Fires in the Dark

by Louise Doughty

  Parni’s tiny fingers grasped her mother’s arm, pinching and pulling. ‘Get up,’ she hissed urgently. ‘You promised. Get up.’

  The Aufseherin had turned with Bobo, unconcerned by Anna’s sudden display of emotion.

  ‘In a moment …’ Anna found herself able to say to her daughter. ‘Just leave me, stay there. In a moment …’

  Through her misted gaze, she watched the Aufseherin leave with her son. She closed her eyes to squeeze the tears on to her cheeks. They stung like acid. Parni still plucked anxiously at her arm. Anna’s head swam. Parni is right, she thought, if God is merciful, he will make his people gadje and release us from this Hell.

  With an effort that cost her the last of her strength, she pushed against the wall and stood. She brushed at her cheeks with her hands. On the Appell-platz, the whistle shrilled.

  Parni was staring up at her. Anna patted her shoulder. She inclined her head. ‘It’s all right,’ she managed to whisper hoarsely. ‘I promise I won’t tell.’

  They left the washroom together. Somewhere at the far end of the barrack, she could hear Bobo. He had woken and realised his mother had left him and was howling in misery. ‘Go to your brother quickly,’ she said to Parni. Parni nodded obediently and began pushing past the children seated on the floor.

  To leave, Anna had to step over a girl lying on the ground and wearing nothing but a blanket. She was white-eyed and staring, making strange gurgling noises and banging her head against the floor. It was only after she had stepped over her that, glancing back, Anna recognised her as the cheerful girl who had taken Parni’s hand on the day of their arrival.

  *

  It was dark by the end of roll-call. Anna stumbled around the crowds of people on their way back to their blocks, looking for a glimpse of Josef and Emil. Her feet were numb with standing still for so long and she nearly tripped over an elderly man who was bending over one of his clogs. The elderly man pushed at her with a sharp elbow. ‘Watch out, sister …’ he muttered, then said, ‘Anna.’

  Anna stared at Josef as he stood upright. ‘Your hair is white …’ she said, unable to check her incredulity.

  Josef ran a hand through his stubble. ‘Maybe that’s why we’re all here …’ he said. ‘They thought they would whiten us.’

  Anna grimaced, then felt a rough shove at her shoulder.

  ‘Back to your block!’ a guard shouted in her face, before moving on.

  ‘Are you well?’ Josef asked as Anna turned. There was no time for her to respond. ‘I’m worried about Emil, since that beating …’ he called after her.

  Anna trotted back to her block with the other women. Thank you, husband, she thought, a wonderful thought for me to sleep on. For a moment there, there was one member of my family I was not thinking of. But now that is the lot. Tekla is sick. My Little Ones miserable beyond measure. Now Emil.

  As they settled into their bunks, Anna told Tekla what Josef had said.

  Tekla shook her head, coughed impressively, then shook her head again. ‘He’s a strong boy. The way that guard treats him is making him stronger. He’s doing better than any of us. He gets extra food from that brute. You can tell just by looking at him.’

  Anna hauled herself up on to her bunk and lay down. ‘I don’t think Josef meant like that. Not physically.’ She tapped her temple. ‘It’s here, in his head.’

  Tekla clambered up next to her, manoeuvring herself awkwardly in the small space. ‘He’s a strong boy,’ she repeated.

  ‘Are you sick?’ Anna asked.

  ‘I can’t be sick.’

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘Shut up your face,’ Tekla replied, pulling her blanket over her and wrapping it around. Her tone was matter-of-fact. She added softly, ‘We’re not in Bohemia now.’

  *

  Outside, the air held a quietness. The sky was misty-black. In the forest, the trees were still.

  A few white flakes began to fall, sparse yet textured, like fragments of feather: the first snows of winter, tumbling in the dark.

  CHAPTER 16

  Čacko and another guard were sitting on a log outside the staff hut drinking coffee from tin mugs. Čacko was in expansive mood.

