That night, as the sisters curl up with their two other bunkmates, Cibi whispers, ‘Goodnight,’ to Livi.
‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ a perplexed Livi asks.
‘What else is there to say?’ Cibi closes her eyes.
‘Our prayers, Cibi. Our nightly prayers. Even when you were delirious you still prayed before you went to sleep.’
‘There will be no more praying, little sister. No one is listening to us.’
Livi hugs Cibi close and shuts her eyes. But, as exhausted as she is, sleep will not come. She thinks of their mother and what she would say if she knew Cibi had abandoned their faith. They hadn’t missed a single night of giving thanks for their family, their friends, the food they ate, and the homes that sheltered them. She thought of Magda. Cibi was so sure Magda was safely at home, but what if she was wrong? What if Magda was in another camp, just like this, but without the comfort of a sister?
*
The following day, Cibi and Livi, along with the rest of the white kerchief detail, are feeling re-energised as they march towards Auschwitz. It is incredible what extra food and a good night’s sleep does for their morale.
‘Do you know what Rita just asked me?’ says Livi. The girls are in the sorting rooms; Cibi has just returned from a bathroom visit.
‘I can’t imagine. What did Rita ask you?’ Cibi begins to sift through the jumpers and skirts and trousers.
‘She asked if I could machine type.’
‘And what did you say?’ Cibi lays down the clothes and meets Livi’s eyes.
‘Well, I said “no”， of course.’
‘Go and find her now, Livi. Tell her that I can type.’ There is a new urgency in Cibi’s voice.
‘I can’t, Cibi. You know I only speak to her when she asks me something.’
‘Oh, Livi, really! Stay here.’
Cibi strides across the room towards Rita who is circling the office, stopping now and then to talk to the girls, presumably asking them the same question.
‘Rita, Livi said you asked her if she knew how to type and she said no.’
‘That’s right, I’m now asking .?.?.’
‘I know how to type,’ Cibi blurts. ‘I learned at school. I can use all ten fingers and .?.?. and I’m good at arithmetic, too.’ She is trembling, unsure of what she has just offered herself up for.
‘Come with me,’ snaps Rita, and leads Cibi towards the office at the front of the sorting room.
An SS officer sits behind the larger of the two desks that fill the small room. On the smaller desk sits a typewriter, a pile of blank paper, a tray and some pencils. Rita introduces Cibi to the officer, telling him she is the new clerk and will be typing up the daily log of clothes the girls had sorted.
The officer, Armbruster, acknowledges Cibi with a nod. He is a slim man in his fifties at least; his grey hair and the wrinkles around his eyes give him an air of wisdom. He could be her grandfather. Rita sits down at the smaller desk and holds up a typed list. She hands Cibi several handwritten pieces of paper that contain the details of the clothing compiled, and ready for transport. She explains how Cibi is to create a daily log itemising the men’s, women’s and children’s clothing. She is to send one copy with the daily transports, keep one copy and create a monthly log. Errors will not be tolerated.
When Rita leaves the room, Cibi places a piece of paper in the typewriter, and winds it on. With a confidence she is yet to feel, Cibi begins to type, ‘Men’s clothing’， using only two fingers.
‘Is that how you type?’ Armbruster asks.
Cibi looks at the German officer. ‘No. I learned how to type with all ten fingers, but I can do it quicker with two,’ she replies.
‘Give me the page when you’re done, I’ll check it before it goes out.’ He turns away.
Cibi slowly compiles a list of clothing using the new figures from the scraps of paper. When she has finished, she dramatically pulls the sheet from the machine and takes it to Armbruster.
Back at her desk, she starts the women’s clothing list. She is still working her way through when the officer appears at her side.
‘You made some mistakes, and I have corrected your spelling, and you will have to do it again,’ he says, without the all-too familiar note of threat in his voice. ‘And take your time to get it right. It isn’t a race.’
*
1943 is a new year, it is no different to 1942. Livi works in the Kanada, and Cibi is SS officer Armbruster’s clerk, so at least they are still together in the white kerchief detail. Cibi is still not praying, but each night she whispers, ‘Mumma, Magda, Grandfather,’ and pictures them at home, safe in the little house in Vranov. Each night she pulls Livi close. And these are the ways in which they keep going.