‘Don’t even think about it!’ Chaya snaps. Magda abruptly stands up and walks away; she doesn’t trust herself to say another word on the subject.
Magda weaves her way in and out of legs and bodies, towards her friend, Zuzana, who she has just spied on the other side of the room.
Zuzana gets to her feet as soon as she spots Magda approaching and the girls find a couple of chairs, out of the earshot of the adults. They talk animatedly about the miracle of their survival, how they escaped the Shabbat abductions, how their families managed to endure the ever-diminishing rations of food.
‘To begin with, they sent me away,’ Zuzana tells Magda. ‘To our non-Jewish relatives on the Ukrainian border.’
‘Why on earth did you come back?’ Magda asks, incredulous.
‘They weren’t very kind to me. They had a farm and it felt like I was the only one doing any work. I felt like a slave, Magda. But that isn’t the reason I left. They’d heard that anyone caught sheltering Jews would be deported, so they sent me home.’ Zuzana had been back in Vranov only a couple of weeks.
That first night in the classroom is hot and uncomfortable. Before they settle down, the conversation is focused on food, how much they should eat and how much they should save. Yitzchak produces a pocket-knife and rations their bread, cheese, dry biscuits. One by one, everyone else does the same for their families.
Magda is relieved to be allowed outside the next morning, but her mind is on more than the fresh air. In the small playground, she finds that two other ‘classrooms’ have also been released. Magda and Zuzana join a group of teenagers.
‘I say we attack them,’ one boy says, squaring his shoulders.
‘And when we’re free in the streets of Nováky, what do we do then?’ Zuzana asks. No one has an answer for that.
‘It’s funny,’ muses another boy. ‘School always did feel like a prison.’
Nothing has been resolved between the teenagers by the time they are shepherded back into the classrooms.
Another day and night passes in a fug of ignorance as to what lies in wait for the prisoners, and Magda’s ‘class’ becomes despondent.
In the afternoon of the third day, a Hlinka guard hands around rations of bread and coffee. From her suitcase, Chaya takes out a jar of pickled vegetables to mask the taste of the stale loaf. She shares it with the other families until the jar is empty.
They endure two long weeks of confinement, with little change to their routine. They are fed twice a day, allowed to exercise for an hour, and the rest of the time they are locked into their classrooms. All talk of rebellion abates after a couple of men who demand an audience with those in charge never return to their families.
*
By the end of the second week, Magda has lost track of the days. This is how they break our spirits, Magda thinks. But then, one morning, before breakfast, a guard enters the room. When everyone is silent, he glances at his clipboard and calls out, ‘Magda Meller. Identify yourself.’
Magda, Chaya and Yitzchak stand up.
‘Wait! You’re not all Magda Meller,’ he snaps.
‘I’m Magda. This is my mother and grandfather.’
‘Then tell your mother and grandfather to sit down.’
‘What do you want with her?’ says Yitzchak, standing in front of his granddaughter.
‘That’s none of your business, old man. Now move.’
‘We go where she goes!’ Chaya insists. ‘She’s my daughter.’
The guard gives a nod of his head to some guards in the hallway, signalling for them to come inside.
‘It’s all right, Mumma,’ Magda says, as they approach. ‘I’m sure I’ll be back soon. And save some of that delicious bread for me.’ She winks at her mother, but Chaya grabs hold of Magda’s sleeve, pulling her away from the Hlinka guards. Magda pats her mother’s hand and gently removes it. She can almost hear the bristling tension in the limbs of these boys, and doesn’t want to test them. ‘Mumma, please. I won’t be long.’
‘Chaya, please come away. Now!’ Yitzchak’s eyes are fixed on the guards: they are seconds away from striking her, he knows it. He leads Chaya back to their chairs.
‘Don’t forget to save me some bread,’ Magda calls, with a grin. Her heart is hammering so hard she’s amazed she got the words out. She waits for the classroom door to close behind her before she rounds on the guard with the clipboard. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘You’ll see,’ is all he says, leading her along the hall towards the back of the school and into the administration block. She enters a large foyer where several other teenagers, mostly girls, are also waiting. The guards abandon them to their fear for two hours. The room falls into silence, insurrection forgotten.