Part 4
She is hungry again and I wonder how someone so small can eat so much. I caress her forehead with my thumb as she suckles. Her eyes are dark blue. Her wisps of hair are blond. I wonder if they will change. I wonder if I will ever know.
I know the day is getting closer when Greta will take her away from here. It is draining on all of us trying to keep this little miracle a secret. Despite Dr. Perl's apprehension, we have added a few more allies from the ranks of imprisoned doctors and "patients." That has helped. But is not enough to keep the charade up indefinitely.
I know the day must be soon. I only hope I am strong enough when it comes.
When she finishes feeding, they take another blood sample from me. It's red, like blood's supposed to be.
I uneasily hand over my child to let them take a blood sample and immunize my baby. The loss of warmth against my chest makes me want to cry. How on Earth will I be able to give her away?
Greta holds my fidgeting child as Gisella extracts a blood sample. The scream at the top of her lungs causes my eyes to tear up. I know if she stays, there will be nothing but pain like this. This knowledge helps me to prepare for the goodbye I know I must soon say.
Greta looks sick as Gisella finishes up and nods to her. With soft shushing, she cradles my child and walks to me. "We won't do that to her again, Janice," she says apologetically and hands over my crying child.
Within a few moments, she settles down in my arms and tries to catch her breath.
Gisella leaves but Greta stays. She looks at me and sighs. I know what she is going to say.
"We've been very lucky, Janice. But we need to move her out of here…soon." Greta says. "I wish…" she says with emotion but I cut her off.
"I know." I say and sit on my bed rocking my child in my arms. My baby seems a bit upset but she is quiet. "When?"
"Wednesday."
I look at her with surprise. So soon? From having all the time in the world, to only having two days. I haven't even named her yet. Emotion strangles all words. I nod weakly and look down at my child.
Only two days to pretend.
"I will be back early tomorrow and go over what must be done," Greta says softly, leaving me alone with my child.
I nod and cradle my child against my chest and wonder if I'm able to die of a broken
heart.
Greta comes back in the morning with a tray of food for me. She sits next to me on the bed and patiently watches me breast feed my hungry child as she explains what will happen.
"When I leave for the night, I will have your child with me. Once I give her to my contact in the city, I will return to let you know…."
"How will you get her past the guards?"
"My medical bag is large eno…," she sees the look of concern on my face. "Now Janice…"
"What? You are going to stuff her in some bag and expect her to go quietly?"
"I've thought of that. We'll have to drug her so she sleeps," Greta blurted quickly.
"Oh God." I feel sick.
"Janice, it is the only way to ensure she doesn't cry," Greta says softly.
I exhale heavily. "Who are your contacts? Where will she go?"
Greta looks away uneasily. "Helmut Reinhold. He specializes in …unusual adoptions." She says clearing her throat. I cringe at the thought of placing my child in the hands of a man who deals in people. But what choice do I have?
"Where will she end up? Germany?" I ask as she shifts in my arms.
"Most likely. She has the Aryan features so she will fit in."
"What about her blood?" I ask numbly.
"I didn't find any evidence of ambrosia in it."
With that news, I am not sure how to feel. I was concerned she would receive the burden of immortality, yet that was the only protection I could give her. Should I be happy?
Greta sighs and looks at my child sadly.
"I was thinking of naming her," I offer uneasily.
"What?" Greta indulges me with these final moments to pretend.
"Faith."
"That's a beautiful name," Greta says softly.
"Thought it might help her odds with the man upstairs. I thought about 'Mary' but I keep thinking of nuns," I say with a cringe. "I'm not really religious," I admit, caressing Faith's tiny cheek with my finger.
"Really? Hmmm. Who would have guessed the way you constantly talk about God and Jesus Christ." Greta says dryly.
I chuckle softly and look down at my child still suckling. "Are you religious?"
