Outside, a flurry of snow attempts to carpet the road on which the girls now stand in rows of five. Livi and Cibi shiver, their teeth chattering.
Cibi reaches for Livi’s hand in an attempt to comfort her. She feels the soft touch of fabric and carefully pries apart Livi’s fingers. ‘How have you got this, Livi?’ she whispers.
‘Got what?’ Livi is holding a small pouch containing a sacred coin their mother had sewn into both girls’ vests on the night of their departure.
‘Where did this come from?’ Livi asks, oblivious to the fact it is in her hand.
‘You tell me. How have you held on to it?’
‘I-I don’t know.’ Livi doesn’t take her eyes off the coin. ‘I didn’t know I had it.’
‘Listen to me.’ Cibi’s voice is harsh, and Livi startles. ‘When we start moving, you have to drop it. Just let it go. We can’t be caught with it.’
‘But it’s from Mother; she gave it to us to keep us safe. The rabbi blessed it.’
‘This coin will not keep us safe, it will only get us into trouble. Will you do as I say?’ Cibi insists. Livi hangs her head and nods. ‘Now, hold my hand and when I let go, that’s when you drop it.’
For two hours the girls stand in line as their numbers are called out. Cibi realises that the numbers are the ones etched into their swollen arms. She pulls up her sleeve to memorise hers and instructs Livi to do the same. This is their identity now.
Finally, their numbers are called. Once they have been assigned to their work details, Cibi and Livi march out of the gates, past the station, towards the town of Oswiecim. Outside the camp, empty fields surround them; in the distance, smoke billows from small farmhouses, and unseen horses neigh their presence. The SS stride up and down the rows, those with dogs encourage them to bark and snap at the girls.
Cibi slows down until the girls behind catch them up. Glancing around to make sure none of the guards are nearby, Cibi gently lets go of Livi’s hand. She hears the soft thud of the pouch as it hits the muddy slurry on the ground. She takes hold of Livi’s hand once more, squeezing gently, to communicate the message that they have done the right thing.
They enter a street of houses without roofs, some without walls. Mounds of rubble line the empty road. The old-timers move towards the brick ruins; others clamber up onto the rooftops and begin to throw down bricks and tiles. Those on the ground weave and duck to avoid the falling missiles, not always succeeding.
‘You two!’
Cibi looks around to see their kapo staring at her and her sister.
‘Come here!’ she instructs, and the girls hasten towards her.
‘See that?’ She is pointing to a four-wheel cart a hundred metres away. There are a couple of girls strapped to the front of the wagon in a harness, dragging it along. As though they are horses, Livi thinks. ‘They will show you what to do.’
The girls hurry away to once again come face to face with the blank eyes of prisoners who have been here far longer than they have.
‘You’re on the back,’ one girl says.
Livi and Cibi move to the back of the cart and await further instruction.
The girls at the front begin pulling the cart towards a newly demolished house, where bricks are piled in long rows near its foundations. Several girls stand by, waiting. Livi and Cibi start pushing.
When they reach the rubble, the girls start to load the bricks into the cart.
‘Don’t just stand there, help them!’
Nudging Livi into action, Cibi starts heaving the bricks into the cart, just as the kapo walks up to them.
Livi throws in a brick, where it strikes another, chipping off a corner.
‘Break one more and there will be consequences,’ the kapo snaps.
Cibi thinks of Magda and feels a wave of relief riding the length of her spine. She has been spared this torture. She wishes Livi weren’t here – she looks and seems so much younger than all the other girls. She is brave, but she is still so little. How will she even handle this work?
CHAPTER 8
Vranov nad Topl’ou
April 1942
C
haya is seated by the window, in the very same position Livi occupied only days earlier.
‘We will hear her when she gets home, Chaya. Please, come away from the window.’ Yitzchak lays a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder and feels the rigid muscles tense beneath her skin.
Chaya doesn’t drop the curtain; she will not miss Magda’s arrival. ‘Father,’ she says, her eyes trained on the street. ‘I don’t know how we’ll tell her about the girls.’