Padlocked, page 27
“Matylda who?” Hank answered.
“Wiśniewska.”
“State your name,” Rafe shouted.
“Ira, but she doesn’t know me. If she is here, I will leave the message at the entrance and be on my way.”
“We’ll make sure she gets it,” Hank answered. “How did you know to come here?”
“You raided a train this evening,” Ira answered. “Someone there recognized her.” The figure knelt briefly. When he rose, they saw the outline of a rifle carried across his back and the glint of the moon on wire-rimmed glasses. As abruptly as he appeared, he was gone.
They waited a few moments before Rafe ventured forward. He knelt to retrieve a message left on the floor, ironically, written in the margin of a newspaper that Hank and Rafe had printed.
“Never thought I’d see this paper again,” Rafe said as he rejoined them.
“Is the message legitimate?” Hank asked.
Matylda took the paper. “It’s too dark.”
A moment later, Hank lit his cigarette lighter.
“Matylda Wiśniewska,” she read, “we regret to inform you—” Her voice faltered. “I can’t read it.”
Rafe took the note from her and continued reading. “We regret to inform you that your husband, Aleksy Wiśniewsky, was killed in action on the Eastern Front by a Soviet sniper.” He looked up to meet Hank’s eyes. “That’s all it says. No date. Nothing more specific.”
Both men turned to Matylda. She stared at them for a long moment as if she hadn’t heard Rafe. She stared as if stunned, her eyes growing larger. As her knees buckled, Rafe sprang forward and caught her in his arms, the paper drifting to the floor. Hank bent to retrieve it, reread the short note, and made his way to the entrance to the tunnel. When he returned, he found Matylda crumpled on the floor, her body wracked with sobs, while Rafe held her.
Hank shook his head. “The messenger is well over the next hill,” he said. “I couldn’t risk calling out to him.”
“He probably didn’t know any more than what was in the message,” Rafe answered.
“It isn’t possible,” Matylda sobbed. “It must be a mistake. Why would the Soviets kill him?”
“It might have been friendly fire,” Hank answered, joining them. “The sniper saw a movement, didn’t know it was an ally, and...” His voice faded.
“The fucking Soviets,” Matylda said.
“She’s been hanging around you too long,” Hank said to Rafe with a slight smile before becoming somber once more.
“You two don’t understand,” Matylda said, wiping the tears from her face. Her movement was in vain, as more tears swept down her cheeks. “The Poles have always been sandwiched between the Russians or Soviets or whatever the fuck they want to call themselves—and the Germans. Neither one is our friend. Neither is our ally. They are both our enemy.”
Rafe squeezed her hand.
“We had plans,” she continued. “When the war was over, we were going to buy a farm. We were going to plant rye and potatoes. It was Aleksy’s dream. He was a farmer. He never wanted to be a soldier.” She leaned against the stone wall. “My chest—” she gasped.
“What do you need?” Rafe sprang forward to soften her body against his.
She shook her head.
“Are you having a heart attack?”
“No. God would not be that virtuous.” She continued sobbing. “Oh, that I could die and be reunited with Aleksy right now.”
“You need a drink,” Hank offered. He disappeared into a stash of boxes and returned with an open bottle of Jägermeister. He held it out to her.
She shook her head.
“You must,” Rafe said gently. He took the bottle from Hank and held it to her lips. “Drink. It will make you feel better.”
“Feel better?” Matylda asked. “Or go numb?”
“Isn’t it the same these days?” he responded.
As Rafe coaxed her into downing the alcohol, Hank said, “I’ll find some food for us.”
When Hank returned only a few moments later with a gift package filled with homemade delicacies, he found Matylda nodding off in Rafe’s arms, and Rafe asleep in hers.
35
Agata
As Agata’s roommates slept in their small, shared room, she lay awake, praying, planning, and plotting. There were scant, if any, records kept of the prisoners led directly to the gas chambers. If Elsa had been taken directly there, Agata might never know of her fate. But, she debated, Elsa had been fit when she last saw her. She was not old or infirm, and she could work. She redoubled her efforts to watch those arriving or departing their jobs. Yet, despite her prayers, none looked like Elsa. She was sure that if her sister recognized her, she would have attempted to reach her.
Her hopes had gradually dissipated, replaced with the black clouds and stench that permeated every inch of the camp. She stopped looking into others’ faces, her expression becoming like those she’d encountered on her travels, her eyes riveted on a nonexistent object somewhere in the distance. It was counter to all her plans to find her sister.
She could quit. She was an employee, not a prisoner, and she was so well-paid that she had managed to put aside quite a bit of money, even after paying for her room and board. Her uniforms were provided, and the guards had plenty of food, even as the prisoners starved.
Reluctantly, Agata made the excruciating decision to leave the camp by the end of the month. The bigger question was where to go. Countries under Nazi occupation surrounded Poland. She had wandered the country between Warsaw and Oświęcim, and she did not wish to sleep in trenches or under trees again, nor wonder when her next morsel would come. Many of the guards had left menial jobs, such as milkmaids, tramcar conductresses, or janitorial staff, for the far more lucrative pay in the camp. Agata also had to consider the Nazi occupation itself. She was in a protected class as long as she was employed at Auschwitz. Once that protection ceased, she could easily find herself on the other side of the equation, a prisoner herself.