"I was raised Catholic. But I was never comfortable there and stopped going when I got older. I even stopped praying. That is, until I came here," she says with a sigh. "I pray quiet regularly now."
"I have started praying," I admit uneasily. "Mel … my partner, told me once that it gave her strength when she needed it most," I say softly, looking at my child as tears form in my eyes. "I've been praying for her safety. I'm just a big hypocrite, aren't I?" I blurt gruffly.
"No. Just human."
"Am I that, doctor?" I ask, not really sure anymore.
"Yes, Janice. You are most definitely human."
I think my lullaby is more comforting to me than her. I don't have much of a singing voice, but Faith isn't complaining. She's probably tone deaf.
I rock her in my arms as I slowly cross the room. I won't go to sleep tonight. I don't want to waste these precious moments.
"Hey, so far so good, huh?" I ask my child who blinks and watches me intently. "We haven't had any major arguments and you haven't run away, right? So I haven't screwed up too badly, aye?" I joke with a sad smile as Faith gurgles happily and attaches herself to my nipple again. Well, moo.
After a moment watching her feast, I continue talking. I need to.
"You know, you will be leaving here soon, Faith. You will have a chance at freedom. It is a precious thing. And I pray that you will have someone good and decent to guide you and teach you all the things I couldn't."
I sniff and suddenly offer. "Did you know that bad bartenders water down their whisky?"
Faith grimaces.
"I know, I know…it is very disturbing. But you need to keep an eye out for that sort of thing. Of course, young ladies should try and avoid the slimy establishments. But if you are intent on doing things you are not supposed to do, and I'm sure you will because you are my daughter, you need to remember three important things that my father taught me: Keep your eyes open, use your head, and be prepared to pay the price if you screw up."
Faith gurgles and I hold her up over my shoulder, patting her back until she burps. I chuckle softly at the big noise coming from such a small child. Yep, my little girl.
"Now, burping like that is all right if front of me, but most people consider that rather rude." I hold her up and look at her intently.
Faith grimaces again.
"I know, I know, you'd think you'd be able impress people with that. But take it from me, women, or even men, you might want to date probably won't be too impressed," I say wisely. She suddenly smiles and makes a squeal as she grabs my hair.
"You think tugging mommy's hair is fun?" I ask as my child gurgles happily. "Ok, whatever floats your boat, kiddo. Glad you're easy to please."
When Faith tires of pulling my hair, she finds interest in my index finger.
"You know, I'm sorry for all this." I offer in a whisper as Faith smiles at me. "If I get out of here, I will look for you. I want to be your mother . . . more than anything," I inform her and struggle to hold back my tears. I do not want to waste this time crying; I will have plenty of time to cry later.
"Ok!" I shift topics to something more pleasant. "Now poker takes a lot more skill than most people think. Sure the element of luck is important, but you've got to be able to read your opponents and take advantage of their uncertainty. Yes, you also need to learn the fundamentals - your numbers, the value of your chips, and your suits - hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades…."
As I rattle off the fundamentals, Faith looks at my lips intently and reaches up to grab them. I divert her from my lips with my finger. She smiles as she squeezes.
"But there is one crucial thing my daughter needs to remember and PLEASE, for God's sake, remember this Faith. . . . are you listening, honey?" I say waggling my index finger, still encased by the small hand, to punctuate my point.
She looks at me and softly squeals.
"If you have a good hand, do NOT smile and get all giddy. Your opponents will fold faster than you can say, "read 'em and weep" and you'll never get any jackpots worth more than the ante. Do you understand, honey?"
Faith gurgles as her eyelids blink, struggling to stay open. "Well, maybe you should get some shuteye and I'll just hold you, Ok?" She closes her beautiful eyes as her small hand rests on top of my breast, over my breaking heart. "You've got a big day to…morrow." I whisper softly, my voice choking.
When she is asleep, I take a long breath. And as I have done since I have become so lost, I seek out strength that I desperately need but lack.
"Our father, who art in heaven, hallow be thy name. . . ."
