Cibi watches Livi look longingly at the trucks, but she tugs hard on her sister’s arm, and they walk out of the gates together, heads held high. Cibi glances up at the words she has read on exiting and entering the compound every day for the last five months: ARBEIT MACHT FREI. What rubbish, none of them are free. They are prisoners, treated like animals, their lives worth nothing. This ‘freedom’ means only death.
Once again they walk the road to the building site.
‘I think we’re about to be reacquainted with our bricks,’ Cibi tells Livi, slipping an arm around her sister’s shoulders.
‘The buildings the Russians were putting up? But they aren’t finished.’
‘Some are. Do you think they care if they’re half-built? For the likes of us?’ Cibi bites her tongue; it would be so easy to lash out at their captors, to reveal that she has given up hope, but she must remain strong, for Livi. ‘Maybe it will be better where we’re going, kitten.’ Cibi plants a kiss on her sister’s cheek, but Livi just carries on stumbling along the road.
The sun beats down on the girls; the dry dusty track throws dirt into their faces. Ahead, a girl faints. An SS officer marches over, takes his pistol from its holster and shoots her in the head.
Cibi and Livi don’t break their stride as they manoeuvre around the girl’s body. They have learned to appear indifferent; never to register shock or fear, anger or horror. To survive one must remain invisible. Drawing attention to yourself, however insignificant the detail, is often all that’s needed for an instant death.
‘She should have taken the truck,’ Livi whispers.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, whether she was on the truck or on the road,’ says Cibi. Livi looks puzzled. ‘Have you seen any trucks go past? Look around, we’re almost there and not one has driven by. Those girls are not coming to Birkenau.’
Livi doesn’t answer. Now she understands.
They walk on in silence. Ahead, the girls are turning off the road into the new camp where completed brick blocks sit side by side with those still under construction. There are three ‘streets’， each containing a row of five blocks. A wire fence surrounds the compound, and wooden watchtowers have been erected to keep an eye on the new residents. Armed SS guards watch from above, rifles trained on the girls. More nonsense, thinks Cibi wearily. What can even a thousand half-starved wretches do to these men?
They await instructions in a wide clearing.
‘Before you go into your new homes you need to get your numbers inked again. Too many of them have faded,’ a female SS guard yells at them.
Livi looks at the number on her arm. Cibi does the same. All around them girls are looking at their left arms.
‘I can still see my number,’ Livi says.
‘I can see most of mine,’ Cibi replies.
‘Get in line,’ the guard yells.
The girls shuffle into something resembling a line.
‘Livi, is that Gita? Ahead of us?’ Cibi points a finger. ‘Gita, Gita,’ she calls out.
A girl turns round, smiling when she sees Cibi and Livi. It is their school friend.
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Gita whispers. ‘How long?’
‘Months,’ Cibi replies. ‘You?’
‘Same. I wish we’d met on the train from Vranov – I feel like I’ve been here my whole life,’ sighs Gita. ‘I’m working in the laundry.’
‘Well, we’ve been delivering bricks.’ Cibi points to the new blocks.
‘You can thank us for the new luxury accommodation,’ says Livi, a twinkle in her eye.
‘Really?’ Gita seems shocked. ‘That sounds so hard.’
‘I’m sorry you’re here, Gita.’ Livi is staring at her feet, the twinkle gone. ‘Sorry that we’re all here.’
‘No talking!’ a guard screams.
Gita turns round to face the front and they continue to shuffle forward.
Livi and Cibi watch as Gita steps up to the desk and the tattooist, who will eventually refresh the numbers on every arm of every girl in line. Gita looks frightened, reluctant to hold out her arm. Cibi’s breath catches in her throat. Please, Gita, she wills her friend. Just let him do it. They watch the tattooist gently take Gita’s hand; he says something to her and Gita seems to relax a little.
When it’s Cibi’s turn, the tattooist is still watching Gita walk away.
He is a gentle man and when he’s done, he whispers, ‘I’m sorry.’
The sisters, their arms once again dripping blood, enter Block 21. Gone are the wooden floorboards and straw-filled mattresses of their first ‘home’。 The ground here is solid grey concrete. The large, airless room is lined with tiers of wooden-slatted bunks. There are no blankets, and no mattresses at all, just loose straw the girls will have to gather and line their bunks with if they are to get any sleep at all.