The Family Behind the Walls

21. Jordanna

TWENTY-ONE

JORDANNA

OCTOBER 7TH, 1943 – ?óD?, POLAND

Two of us can’t witness the same delusion. I’ve never heard of something like that happening before. The bumpy ride back to the ghetto makes it hard for Alfie and me to communicate with our tapping fingers, but I need to know he saw what I saw. He needs to know I heard Papa tell me to bring Lilli to the farm tomorrow.

“Are you sure that’s what he said?” Alfie asks in our code taps. It’s the last bit of conversation we’ll have before we’re separated for the night as we pull up to the front gate.

I nod my head. I am sure.

I need more time with Alfie. I need to think up a plan to bring Lilli along with us.

Icy rain pelts the tarp over the truck’s bed, the hollow plunk…plunk…plunk starting slow and growing quicker as the seconds pass while we wait for our turn to demount the vehicle.

With nothing but the dark sky above us, the heavy rain patters against us while we wait in our designated lines to return to our blocks in an orderly fashion. At least it held out until now. Working in the mud with slimy hands slows us down so much it’s impossible to reach our potato count, which leads to punishment.

“Two children are missing,” an SS educator shouts at the head of our lines. “Who is missing?” A kapo holds an umbrella above the educator’s head while the rest of us become drenched.

No one has an answer. Each of the faces within the two lines are familiar to me after working with most of them for the last two months, but I’m not noticing anyone who should be here and isn’t. No one has died on the farm from heat stroke in the past month with the temperatures cooling, and I haven’t noticed anyone taken away.

The urge to reply and tell her no one is missing teases the back of my throat. Mama has always told me to be the truth above the lies, but not if it will be the source of someone’s pain. Sometimes lies are a form of protection for both the giver and receiver. There’s no protection here. My vision blurs while staring at the scarf-covered head in front of me, debating my decision until another one of us speaks up first.

“Madam, no one is missing. We’re all accounted for,” Rachel, one of the older girls replies.

“Come forward,” she says, pointing her whipping stick at her head.

Rachel’s standing right in front of me and a sheen of sweat forms on the back of her neck below the knot of her scarf as she clenches her fists by her side. She takes in a shuddered breath, steps to the right and makes her way forward, coming face to face with the blonde woman in uniform.

When this place scares me the most, I try to imagine what these educators must have been like before they arrived here, or even how they looked before becoming these terrible people who abuse children. She might be pretty without the scowl on her face.

For all I know this SS educator could be a mother, going home to her two young children tonight with a smile on her face, hiding the nightmare of a world she takes part in all day. They are probably thrilled to see her and wrap their arms around her for a big hug. All the while, they don’t know what she’s capable of as a person. They might find out some day and I wonder what they’ll think of her then. Will they still love her?

Rachel’s fists are still clenching by her sides as the educator stares her down as if she’s waiting for her to crack and claim she was lying and knows who is missing from our lines.

“Are you insinuating that I can’t count properly?” the SS asks Rachel.

“No, madame.”

“There should be twenty-seven of you, and there are twenty-five. But, for the sake of teaching lessons around here, let me confirm how well I can count.”

The whip moves so fast in the air, I don’t see it swing against her face, but the blood splatters.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh … twenty-five times with each slap counted out loud. Rachel falls to the ground after the third whoosh and her backside takes the rest of the beating.

“As for the rest of you,” the SS woman shouts through heavy breaths. “No evening bread unless someone has an answer about the missing children.”

Our two lines are released and move forward, some stepping over Rachel’s body. I stop to help her up, her body heavy and weak. I hardly have the strength to carry much more than my own weight, but I won’t leave her here. I would hope someone wouldn’t leave me here.

Rachel lives in the same block as me, the one that seems like an hour’s walk from where we’re starting. She whimpers but doesn’t cry and I worry my arm under hers is adding to the pain from the lashes.

We make it to the block just as the other girls are waiting in line for the latrine and washroom, so the bunks mostly are empty. Lilli must be in one of the lines.

Rachel shrugs away from me, limping toward the other side of the block. “Thank you for not stepping over me,” she says, her words trailing behind her.

“If there’s anything I can do, I’m here,” I say.

She doesn’t respond.

I turn back for my mattress, close my eyes and make a wish that an envelope is waiting for me. “Please, Max,” I beg silently.

But just as it’s been every day since hearing from him that one and only time, there’s no envelope.

