The Family Behind the Walls

14. Jordanna

FOURTEEN

JORDANNA

AUGUST 14TH, 1943 – ?óD?, POLAND

In the kitchen of our apartment in Hamburg, Mama would stand next to the refrigerator with a pencil in her right hand, poking her chin while staring at the wall-mounted calendar. She would always say, “I don’t even know what day it is!” when there was too much going on at once. I would laugh because it seemed silly to me, thinking someone could forget what day it is.

I’m uncertain of what day of the week it is now, or the date.

Here within the encasing walls of Przemys?owa Street, minutes can be confused for hours, and days for months.

In the mornings, we’re awoken by a trumpet before the sun rises. This morning is much darker than usual. I suspect it’s earlier than we’ve been waking up too. However, as each morning prior, we are still screamed at by women we’ve been told to address as educators followed by enforced exercise, fights over the use of toilets and running water to wash ourselves, all so we can stand in a double row line for nearly an hour waiting for these so-called educators to ensure we are all in attendance.

Food is scarce, a potato at best, maybe a stale piece of bread if we’re lucky. Lilli refuses to eat too often, and I’ve had to force food into her mouth, fighting her to consume what we’re given. She doesn’t understand that we’ll die without sustenance.

I’m afraid we might die even with it.

Every morning when I stand up, my body feels like a hollow tree trunk, one ax-chop away from falling. The hunger is a growing hole inside of me and when I take in a deep breath, my stomach caves in, the skin slinking against my rib cage.

We haven’t seen Alfie. I don’t know how he’s getting on, his hearing, his chance at making it through a day unscathed in his condition. Even without him here, I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s foolish, I know, especially with all of us except Lilli and me being separated, but my heart aches for him differently, and I can’t stop myself from wondering if he feels the same. I may never find out.

Lilli is wriggling her knees as we stand side by side in this morning’s roll call. She keeps scratching her head from the hairs poking up and I’m afraid someone will think she has bugs. I nudge my elbow to her shoulder. “Stop touching your head.”

“But it itches,” she whines.

“Ignore it,” I mutter as an educator makes her way toward us with a clipboard in hand.

“First row, step forward,” she says. That’s not us. “Grab your belongings and report to Block nine.”

“Second row, same, but report to Block ten. You have no more than three minutes before those blocks begin their roll call—you are required to attend the second roll call this morning. They will call on you and if you’re not there, you shall receive beatings.”

We aren’t familiar with the layout of blocks. We haven’t been allowed to move far from the block we’ve been quarantined in since arriving here. We’ve been in Block 15 so I would think the other blocks must be within this square.

The other girls scatter about, all looking for their assigned block. I watch as one of the other girls from our assigned row studies the number on a nearby block before stepping inside. I guess that must be our block.

With a tug, I pull Lilli in the direction toward the other girl, confirming the number 10 posted next to an access door. “Come along. Let’s bring our belongings inside then we’ll find the line-up.”

I open the door, finding rows of wooden bunk beds, but also what I assume are meant to be mattresses on the ground, made from a paper-like material with straw sticking out of the sides. There’s no space within the tiers of bunks, not that I can see, and there aren’t many mattresses left on the floor.

“There are so many children here,” Lilli whispers, her eyes big and overwhelmed.

“I know. Let’s set our belongings down on two mattresses for now.” I figure the straw stuffed material will be better than the bare wooden floor.

“What about the bunks?” Lilli asks.

“There are no open spaces. I’ll just pull two of the mattresses on the floor next to each other.” I grab hold of one to drag it a few steps backward, but end up bumping to someone climbing out of the tier of bunks.

“Watch it,” a girl behind me warns. “You don’t want to get stepped on, do you?” Her question takes me by surprise, coming from someone in the same situation we’re all in. She gives me a long hard stare, and even though I have at least a head of height on her, and she doesn’t seem concerned with giving me an attitude.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, moving aside to give her more space.

“We were just trying to arrange our beds,” Lilli says to the girl.

“I take it you two are new here? Did you notice there are no free beds?”

“Yes, that’s why we’re moving mattresses on the ground,” I counter.

She sneers and shakes her head. “You must be here for behavior correction, yes? Let me guess, you were caught begging on the streets?” she utters, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Lilli says with hostility.

“Children are only here for a few reasons…You’re Polish and either got caught stealing, begging, or helping a Jew, or you’re a Polish orphan whose parents refused to sign the Volkliste —the German People’s List, which makes you traitors to Germany.”

I never heard Mama or Papa discuss anything about the Volkliste , but maybe it’s because they’re both ethnically Polish.

“We shouldn’t be here. We haven’t done anything wrong. Our parents were taken to help aid injured people during an air raid,” I say.

