come. I was a week overdue and thankful for the reprieve. Last month I’d had to work with soiled rags between my legs and sneak to the washroom to rinse them out after dark. The Polish girls hated those of us who still bled — we were considered the spoiled new arrivals because our bodies still worked.
Trommler walked among us as we dressed, handing out scarves, rouge, and lipstick. She dropped a compact of shimmering blue eye shadow on my lap and told me to tart myself up. I brushed the pressed powder lightly over my lids and skimmed the lipstick over my lips, but I didn’t use the rouge. I wasn’t going to pretty myself up for anyone, especially the commandant. I didn’t want him noticing my lashes or admiring my lips. It was bad enough having to entertain him.
Rivka picked up a lipstick from the bench and sighed.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered, dabbing the color on her lips.
“You need more,” I whispered, pointing to her lips, but she misunderstood and grabbed the rouge. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a beauty contest; it was a piano audition, and Rivka was sure to win, with or without face paint. I grabbed a pair of shoes from a box, wrapped a silk scarf over my corn-colored spikes, and followed Trommler out of the shower block.
We filed through the main gate, accompanied by two men with machine guns. It was Sunday. On Sundays the quarry was closed. Cleaning the latrines and washing down the barracks didn’t warrant musical accompaniment, so on Sundays the band didn’t play at the gate. We marched to our own beat — six musicians without instruments.
I was surprised to find, a few miles from our own camp, another just like it, with chimneys spilling smoke and a concrete compound of barracks. In front of the camp’s main gate was a sign that read ARBEIT MACHT FREI —“Work Brings Freedom.” A group of men in striped suits were repairing a barbed-wire fence. Michael Wollner was among them, but I didn’t call out to him — there was a gun at my back and one at his.
The smell of the camp gave way to the smell of freshly turned soil as we neared a field. In Birkenau there was only gray — mud, concrete, and smoke. Beyond the barbed wire and only a short hike from our camp, was green, blue, and yellow — a blue sky unsullied by smog, green grass, and up ahead, a globe flower, the color of the sun, pushing through the soil. It was the first beautiful thing I’d seen in months.
We walked on, past peasants tilling the fields and farmers tending their cattle. An old man with a bent back pulled a potato from the ground and dusted it off. He looked up as we passed, saw the guns at our backs, and our stick-thin legs, and returned to his plowing. A young boy worked beside him, his gaze fixed on the ground. The girl who’d blushed in the showers turned beet-red again. I was too hungry to care what the farmers thought of us. I saw the old man drop the potato into his basket and wondered what he and the other farmers would be having for lunch.
When the green fields turned to cobblestoned streets, Trommler tucked her gun under her coat.
“I can still shoot through the fabric,” she warned, “so don’t do anything stupid.”
The sign we’d just passed read OSWEICIM, POPULATION 12,000 , but there were only a handful of people on the streets, most of them elderly. The shop windows were bare, and the townsfolk went about their business. No one stopped to watch us pass. We were just six women wearing silk scarves. We were a little thin, but we weren’t doing badly; we had silk stockings and shiny shoes.
Trommler pulled out her gun when we reached the commandant’s villa. The house was as big as our barrack, but it wasn’t a windowless shed. It was a two-story redbrick mansion with a pitched roof and a weeping willow in the front yard. The grass was a perfect rectangle of green. Even the flowers stood at attention in their beds. The path to the front door was swept of leaves, and on
Trommler walked among us as we dressed, handing out scarves, rouge, and lipstick. She dropped a compact of shimmering blue eye shadow on my lap and told me to tart myself up. I brushed the pressed powder lightly over my lids and skimmed the lipstick over my lips, but I didn’t use the rouge. I wasn’t going to pretty myself up for anyone, especially the commandant. I didn’t want him noticing my lashes or admiring my lips. It was bad enough having to entertain him.
Rivka picked up a lipstick from the bench and sighed.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered, dabbing the color on her lips.
“You need more,” I whispered, pointing to her lips, but she misunderstood and grabbed the rouge. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a beauty contest; it was a piano audition, and Rivka was sure to win, with or without face paint. I grabbed a pair of shoes from a box, wrapped a silk scarf over my corn-colored spikes, and followed Trommler out of the shower block.
We filed through the main gate, accompanied by two men with machine guns. It was Sunday. On Sundays the quarry was closed. Cleaning the latrines and washing down the barracks didn’t warrant musical accompaniment, so on Sundays the band didn’t play at the gate. We marched to our own beat — six musicians without instruments.
I was surprised to find, a few miles from our own camp, another just like it, with chimneys spilling smoke and a concrete compound of barracks. In front of the camp’s main gate was a sign that read ARBEIT MACHT FREI —“Work Brings Freedom.” A group of men in striped suits were repairing a barbed-wire fence. Michael Wollner was among them, but I didn’t call out to him — there was a gun at my back and one at his.
The smell of the camp gave way to the smell of freshly turned soil as we neared a field. In Birkenau there was only gray — mud, concrete, and smoke. Beyond the barbed wire and only a short hike from our camp, was green, blue, and yellow — a blue sky unsullied by smog, green grass, and up ahead, a globe flower, the color of the sun, pushing through the soil. It was the first beautiful thing I’d seen in months.
We walked on, past peasants tilling the fields and farmers tending their cattle. An old man with a bent back pulled a potato from the ground and dusted it off. He looked up as we passed, saw the guns at our backs, and our stick-thin legs, and returned to his plowing. A young boy worked beside him, his gaze fixed on the ground. The girl who’d blushed in the showers turned beet-red again. I was too hungry to care what the farmers thought of us. I saw the old man drop the potato into his basket and wondered what he and the other farmers would be having for lunch.
When the green fields turned to cobblestoned streets, Trommler tucked her gun under her coat.
“I can still shoot through the fabric,” she warned, “so don’t do anything stupid.”
The sign we’d just passed read OSWEICIM, POPULATION 12,000 , but there were only a handful of people on the streets, most of them elderly. The shop windows were bare, and the townsfolk went about their business. No one stopped to watch us pass. We were just six women wearing silk scarves. We were a little thin, but we weren’t doing badly; we had silk stockings and shiny shoes.
Trommler pulled out her gun when we reached the commandant’s villa. The house was as big as our barrack, but it wasn’t a windowless shed. It was a two-story redbrick mansion with a pitched roof and a weeping willow in the front yard. The grass was a perfect rectangle of green. Even the flowers stood at attention in their beds. The path to the front door was swept of leaves, and on
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