the tubs of water and washed out no more than the top layer of dirt. He was standing wondering what to do next, when Čacko re-entered and, with him, a strong smell of tobacco.
Čacko looked at the floor, then at Emil, shook his head and nodded at one of the remaining tubs of water. Emil realized he was being given permission to wash himself. He removed his shirt and tucked it between his legs, clasping it between his knees.
As he leaned forward over the tub, Čacko stepped up behind him, grabbed the shirt in his fist and yanked it out from between Emil’s legs. Then he went over to the wall of the washroom, leant against it and watched Emil splash water over his upper body. As Emil stood upright, Čacko tossed the shirt back to him. Emil rubbed the shirt over his chest to dry himself, avoiding Čacko’s gaze.
As he pulled the shirt over his head, Čacko said with sullen malice, ‘Got lice yet, schoolboy?’
Emil forgot himself. He looked Čacko straight in the face and replied quietly, ‘No, I haven’t.’
They held each other’s gazes. Emil felt the elision from one moment to the next as an almost physical sensation. The point at which he could look down and avoid the confrontation passed without a flicker and he found himself locked in a battle of wills. He could not stop staring at the man, as if he had lost all reason and was only able to relish the brief illusion of courage that such a moment bestowed.
Without breaking his gaze, Čacko crossed the few steps that separated them and grabbed him. One of his fat hands clutched the scruff of his neck, the other the waistband of his prison-uniform trousers, and in the same swift movement, he began to whirl him round.
As his feet lost balance and his body twisted, Emil divided into two. The logical part of him recognised, slowly and quite calmly, that what was about to happen would be beyond the casual beatings he had endured from Čacko before. There was an air of fury and sadism about the man, at that moment: the exercise with the latrines had been no more than an excuse to assuage it. Emil thought, Čacko has me by the scruff of the neck, and trousers, and he is flinging me round so that I gather speed. He is about to smash me into the wall. There was even a fleeting but distinct moment in which, as his feet left the ground, he had the sensation of flight.
The thinking part of him and the feeling, animal part, were reunited as his face slammed into the wall. His head exploded with pain. There was a gushing sensation from the lower half of his face. Then he was on all floors on the filthy floor and Čacko was kicking him in the stomach, grunting with exertion. He fell on one side, his face towards Čacko, and as he opened his mouth to give an uncontrollable, nauseated howl, Čacko’s boot rammed into his face and his head exploded again, with a pain beyond pain. He was nothing but pain.
Čacko fell back against the latrine wall, his breathing ragged. Emil rolled into a crouching position and opened his eyes to see a pool of bright red blood swimming in the liquid brown shit on the floor. Strings of blood dripped from his mouth and nose. His whole body was shaking, the lower half of his face completely numb. What has he done to my face? he thought in terror, lifting a hand and touching it gently with his fingertips. His hand felt a pliancy, but in the face itself he could feel nothing. Was anything still there? Then the pain became overwhelming again and he hung his head, gasping.
They remained like that for some moments, Čacko leaning against the wall, panting, and Emil crouched on the floor, now heedless of the stink around him, his only sensation the burning pain of his face. This is just the beginning, he thought, oh God. This is going to happen over and over again.
Čacko stood and hitched up his trousers, then worked both shoulders backwards and gave a single, loud sniff. His breathing had returned to nor
mal: his voice was casual. ‘Go and see your block Elder,’ he said, ‘he’ll sort you out.’ He remained standing over Emil for a moment or two. Then he stepped over him, quite carefully, and was gone.
After a short time, Emil tried to stand. He was shaking. It hurt to breathe. Using the washroom wall, he managed to limp to the entrance. Outside, the air was cold. Nobody was around. With excruciating slowness, he hobbled around the side of the block. He lifted his shaking hand to see that it was covered in blood from where he had touched his face. He paused, touched his nose gingerly, and realised it was twice its normal size. He was sobbing, gently but uncontrollably. He stood for a few minutes, trying to compose himself before he went in to the Elder.
*
The Elder was a white-haired Rom from Brno. He was sitting in his cubby-hole at the back of the block. When he saw Emil, he sighed. ‘What is it with you, brother?’ he asked, shaking his head. ‘You and that guard. Were you born under an unlucky star or something?’
Emil did not reply. His tongue felt so thick, he was not sure he could speak.
‘Here,’ the man stood, beckoning him towards a tiny, square window, ‘let me see in the light.’ He winced. ‘It sounded bad. Looks pretty bad too.’
