A TALE OF BLOOD AND INK

Chapter 5 | 2245

What followed I perceived as if through a thick fog, blending the events into each other in surreal chaos. The moment I grasped what absurdity I was living through my mind was confronted with yet another. The sequence of action was lost to me instantly and so I could only tell what happened after standing still and before we entered the barrack. What happened in the time between those two events was, however, clouded.

At some point, I answered a man sitting in front of a list questions about my name, age, and occupation—Hanna Cohen, 18 soon to be 19, unemployed in the service of the state.

For any wishes and dreams I might have had were forbidden; not even the crude flattery peculiar to the regime of seeing something I had written and published burned was granted to me.

I would have been lying if I had claimed to have spoken those words. Instead, I answered the last question quite nicely with "None".

At some point, we were ordered to undress and I heard a flurry of silent protest, whispered fear, and incredulous, panicked giggles around me.

At some point, I must have obeyed, and I told Leah the same thing I had said before.

"Just look ahead. Don't look at them. They're not there. And if you do see them, remember they're not people like us, they're machines in uniform." The comparison seemed to please and relieve them a bit, at least it helped a little to endure the humiliation and shame of having to stand defenseless and naked in front of strange men.

At some point there was a hand in my hair, holding it in place while the other cut it with scissors. It wasn't the dark curls that I wanted to cry over at that moment—for they would grow back, after all—but the mere fact that someone could take them from me. That someone could, with a few careless movements, rob me of my dignity and what makes me human. Just a moment ago I had been a young woman. Now I was a prisoner. Even less a part of society than before. And it was for everyone to see.

Even Leah shed no tears over her golden-brown, long braids that she had loved so much. They merely glistened in her eyes, but she didn't lower her guard, instead suffering through it chin up and expression grim. I was unsure whether this filled me with pride or terror.

At some point, we were allowed to wash ourselves in icy water that left us freezing.

At some point, we were given striped clothes that didn't fit anyone, and Stars of David and numbers to attach to them. Thus, the last hint of Hanna Cohen who had entered the camp was erased. What remained was 2245.

At some point, a ferocious woman who was not SS, but probably had some power, dragged us to a photographer, who too was clearly a prisoner. With him were two others with armbands. Kapo. What did that mean? Fingerprints. Flashing lights. A baton, that lifted my head into position and struck when they noticed my star was not attached properly. Then, the Kapo beat me again because I wanted to correct it.

At some point, this woman herded us to a barrack, randomly meting out blows, because as she said now that our faces were photographed, we wouldn't have to look adequate.

At one point, I lay shivering and huddled in a wooden frame, damp rotten straw for a mattress, my jacket for a pillow, and without a blanket. I kept my eyes open, staring at some point without seeing, and the only thing that filled the emptiness inside me and reminded me that I was still alive was pain--in my rips because of the Kapo's truncheon, and where it hadn't hit me, because of the exhausting journey to this place that still lingered in my every bone and muscle. That old life in Berlin I had left behind suddenly seemed so far away.

Feather-light footsteps, nevertheless audible through the boots on the gravel, announced the approach of a person, causing a short murmur to go through the barracks, which, however, immediately fell silent again as if on command.