Bulletin No. 181
Friends. You may find this hard to believe but, aside from food, knowing the time is one of the things I miss the most. Time has no meaning in the ghetto, one day blurring into another. All clocks have been removed, and all watches stolen. The clock in the tower of St Mary’s Church shows permanently five o’clock. If I survive until we are liberated please God, the first thing I shall buy myself is a watch. With love, ‘That girl with the books’, D
Dorotha fell asleep under a straggly tree next to the ghetto hospital as darkness fell. Her limbs were as heavy as concrete and her feet and her hands numb with cold. She woke with a start, her nerves running through her like a flame. She felt Oscar’s body next to her.
A waxing moon hung over the ghetto, glowing silver in the inky vault.
‘What did the doctor say?’ Dorotha asked for the fifth time that night. She knew she’d get the same answer, but it didn’t stop her seeking reassurance.
‘She’s in good hands,’ Oscar replied patiently. ‘He says he has medication, an injection, that can help.’
She sat up stiffly, rubbing her bare legs, her bony shins glowing white in the moonlight. ‘Maybe there’s hope?’
Dorotha realised how desperately she cared for this little girl, who devoured books and had clung to her like a clamshell since her mother was taken.
She sighed and rested her head against the tree, looking up at the moon. A thousand or more miles away, Adela would be able to see this same moon from the safety of England. Joyce had vouched for her and looked out for her, for no other reason than it was the right thing to do. Dorotha owed that much to Ava. She would stay out here for as long as it took to get word.
The growl of an engine broke open the peace of the night. Slamming doors. Thundering boots, followed by barking dogs. Oscar stiffened and shrank back against the tree, into the shadows.
‘SS,’ he whispered. He took her hand and they scrambled back to the perimeter fence as quietly as they could. Not that it mattered. The Nazis were making such a commotion and seemed hell-bent on getting into the hospital.
‘What are they doing here in the middle of the night?’ Dorotha whispered, knowing the answer to the question as soon as it left her lips.
The SS guards were marching into the hospital, dogs straining on their leashes and streaming round their ankles. More lorries were pouring into the forecourt of the hospital. One by one the hospital lights sprang on. Blackout blinds were ripped down. Then came the screaming. Dorotha whimpered and Oscar held his hand against her mouth.
‘Please, my love, we must stay quiet.’
Dorotha squeezed her eyes closed and counted back from one hundred.
Gunshots shattered the night sky, followed by breaking glass. Dorotha opened her eyes to see dozens of patients, still in tattered nightclothes, being bundled into the backs of lorries.Many were too weak to walk, and they stumbled out through the hospital door, wild-eyed with delirium and pain.
Oscar stared in the darkness, hatred boiling in his eyes. He was counting the patients off as they were pushed into the lorries, making a mental inventory no doubt to share in theChronicle. This was how he stopped himself from going stark raving mad. His commitment to documenting the atrocities of the ghetto was tireless.
Eventually, the SS had filled the lorries, topping up their quota, and drove away from the hospital. The air they left behind was charged with adrenaline and disbelief.
From out of the darkness they came, men and women, streaming towards the hospital, horror etched on their faces. News of the selection had spread, and people were running in the hopes of saving a loved one.
‘Gabriele,’ gasped Dorotha, struggling to her feet.
‘Just wait,’ Oscar advised, but his caution fell on deaf ears.
Dorotha ran, joining the desperate masses. Inside the hospital, she went from ward to ward. All were empty. Sheets lay twisted and torn, hospital trolleys upended.
‘Typhus ward,’ she gabbled, grabbing a nurse.
‘Upstairs,’ she replied. ‘But you can’t go in—’
‘Dorotha,’ Oscar pleaded, running behind her. ‘Wait.’
Dorotha didn’t care about anything but seeing whether the little girl had been snatched. She took the steps two at a time and found the ward. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned the door handle and pushed. Row upon row of startled, terrified faces stared back at her.
‘Why’s no one been taken from this ward?’ she heard Oscar ask a man, she presumed Dr Mostowicz.
‘Why do you think?’ he replied, wearily. ‘They are terrified of contracting typhus.’
Gabriele was in the last bed at the end of the ward. Her bald head looked so tiny on the white pillow. Her eyes were as large as the moon that hung in the sky. She was at least conscious.
‘My darling girl,’ Dorotha wept, taking her hands. ‘You gave us a fright.’