  Emil was standing a few feet away, awaiting orders. Čacko circled a fat hand at him saying, ‘Come, my little friend, it’s no good today, I’m finished.’ He held out his tin cup to Emil. In the bottom was a small amount of grainy liquid, cold. Emil lifted it to his lips hopefully but it tasted just like the ersatz. He drank it anyway. It was a long time since his dawn drink and he had eaten his bread ration the night before.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Čacko was saying to the other guard, ‘but every single man in my unit was at it. That bastard only picked on me because he hated me. I tell you, if I ever see that Captain …’ he raised his fist and shook it in a slow, threatening manner.

  ‘We all say that …’ the other guard replied sceptically. ‘It’s easy to say …’

  Čacko stood. ‘Have you seen my boy?’ he said, gesturing towards Emil. ‘He does tricks. Here, boy!’ Čacko patted the top of his thigh.

  Emil approached reluctantly. Čacko pushed his hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew a small, hard biscuit, which he handed to Emil. ‘Here, take it. They gave us each a box, last week.’

  Emil took the biscuit and lifted it to his mouth, nibbling cautiously at first. It was as dry as sawdust. He swallowed with difficulty.

  ‘What do you say?’ Čacko asked in a sing-song voice.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emil.

  Čacko’s hand flew from nowhere. His open palm cracked against Emil’s cheek. ‘What do you say to that?’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emil, keeping his face blank.

  The other guard made a small noise of amusement, and shook his head.

  Čacko nodded. ‘I like to look after my boy.’ He hitched his trousers. ‘Keep an eye on him for me.’ He walked over to the bushes behind the staff hut to relieve himself.

  While he was gone, Emil became aware that the other guard was staring at him.

  ‘Boy,’ he said.

  Emil glanced at him, then mumbled, ‘Yes, sir …’

  ‘Tell me, is it true what they say about gypsy girls …? Eh?’ The guard was grinning coldly. He wiggled his bottom from side to side. ‘Eh?’

  Emil dropped his gaze and stared at the patch of ground immediately in front of him. The top layer of mud was frozen. Soon, the ground would be hard as rock.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir’ he replied.

  The guard threw back his head and laughed alarmingly loudly. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t.’ He rose from the log. ‘Čacko’s Piepel.’

  Čacko was returning to them, buttoning his uniform trousers with apparent difficulty. He stopped and fiddled, grimaced, succeeded, then adjusted his balls. ‘God, it’s too cold to stand around here,’ he was muttering. ‘Come on, boy, I have a job for you. Later, you can feed the pigs, as your reward.’

  ‘Send him with one of the girls,’ said the other guard, clapping Čacko on the shoulder. ‘It would do him good. Pick him a nice plump one, eh, if you can find one.’

  ‘He’ll need warming up all right,’ said Čacko humourlessly. ‘A little warm pussy is what he’ll need …’

  *

  They crossed the camp, towards the infirmary. Beyond the Appell-platz, four teams of prisoners were at work constructing two new blocks, a small one and a large one. The large block was ready-made, bought from Brno Land Office. It was up already and six men were on its roof laying tar paper. Emil scanned the men for sight of his father. Some work details were still being sent to the quarries but he had hoped his father would be allowed to stay in the camp. His cough was worsening. His legs were sticks.

  ‘You gypsies need more room, apparently,’ Čacko said over his shoulder, as Emil followed. ‘You’re all giving each other diseases. That doctor is jumping up and down. You know what Jews are like.’

  There was no sign of Josef amongst the men that Em
il could see – but perhaps he was out of sight, helping with the smaller block.

  When they reached the infirmary, they went behind it, to where the mortuary wagons stood. There were plans to erect another hut as a proper mortuary but for the time being they were using three wagons confiscated from incoming families.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Čacko, and disappeared.

  An icy wind had been blowing all morning. Emil went and stood between two of the wagons for shelter, crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits. He began jumping gently on the spot to try and keep warm.

  The wagons were cheap, canvas-roofed ones: shameful old wagons, thought Emil, glancing at them, remembering their beautiful carved home from the days before the war. It was unbelievable the way some Roma lived. Had they lost their pride? Some of those people were better off in a camp, he thought. The roof on the wagon to his left had not been tied down properly and in the cold wind the corner of it rose and danced. Each time it lifted, Emil glimpsed the white protruding hand of one of the corpses.