‘You heard?’ Emil mumbled carefully.
The man huffed, ‘You were screaming like a pig!’ Seeing the look in Emil’s eyes he added quickly. ‘Don’t worry, no one else is around. It’s the shock. Here, let me pull at your teeth, see if they’re loose.’
Emil moved the muscles that would normally open his mouth.
‘Can you feel that?’ the Elder asked. Emil shook his head. The Elder pulled a face. ‘Well, your teeth are still stuck in there but if you can’t feel anything then that’s not good.’
‘What has he done, to my mouth?’
‘You don’t have a mouth any more, chavo, you have a beak!’
‘He said you would sort me out,’ Emil mumbled resentfully.
The man shook his head and sighed again. ‘Go to the infirmary and tell the kapo I said you’re to jump the queue and see the doctor. Tell the doctor I said he should open his little drawer.’
*
The doctor’s hut stood alone, a few feet from the infirmary block. A kapo was sitting on the step smoking, watching over the queue of sick, mostly women and children. Emil hobbled towards the kapo with a hand carefully in front of the lower half of his face, ashamed. The kapo looked up at him as he approached and said, with his cigarette still between his lips, ‘Yes, Brother?’
Emil lowered his hand. The kapo stared at him. At that moment, a man emerged from the doctor’s hut and descended the step.
The kapo tossed his head.
As Emil mounted the step, he heard the protests of the women waiting at the head of the queue.
Inside the hut, he kept his hand over his face as he turned and closed the door behind him. The doctor’s coat was hanging from a large nail on the back of the door. It fell to the ground in a soft swoop, a gleam of black velvet, with a nap so deep it was almost like fur. A yellow star was stitched to the lapel. Emil lifted his hand.
‘Nice coat, eh?’
Emil turned, his hand still covering the lower half of his face. The doctor was sitting behind a large, polished desk, a desk so huge it almost touched the two walls of the hut. On the edge of the desk was a porcelain bowl of water with several cloths folded neatly and hanging over the edge.
The doctor beamed, peering over a pair of half-moon spectacles that were perched perilously on the very end of his nose. ‘It belonged to my father. It is the only thing of his I have left. It’s stayed beautiful all this time and I can’t bear to be parted from it even though I should bury it somewhere if I want it to survive the war.’ He had shocks of hair sprouting from his head in extravagant display; white, grey, peppery-brown. He placed the tips of his fingers on the huge desk as he eased himself past it. ‘Now this desk here was confiscated from a surgeon in Brno. It’s got big drawers, small drawers, tiny spring-loaded drawers that pop out, so! Ach! What good did it do him?’ His face darkened briefly. ‘And now I see my patients in a shack – a cracked window and the most expensive walnut desk in the whole of Moravia. Excuse me, young man …’ he lifted his hands and let them drop. ‘But when someone comes in and stares at my nice coat and fine desk I always feel obliged to explain that they are not really mine. Now,’ he looked at Emil over his glasses, ‘What is it? Cat got your tongue?’
Emil lowered his hand. There was a pause while the doctor eased himself around the desk and approached him. He made a whistling noise between his teeth, then said soberly, ‘Please forgive me for wasting your time talking about my coat and my desk. I’m sorry.’
The doctor’s kindness made Emil choke. To have someone speak softly to him at that particular moment was hard to bear. He swallowed. ‘My block Elder said you were to open … one of your little drawers.’
‘Ah …’ said the doctor, returning to his desk. ‘He means this. It’s a salve, but to be perfectly honest I’m not sure it’s going to help in your case. Come sit on the edge of my desk. For some reason they refuse to put a chair in here. I think they think it will speed things up.’ He turned back with a small tube and one of the cloths. ‘Let’s have a proper look at you. I suppose it would be foolish of me to ask how this happened?’
Emil didn’t speak. The doctor gently prodded his nose, and wobbled his front teeth just as the Elder had. ‘Anywhere else?’
Emil lifted his shirt to show his ribs. The doctor winced. ‘Let’s hope that’s just swelling, shall we? Can you cough for me?’ Emil coughed obediently while the doctor watched. ‘Well, you can do that, that’s something. I’m going to try and clean you up a little bit, then we’ll apply my magic salve. It’s all I have and I ration it very strictly.’ He put his face close to Emil’s and pulled a mock-strict expression. ‘Only for my most privileged patients. My name is Dr Steiner, by the way. Who might you be?’
Emil shook his head, then sat still while the doctor dabbed gently at his swollen face. The doctor did not press the question.
