Chapter 20 Dorotha #2
‘And now, I think we should rest, little one.’
Gabriele leaned her head against her arm and curled up next to her like a comma. Dorotha squeezed back tears, so overwhelmed with protective love for the girl.
Please God let me remain alive, if only to see this child safe and sound.
The minutes felt like hours and the hours, months, as dawn bled into day and back to night.
Dorotha rationed use of the candles for what she guessed was about ten minutes in a day, and allowed them just a few sips of water from the flask every several hours.
She cut the bread and raw potato into tiny pieces and split the crackers into a handkerchief, careful not to drop so much as a precious crumb.
A bucket on the other side of the bookcase was on hand for their toilet needs.
She had no idea of the severity of her gunshot wound, for the entire area was numb. In fact, there was a creeping numbness sluicing through her limbs like iced water, and she was cold. So, so cold.
The muffled thump of artilleries sounded so often they got used to it.
Every thump and explosion brought them much relief, because surely it brought them closer to their liberation.
Gabriele did what she could to keep their spirits up.
To begin with, she told her stories, and as much as Dorotha loved hearing her voice, she heard fatigue drag itself through the girl’s breath.
‘Did I tell you about Hansel and Gretel? You know the house was never made of cake and sugar but bread and butter. You could go and cut yourself a big slice of bread whenever you wanted . . .’ She broke off to cough.
‘I adore your stories, bubbeleh, but maybe it’s best to save your energy,’ Dorotha rasped.
Soon the air inside the tiny room was stuffy.
‘It’s so hot,’ Gabriele complained, unwinding the scarf from her head.
‘Is it?’ Dorotha whispered. In which case, why was she so cold and numb? She looked down to see a cockroach scuttling over her leg and yet, she could barely feel it.
Dorotha had thought the starvation and indignity bad enough, but then the last candle finally burnt out and they were plunged into an inky coffin, so black she couldn’t see a hand in front of her.
Panic gripped her, wave after wave, and she fought back.
If she gave into it, they were both done for.
Finally, she fell into a fitful sleep. Distantly she was aware of Gabriele stroking her hair and, despite Dorotha instructing her to save her energy, she was still whispering stories in her ear.
‘Emil says there is always a way out, even in the darkest of situations,’ Gabriele murmured.
Dorotha tried to smile but her lips were so dry and cracked she could only nod.
Instead, she imagined Gabriele’s voice, so sweet and pure, was like a little light.
She just had to focus on the light. Pins and needles filled her head. She passed out.
One, two hours later, who knew, Dorotha woke up with a gasp. Total silence.
‘What happened to the guns?’ Gabriele mumbled.
Had the Soviets invaded the ghetto or been driven back? Or maybe everyone was dead. Just then, she heard a sudden gunshot and footsteps.
‘Hush,’ she whispered. ‘There are people in the building.’
Then she heard the babble of deep Polish voices.
‘We are he—’ Gabriele began, but Dorotha raised her finger to her mouth.
The door handle on the other side of the shelf rattled.
‘There’re tools in here. Break down the door!’
Dorotha’s heart plunged. Locals stealing what they could on the eve of the German Reich’s downfall. Instinct told her it wasn’t safe to reveal themselves to these men. They had not come so far only to be shot by a couple of opportunistic thieves.
The door jumped as a heavy boot splintered the wood. Thud. Thud. Thud. The kicks seemed to vibrate up her backbone. She kept her hand over Gabriele’s mouth and squeezed her eyes shut in terror.
The door flew off its hinges with a crash. They were in the library. Oh please God, protect us. Dorotha thought she might just die of a heart attack from the fear there and then. She hardly dared to breathe.
Pierdoli? . . . It’s just a load of dusty old books.
More footsteps. A fist thumped down on the other side of the partition wall, followed by the sound of books being swept angrily from the shelves.
A smell prickled in her nostrils. Cheap vodka and stale sweat.
The steps receded. Despair engulfed her as she realised she was running out of time.
Her life was hanging by a thread. All civilisation had evaporated.
The frozen world outside the smashed-up library door was nothing but angry men rampaging with guns.
Liberation was as elusive as a phantom. She closed her eyes, surrendered to the numbness.
The library was shaking. No. It is she who was moving. Someone had her hand and was pulling it. Little fingers were tapping at her cheeks.
‘Wake up, please wake up. Don’t leave me.’ Gabriele’s face was hovering over her.
‘I heard someone in the corridor just now.’
‘Hush now . . .’ Dorotha’s eyes flickered closed again, but Gabriele was insistent.
‘No, it’s new men . . . Please, you must stay awake,’ she sobbed. ‘Please stay awake.’
Just then a loud cry echoed up the corridor. ‘The war is over in ?ód?! Long live Poland.’
And more voices, speaking Russian. She thought she should react, tell them that they were here. A woman and a child. But she couldn’t. She was floating to the bottom of the deepest, darkest ocean, her limbs like treacle. A man’s voice, so deep it reverberated down to her ocean bed.
‘There’s a child in here . . .’
Gabriele’s breathing was faint, but she managed to respond. ‘Help . . .’ Then louder. ‘Help. My mama has been shot. HELP!’
Yes, yes, that’s it, bubbeleh. Save yourself.
Faintly, she was aware of Gabriele talking to someone. A light permeated the darkness, hands reached out to grasp the child.
Gabriele was free. The relief was like grasping on to an anchor chain. Her funny, dear, clever girl would live to see peace. Gabriele would survive.
There were more voices, speaking in Russian and Polish. The babble of tongues merged into one incomprehensible din, but the odd phrase wrapped itself around her.
Is she alive? Where’s the bullet wound? Can you hear me?
But no, she could not hear him. For the anchor was descending and she was sinking into the darkness. She could feel the heft of it, pulling her slowly and softly down into a deep forest. But in this forest, there were no trees, only books, their spines like trunks.
White dots danced at the edge of her vision, scattering through the blackness like snowflakes.
In her mind the ghetto took on gargantuan proportions.
The gates. The barbed wire. The bridge was enormous.
She would never be able to cross it this time.
The Nazi symbols of her oppression floated in front of her.
I will not die a prisoner.
She floated through the forest of books. It was a magical, comfortable place, and she was warm at last. A book was placed in her hand, the pages fluttered open and a golden light spilled out. The pages welcomed her in.
Come now, the author said. Your work is done. Your story is written. It’s time to rest.
Dorotha closed her eyes and fell into the book.