Good luck homing pigeon

Chapter nine: smart girl...

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? Song above is Olive you, sung by Dave Days and Kimmi Smiles. Enjoy...

We'd been in Birkenau for two months now, and just as I'd hoped, we'd all learnt a lot of things being here. We learnt that the work was a lot  harder than we'd initially anticipated; hours of standing in one spot, just taking the lenses out of glasses, or separating the gold teeth from the silver could be hard on the eyes. And god knows it caused one too many cuts and gashes on my hands than nessicary. But I didn't complain. Complaining was not only pointless, it could even get you killed. That was what happened to another girl in my barrack. She went to one of the guards, asking if she could be assigned to some other job, as the glass lenses were making her bleed stains into her rags. He dragged her outside, and the rest was easily guessed. Later on, I saw that same girl, lying face-up in a wheel barrow. Her eyes wide-open, and the bloodied gash on her temple leaking more blood than those cuts on her hands ever could. It made me sick to watch them wheel her away-but I could barely imagine how many bodies would disappear if we were working in the quarry.

I'd learnt that although Birkenau did feed us, the stuff they gave us wasn't 'food' at all. The coffee was practically mud and hot water, the soup was watery and flavourless-well, not entirely. There was a strange, chemical taste to it; I didn't know what it was, but every women I'd know who was already here no longer menstruated. And although we didn't taste the chemicals for long, it was rumoured that the soup was part of some experiment to 'sterilize' our bodies. And by sterilize, they meant spoon-feeding us chemicals that burnt out a woman's uterus. For that, I thanked god my period still came regularly-although making do with dirty rags wasn't ideal. And unlike being at home, I didn't have access to hot-water bottles to calm my random cramps.

Yes, I'd learnt quite a bit being at Birkenau, but there was one thing I was taught, most frequently of all. Never give a soldier any reason to harm you. That was the most emphasized, and the hardest rule to follow. In Birkenau, soldiers were everywhere. At the work huts, in and outside of the barracks, the latrine blocks, the kitchens, and the trading warehouse 'Canada'. It was impossible to avoid a soldier altogether, so the second-best thing to do was to become exactly as they saw you; invisible. You walked past them with your head down, you never spoke unless they asked you something, and if they give you a command, you do it. No questions or hesitation. Even then, it wasn't easy to avoid their wrath. Sometimes for no reason at all, they would come up with some excuse to lash out at somebody. Most of the time, it felt like I  was their favourite target. The way their truncheons, their whips, even their bare knuckles struck out at me, it made me feel bitter, and more resentful than I should've thought. And sometimes, when Briana watched, without a single scratch or bruise, I even felt envious.

I shouldn't feel so cool towards her; after all, worrying about myself wasn't going to help mama. She wasn't working in the huts with us this time, but on that other job the block leader had recommended her for. Repairing uniforms for the guards. She got to sit down for it at least, and she was a little glad to be back in her old trade again, but despite this, mama always felt guilty. Guilty that she got extra rations that she wasn't allowed to share, guilty that she didn't work in the huts with the rest of us, and especially guilty that I'd come back to the barracks each evening, with a new bruise or gash for everybody to see. I was relieved that mama was doing better than the rest of us, but how long would it last? How long would we  last? It seemed that question was being tossed about a lot these days.

Every spare moment I had to myself, I used it to think about Angelo. About his silky, brown eyes, the fire that gleamed in his hair, and the faint dimples in his cheeky smile. Was he okay, on the other side of this hell-hole? Was he coping with whatever job he had? And, more curiously, was he thinking of me? He promised he'd find me, wherever he was, that day we were separated. And not only did I believe it then, I still do now. But where was he? Where was my hero when I needed him the most? Perhaps...perhaps even the great Jacques couldn't save the day, in a place where happy-endings were non-existent. Perhaps for now, I would have to put the writer in me aside. Because the writer, the dreamer  expected romance, adventure and greatness. And if I spent my time in Birkenau dreaming, I'd be dead by next week.