Chapter Twenty-One Chloe
Chapter Twenty-One
Chloe
Chloe positioned herself close to Emma at roll call the following morning, walking nearby on their way to the factory. Her heart simply couldn’t take another loss – which was why her attachment to Emma had surprised her.
Up until now, her way of showing the other women in the camp she cared was by writing for them, rather than herself.
When her mother had passed away, she’d abandoned her university plans and her writing, as if her creativity had been extinguished the day her life turned upside down, and it had never come back.
And although she still couldn’t write poetry, what she could do was write the stories of others.
They’d sit and talk to her, and she would write as much as she could, and even though they weren’t her own words, it was enough.
She found herself increasingly curious about Emma and her daughter, although she’d barely heard the latter speak.
Observing them as they worked, she could see that Emma was fiercely protective of her daughter, who seemed to be working almost robotically, going through the motions without any feeling, as if she had nothing left to give.
And it made Chloe want to yell at her, to tell her what happened to those who looked too weak to work.
It wasn’t until later that night, when they had some free time after dinner, that she had the chance to speak to Emma again.
They met in the same way they had the night before, with Chloe sitting on the ground, and Emma walking out of the barracks to find her.
A joint moment of calm during an otherwise insufferable day.
‘I hope someone found more paper for you today.’ Emma’s voice was soft, her words spoken with care, as she joined her.
Chloe sighed. ‘Not today. But I still have a little more room on my last piece.’
‘What do you like writing most?’ Emma asked.
Chloe thought about her question before answering.
‘Whatever it is that’s most important to the woman I’m talking to.
Oftentimes it’s a recipe, because it’s a reminder of home, of the family they once had.
I find those the hardest though, not the easiest, but I think that perhaps they imagine a relative surviving and the recipe finding its way back to them. ’
They sat for a while in comfortable silence, until Emma spoke again.
‘I’m so hungry that my stomach feels as if it’s eating itself alive. Does the pain get any better? Do our bodies ever get used to this?’
Chloe shook her head. ‘Sometimes I find myself staring at a blade of grass and wanting to eat it, just to chew something. I think about food more than anything else some days.’
‘If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?’
‘Roast chicken,’ Chloe said. ‘And a fresh slice of bread with a thick piece of cheese on top.’
Emma groaned. ‘I want my mother’s beef stew with mashed potatoes. Sometimes I think about it so often, I can almost taste it.’
They were both lost in their own thoughts before Chloe spoke again.
‘I’ve heard that they might be building sleeping rooms for those of us that work at the Siemens factory, so we don’t have so far to walk each day. Maybe we won’t be as hungry if we don’t have to use so much energy, although it’s probably nothing more than a rumour.’
‘Maybe.’
Emma certainly didn’t sound convinced, and Chloe glanced at her, deciding to ask the question she’d been thinking about all day.
‘Your daughter. Is she all right? I’ve hardly seen her speak since you arrived.’
Emma’s face told a story of heartbreak, and Chloe almost wished she hadn’t asked.
But there was something about the women that made her want to know more, and her daughter reminded her a little of herself.
She imagined she’d appeared just as withdrawn when she’d arrived, until she’d decided to write again.
‘My husband, her father, was killed in front of her. And she lost someone else she loved the night we were taken, too. I think she’s trying to come to terms with her entire life being snatched away from her, that’s all.’
Chloe nodded. Her own memories were hard enough to bear, the image of her younger brother crying for her, of the anguish on his face, haunting her every night since she left.
But as hard as it had been to be dragged away from the people she loved, she was grateful her last memory of them was when they were alive, even if most days she felt as if she wasn’t.
At least she could imagine them going about their lives still.
‘I’m sorry you lost your husband,’ Chloe said. ‘I don’t know if I said that the other night, but I should have.’
Emma’s eyes shone with tears. ‘Thank you. I still can’t believe it, if I’m honest. In my mind I keep imagining him being at home waiting for us, which is stupid, I know. As if we’re away for the week instead of imprisoned indefinitely.’
‘It’s not stupid. Thoughts like that are what keep us alive in here, they give us a reason to keep rising every morning instead of giving up.’
Emma sighed, and Chloe could see tears welling in her eyes.
‘My daughter, Aletta, I think she blames herself for the way we were caught. It’s why she’s so quiet,’ Emma told her.
‘During the occupation, she kept busy with teaching and the work we did with the underground movement, but it was she who brought the Allied airman home. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive herself. ’
‘I understand,’ Chloe said. ‘More than you could imagine. We all have to live with the guilt and what-ifs of how we ended up here.’
They’d barely finishing speaking when Emma’s daughter appeared, her hair hanging limply, her eyes so wide they seemed to take up most of her face. But before Emma could introduce them, her daughter spoke, her voice barely a whisper as she stared across at the barracks on the other side of the road.
‘There are children here.’ Her voice was raspy, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
Chloe silently followed her gaze, seeing a handful of children walking quietly from a bunk room.
The younger children were left behind when the women left for work duty; left to fend for themselves and stay silent in the barracks, too afraid not to follow the orders given to them.
But after dinner they were allowed free time like the adult prisoners, appearing in their oversized clothes, their hair scraggly and their skin dirty.
‘They’re children who need a teacher,’ Chloe finally said, glancing at Emma as she turned to face Aletta. ‘And I hear that’s what you did before you came here.’
‘Me?’ Aletta’s eyes grew even wider as she shook her head, wrapping her arms around her body. ‘No. I can’t be their teacher.’