If I can talk to Papa again—if he can help us, I can tell him where Max is. He can save him too. I wonder if he knows where Mama is. All these questions and I don’t know how I’m going to manage to sneak Lilli to the farm without being caught.

I make my way to the latrine, finding the line shorter than expected. The trumpet will sound soon. There isn’t much time to wash up and use the toilet.

My underwear is around my knees when the trumpet’s howl berates my ears between the wooden walls.

There are still others beside me, trying to make use of the allotted toilet time. I jump up, pull up my paper-textured fabric underwear and make a run for the line-up next to the block.

Lilli has been standing in the same spot most days, making it easier to find her than the first day I returned from the fields. She purposely takes up just a little too much space on the side so I can squeeze in beside her.

Our hellos are silent, felt only by the brush of our fingers clinging to one another. We’re not allowed to do anything aside from stand at attention and wait to hear our numbers called. We’ve seen lashings and floggings because some of the younger girls were giggling about something while waiting here.

Following roll call, I return to the block while Lilli collects her bread and coffee juice, as we call it. We’re still not sure what we’re drinking.

She finds me inside on the straw mattress beside hers, still in the corner on the ground where we’ve managed to remain since entering this block back in August.

“Where is your bread and coffee juice?” Lilli asks, easing down onto her mattress.

“None tonight. Two people were missing upon returning from the farm. We were all punished. It’s fine. I’ll be all right.” I know what’s coming next. Our sisterly argument that occurs far too often here.

She tears her bread in half and hands it to me. “Take it, Jordie.”

“No. I refuse. It will go to waste. Eat your dinner.” She places the bread onto my lap, and I return it back onto hers. We’ll continue the back and forth until the lights go out but I need to talk to her. “Hold it for a moment. We need to talk.”

“What’s happened?” she asks, her eyes big and round, staring at me with dread.

I glance around the block, searching for the block elder, ensuring she’s not near us and listening to anything we might say. I spot her scolding a little girl toward the other end of the row.

“What I’m about to say…you can’t react. Not at all. We need to be smart and think up a plan quickly.”

“For what? What is it?” Lilli presses in a harsh whisper.

“I saw Papa today. He was in the wooded area that squares in the potato field.”

Lilli’s hand flies up to her mouth. Her eyes bulge even more somehow. “Where is he now?” she utters from beneath her muffling hand.

“He told me to bring you with me to the field tomorrow so he can?—”

“He’s going to rescue us?” Lilli asks, mouthing the words more than whispering.

“I think he’s going to try. But I don’t know how we can get you to the farm without being noticed. Do you have to check in when you arrive at the sewing block in the morning?”

“Yes, but then we all go to our tables. That’s the only time we have to check in during the day because there are kapos all over the block.”

“So, you can’t leave once you’re inside,” I state.

“I know a way,” she says. “I’ve watched other girls escape the block through a closet window vent.”

This plan is becoming more dangerous the longer we talk about it, and my head is throbbing with pain from hunger and thirst.

“Trust me, I can make it to the front gate without being seen. That’s where the truck meets you, right?”

“Yes,” I say, wishing I had a good reason to tell her not to try this. It could be our only chance to escape. Or we could wind up like Rachel or worse.

We’re all shoved onto the truck. There’s no formality after we’re counted in line. Her timing will have to be perfect to avoid being seen by one of the kapos. “You will have to listen for them counting heads behind the administration building—stay out of view by staying in the shadow beneath the building’s slight overhang. You’ll be able to reach the end of the line from that edge of the building. The kapos count then shove us into the tight space on the truck. We’re herded like farm animals. They don’t see who they’re pushing to move faster.”

“I can do this,” she says. “I can.”

I try to smile, wanting to be proud of her bravery. But I’m terrified of her newfound confidence. “I love you,” I tell her, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.

“I love you,” she says.

I close my eyes but squint just enough to make sure she eats the bread she was offering me. She shoves it into her mouth like a hungry mouse then grabs her cup of coffee juice with both hands and swishes the dry texture down her throat. Her knuckles are all bruised, scratched and raw. And her wrist bones are sharp, more prominent than they were the last time I studied her drinking from that cup. She finishes the bread and coffee juice then lies down and reaches for my hand. I take a hold of her fingers and curl mine around them. Papa would never steer us wrong. We have to trust that this is the right thing to do. He wouldn’t tell us to do something without having faith it’ll work. Except I know he isn’t within these gates and there’s no way he’d know what risks we face daily. At least I don’t think so.

I can’t question this. I can’t have doubts. This plan might be our only hope tomorrow.