The loss of warmth against my chest is immediate and triggers profound pain. I tremble as I hand my child over to Greta. Will I ever feel that warmth again? Will she be all right? Will she be loved?
It is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.
I have stopped trying to fight the tears. They just continue to fall. I know I have no choice, but guilt stirs within me as I watch Dr. Perl inject my child, who screeches in pain.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," I whisper for so much more than the current prick. For the things to come that I will never see.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper again. The last words she hears before she is asleep.
With infinite care, Greta carefully places my child in the medical bag. My child.
Until now, I could endure the pain of this place. But now…this was my heart, my soul. How does one endure the destruction of that?
Dear God, please keep her safe. Please.
Greta's eyes well up but she sniffs and shakes it off. She doesn't look at me when they leave. I know why. I am weak and she needs to be strong.
For Faith.
Hours pass. Greta should be back by now.
I didn't think it was possible but I've stopped crying. I've run out of tears. I am empty.
In addition to bullets, poison, operations, drowning, strangulation, and electrocution, I've learned a broken heart will not kill me.
I am just numb.
I hear the jingling of the keys and watch the door open. Dr. Perl enters uneasily.
"She hasn't returned yet," Dr. Perl informs me softly. I stare at her. "There is a commotion in the camp. They have stopped all traffic."
"What commotion?" I ask, my voice raw.
"The Gypsy camp. It's being closed," she says nervously. She knows I have friends there.
I nod absently and return my attention to the wall.
I hate August.
I hear keys jingle again. My bed creaks as I roll on my side to see if it is Greta. The shaft of light spilling into my dark cell makes me squint.
"She is safe," the shadow says in the doorway. As quickly as she appeared, Greta leaves.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
She is safe.
Time passes. Months now. Months of not knowing who is holding her, who is feeding her, who is loving her. The words 'she is safe' are all I have now. And I cling to them.
When my eyes shut, I can see her small fingers with tiny nails clench my finger. I remember the love I felt when she looked at me and smiled. I hope she felt my love for her. Her face haunts me, making me long for yet another thing I cannot have. I am torturing myself thinking of her. My eyes abruptly open. But I can't push her from my mind.
I stare at the ceiling. What can I do?
Greta has shielded me from the butchers and guards. But with no one to fight, what will keep me sane? People who have visited are all dead by now, among the thousands I've never met. Some new visitors have come, but I cannot talk to them. There is nothing to say. There is nothing I can do. They will just die too.
There is nothing I can do.
I hear keys jingle and the door open. It is probably Greta.
Yes, it is Greta. I can tell from that faint fragrance. I hadn't really noticed her perfume before. I guess I was too busy being angry or unconscious.
I don't look at her. She can take my blood or inject me with something if she wants. I really don't care.
She sits on the edge of the small bed, causing the frame to creak and her hip to lightly brush against my thigh. I feel her eyes on me. After a still moment, she calls my name. Her voice is soft and uncertain.
After I left St. Ignatius, Dad gave me a compass. He confidently told me "now you will never get lost."
It wasn't the compass that kept me from getting lost, Dad. It was you. Then you died. And I got lost.
Then Mel found me.
But she's gone too. It will be four years soon. Four years is a long time….
Everyone is gone.
I have nothing.
Not even the sun. Why did they keep that from me? I miss the sun. I miss its warmth against my skin. I really miss the warmth.
Perhaps I could try to see the sun. And feel the warmth….
Greta has a key.
I sit up, startling her with the sudden movement and unusual closeness. She must have put perfume on her neck. I sniff lightly, noting the pleasant floral fragrance radiating from her delicate skin. Nice, but I prefer real flowers. Why did they keep them from me too? Perhaps they killed them all. They kill everything.
"Janice? What…?"
I see her pulse racing in her neck.
Amazing how fragile the neck is. One simple snap would kill her and I could just take the key.