Agata was considering her options as she led yet another group to a building that had been vacated only an hour earlier. With her clipboard in hand, she walked through the door at one end, marched the length of the barracks, and then instructed the women on their new living situation. She had already brought them through the never-ending line for their only set of clothing and a bowl they would use for both eating and bathroom matters. Now, she introduced them to the concrete and brick communal cell that had been initially built for Soviet prisoners during a previous war.
There were 117 bunks on either side of a center hall, arranged in three tiers. There were supposed to be multiple straw mattresses in each tier, since each prisoner was initially assigned a mattress. However, as Agata counted the number of prisoners she escorted, she knew each would have less space than a coffin, as more than 1,000 women would share a facility built for less than half that number.
As the women began to protest, other attendants entered the room. Agata felt a switch inside her as her voice became louder, deeper, and nastier. She had been counseled twice for being too polite and her voice too soft; once more, and she would be dismissed. Though it was only a matter of time before she left, she wanted it to be on her own terms.
After a few minutes, Agata left with the other attendants. They would remain outside to catch anyone who dared leave the barracks before they were properly escorted, but the new arrivals could argue and debate among themselves all they wanted. Eventually, the others disbursed, but Agata remained, idly waiting until the next train arrival. The temperatures were mild, and there was no rain, which would have turned the camp into shifting muck. It might have been a beautiful day, had it not been for the plumes of black smoke from the stacks and an odor that permeated everything.
Several women were marched along the path from one of the warehouses to the barracks in what was called a work column, their shift having ended. They must have been long-termers, as they were called, because the attendant turned back before they reached their destination, allowing them to continue without an escort. They moved in a single, silent file.
As they began to pass in front of Agata, they dutifully lowered their heads, all but one with their eyes on the ground.
“Do you know Elsa Goldberg?” Agata asked. Most shook their heads, their eyes still averted. The one who glanced sideways at Agata, a movement that could have elicited a beating from the other guards, widened her eyes before averting them and shaking her head.
“You know her,” Agata whispered hoarsely.
The woman kept her gaze averted and shook her head again. They all attempted to quicken their shuffled steps.
Agata knew she could order them to stop and interrogate them, but that would draw unwanted attention from the other attendants. Instead, she watched them continue to a building just beyond the one she had just left.
She waited until they had passed through the doors, the woman who had glanced at her peeping again in her direction before disappearing inside. Agata allowed a moment to pass as she surveyed her surroundings. When she knew the other attendants were occupied elsewhere, she quickly made her way to the building.
It was much smaller than the one with the new arrivals, another sign that the prisoners were long-term workers deemed valuable to one of the missions there. Agata heard the hubbub inside as she cracked open the door, but when she entered, the room went completely silent, sentences half-finished.
“Line up,” she said in Polish, her voice brusque.
They immediately complied. It took only seconds for those in the bunks to slide onto the ground and assume positions as though they were soldiers. They had been trained through abuse and knew any who dawdled could risk a beating or worse. From the number of bunks, it appeared this structure was built to house around 40 prisoners or soldiers, depending on its use. However, as the number of trains increased, a hundred might have been assigned there. Only fifteen were currently present.
Agata walked slowly down one side, stopping to stare into each woman's face. They did not return her gaze but kept their eyes on the ground in front of them. She asked periodically if anyone knew Elsa Goldberg, but all shook their heads in unison.
When she finished with one side, she walked back on the opposite side, stopping longer at the woman who had just passed her. Again, she asked if anyone knew Elsa, and again she was met with mute shakes of the head.
Agata returned to the woman who had glanced in her direction. “You know Elsa Goldberg,” she accused her.
The woman shook her head vehemently, her eyes on the ground. “No,” she insisted.
Agata studied the women in line. One side stood at attention, silent and still. As she watched, several women on the opposite side inched closer together, their shoulders touching. She marched down the aisle to them. “Move,” she ordered.
They glanced at one another fearfully before putting a mere inch between them.
“Move!” Agata shouted. “Over there!”
The expressions were horrified and fearful as the women moved to the other side of the room, and Agata could feel the rising tension. Her eyes landed on a tiny figure lying in a fetal position on the lower bunk. It appeared as though a small child was hidden there, and at first, she wondered if one of the women had given birth and somehow managed to conceal it. She shook her head. That was impossible. She dropped to her knees and reached inside the bunk as several women gasped behind her.
Turning, she asked, “Who is the leader here?”, referring to the person the prisoners elected in each barracks to provide a semblance of hierarchy and order.
“I am.” A rawboned woman with gray hair stepped forward.
“Your name?”
“Felka.”
“Felka?” Startled, Agata blurted, “What is your surname?”
“Kursell. I am Felka Kursell.”
It took Agata a moment to compose herself and continue. “Felka, assign some women to watch the doors and windows. If anyone approaches, you are to tell me immediately.”
As Felka ordered several women to each end, they assumed positions they were no doubt familiar with, having watched the movements in the camp many times over.
