‘Where are you from?’ Another soldier asks her in German, and Cibi reels off the details of their identity and their escape from the camps.
‘But you’re not from Auschwitz,’ he says. ‘That’s not your home. Where did you live before?’
‘Slovakia,’ whispers Magda, because Cibi has lost her voice.
‘Hungary,’ calls another voice.
‘Poland.’
‘Yugoslavia.’
The sisters find themselves in a queue of girls, lining up to give their details to the white-shirted clerks sitting at desks in the middle of the chaos of the base.
‘Are we safe, is the war over?’ Cibi asks.
The clerk looks up, a warm smile on his face. ‘You are safe, and yes, the war is over. The Nazis have been defeated.’
‘Are you sure?’ Magda asks.
‘I am.’ The clerk’s grin grows wider as he says, ‘Hitler is dead.’
‘Dead?’ whispers Livi. ‘Actually dead?’
The girls stare at the clerk, desperate to believe him. He’s still smiling.
‘What do we do now?’ asks Cibi, finally. ‘Where do we go?’
‘We’ll feed you,’ a clerk tells Cibi. ‘And give you and your sisters a place to sleep.’
They are allocated a place to sleep inside a concrete block.
Livi starts to tremble as she enters the room lined with bunks.
‘Livi, it’s OK, my love, we’re free now. This is just a room,’ soothes Cibi.
‘And those are just beds,’ adds Magda.
*
In between meals they walk around the base, looking for familiar faces from Auschwitz, but find none. Cibi is restless, keen to be on the move again. For the first time in many weeks, she is not in control of their daily routine.
‘We won’t be here much longer,’ Magda says, as they patrol the lines of tents, still hoping to catch sight of a friend. ‘Tomorrow we’ll find out when we’re going home.’
The next morning, a female Russian officer appears in the block. She sits at a desk at the front of the room and beckons forth the girls for questioning.
Cibi is tired of answering these questions. She can’t help fearing that one of her responses might elicit some sort of punishment. She reels off the details again: we’re from Slovakia, we escaped from Auschwitz. My family is dead.
*
‘Three weeks!’ Livi explodes. ‘We have to stay here, in this camp, for another three weeks?’ Despite her temper, Livi is looking well. Her cheeks have filled out and the khaki trousers and white shirt they were issued on their arrival suit her, but her eyes still blaze with the same defiant fire. An officer has just informed them that in three weeks they will be taken by bus to Prague.
‘The time will fly by,’ says Cibi, trying to sound hopeful. ‘It always does.’
‘But I’ve had enough, Cibi!’
‘We’ve all had enough,’ says Magda, an edge to her voice that she cannot hide. ‘What good does moaning do? Where did complaining ever get us?’
‘Our house will be there when we get back, whether it’s in three weeks or a month or a year,’ Cibi adds.
‘But Mumma won’t be there.’ The defiance is gone from Livi’s tone. She heads for their bunk, climbs in and pulls a blanket over her head. Magda takes a step towards her, but Cibi catches her sleeve.
‘Leave her, Magda. She needs to feel her pain. We can’t pretend that Mumma will be there.’
*
The weeks do fly by – Cibi was right – and now the girls will be boarding a bus in three days’ time. Their names are once again checked off a list. When the clerk has confirmed their identities he looks at Eva, whose name is not on his list.
‘And who are you?’ he asks.
‘Her name is Eva, she’s with us,’ Livi pipes up.
‘Where are you from, Eva?’
‘She’s from Yugoslavia, but she is with us,’ Livi says, firmly.
‘I’m sorry, Eva, you have to come with me. You will go back to Belgrade.’
‘But she can’t,’ says Magda. ‘Her family is dead.’
‘You don’t know that, miss. There may be someone in Belgrade who will take her in. A cousin perhaps, an aunt. Our instructions are clear – only citizens of Czechoslovakia are to return to Prague.’
‘When will she leave?’ Cibi asks.
‘You need to say goodbye now. I will take her to the Belgrade block.’ He nods up and down, urging the farewell to begin.