Her skin is soft and smooth. She gasps at the surprising touch along her neck. I could give her the peace that she can't offer me. I wouldn't have to worry about her getting in trouble for helping. I wouldn't have to even ask for her help.
I close my eyes.
That's what they would do, isn't it? Kill the gentle, the good….
I blink and look through her.
She is safe. The three words repeat through my mind as I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
"Wh…what do you want, Janice?" She asks with fear in her voice.
Shouldn't she know by now?
"To die."
Greta sighs heavily.
Perhaps I should have just asked for socks.
If nothing, she is persistent. Greta comes every day. Sometimes, two or three times a day. Mostly, she is alone. She has tried small talk. She even shook me once, but I don't respond. There is nothing to say. She has tried to encourage me to eat, but I don't bother. I've stopped eating before. Out of rebellion. But I have no such energy now. I simply do not move. Why should I?
There is nothing I can do.
She comes into my cell again. I hear keys fall to the floor. "Damn," she mutters softly and picks them up with a belabored groan. I hear her put something down on the examining table with a thud.
I sniff, smelling something familiar and much stronger than her fragrance. Alcohol?
"Do you know what day it is?" She asks in an unusually loud voice.
I have no idea. I really don't care.
I hear Greta humming as she opens up a bag. I don't know what possesses me, but I make the effort and look at her. She's opening her medical bag, the same one that my child left in.
"No. Nooooo," she argues as if I said something. Greta is definitely not herself. "It's not 'silence day' again. It's New Year's Eve, Janice. For old acquaintances be forgot…you know….Must have been a German who came up with that saying. But I really don't think I'll be able to forget my acquaintances here. Hey, did you know you've been here for four New Year's Eves?" She says and continues to surprise me as she pulls out a bottle.
"I hope you like Scotch," she says and shrugs. I sit up curiously, watching the unsteady doctor with concern.
She proceeds to pull out some bread, cheese, meat…
Meat? Ok, I guess I'm hungry.
She is not finished and pulls out the last package.
"Chocolate?" I say curiously, finally speaking.
She smiles with relief at the end of my silence, then frowns. "I hope you're not allergic," Greta says with great worry. "I had an aunt who…Oh, I guess it doesn't really matter with you…I guess. I guess I guess a lot, don't I? You know what, I am pretty sure I could feed you anything and not worry about it," she rambles.
Greta doesn't ramble. Well, except, apparently, when she's drunk.
"Actually, between you and me," she whispers conspiratorially. "…that's a good thing cause I'm not much of a cook." She opens the Scotch and pours it into two small beakers.
"Greta, are you all right?" I ask.
"Fine. Fine. More SS are leaving here, Janice. Don't you think that is worth celebrating? Perhaps this will be over soon."
She hands me a beaker. I look at the caramel color liquid and carefully swirl it, taking in a deep whiff of long-missed Scotch. Ahh. It's a good, earthy Scotch.
"To better days," she says and clinks my beaker.
I look at her. Really look at her. I see such weariness in her normally vibrant eyes. God, I hadn't even noticed the huge dark circles. She's much thinner too. She looks like hell. Like one of the prisoners, except for the white coat.
She looks at me nervously as if I might throw the beaker against the wall and attack her.
I nod. "To much better days, Greta," I say, making her smile with relief. I swallow the caramel liquid that stings on the way down. "Yeeow." I say, shaking off the sting.
She chuckles. "You should eat something. It might not hurt as much when it hits your stomach," she says with a smile, then sips her drink and grimaces.
"If you join me," I say, eyeing her frail frame.
She nods and I am actually relieved. As we consume the bounty, I try to find out what happened to bring this on, but she deflects my questions.
For now, we just talk about little things. Safe things. For now, it seems enough to help my friend.
I can do something.
I pace in my cell and glance at the empty bottle on the floor by the bed. I shake my head as I listen to the snoring Dr. Snider. She has passed out.
