Ruby
We’re baking Christmas cookies in Hanna’s kitchen. Rolling out the sweet, spiced dough and cutting it into stars is a good way to pass the dark afternoon. It’s only half past three, and it’s already black as night outside.
My parents will be arriving tomorrow. I’m looking forward to seeing them again, longing to feel their arms around me, to be able to talk to them properly.
It’s not just been the dodgy phone reception that’s been getting in the way of speaking to them.
It’s been the walls I’ve put up, the struggle I’ve had in facing up to my reality.
I know I’ve been pushing them away, in part to protect them.
But since my appointment with Jamie, I’m longing to talk to them again, without the connection dropping.
Tomorrow will be Hanna’s birthday, as well. And as difficult as our celebrations will be this year, I suppose they must be like that every year for Hanna. There will be so many ghosts sitting alongside us at the table.
As we bake together, Hanna tells me more of her memories, and the stark contrast between the warmth of the kitchen and the conditions she endured at Ravensbrück makes my heart ache. But I know how important it is to listen quietly as she talks, bearing witness, no matter how hard it is.
*
Later, I make my way back to the byre, carrying a bag of cookies still warm from the oven. It’s a clear, still evening, and the stars seem magnified by the frosty air. My head is still full of Hanna’s story.
I’d plucked up the courage to ask her a question. “Was it at Ravensbrück that you had the numbers tattooed onto your arm?”
It was the first time either of us had directly acknowledged the brutal marks that she still carries with her wherever she goes, and I hoped I hadn’t overstepped the mark.
She’d hesitated before she’d answered, her reply making my heart contract again as I saw the flicker of pain in her eyes.
Then she’d quietly said, “No, they didn’t tattoo the prisoners at Ravensbrück. That was done to us where they sent us next.”