‘I’m Chloe,’ she said, rising so that she could stand beside Emma’s daughter.
‘Aletta.’ The word was barely a whisper, but Chloe heard it.
‘I know it’s a lot to process, you’ve only just arrived and you’ve been through a lot, but these children need a teacher, Aletta.
Some of the others have been trying their best, but .
. .’ Chloe sighed. ‘They need someone with training, someone who knows what they’re doing. They need a proper teacher.’
‘I . . .’ Aletta’s voice trailed off, but her gaze never wavered, focused on the children who now had a stick and were drawing something in the dirt. It was as if she couldn’t tear her eyes away from them.
‘If we ever leave this place, they need to have had an education, at least the basics,’ Chloe said. ‘We need to keep their minds active, they need to learn.’ She took a breath. ‘We all need to believe that there’s a chance they’ll one day have a life away from this camp.’
She watched as Aletta swallowed, almost as if she had a large lump in her throat. She did it again and again, and Chloe saw her tears begin to fall as her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
‘Tell me,’ Aletta said. ‘About the children. Tell me more about them.’
Chloe moved closer, so that all three stood facing the playing kids, her words soft as she began to share with Aletta what she’d learnt about them.
She hadn’t thought about searching the barracks for teachers until now, but hearing that Aletta had been training to be one made her realise that it might be possible to find some time each day for the younger children who wanted to learn.
All they needed was someone willing to help.
‘They have to stay hidden while their mothers are away working, and they are many different nationalities. Some of them are Jewish, but others are here because their parents are political prisoners,’ Chloe said, her eyes following one little boy in particular, who reminded her of her brother when he was younger.
He had slightly too-long hair and a smile that seemed to light up his face, despite his surroundings.
‘They do awful, brutal things to the children who don’t obey the rules, and the babies .
. .’ Chloe swallowed and blinked away the burn in her eyes.
‘What?’ Aletta croaked. ‘What do they do to the babies?’
Chloe swallowed and balled her fists so tightly that her nails dug viciously into her palms. ‘The babies aren’t allowed to survive.’ She didn’t tell her what they did; Chloe never wanted to speak of it.
Aletta was silent then, and Chloe wished she hadn’t told her. But she needed her to see how desperate these children were for comfort, for anything that distracted them from the cruelty and uncertainty of the place they lived in and the probable fate that awaited them. Their mothers needed it, too.
‘Do they at least get more to eat than we did tonight?’ Aletta asked.
‘No.’ Chloe shook her head. ‘It’s the same watery cup of soup and sorry excuse for a piece of bread for everyone, and sometimes they get even less because they don’t work. They don’t think it’s worth feeding them.’
Chloe’s throat burned just saying the words aloud, hating that there was nothing they could do to fight what was happening to them. But perhaps in telling Aletta the truth, she could spur her into action.
‘The papers you have,’ Emma said, and Chloe looked up, distracted from staring at the children. ‘They are records?’
Chloe nodded. ‘I record whatever is most important to each of the women who come to me. I suppose it’s my little act of defiance, so that maybe one day I have proof of at least some of the women who were killed here. I can’t bear the thought of them being forgotten.’
‘What happens when the boys come of age?’ Emma asked, still staring at the children.
‘The boys are sent away when they turn twelve,’ Chloe told them.
‘They have to go to a men’s camp.’ She breathed out a pained sigh, remembering the last group of boys ripped from their mothers’ arms. Just children still, terrified to leave their mothers for the unknown, forced into wagons to be transported somewhere even worse than the brutal camp they already knew.
It made her sick to the stomach thinking about it, knowing what it would have been like for her if Adrian had been transported to the camp with her, how she’d have wanted to die herself if she’d seen him taken from her, not knowing what his fate would be.
‘But the worst is saved for the prettiest of the teenage girls. They’re young enough to be bribed with the promise of milk and extra food, but old enough for the men to find them attractive.
’ She swallowed, thinking of the fifteen-year-old who’d been taken only the week before.
‘What happens to them?’ Emma asked, her voice hoarse, as if perhaps she didn’t really want to know.
‘They’re taken to a brothel for the SS men and guards,’ she said.
Chloe looked at Aletta, and something about her expression made it seem as if she’d suddenly come to life, her eyes widening.
‘Any little thing means a lot here. If you were to teach them, to give them a glimmer of hope . . .’ Chloe let her voice trail away, surprised when Aletta spoke up, her voice louder than before, more confident.
It was the reason Chloe had forced herself to start writing, after all.
She’d wanted to give herself and those around her hope, hope they wouldn’t all be forgotten.
‘I’ll do it,’ Aletta said. ‘I’ll be their teacher.’
‘I have to warn you though that if we’re caught with drawings or writings . . .’ Chloe met her gaze, needing her to understand the risk. Chloe reached for her hand, not letting go when Aletta jumped, as if surprised that someone had touched her.
‘I don’t care. I’ll do it.’
‘Thank you,’ Chloe said.
Aletta just nodded, but Chloe felt her hand soften, and she kept hold for a little longer.
Because it wasn’t just Aletta’s hold that had softened, it was something inside her, too.
Perhaps it was because her own mother had been a teacher, or knowing that someone else wanted to help the children.
Maybe it was because of the kind, open way Emma looked at her when she smiled and mouthed thank you.
Whatever it was, Chloe felt her guard lower just a little, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she didn’t try to raise it again.