I roll my eyes with irritation, having learned another aspect of this curse of mine. I can't get drunk.
I have to live eternity fucking SOBER!!!
"I just can't win," I mutter as I shake my head and pace.
An odd sound emanates from the woman as she shifts. She settles and continues to snore. I look at her disheveled body sprawled out on the bed that has been mine for over four years. She hardly knows me and risked so much. For me…and Faith. And now, she is here in my cell, passed out drunk on my bed. I wonder what has brought this on as I continue to pace and occasionally glance at her.
Well, there are many reasons for getting shit-faced.
I know if I could have, I would have tied a hell of one on after leaving Mel in Coventry. Being killed, given ambrosia, recovering to watch your first love shot and burned, kissing your soul-mate goodbye, being drowned and taken to Poland to become a grand Nazi experiment is as good as any reason to get drunk.
I think even Mel would have to agree.
"You'd find this eternal Sobriety amusing, wouldn't you?" I ask aloud, as if Mel were in the room. I suppose I'm officially crazy now. I chuckle softly, knowing Mel would have told me I didn't need all this to happen, I was already crazy.
The ache wells up again. Damn it. I take a deep breath and try to push it down. Fuck. I thought I had become too numb to hurt anymore. It's just not fair.
I look back at Greta curiously. I wonder if I should ask her about Vera. I shake my head, rejecting the idea. If she wants to tell me she will.
Time passes.
Sleeping Nazi starts to wake. When she moans, I chuckle. I bet she'll have one hell of a hangover.
Lucky dog.
She shifts around slowly, moaning with each movement. "Don't. Say. Anything…" she says in a hushed warning.
I grin.
"Stop smiling so loudly," she says, carefully sitting up and holding her head.
"I'd ask how you're feeling but I think I know…or rather, remember," I say with a heavy sigh.
She squints at me as the words slowly register. "You aren't….?"
I shake my head no.
"It's not fair…" she says with a moan.
"Tell me about it," I agree with a grimace.
"Don't tell me you want a hangover," she says with annoyance and cringes at the volume of her own voice.
"No, but the 'obliviously drunk' part would be nice."
"You're not even the least…"
"Nope."
"But you felt the burning on the way down."
"Yeah, at first."
"But no feeling of any of the usual side affects?"
"Nope."
"Interesting. Your body must be protecting itself from the alcohol."
Life fills her puffy, blood-shot eyes.
"Do you mind if I take a blood sample?"
I shake my head no with a sigh.
"I'd also like to run some more tests. This is fascinating," she says
standing up, a bit too quickly. "Whoa…" she says and sways. I reach out and
steady her. "It's fascinating but absolutely unfair," she adds with a grimace
then pinches the bridge of her nose.
I have to admit, I never though I'd enjoy an experiment here. Even if I can't get drunk, I've at least had good Scotch, beer, and some wine. I finish the last beaker of Chardonnay with a contented smile as Greta growls as she reads the latest results. She's frustrated, but alive.
I further signal my pleasure by a loud, contented sigh and politely, but unnecessarily dabbing my lips with a towel. She rolls her eyes.
"Well, it is interesting…," she offers with a shrug, showing me the results. For some reason, she thinks I can understand her handwriting, which is amazingly messy. I nod politely. Even I have better handwriting. But that's because of all the practice I had in Catholic School. Sister Carmichael would always have me write on the chalkboard as punishment.
"Your blood seems to combat and destroy the alcohol in your system before any effects can be seen or felt."
"Interesting," I say flatly.
"Your dexterity has remained intact in every instance. Even when you've consumed an amount that should have shut down your involuntary functions and killed you!" She says with amazement and looks up at me.
I sigh. Now I can add alcohol to the growing list of things that can't kill me. I can't even get drunk.
"And your blood has remained red during the continued oral consumption, regardless of the amount."
