On the other side of the tracks, Dorotha made out the shock of white hair. The chairman was being loaded into a wagon with the rest of his family. A whistle sounded and the wagon started rolling, armed guards stationed on the roof.
‘So the king has fallen,’ Nathan breathed. ‘He imagined himself as some sort of hero in Jewish history.’
‘Let’s see what reception he gets when he arrives at whatever lies at the end of those tracks,’ another prisoner muttered ominously.
Back and forth the prisoners went, with opposing opinions on whether Rumkowski was a saint or a sinner, but Dorotha wasn’tlistening. While gripping the side of the cart, her fingers had brushed against something.
‘What’s this?’ she murmured, pulling out a rolled-up piece of paper from a crack and unfolding it.
The grubby piece of paper was no bigger than an envelope and the writing was small.
‘Read it out loud,’ Nathan demanded.
‘Piekary, Barkenheim, Gross Dombrowka, Krolewska-Huta...It’s a list of stations, I think.’
‘Keep reading,’ Nathan urged.
‘Auschwitz...Signed Rachel Bohm.’ Dorotha stated. She turned the paper over but no more was written. ‘I think that was the end of the line. Auschwitz,’ she said, looking around the group of prisoners inside the wagon. ‘Is that in Germany?’
‘Auschwitz is the German name for Oswiecim, a town in Upper Silesia, Poland,’ Nathan replied.
‘So they lied,’ she snorted. ‘No surprise there. What is this Au...’ she stumbled over the name. ‘Auschwitz place?’
Nathan’s eyes fell to the floor, the livid red welt like a tear streaked down his cheek.
‘Believe me, my friend, you do not want to know what I’ve heard.’
That evening, when Dorotha got home from the day’s work, filthy, starving, and more exhausted than she had ever been in her life, she was surprised to find that Gabriele had prepared a meal for them.
‘Look. I’ve made beet soup,’ she exclaimed, stirring a small pot of soup over the tiny stove.
Dorotha stared in amazement, not just at her ingenuity but also the child’s power of recovery. Just over three weeks on from Gabriele’s hospitalisation, she was so much stronger, and already her red hair was growing back, soft and downy. Themedication Dr Mostowicz had managed to get her was clearly doing its job. She thanked God for the resilience of her small companion and the care of the heroic doctor.
‘And here’s me thinking I had to look after you,’ Dorotha said, managing a small smile.
This wasn’t the first occasion either. Each day, Dorotha would bring home her meagre rations and Gabriele rustled up something from nothing.Placki, pancakes made from potato peelings.Kleyselakhdumplings, made from more peelings and mixed with ground acorns and ersatz coffee.
‘You have an alchemist’s gift,’ Dorotha smiled, stifling a yawn as she sipped her soup.
‘Mrs Mordkowicz taught me to cook and keep house.’
Dorotha had been so tired she hadn’t noticed the room when she came in. Gabriele had swept it clean, made the bed, and attempted to clean the cracked windows with old newspaper.
‘One day, I’ll write a recipe book. One hundred and one things to do with a potato peel,’ Gabriele said brightly.
Dorotha burst out laughing, dribbling soup down her chin. Gabriele joined in too, and soon the pair of them were in fits of giggles. It was extraordinary, she thought, that they could laugh like this in the abyss. That she could find such comfort in the company of a child. Once their bowls and the pan had been washed in cold water and scrubbed with ash, they changed into tattered nightgowns and began their nightly ritual.
Some evenings, Dorotha would read to Gabriele. But since she had started hard labour, Gabriele had begun to read to her instead. The girl had read the ink offEmil and the Detectivesand was now exploring more grown-up literature. But her favourite evenings were when Gabriele made up stories. Her creative brain was astonishing, and Dorotha often wondered whether being cooped up inside had watered an already fertile imagination.
‘Today’s story is called “The Lost Librarians”,’ Gabriele announced. ‘Would you like to hear?’
Dorotha nodded her head and drew the old blanket around them. Gabriele wove a magical story about a group of librarians who saved a little girl locked in a tower with the help of a talking dog and a lion with wings.
When Gabriele had finished, she propped herself up on one arm. ‘What do you think?’
Dorotha stared into the girl’s clear blue eyes.
‘I think, my littlekochanie,that with that imagination, one day you will be a famous writer.’
