‘I think you do. If you don’t survive, who will speak of them, who will say their names and tell their stories? They will die twice. And that is precisely what the Nazis want.’
Silence fell over the footbridge, and Dorotha reached into her pocket and felt the fabric brush her fingers.
‘Mama and I love you like you are our own,’ Ruth implored. ‘And you have friends waiting for you. The Secret Society of Librarians. I peeked over your shoulder once and saw you writing to them.’
‘You’re as nosy as you are stubborn, Ruth Mordkowicz,’ Dorotha scolded.
‘Perhaps. What would this Secret Society say to you?’
Dorotha allowed her mind to travel to the women she loved so much. Their heated debates down the pub after summer school, the way they could disagree but always respect one another’s opinion. Evelyn’s homemade gin and fiery orations. Joyce’s unwavering belief in her.
‘They would tell me that hate and bigotry must never be allowed to win.’
‘There now. That’s the woman I love. Come. Or else we’ll be even later.’
A sudden flame of sunlight broke through the morning mist, illuminating Dorotha’s white hair like a silver halo. Ruth knew a sliver of hope, no matter how fragile, was all that was needed to keep her friend alive another day.
She took Dorotha’s hand, laced her fingers through hers, and led her off the bridge.
The two friends walked down the steps slowly, arm in arm.
‘Just one more day,’ Dorotha muttered.
After arriving at the Department of Vital Statistics, Mr Weiss took one look at Dorotha and folded her in his arms. No words were needed. They had both suffered unimaginable losses.
When they pulled apart, Dorotha asked, ‘Where have they been taken?’
‘No one can say for sure.’
‘But you have an idea. Come on. Don’t treat me like a fool.’
Dorotha suspected that Mr Weiss was connected to the resistance in the ghetto. If there was any information, he would know.
‘You’re a long way from that,’ he sighed, pushing back a strand of his hair. He can’t have been much older than Dorotha, and like her, his hair was now turning grey.
‘There are rumours...’ He broke off, and she could see him struggling to find the right words.
‘Don’t sugar-coat it!’
‘There’s a camp in Chelmno on the River Ner, thirty-five miles north from here. The Germans have renamed it Kulmhof. They have hermetically sealed, specially adapted trucks, which they fill with gas fumes.’
‘Gas,’ she breathed, and he nodded.
‘So that is how they are killing our people,’ she said.
‘That and mass shootings.’
She held on to the side of his desk for support. ‘So that is our fate.’
‘Not yet,’ Mr Weiss replied. ‘Hitler might want to make Europejudenfrei, free of Jews.’ He shuddered at the hateful word. ‘But for now, we who are left behind are too valuable to them.’
‘How? she murmured.
‘There are close to two hundred factories in the ghetto now,’ he explained. ‘Ninety per cent of production is for the Wehrmacht. German department stores place most of the rest of the orders.’
His face twisted. ‘Our slave labour is making a fortune for the Reich. They’re bringing in cranes, new machinery, large-scale orders are flooding in from military administration. They want one million more pairs of straw boots for the Wehrmacht. Working hours are to be extended from seven a.m. to eight p.m.’
‘So, our deaths have been suspended!’ she surmised.