Agata turned her attention back to the form. She placed her hand on the body. It was cold, stiff, and lifeless, the figure not responding to her touch. She thought the person was dead and wondered why the others had gone to such lengths to hide her. Then, she placed both hands on the shoulder and turned the body toward her. A barely audible moan, almost akin to a death rattle, escaped the young woman.
Agata fought for breath. This could not be her sister.
“Elsa!” she cried out. She sensed the women moving closer, forming a semi-circle around her. “Elsa!” She shook the woman’s shoulders as tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Elsa, it’s me, Agata! I’m here, Elsa!”
“You’re Agata?” a woman whispered hoarsely.
Agata looked up to find incredulous expressions surrounding her. Their eyes appeared enormous within sunken, ashen faces. She nodded. She could feel their confusion as they took in her clothing and processed her position in the camp. “No one must know. Do you understand?”
A wave of relief swept over them. The woman who had repeated her name said, “She has been calling for you in her delirium.”
Agata squeezed away more tears and turned back to her sister. “What is wrong with her? How long has she been this way?”
The women deferred to Felka. “She is suffering from starvation and exhaustion,” she said. She waved her hand. “We all are, to some extent.”
“When was the last time she ate?”
“This morning,” said another. “At least, I tried to get some broth in her.”
“Broth?” Agata repeated. “Hot water, you mean?”
The woman nodded.
Agata turned back to her sister. “Elsa, listen to me. I am here, and I am going to get you food. You must survive, Elsa. You must survive. That is all God asks of you today. Survive, and I promise I will get you out of here.”
Elsa’s body remained drawn into a fetal position. Her face was shrunken, her eyes closed. Her lips were cracked, and as they parted, Agata could feel her sister wince with the effort. When she spoke, her voice was so faint that Agata had to lean close to hear her words. “Siostra Mamo.”
“Yes,” Agata said, tears again streaming down her cheeks. “Siostra Mamo,” she repeated the term Elsa used for her since she was little, which meant Sister Mama. “I am here, Elsa.”
“Someone is coming,” one of the sentries called.
Agata came to her feet and quickly wiped her tears. The women again formed a semi-circle around her, but this time, they faced outward toward the door. Several moved in to conceal Elsa.
By the time the door opened, the sentries had joined the rest of the women, who had fanned out to form a line.
“Let that be a lesson to you all!” Agata shouted in her nastiest, loudest voice. Her eyes passed over the attendant at the door, who froze at the sound of Agata’s voice. Agata waved her baton threateningly. “She will not do that again. None of you will, or all of you will suffer the punishment!”
The women stood with their eyes downcast.
Agata marched to the door and scowled at the attendant, who backed out the door before Agata.
“This barrack is assigned to me,” the attendant said in German once they were outside. She might have been a young woman, but her scowl made her appear much older. Unlike the prisoners, her hair was shiny and carefully coifed, and her uniform impeccable. As she stared into Agata’s face, her eyes exuded an evil death stare. “What did they do? I will take care of it.”
Agata stared her down with the same intense stare, her adrenaline coursing through her. “Did you hear what I told them? I took care of it.”
“What did you say? I don’t speak Polish.”
“I threatened all of them with their lives if a single one disobeyed me. You will not say or do anything further. Do you understand me? You will not undermine me!” Agata towered over the other woman with squared shoulders and feet wide apart, as she channeled every bit of anger through her voice.
The woman stepped back. “Of course not,” she answered.
And that was the way it was, Agata thought. They could be monsters with helpless prisoners unable to fight back. But they were cowards inside. “Get out of my way,” Agata growled. As the woman stepped back further, she added, “And stay out of my way.” She glared at her until the attendant began to walk away. Once out of sight, Agata turned in the opposite direction. At least now she knew which attendant was assigned to Elsa’s barracks.
Getting food to Elsa was a challenge that was just short of impossible. Providing any food to prisoners was strictly forbidden. At the least, it would result in immediate dismissal; at the most, she could end up a prisoner like her sister. If the infraction was bad enough, she could be executed.
Yet, she was determined to keep her alive. Her sister’s fate was now in Agata’s hands. Just as she had stepped up to the task of caring for her as both sister and mother after their mother’s passing, she would step in again. God surely would not let Elsa die now that they were reunited.
Food was plentiful for the guards and attendants. The cafeteria was open all the time, allowing employees to grab their meals at their convenience. But as Agata ate her meal with new eyes, she realized very little of it could be transported. Soup was challenging to carry, and even if she managed with the bowl on a tray, there were eyes everywhere. She could be spotted by prisoners or staff, and either one could be catastrophic for both Elsa and Agata. She prayed as she sat there, slowly eating; she prayed as she hadn’t done since learning of Elsa’s transport out of Warsaw.
Another attendant set her tray down on the table near Agata. They greeted one another curtly, though neither knew the other’s name. It was the way of things there. Those whose names were well known tended to be the most vicious, such as Irmgard Grese, Johanna Bormann, or Elisabeth Volkenrath, all of whom had been rumored to have killed female prisoners.