After a few minutes’ silence, Emil began to sob, dry sobs which shook his shoulders. Humiliated, he tried to control himself, but the sobs seemed to engulf his chest cavity. The doctor continued dabbing the salve, slowly and carefully. ‘In God’s name don’t tell anyone I put this on you,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s more than my life is worth, you know …’ He replaced the lid on the tube, then took it back to his desk and locked it into a drawer. ‘No offence, but I’ll be emptying this drawer and putting the stuff somewhere else when you’ve gone. I just don’t want you to waste your strength breaking in here sometime. I’m sorry, but things go and I can’t replace them. It’s usually the kapos, looking for things to barter.’
Emil remained seated on the edge of the desk, still sobbing in a hollow, gulping fashion.
The doctor came and sat next to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘Listen, young man. Let’s be practical. I think you’ve killed the nerves in those front teeth, but at least they’re still in place. Your nose is broken, not much doubt about that. You might have a fractured jaw but we won’t know until the swelling goes down. At least the nose is still straight. Try and stay out of trouble and in a week you’ll be surprised how much less painful it is. You’ve had beatings before. Now, they stopped hurting after a while, didn’t they? You’ll see. This one will too. You just have to stand it. You will stand it, because you don’t have any choice.’
Emil shook his head. He tried to speak but only a gasp came.
The doctor inclined his head. ‘What? Something else?’
Emil shook his head again. He managed to say. ‘My fingernails …’
The doctor frowned a query.
‘My fingernails … they’ve stopped growing …’ Emil lifted a hand up, then let it fall back, uselessly.
The doctor gave a wry smile. ‘Your hair too, eh? Well, you can’t grow hair and fingernails on one piece of bread a day. Your body is saving energy
, just so’s you can walk around.’
‘But I liked it!’ Emil burst out furiously. ‘I liked paring my fingernails. I liked sitting down and doing it carefully, and cleaning underneath. I liked it!’
The doctor sighed heavily, and nodded. ‘I know …’ he said quietly. ‘I know …’ He looked up at the ceiling, then down at the floor, as if he might spy in those two opposing planes some small picture of all that had been lost. He sighed again, and spread his hands.
‘It’s the little tilings, always the little things. Just when you think you’re getting by. They took away my job, cut off the telephone, told us we couldn’t have ration cards for apples, sugar, vegetables, tobacco, soap, nuts, cheese, fish. We’re not allowed caps or suitcases. Buy a newspaper? Forget it. Travel on a trolley-car? Nein! We even had to give away my son’s dog. Jewish children not allowed pets any more. One thing after another. Want to know when I cried? The only time I cried? When they revoked my fishing licence. And I hadn’t fished for ten years.’
Emil stood awkwardly, wincing. He resented the doctor for trying to cheer him up. ‘At least you’re not locked up,’ he mumbled.
The doctor gave a wry smile. ‘You’re right. Whatever happens. It’s always important to remember how lucky we are.’
*
From then on, Emil spent his days at Čacko’s side. While his father, thinner each day, marched out with the rest of the work detail, Emil joined the others on the Appell-platz at the regular time, and then obeyed the toss of Čacko’s head in whichever direction Čacko indicated.
Čacko’s duties seemed less regimented than the other guards – it transpired he was a distant cousin of the Camp Commandant. He was assigned to Camp Maintenance, which meant he could wander at will, finding fault with the prisoners and kapos, and take breaks whenever he felt like it.
One afternoon, when a bitter wind ruffled the prisoners’ thin uniforms, a premonition of the winter’s onset, Čacko decided that they – Emil – should work on water detail. Two wooden buckets had to be filled to the brim at the pump, then carried carefully to each block, to refill the tubs for washing the next morning. It was impossible to hold the buckets and walk without some of the water slopping over the brims. When the water spilt, Čacko would either laugh, or shout at him, or hit him – sometimes just two of those things, sometimes all three. So Emil’s arms would ache with the effort of keeping the buckets upright as he waddled across the uneven ground, Čacko behind him all the time, out of sight, goading him. His trousers would get wet – and now the weather had turned cold they would not dry. They chafed against his legs. The effort of the carrying would make him sweat but he was never allowed to drink from the buckets and a thirst would clamour within him far greater than the one he had suffered when he was breaking rocks alongside his father. Just the sight of those buckets of water, the silver light on the surface glinting at him as he walked, filled him with a harsh, dry-throated rage.
Fires in the Dark Page 20