Spam, margarine, and other nutrient-dense items to Ilona and to the young man from Buchenwald, whose name was Rudolph Zweig. Jack sweetened his packages with chocolate and hard candies for Zweig’s nephews, Josef and Tomas. Rudolph expressed his gratitude so fervently that he made Jack uncomfortable. His eyes were often wet with tears when he opened the boxes and bags, and once he tried to kiss Jack’s hand. Ilona greeted his deliveries with reluctance and skepticism, even verging at times on an outright irritability (“You again?”) that he found amusing and much easier to tolerate than Rudolph’s damp hand-kissing.
Today, Jack poked his head through the open door of the room Ilona shared with half a dozen other women, on the third floor of the wing of the building opposite from the one where Zweig was now comfortably and safely ensconced, Maria and the other two Ukrainians having disappeared within days of Jack’s first visit. Ilona was sitting on the edge of her cot while one of her roommates made up her face. The other woman wore a stained and baggy coverall. Her patchy hair was held back by a bright scrap of blue-dotted muslin, and her mouth was done up in the same garish maraschino red that she was now busy applying to Ilona’s lips.
The woman scolded Ilona in Hungarian, rubbed away the smear she’d made when Ilona had smiled. Then she turned to the door to see what had inspired the grin. “Oh-ho.”
“Hello,” Ilona said to Jack.
Until that moment he had not noticed how she’d changed over the past couple of weeks. She had filled out. Her features had softened. Andnow two slashes of cherry red had transformed her abruptly from the object of his pity to a woman he might conceivably, indeed almost certainly, want to fuck. He thrust the box at her, tongue-tied, suddenly at a loss, no longer a benefactor with provisions but a suitor with a gift.
The box was so heavy that the makeup artist had to help Ilona ease it to the ground. She lifted the steel lid. All the women in the room craned forward to look.
“Foie gras!”
“Caviar!”
They cooed and sighed and exclaimed as Ilona pulled out tins and jars and packets. “My God, Jack,” she said. “Are you trying to give us gout?”
He wondered if she was, in her own bitter and broken way, flirting with him.
“I like your lipstick,” he said.
“It’s Luba’s,” Ilona said. She switched to German. “Luba, this is Jack. Maybe if you harass his Hungarian POWs he’ll bring you some sardines, too.” Luba giggled.
“You’ll never guess where Luba got the lipstick,” Ilona said.
“Where?” he said.
“Bergen-Belsen!”
At the look on his face, all the girls in the room burst out laughing.
Luba said, “After we were liberated, the British Red Cross came to inspect. We had nothing. People were still dying every minute. I remember seeing once a woman with a scrap of soap, washing herself from a cistern in which floated the body of a dead child. But the Red Cross came, and then, a few days later, ten crates of lipstick arrived, no one knows how or where from. We have no food, no bandages, but lipstick we have. And my God, so much! Boxes, boxes, boxes. We were so happy. All of us wore it all the time. Woman squatting in the corner, emptying her bowels from dysentery, but her lips! Perfect red. My friend she dies holding her lipstick in her hand. Most important thing she owned.”
Ilona said, “In the camp everyone is just a bald head, a scrap of cloth, a number. But”—she smacked her lips together—“you put lipstick on and you are a person. A human.”
“You look beautiful,” Jack said.
“Maybe not beautiful,” Ilona said. “But I look a little more like myself.”
“Come to dinner with me tonight,” he said.
The women in the room clucked and cooed and made a great show of turning away to allow them a semblance of privacy.
“Is that an order?” she asked, and he still couldn’t decide if she was flirting with him or
Today, Jack poked his head through the open door of the room Ilona shared with half a dozen other women, on the third floor of the wing of the building opposite from the one where Zweig was now comfortably and safely ensconced, Maria and the other two Ukrainians having disappeared within days of Jack’s first visit. Ilona was sitting on the edge of her cot while one of her roommates made up her face. The other woman wore a stained and baggy coverall. Her patchy hair was held back by a bright scrap of blue-dotted muslin, and her mouth was done up in the same garish maraschino red that she was now busy applying to Ilona’s lips.
The woman scolded Ilona in Hungarian, rubbed away the smear she’d made when Ilona had smiled. Then she turned to the door to see what had inspired the grin. “Oh-ho.”
“Hello,” Ilona said to Jack.
Until that moment he had not noticed how she’d changed over the past couple of weeks. She had filled out. Her features had softened. Andnow two slashes of cherry red had transformed her abruptly from the object of his pity to a woman he might conceivably, indeed almost certainly, want to fuck. He thrust the box at her, tongue-tied, suddenly at a loss, no longer a benefactor with provisions but a suitor with a gift.
The box was so heavy that the makeup artist had to help Ilona ease it to the ground. She lifted the steel lid. All the women in the room craned forward to look.
“Foie gras!”
“Caviar!”
They cooed and sighed and exclaimed as Ilona pulled out tins and jars and packets. “My God, Jack,” she said. “Are you trying to give us gout?”
He wondered if she was, in her own bitter and broken way, flirting with him.
“I like your lipstick,” he said.
“It’s Luba’s,” Ilona said. She switched to German. “Luba, this is Jack. Maybe if you harass his Hungarian POWs he’ll bring you some sardines, too.” Luba giggled.
“You’ll never guess where Luba got the lipstick,” Ilona said.
“Where?” he said.
“Bergen-Belsen!”
At the look on his face, all the girls in the room burst out laughing.
Luba said, “After we were liberated, the British Red Cross came to inspect. We had nothing. People were still dying every minute. I remember seeing once a woman with a scrap of soap, washing herself from a cistern in which floated the body of a dead child. But the Red Cross came, and then, a few days later, ten crates of lipstick arrived, no one knows how or where from. We have no food, no bandages, but lipstick we have. And my God, so much! Boxes, boxes, boxes. We were so happy. All of us wore it all the time. Woman squatting in the corner, emptying her bowels from dysentery, but her lips! Perfect red. My friend she dies holding her lipstick in her hand. Most important thing she owned.”
Ilona said, “In the camp everyone is just a bald head, a scrap of cloth, a number. But”—she smacked her lips together—“you put lipstick on and you are a person. A human.”
“You look beautiful,” Jack said.
“Maybe not beautiful,” Ilona said. “But I look a little more like myself.”
“Come to dinner with me tonight,” he said.
The women in the room clucked and cooed and made a great show of turning away to allow them a semblance of privacy.
“Is that an order?” she asked, and he still couldn’t decide if she was flirting with him or
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