  Tired of jumping, he began to perform a small jig, hopping from foot to foot and singing a ditty. ‘Yugga-dugga, yugga-dugga, soft-white-hand! Yugga-dugga, yugga-dugga, cold white hand! Hand! Hand! Cold white hand! I love coffee! I love stew!’ He turned round in a circle as he danced and sang softly to the corpses. ‘Yugga-dugga, yugga-dugga. I love stew!’

  As he completed his turn, he gave a small cry and stumbled backwards.

  A girl was standing between the wagons, staring at him. She was very small, with a steady, penetrating gaze. Her clothes were clean and her hair unbraided but tied neatly beneath a headscarf. She was gazing at him in disbelief.

  He stood still, panting. He raised his face to the sky, squeezed his eyes tight shut and bit his lip.

  ‘I like stew as well,’ said the girl. ‘But I prefer bread to dumplings. Dumplings take too long to cook. Are you Emil Růžička?’

  ‘Depends who’s cooking them. Yes. Who are you?’

  She glanced around. ‘I was told you would be with a guard.’

  Emil shrugged. ‘He’ll be back.’

  The girl’s hands were beneath her shawl. ‘Your mother sent me.’ She stepped forward quickly and pressed a small, rotten potato into his hand. Emil could feel its pitted surface as his fingers closed around it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘So!’ Čacko was returning with the infirmary kapo. ‘You’ve been managing without me, I see.’

  The girl bowed her head and turned away. Čacko grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, little one. We need more hands here.’

  ‘I am sorting clogs in the workshop, sir,’ the girl replied quietly.

  ‘Koreff,’ Čacko said to the kapo. ‘Go over to the workshop and tell them I’m keeping the girl, then get two men and tell them to come here. These two can start the first wagon.’ As Koreff turned, Čacko ordered, ‘Get the sheeting first.’

  The girl made no attempt to hide her dismay. Instead of spending the morning sitting in the workshop with the other women, she would now be out in the cold. The expression on her tiny face was sour.

  Čacko had noticed. He reached out, grabbed her chin and brought her face near to his, an action which pulled her on to tiptoe and forced her to clutch one of his arms for balance. ‘Cheer up, my dove,’ he said lightly, ‘just think how nice it will be for František here to have company.’ Her face was so small that his hand could reach from ear to ear, her expression distorted by his grip. With his free hand, he clutched at one of her buttocks and squeezed. She hung suspended between the large hand grasping her face and the large hand clutching her bottom.

  Emil looked at the ground, ashamed. The girl was meeting Čacko’s gaze. He would not like that. Emil waited for the inevitable thump and cry. Čacko liked beating girls.

  When Emil looked up, Čacko had dropped her, and turned to help the kapo who was dragging a huge roll of stiff cloth towards them. Emil stared at the girl, who was carefully brushing down her skirt. She looked up at him and gave him a cool, defiant gaze.

  ‘Pull this out!’ Čacko called to them.

  They bent to tug at the fat roll. Sheets of cloth flopped open on to the ground. Čacko removed his hat to scratch his head. ‘I think we need to do one at a time, package them up, put them in a pile. They’ll bring a cart. If they’d left the wheels on the wagons we wouldn’t have this problem. You.’ He nodded at Emil, indicating with a jerk of his head that he should climb up into one of the wagons.

  The corpses had been piled close to the entrance, so once Emil had hauled himself up, he had to push his feet beneath a child’s leg before he could stand, holding the wagon beams above him for support. His eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  The corpses in the first wagon were those of children, their flesh creamy-white, with bluish-purple patches here and there. They had been stripped naked and placed in rows. The first row had been placed neatly before rigor mortis had set in, their legs straight, arms by their sides. Since then, others had been thrown in anyhow and lay in distorted attitudes as if they were attempting to rise from the pile.

  Emil reached out and pushed at one upraised arm. The skin still had a slight pliancy, like clay, but the arm was frozen stiff. Emil stepped carefully over the dead children so that he could make his way to the back of the wagon to see what was there. It was dark and empty.