“Well, you aren’t wanted here, all the same. There’s already no space or enough food for those of us who have been here. You’ll just take more from us,” the girl retorts. She’s around my age, I think, despite her apparent immaturity.

“So, why are you here?” I ask her.

The girl narrows her eyes at me as if I should know the reason. “If you must know…” she laments. “I was with my brother, helping him throw some bread to the Jewish people in the ?ód? ghetto. Only, I was caught.”

“You’re being punished?” I press.

The girl reaches up to grab her blanket from the second-tier bunk and whips it out in front of her so it floats down over the mattress. “Punished?” she says, chewing on the word while unfolding a corner of the blanket. “We sew, harvest, wash, cook, clean, construct pots and pans, and some of us are forced to use tools that could kill us. They hardly feed us and if we don’t abide by every rule, we’re whipped. I’m sure you’ve been ‘punished’ by your parents at some point in your life. This place—these aren’t just punishments. The educators here only know how to torture us.”

“How long will we be kept here?” I ask, desperation heavy in my voice.

She shakes her head and groans, highlighting her annoyance with my questions. “You don’t know until you’re gone.”

Lilli grabs my hand, hers drenched in sweat, hot, and her grip tight. “Is there anyone who can help?”

The girl chuckles. “If you find someone, let me know. We’re on our own here.” She walks out of the barrack, heavy feet stomping across the wood, leaving us staring at the wall.

I peer down at Lilli, finding nothing but fear in her features, the same as I’m feeling inside. Mama would always tell me to look for hope even if it’s not something we can see. I realize now, it wasn’t a life lesson, it was a way to keep us strong when we might consider giving up. I wonder if she’s found any semblance of hope, wherever she is. Even if she hasn’t, she would still make sure we did. I need to give Lilli hope, despite everything she just heard.

“Don’t listen to her. We’ll ask someone else. She doesn’t seem very nice, and we shouldn’t take her for her word,” I whisper to Lilli.

Lilli and I—along with the other girls from the quarantine block—make our way back outside toward the others lining up for our second roll call of the morning. We all try and blend in with one another, but many of the children who were here before us seem to be giving those of us who are new grief, just like the girl from inside the barrack. They must surely realize we’re being held prisoner here, and all in the same situation. The least we can do is be kind to one another.

An older girl in gray pajamas, a shaved head, and pale skin makes her way in front of the rows with a clipboard. She’s another one of the prison workers and I’m still wondering how they apprehended a job where they are in charge over another. It’s not a job I desire, but I wonder if they’re treated differently than the rest of us.

“You,” the girl with the clipboard says to a little girl in the front row. She might be the youngest looking child among this group. Perhaps even younger than Lilli. “Step forward.”

The little girl hesitates for just a short moment before doing as she’s told.

“You soiled the bed last night,” the older girl shouts, letting it be known that the younger child had an accident.

“I needed the toilet,” the little girl replies, her voice weak and shaky.

An educator steps out from around the building. “This is her,” the older girl says. “The bed-wetter.”

I watch in horror, my eyes open so wide the air burns, fighting to keep them open.

Lilli used to have accidents too. I often overheard conversations between Mama and Lilli about how much water she had before bed, or if she had any nightmares she could recall. Mama never made her feel like she’d done something wrong, especially since Lilli was embarrassed when it happened. The accidents eventually stopped, but that was only a year ago.

I glance down at her, finding her pale and wide-eyed, horror bulging through her eyes. I take her arm and twist her around, pulling her face into my chest, and cover her ears. She doesn’t fight against my hold.

The little girl needs love and assurance that everything will be all right. That’s what I would do if I was standing in front of her right now. But I’m not.

The educator shoves the little girl down to the muddy ground, face first, and pulls a whip up by her side. I close my eyes fast, unable to watch what’s happening. The slap of leather breaking through the air and the slashing against the girl’s backside is the most unbearable sound I’ve heard in all my life. Until her squealing cry follows, mumbling with apologies.

Slap and slash.

Horrific wailing.

Slap and slash.

More wails.

Slap and slash.

Then silence.

She’s been punished for wetting the bed.

Burning acid lurches up my throat and I tilt my head back, warning myself to hold it together. My stomach hurts, my eyes strain. A sob threatens to accompany vomit. It hurts. Everything in my body hurts.

She’s a little girl, unconscious with her face in the mud. She might suffocate. I need to help.

I can’t move.

I’m not allowed to help or move.

The little girl continues to lie still in the mud as numbers float into the air above our heads. The other girls confirm their presence, while I assume our numbers will be called at the end as new arrivals.

Lilli’s number is called first. She confirms her presence.

“Report to the tailor workshop following breakfast.”

