‘I don’t want to sit in here,’ says Cibi. ‘It feels all wrong. But I don’t think the owners of this wonderful home would mind if we borrowed their table and chairs.’
‘Where are the owners?’ asks Magda.
‘Gone,’ replies Cibi. ‘However gorgeous this house is, there’s a lot of dust.’ Now the girls peer at the sideboards, the surface of the table, the parquet floors. Cibi is right, whoever lived here has been away for a while.
Cibi moves to the French windows. ‘Let’s take it all outside.’
The girls pull away the chairs and position themselves at either end of the table and heave it through the doors and onto the grass. They return for the chairs and then for the food. Livi and the two Slovakian girls disappear into the vegetable garden beyond the lawn and return with carrots, lettuces. Livi wipes the blade of her little knife before she pockets it.
Just as they are laying their produce on the table, a figure rounds the corner of the house and stands before them on the lawn. He is dressed in rough cotton trousers, a thick shirt. ‘Who are you?’ he barks.
At once the group gathers around Cibi, instantly on their guard.
Livi closes her hand around her knife; he isn’t so big and there are ten of them.
Cibi once more finds herself stepping forward, clearing her throat. ‘We were prisoners of Auschwitz,’ she tells him, firmly. ‘And now we’ve escaped.’
The man doesn’t speak for a long time. He looks at the girls, who are suddenly self-conscious in the rags hanging from their emaciated bodies.
His voice breaks as he utters the words: ‘Help me round up my cows and it would be my honour to give you some warm milk and fresh cheese.’
‘Do you know where the owners are?’ Cibi points to the grand house.
‘I have no idea,’ he says.
Five of the girls go off with the farmer, and the others all return to the vegetable patch. Within an hour they are laying the table with milk, cheese and bread from the farmer, tomatoes and fresh vegetables from the garden, and pickles and tins of fish from the pantry. Eliana has discovered the wine cellar and she has uncorked two bottles of fine red wine, which are waiting to be poured into crystal glasses. Candles adorn the length of the table and the silver cutlery gleams in their flickering light.
As the sun sets, the girls take their seats.
‘We’ve survived the camps,’ says Cibi. ‘We survived the marches. We’re not home yet, but today, tonight, I think it’s time to celebrate our freedom. Our freedom march!’ She raises her glass.
‘Our freedom march!’ the girls echo. They clink glasses and, smiling, begin to reach for the food. They eat slowly, savouring every mouthful.
The moon is full, throwing a spotlight on her sisters, and Cibi is finally confident that whatever lies ahead for them, they will face it together.
CHAPTER 25
Germany
May 1945
T
he whole group is unanimous in their desire to rest and gather their strength before they decide what to do next. That first night, the sisters agree they cannot sleep in any of the bedrooms, and, to their surprise, the other women feel the same. They gather blankets, pillows and throws and hunker down in the dining room.
Magda, with Livi’s help, draws up a roster of work for the girls. Some of them will help the farmer with his cows, others are allocated chores around the house. For two weeks, the group works, eats well and slowly, and each of the women finds her strength returning. Their hair grows thick and glossy, and pale cheeks fill with colour. The sisters’ dreams are as disturbing as ever, and at least three of the women wake up screaming every night, but that’s what this moment of respite is for: some time to heal more than their bodies.
*
Cibi steps out of the house, preparing to head over to the farm; it is her turn to help the farmer round up his cows. All the air in her lungs escapes in one long gasp when she sees the open-bed trucks parked in the courtyard.
Soldiers.
She takes a step back, one hand on the door, the other at her throat. The fear is sudden and painful, she feels faint and stumbles into Magda, who is standing behind her.
‘It’s OK, Cibi,’ whispers Magda. ‘They’re Russians. Look at their uniforms.’ The men are indeed wearing Russian uniform. Cibi scrambles to recall her Rusyn dialect.
The officer in charge identifies himself and asks, ‘Are you the owner of this house?’
Cibi wants to laugh, but she just waves at her rags, at the equally ragged figures who now crowd around her. ‘No, sir. We are escaped prisoners from Auschwitz.’ She pulls up her sleeve and holds out her arm to show him the tattooed numbers.