‘Hush,’ she whispered. ‘There are people in the building.’
Then she heard the babble of deep Polish voices.
‘We are he—’ Gabriele began, but Dorotha raised her finger to her mouth.
The door handle on the other side of the shelf rattled.
‘There’re tools in here. Break down the door!’
Dorotha’s heart plunged. Locals stealing what they could on the eve of the German Reich’s downfall. Instinct told her it wasn’t safe to reveal themselves to these men. They had not come so far only to be shot by a couple of opportunistic thieves.
The door jumped as a heavy boot splintered the wood. Thud. Thud. Thud. The kicks seemed to vibrate up her backbone. She kept her hand over Gabriele’s mouth and squeezed her eyes shut in terror.
The door flew off its hinges with a crash. They were in the library.Oh please God, protect us.Dorotha thought she might just die of a heart attack from the fear there and then. She hardly dared to breathe.
Pierdolic...It’s just a load of dusty old books.
More footsteps. A fist thumped down on the other side of the partition wall, followed by the sound of books being swept angrily from the shelves. A smell prickled in her nostrils. Cheap vodka and stale sweat. The steps receded. Despair engulfed her as she realised she was running out of time. Her life was hanging by a thread. All civilisation had evaporated. The frozen world outside the smashed-up library door was nothing but angry men rampaging with guns. Liberation was as elusive as a phantom. She closed her eyes, surrendered to the numbness.
The library was shaking. No. It is she who was moving. Someone had her hand and was pulling it. Little fingers were tapping at her cheeks.
‘Wake up, please wake up. Don’t leave me.’ Gabriele’s face was hovering over her.
‘I heard someone in the corridor just now.’
‘Hush now...’ Dorotha’s eyes flickered closed again, but Gabriele was insistent.
‘No, it’s new men... Please, you must stay awake,’ she sobbed. ‘Please stay awake.’
Just then a loud cry echoed up the corridor. ‘The war is over in Lódz! Long live Poland.’
And more voices, speaking Russian. She thought she should react, tell them that they were here. A woman and a child. But she couldn’t. She was floating to the bottom of the deepest, darkest ocean, her limbs like treacle. A man’s voice, so deep it reverberated down to her ocean bed.
‘There’s a child in here . . .’
Gabriele’s breathing was faint, but she managed to respond. ‘Help...’ Then louder. ‘Help. My mama has been shot. HELP!’
Yes, yes, that’s it, bubbeleh. Save yourself.
Faintly, she was aware of Gabriele talking to someone. A light permeated the darkness, hands reached out to grasp the child.
Gabriele was free.The relief was like grasping on to an anchor chain. Her funny, dear, clever girl would live to see peace. Gabriele would survive.
There were more voices, speaking in Russian and Polish. The babble of tongues merged into one incomprehensible din, but the odd phrase wrapped itself around her.
Is she alive? Where’s the bullet wound? Can you hear me?
But no, she could not hear him. For the anchor was descending and she was sinking into the darkness. She could feel the heft of it, pulling her slowly and softly down into a deep forest. But in this forest, there were no trees, only books, their spines like trunks.
White dots danced at the edge of her vision, scattering through the blackness like snowflakes. In her mind the ghetto took on gargantuan proportions. The gates. The barbed wire. The bridge was enormous. She would never be able to cross it this time. The Nazi symbols of her oppression floated in front of her.
I will not die a prisoner.
She floated through the forest of books. It was a magical, comfortable place, and she was warm at last. A book was placed in her hand, the pages fluttered open and a golden light spilled out. The pages welcomed her in.
Come now, the author said.Your work is done. Your story is written. It’s time to rest.
Dorotha closed her eyes and fell into the book.