  Although he was sheltered from the wind, the interior of the wagon felt colder than the outside – the corpses seemed to radiate a chill in the same way that a living body gave out warmth. The canvas roof trapped the cold. He picked his way forward again and called out to Čacko. ‘It would be easier if we took the roof off, then I could see what I’m doing.’

  ‘Leave it on,’ Čacko called back nonchalantly.

  The first corpse that Emil passed out was that of a newborn baby, light as a twig. He passed it down to the girl.

  The girl laid the baby’s corpse, carefully, on top of the pile of cloth. She closed her eyes briefly, then began to fold the top cloth over the child. The sheets of cloth were intended for adult corpses and far too large. Once she had folded, she had to roll the wrapped corpse over and over to use up the excess. Čacko was holding a roll of twine which he was unravelling into long strings and cutting with his penknife, letting the lengths drop for the girl to tie the bundle.

  He glanced up at Emil. ‘Stay there. She can manage.’

  The kapo returned with two male prisoners as Emil was handing down the next corpse, the one with its arms frozen uplifted – a girl of three or four. They stopped and stared when they saw what Emil and the others were doing.

  Čacko glanced over at them. ‘Start unloading that one,’ he ordered, indicating the second wagon. ‘Pile them up next to the sheets then we’ll wrap them one by one.’

  *

  When they had finished, there was a pyramid of bundles wrapped in cloth tied with string. They stood around silently. Even Čacko had become morose. ‘This is the last lot for Černovice, you know,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘The villagers won’t have any more. The whole damn cemetery is full of gypsies. We’ll have to dig our own holes in the woods from now on.’

  *

  The pigs were housed in pens in a separate enclosure a short distance from the main part of the camp, within the perimeter fence but with an additional, securely guarded fence and a patch of no man’s land overlooked by two sentry towers. Feeding the pigs was considered a privilege because of the possibility of picking titbits from the swill. On the three occasions Emil had done the job, the slop had been rotten, completely liquid, and he had been observed by a sentry every step of the way.

  The girl was still with him. Čacko had sent them off together with two buckets each. The guard let them through the gate and they began to walk slowly across the no man’s land. The buckets were heavy and the girl could scarcely manage hers. Emil went slowly so she could keep up. As they walked, he let out a long sigh at the pleasure of their momentary release. H
e glanced at the girl and she gave a small half smile, without opening her mouth. They walked in silence for a few paces.

  Eventually, Emil said, ‘When Čacko had hold of you, I thought he would beat you.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said simply.

  ‘You were stupid to stare at him like that,’ said Emil.

  The girl did not respond.

  ‘Weren’t you frightened of him?’ Emil asked.

  The girl shrugged.

  A flight of birds passed overhead. They both stopped and gazed at them, resting their buckets on the ground.

  ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ Emil said.

  The girl shrugged again.

  They walked. The cold wind pulled strands of hair from the girl’s headscarf. They fluttered across her face. She kept having to stop, put down the buckets, pull the strands out of her eyes and tuck them back into the scarf.

  Emil glanced sideways at her, not wanting to stare too obviously. She was thin but her skin was still unblemished. Most of the women and children had sores on their faces now. She’s a bit high and mighty, he thought.

  ‘There’s no point in being afraid,’ she said suddenly, as they were walking. ‘If you are afraid it makes a man like that enjoy it. It makes it worse. It’s best just to seem bored if you can. Then they get bored too.’

  Emil gave a sardonic snort. ‘You don’t need to tell me, girl. That animal beats me every day. I know just how much he enjoys it.’

  She fell silent again.

  ‘What is your name?’ Emil asked.

  ‘Marie Malíková,’ she replied shortly.

  ‘And your father?’ There was a Jan Malík in their block, a new arrival, that must be him. He was a dark-skinned, unsmiling man who didn’t talk to anyone.

  For the first time, the girl smiled, showing a perfect row of tiny white teeth. ‘You travelling men …’ she said. ‘My father? My grandfather? Their trade? My great-grandmother’s maiden name? Just because you’re all related to one another.’

  ‘How else do you get the shape of somebody?’

  She shook her head, still smiling.

  ‘No, tell me, what am I supposed know, then?’