Read Online Making Bombs For Hitler by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch - Free Book Online
Authors: Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch
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wave of surprise, then understanding, passed over Mary’s face. “I guess I’ve aged,” she said. “I was seventeen when they captured me. I’m —”
A whistle blew and Mary stood up.
“Lights out in ten minutes,” she said. “You’d betterhurry.” She wrung out the excess water from her laundry and walked out the door.
Natalia, Ivanka and I walked quickly in the darkness back to Barracks 7, holding our dripping bundles of clothing in front of us so we didn’t get wet, but I shivered anyway in the March night air with just a thin dress on and bare feet. All around us, other prisoners were rushing about, trying to get things done before lights out.
“How did you end up here?” I asked Natalia.
“The three of us were at a different camp. Some of the prisoners revolted, demanding better food. Some were shot. Others were sent to different places. The three of us worked in the kitchens and we were not part of the revolt, so we got off easy compared to others.”
“Where are you from originally?” asked Ivanka.
“I am from Lviv,” said Natalia. “The two girls with me, Marta and Oksana, they’re from Drohobych.”
“Are you Polish or Ukrainian?” I asked.
“I’m Polish. Marta and Oksana are Ukrainian.”
“At least you Poles will all get better food than we do,” said Ivanka.
When we got back to Barracks 7, I helped Zenia drape her blouse and skirt at the end of her row of bunks. Would they dry by morning? Hard to know. All we had to warm the room with was the body heat of thirty-five frightened girls and one small stove, whose warmth seemed to stretch no farther than six inches.
I lay back down on my own bunk, pulled the covers over me and tried to stop shivering. Would I ever get used to walking on the wintry ground barefoot? But I was grateful that at least I was working inside in a warm place everyday. Yes, every muscle in my body ached, and yes I was tired, but I was alive.
I thought of Olesia, Daria, Katya and Tatiana. I was grateful that I had been spared, but it made me feel guilty too. They were so young, yet no one had helped them stay alive. Would someone help Larissa? I prayed that she had met up with people who could look out for her, who would treat her well until I could find her. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but hunger gnawed at my belly and thoughts of Larissa haunted my dreams.
With a sinking feeling, I realized I must have slept through supper. “Can someone do me a favour tomorrow?” I said to no one in particular. “Please wake me up so I don’t miss supper.”
Stiff blankets rustled and there were a few suppressed chuckles.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “I’m starving.”
“Silly girl,” said Zenia. “None of us got supper.”
Her words slapped me in the face. A triangle of sawdust bread and a bowl of watery turnip soup and that was all for the entire day? No wonder Mary had aged so quickly in a matter of months.
“When I get out of here, the first thing I’m going to do is eat a piece of fresh homemade bread slathered with butter and dripping with honey.” It was Natalia who said that.
“Don’t talk about food,” said Zenia.
“I won’t,” said Ivanka. “How can we talk about fresh bread, or butter and honey when we’re all so hungry? I wouldn’t want to talk about the beautiful tortes my mother would make, or soup made with wild mushrooms my brother picked in his secret spot in the woods …”
My stomach grumbled with hunger. “Can’t we talk about something else?”
But try as we might, the conversation kept on coming back to food.
I fell into sleep, dreaming of my grandmother’s poppy seed cookies.
The blast of the early morning whistle and the next day began. Then the next, the next and the next. They all knitted together with sadness, hunger and cold. We laboured through March and April and into May.
Each day was much like that first Monday. We would get up in the dark and work until it was practically dark again.
A whistle blew and Mary stood up.
“Lights out in ten minutes,” she said. “You’d betterhurry.” She wrung out the excess water from her laundry and walked out the door.
Natalia, Ivanka and I walked quickly in the darkness back to Barracks 7, holding our dripping bundles of clothing in front of us so we didn’t get wet, but I shivered anyway in the March night air with just a thin dress on and bare feet. All around us, other prisoners were rushing about, trying to get things done before lights out.
“How did you end up here?” I asked Natalia.
“The three of us were at a different camp. Some of the prisoners revolted, demanding better food. Some were shot. Others were sent to different places. The three of us worked in the kitchens and we were not part of the revolt, so we got off easy compared to others.”
“Where are you from originally?” asked Ivanka.
“I am from Lviv,” said Natalia. “The two girls with me, Marta and Oksana, they’re from Drohobych.”
“Are you Polish or Ukrainian?” I asked.
“I’m Polish. Marta and Oksana are Ukrainian.”
“At least you Poles will all get better food than we do,” said Ivanka.
When we got back to Barracks 7, I helped Zenia drape her blouse and skirt at the end of her row of bunks. Would they dry by morning? Hard to know. All we had to warm the room with was the body heat of thirty-five frightened girls and one small stove, whose warmth seemed to stretch no farther than six inches.
I lay back down on my own bunk, pulled the covers over me and tried to stop shivering. Would I ever get used to walking on the wintry ground barefoot? But I was grateful that at least I was working inside in a warm place everyday. Yes, every muscle in my body ached, and yes I was tired, but I was alive.
I thought of Olesia, Daria, Katya and Tatiana. I was grateful that I had been spared, but it made me feel guilty too. They were so young, yet no one had helped them stay alive. Would someone help Larissa? I prayed that she had met up with people who could look out for her, who would treat her well until I could find her. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but hunger gnawed at my belly and thoughts of Larissa haunted my dreams.
With a sinking feeling, I realized I must have slept through supper. “Can someone do me a favour tomorrow?” I said to no one in particular. “Please wake me up so I don’t miss supper.”
Stiff blankets rustled and there were a few suppressed chuckles.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “I’m starving.”
“Silly girl,” said Zenia. “None of us got supper.”
Her words slapped me in the face. A triangle of sawdust bread and a bowl of watery turnip soup and that was all for the entire day? No wonder Mary had aged so quickly in a matter of months.
“When I get out of here, the first thing I’m going to do is eat a piece of fresh homemade bread slathered with butter and dripping with honey.” It was Natalia who said that.
“Don’t talk about food,” said Zenia.
“I won’t,” said Ivanka. “How can we talk about fresh bread, or butter and honey when we’re all so hungry? I wouldn’t want to talk about the beautiful tortes my mother would make, or soup made with wild mushrooms my brother picked in his secret spot in the woods …”
My stomach grumbled with hunger. “Can’t we talk about something else?”
But try as we might, the conversation kept on coming back to food.
I fell into sleep, dreaming of my grandmother’s poppy seed cookies.
The blast of the early morning whistle and the next day began. Then the next, the next and the next. They all knitted together with sadness, hunger and cold. We laboured through March and April and into May.
Each day was much like that first Monday. We would get up in the dark and work until it was practically dark again.
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