Lilli stares up at me, fear in her blue eyes.

My number follows. “Present,” I assert.

“Report to the front gate for farming labor following breakfast.”

We’re being separated. I want to ask for a reassignment to stay with Lilli, but I’ve seen the punishments for any questions asked.

“You’ll be safe there,” I whisper to Lilli. “Listen to their instructions and do as they say. We’ll be brought back together after our work duties, but only if you follow their rules. Do you understand?”

Lilli doesn’t respond. I peer down at her, catching her unblinking stare through a gap of girls in the front row. She’s looking at the little girl who’s been whipped unconscious.

I take her hand, knowing our seconds in this row are coming to an end. “Please tell me you heard me,” I plea in a whisper.

“Yes,” she utters.

“You’ll be okay. Just follow orders.”

The prison girl in charge hands us scraps of bread as she dismisses us to our assigned locations.

Lilli grabs the back of my pajamas. “Don’t leave me,” she cries quietly.

“We can’t ignore our orders,” I tell her, taking her hand away from my pajamas. I give her a kiss on the cheek and grab her chin to look at me. “We’ll be fine. We have warrior blood, remember?” Papa has always told us this. It was never to make his or Mama’s efforts in the war out to be heroic, but to instill in us that we’re strong enough to endure more than we may think.

With the girls from our new block scattering, I call out, “Is anyone else going to the tailor workshop?”

No one answers in the rush of everyone trying to get to where they’re supposed to be. “I’m going there,” a girl says, her voice so soft I wasn’t sure she was speaking to us. She’s about my height, maybe my age. Her hair has grown out some, maybe a month or two’s worth. Her skin is thin along her face, blue veins prominent beneath her eyes and her cheeks make her look like she’s sucking on a lemon.

“This is my little sister, Lilli. Would you mind showing her the way to the tailor workshop?”

“Of course,” she says. “You can follow me.”

She steps ahead of Lilli, her shoulders rolled forward, her head slightly tilted toward the ground.

“Go on,” I tell Lilli. “She’ll show you where to go. Tell whoever is in charge—whoever has a clipboard, or an educator in uniform—that you were assigned to work there.”

“All right,” she says, peering up at me with tear-filled eyes.

“You’ll be all right,” I say, wishing more than anything that she wasn’t able to read the truth in my eyes so easily. I don’t know if we’ll be all right. I don’t know much of anything now. I can’t tell her where Mama and Papa are, or Max, or even Alfie. I don’t know anything more than she does, but I’m trying my best to put on a brave face for her. She just knows me too well to believe it. “I love you.”

I’m not certain I remember my way to the front gate, but from what I’ve been able to gather in the time spent on the outside perimeter of the quarantine block, there are only two roads that make up this walled square of buildings.

“Where are you supposed to be?” an educator shouts at me, standing guard between two blocks.

“The front gate,” I reply. “I’ve just been released from quarantine and trying to find my way.”

She steps toward me, shoving her hand against my back, forcing me to trip over my feet as I drag myself along in clog shoes that are too large for me. She keeps shouting at me to move. “Walk faster. Faster! Or are your feet broken?”

We turn a corner onto the road parallel to the one I’ve been on since arriving. “The line is there,” she says, pointing down the road made up of more blocks.

I scuffle my feet, moving as quickly as I can along the rock-riddled muddy terrain until reaching the line of boys and girls. No one turns around to see who has joined the end of the line and that’s fine, so long as I didn’t miss the departing group.

With a struggle to catch my breath, I find I’ve arrived just in the nick of time as everyone begins moving toward a truck lined out with the main gate. We’re shoved in together like canned meat, children of all ages with the youngest being from what looks to be seven or eight. I can hardly see anyone around me beside the person sitting to my right and the person to my left, and the bald head of the person in front.

My heart thuds and my stomach is burning from the acidity of the bread as the truck jolts us along the bumpy road. The ride lasts longer than I would have thought, but it doesn’t seem we are going very far, rather moving at a slow pace. It gives me time to sit with my thoughts. The “educators”, as they refer to themselves here—whoever they are—must not have acquired our proper identification yet, making them categorize us as orphans since we were found without our parents.

The truck pulls up to a farm, acres of land surrounded by trees. As we’re pulled off the truck, an older boy shoves the wooden handle of a thin shovel against my chest. The person behind me shoves me forward to move. We walk along another line down the center of the farmland until we reach dirt mounds with evenly distributed green rooted plants.

Others drop to their knees as if already assigned to a section of the crops and I peer around in search of an empty space, finding one at the very end of the row of working children. I hurry by the others so I’m not spotted as the only one not already digging at the dirt, but I’m forced to stop when someone grabs a hold of my pant leg, pulling me fast toward the ground.