Also, I didn’t write that most of the SS people guarding us were women too. When I read over the part about being dragged out of the truck and into line it sounded like it was a man doing it, taking advantage of a poor dazed female. But it wasn’t – it was a girl not much older than me and a couple of inches shorter. She probably wasn’t any stronger either. She was just meaner.
I asked Fernande to ask someone to send me some more ink. I know I won’t ever catch up with that Red Cross unit. Now that I’ve glided down I haven’t got enough lift to get airborne again. I don’t have any clothes, and I still have this exhausting, rib-cracking cough. If I stand looking out the window for more than ten minutes, I get so tired I have to sit down. Out of an entire hotel menu I can’t keep down anything more exciting than unsweetened rice pudding or boiled macaroni with nothing on it. I want to go back out there. But I just can’t do anything more energetic than write or sleep, and even sleeping is exhausting. I tried to take a nap and dreamed I was sleeping alone in our barrack, with an icy wind howling through the broken windows, and everybody else had been gassed.
Which is probably a nightmare based on the fact that I am alone, and it’s my own fault. All I can do is pray Irina takes care of our stubborn little Róża. How how how did I lose them both, when we were already out ?
April 19, 1945
Paris
When the 6 p.m. siren let out its piercing howl, we nearly jumped out of our skin.
We had all fallen into a stupor of exhaustion and misery and you could see a ripple of attention race through our ranks as the noise shocked us wide awake. Not long after that they finally fed us. They did it outside, right where we were standing – like CAMP, hah. First they let us help ourselves to water from a row of spigots by the main gate, after about a year of standing in line to get there, and then they brought out two big oil drums of soup. It was absolutely chaotic – seemed chaotic anyway, the first time, 400 of us trying to get at two pots all at once. We had about one bowl between four of us to take turns with, which they took away again when we were done, since we hadn’t yet been issued official bowls of our own. You had to carry your bowl around with you all the time in a little bag or someone would steal it and then you wouldn’t get any soup. No bowl, no soup. Of all the unbelievable things about Ravensbrück, I think the Administration and Politics of Bowls must have been the battiest.
Now it just seems incredible that we got something to eat that day. We all got some soup, and we all got a piece of bread, and we ate it standing up. I ate mine, but I don’t remember anything about it. I don’t remember what the soup was – I mean, you never really knew what it was, but I don’t remember it being the worst soup I’d ever eaten. I do remember that I couldn’t eat the biggest chunks of whatever mystery root vegetable was in it, because they were completely raw. Inside a month I wouldn’t care, but what did I know at that point?
What I remember most about that first meal there is the filthy, crawling, skeletal beggars who fought over the raw chunks of potato or turnip or whatever it was in the soup that I couldn’t make myself eat. There was a camp word for those beggars, which I never did figure out how to say or spell, because it sounds so much to me like schmootzich – Mother’s nasty way of describing a girl who doesn’t take care of herself. It’s Pennsylvania Dutch for filthy greasy.
They took any food you gave them. The first day, because I was still ignorant enough to be picky about what I ate, I tried to hand over my leftover chunks of raw vegetable to one of these desperate people. In seconds I was being clawed at by ten skeletal hands, grabbing at me anywhere they could to try to get in on the handout – five crawling creatures who had once been women snatching at my skirt, my arms, my hair. One of the guards had to beat them off. It left me shaking with shock. I never dared that kind of charity again.
You could drop a breadcrust on the ground and the schmootzichs would fight over it. If you dropped a breadcrust and stepped on it, or a guard spat on it, they still fought over it. They were like seagulls. Like seagulls going after garbage. They were so far from being human that at first it didn’t even occur to me then that they could be fellow prisoners – I thought they must be hoboes or something who’d crawled in off the train tracks. God knows what I thought! Your brain does amazing acrobatics when it doesn’t want to believe something.
After we ate, the guards pointed us in the direction of a ditch we could use for a latrine. I kept telling myself, it’s like camp. It’s a camp; I’m at camp.
God knows what I thought I was telling myself.
We got herded into a harshly lit factory shed to be registered and examined and given prison clothes. Elodie and I were somehow always the last in line, and by the time our turn came for anything, we got the absolute worst of it. But on the other hand, by the time you’d stood in line for an hour or three or four, you knew what was going on. We were able to do a lot more whispering in the administration building than we’d been able to do standing under guard all afternoon, and most information was highly refined by the time it reached me and Elodie. We knew before we got to the line of desks where they processed us that, like all new prisoners, we were in ‘quarantine’ – being ‘decontaminated’ to prevent the spread of typhoid. That sounded plausible, and a good thing, but it was clearly a complete joke – the schmootzichs had had their filthy, oozing hands all over us.
My ATA pilot’s uniform was like a rallying flag. Everybody was ravenously starved for encouraging news from the Front, and only one day ago I’d been a free woman flying over a free Paris. ‘Caen is ours,’ I whispered. ‘And Brussels and Antwerp, and Le Havre just yesterday! I heard before I took off! We’re past Reims in France now. We’ve got most of France and a big part of Belgium. The push is north to Holland and west to the German border. We haven’t got all the French ports – we’re still fighting for Boulogne, but it’ll be any day. And the Luftwaffe –’
Womelsdorff had been cursing his own military for wasting resources.