The sisters hold on to each other as they cross the platform, hold on tight as they climb the steps, whisper words of strength and courage as they walk down the aisle and find a seat.
Three sit on a seat made for two. They cannot be apart, not now.
They had been given new clothes at the army barracks, as well as a little money, and Cibi notes how they don’t look much different to everyone else on board, save for the sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and gaunt frames identifying them as the victims of a terrible war.
The ticket collector hangs his head as he approaches. He won’t take their money. ‘Prominte,’ he whispers and shuffles away.
*
Their arrival in Bratislava is a far cry from the welcome in Prague. Other returning survivors slink away from the train station, still fearful of lurking enemies. Cibi asks at the office when the next train to Vranov Nad Topl’ou will be leaving.
‘Not for two days,’ she is told with a sneer.
‘Can we stay here in the station until then?’ she asks. The clerk shrugs his shoulders and turns away.
For the next couple of days, the sisters sleep on the benches, use the toilets and wait patiently for their train to arrive.
Other trains pour into the station, from all corners of Europe, returning Slovakian survivors to their homes.
Livi becomes transfixed by the appearance of these survivors. ‘Do we look like them?’ she asks her sisters, over and over. Cibi and Magda wonder the same thing. These were happy, healthy young people who have been ravaged by inhumane torture and degradation. How did it happen? Who let it happen? Everything that made them human had been wiped out. They were skeletal figures now, hunched over by the burden of their experience.
When it’s time to pay for their tickets, Cibi approaches the window, half expecting her money to be refused. But the man holds out his hand, a glint of steel in his eyes, and takes it.
They are finally on their way.
*
The sisters step onto the platform where it all started. The sun is shining, at least. Cibi holds Livi’s hand and Magda slides her arm through Cibi’s. They begin to walk, each of the sisters trying hard not to think about what awaits them at the end of this final leg of their journey.
They walk slowly, taking their time to immerse themselves in the familiar streets. At the corner of their road, they stare up at the Catholic church whose bells have sung to them the whole of their lives. They peer through the iron gates to the priest’s house next door, and marvel at the linden tree in full bloom. No neighbour steps out of their house to greet them, but Cibi notices the curtains pulled aside at their approach and then hastily drawn as they pass.
They stand outside their home looking for signs of life.
‘We don’t have the key,’ Livi says. ‘Do we break in?’
‘I think we knock,’ says Magda. ‘Mumma was pretty sure someone would move in.’
‘Into our house?’ Livi is indignant. ‘Who?’
‘Whoever got there first,’ Magda replies.
Cibi takes the initiative and strides up to the front door and knocks loudly. They can hear movement inside, footsteps, and then the door is flung open by a man in a stained string vest and grey underpants.
‘What do you want?’ he asks, gruffly.
‘We want our house back,’ says Cibi, evenly.
‘And who the hell are you? This is my house. Now get out of here before I throw you onto the street.’
‘This is our home!’ yells Livi, taking a step towards him. ‘It’s you who doesn’t belong here.’
‘Bloody Jews,’ he curses. He doesn’t move and the sisters lock eyes with him until Magda nudges Livi aside.
‘I’m coming in,’ she says. ‘There is something of mine in there and I’m going to fetch it.’
The man shoves Magda away and tries to shut the door. But the sight of this ugly figure attempting to close their own door in their faces flicks a switch in Cibi’s head. She kicks him hard in one leg and then she kicks him in the other.
Livi manoeuvres behind him and shoves him onto the path. Magda sidesteps the man and runs through the door into the living room, where she finds herself face to face with a woman and two small children. They stare at her and she stares at them. No one says a word. The children cling to their mother’s skirts. Magda can hear Cibi and Livi screaming at the man outside.
Grabbing a chair from the kitchen she takes it into the hallway and places it beneath the trapdoor. She’s through the door in seconds, wriggling to the far end of the cavity. She grabs the pillowcase, feeling the edges of the candlesticks and the smooth, flat surface of the photos inside.