Read Online Rena's Promise by Heather Dune Macadam, Rena Kornreich Gelissen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Dune Macadam, Rena Kornreich Gelissen
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of the fabric. There are no buttons to close the shirt, but there are holes and reddish-brown streaks and stains. "They haven't even washed these clothes!" I remark. Touching a smear of dirt, I wonder if I can scrub it out later. But this is not mud. It is sticky. It smells sweet. My stomach lurches. I stare at the women around me who are already clothed. Still damp from the disinfectant, they are simply grateful for something to put over their bodies. Like myself, they do not notice at once, preferring to think that the cloth has been eaten away by moths rather than bullets. They do not see that the streaks are not dirt and mud but blood. We are like lambs being led to slaughter, following one another because we know of nothing else to do. Despite the sweet-sour smell of stale blood and scratchiness of the wool against my nipples, I modestly pull my shirt across my chest. What will be next?
In the last room there is a pile of wood slabs with leather straps
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across the top. These are supposed to be shoes. Again, we try to help each other find a matching pair, but they were not made in pairs. They're not even made for human beings to wear. Scuffling out of the block onto the camp road, I move into position. We stand in neat rows of five, bald, practically barefoot, and wearing dead men's uniforms. It begins to drizzle.
"Line up!" The drill is repetitive, mundane. We are capable of nothing but obeying orders. "March!" With one hand clutching the stench of my shirt close around me and the other hoisting up the pants which sag below my hips, still possessed by a false sense of modesty, I march.
We stamp our feet awkwardly, trying not to trip or lose our sandals. We pass the first four blocks before turning into Block Five. We are so busy trying not to lose our clothing that we do not notice the room we are led into. The door slams shut and a bolt falls on the other side. We are trapped, standing almost on top of one another in bloody straw. Bedbugs jump, making our bodies black. We hold our clothes up over our faces; they jump on our bare heads, our hands, all over any exposed patch of skin. In the straw, lice crawl hungrily between our toes.
We have gone quietly for too long. Suddenly there is a surge of dissension. Running to the door, we pound and pound. "Let us out! Let us out!" With both hands we beat the walls imprisoning us. "This can't be!" the voices around me scream. ''Please, let us out. We did nothing wrong. There's got to be a mistake. Help us!"
I watch the anguish around me. We have revolted too late. It is no mistake. Joining the mass of betrayed girl-women, I pound against the oak of injustice. It beats thinking. Anything is better than facing the facts on the floor and under our feet.
I am tired of being vigilant. I am tired of watching the sun rise on despair. The girl-women around me mirror my thoughts; my face must look as doomed as theirs. The filth, the smell, the sounds of guard dogs barking in the distanceit is too much. The whole night I crouch on the floor, exhausted yet alert. There has been no
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water for over four days, no food, not a drop of anything. I don't fall asleep, but quite a few do. Dropping off into unconsciousness, they collapse on the floor, no longer able to feel the gnawing bites of these terrible bugs.
The door to Block Five opens at four A.M . I am still where they left me, wide-eyed and awake. We scramble into line and march out for roll call. We stand silently, being counted, unable to move from our neat and orderly rows of five. I do not turn my head. I do not shift my feet. I want to scratch at the bites and the irritating wool against my bare skin. My thumb twitches against my leg; it is the only movement I allow myself to indulge in.
They divide us evenly into two different groups. We are given a bowl for our tea, but there aren't enough; some people share theirs, but right away there are arguments and some of the bowls disappear. We march
In the last room there is a pile of wood slabs with leather straps
page_65
Page 65
across the top. These are supposed to be shoes. Again, we try to help each other find a matching pair, but they were not made in pairs. They're not even made for human beings to wear. Scuffling out of the block onto the camp road, I move into position. We stand in neat rows of five, bald, practically barefoot, and wearing dead men's uniforms. It begins to drizzle.
"Line up!" The drill is repetitive, mundane. We are capable of nothing but obeying orders. "March!" With one hand clutching the stench of my shirt close around me and the other hoisting up the pants which sag below my hips, still possessed by a false sense of modesty, I march.
We stamp our feet awkwardly, trying not to trip or lose our sandals. We pass the first four blocks before turning into Block Five. We are so busy trying not to lose our clothing that we do not notice the room we are led into. The door slams shut and a bolt falls on the other side. We are trapped, standing almost on top of one another in bloody straw. Bedbugs jump, making our bodies black. We hold our clothes up over our faces; they jump on our bare heads, our hands, all over any exposed patch of skin. In the straw, lice crawl hungrily between our toes.
We have gone quietly for too long. Suddenly there is a surge of dissension. Running to the door, we pound and pound. "Let us out! Let us out!" With both hands we beat the walls imprisoning us. "This can't be!" the voices around me scream. ''Please, let us out. We did nothing wrong. There's got to be a mistake. Help us!"
I watch the anguish around me. We have revolted too late. It is no mistake. Joining the mass of betrayed girl-women, I pound against the oak of injustice. It beats thinking. Anything is better than facing the facts on the floor and under our feet.
I am tired of being vigilant. I am tired of watching the sun rise on despair. The girl-women around me mirror my thoughts; my face must look as doomed as theirs. The filth, the smell, the sounds of guard dogs barking in the distanceit is too much. The whole night I crouch on the floor, exhausted yet alert. There has been no
page_66
Page 66
water for over four days, no food, not a drop of anything. I don't fall asleep, but quite a few do. Dropping off into unconsciousness, they collapse on the floor, no longer able to feel the gnawing bites of these terrible bugs.
The door to Block Five opens at four A.M . I am still where they left me, wide-eyed and awake. We scramble into line and march out for roll call. We stand silently, being counted, unable to move from our neat and orderly rows of five. I do not turn my head. I do not shift my feet. I want to scratch at the bites and the irritating wool against my bare skin. My thumb twitches against my leg; it is the only movement I allow myself to indulge in.
They divide us evenly into two different groups. We are given a bowl for our tea, but there aren't enough; some people share theirs, but right away there are arguments and some of the bowls disappear. We march
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