I've always hated biology. I think that was because Sister Carmichael taught it. I know she hated me. But really I don't understand why. I know I got bored easily, but I was hardly ever in her class to cause her any trouble.…
"I think that indicates your system is able to easily combat the small dosage increases without effort."
And it wasn't like she really needed those frogs.
"However, there seems to be a threshold … "
I will not steal the laboratory experiments. I will not steal the laboratory experiments. I will not steal the laboratory experiments….
"…when you're injected with a very large dose of alcohol at one time …."
Writing that one thousand times takes a lot of chalk. She didn't even listen to me when I tried to explain I was just freeing the helpless creatures! I was just about to tell her where she could shove that white chalk of hers when Sister Mary Kathryn came in.
I will not argue with my teacher. I will not argue with my teacher. I will not argue with my teacher….
"….as with other toxic chemicals or organisms, your blood becomes pink in the process of eliminating it!" She says with enthusiasm.
Pink? I hate pink. "Why PINK!?!"
She looks at me with surprise at my level of annoyance.
"I don't know…it's lighter than red?" she offers with irritation at yet another thing she hasn't figured out.
I sit back and look at her. "Have you tried injecting it in someone who's sick?" I ask, surprising her.
"Those experiments were already performed, quite extensively before I got here. I checked all the work. Most of the patients' conditions rapidly degenerated until they…died," she informs me uncomfortably.
Oh God. My blood killed them?
"You said most? Did some recover?"
She nodded hesitantly. "Some, but most of them …died later too. I don't think there was much more I could do in that area."
"But some survived?" I ask with fleeting hope.
Greta nods. "I don't know why."
"I may only be a Doctor of Archeology but don't people who get blood transfusions need to be matched with the right blood type?" I ask and see her eyes widen at the obvious statement. "What if my blood started attacking the other blood …like it does when foreign material enters my blood stream? That can't be good for the patient."
She looks at me with amazement. Yeah, I'm pretty amazed myself, having failed biology the first time, but I do have good handwriting.
"That could be it. I need to review the files," she says with enthusiasm, which turns to irritation. "I can't believe I didn't question that and assumed…."Greta growls, then suddenly tilts her head and looks at me curiously.
"I never knew you were a Doctor of Archeology."
"You never asked," I say flatly.
"But your file says you are a professional ball player," she counters.
"Yeah, well, it has always been a dream of mine," I admit with a sheepish grin.
She laughs, "I guess I should have suspected that was wrong. Your records also said you were 5 feet 6 inches. How did you manage that?"
"The guy who tried to measure me died. The next guy just put down what I told him," I say evenly, my eyes drop to my hand, which impaled him with his own pen. Well, they did say the pen is mightier than the sword.
I can't believe how much blood is on my hands now. What disturbs me more is that I wouldn't mind killing again. I look up at Greta, who shifts uncomfortably.
She is safe.
"I'm surprised Dr. Engel didn't inform them I was an archeologist." I say, filling the awkward silence with words.
"He's the man who captured you," Greta says, remembering hearing the name.
"Yeah, he's the fucking bastard who started this mess," I snap.
"Tell me," she says softly.
I look into curious brown eyes and sigh. I am reluctant to start, but once I speak of my Mel, I am unable to stop.
"The last thing I remember Mel telling me was when I was in her arms, bleeding to death. She said 'don't think this will get you out of going to my grandparents for Christmas, Dr. Covington," I say with a small smile. We both knew I wouldn't make it, but those words were exactly what I needed to hear. And she knew it.
Thank you, Mel.
Though I am empty of tears, I am full of sorrow and longing. My eyes drop to the ground as I sigh heavily. I hear Greta sniffing and look up. She is wiping tears from her cheeks.
"Your Melinda sounds German."
I cannot help but laugh.
I smile when another new visitor comes in. I am thankful for that continued privilege. I'm not sure what Greta tells the guards or the visitors to get them here, my old ploy of tossing a tray a distant memory. But I'm glad she does. I selfishly need this contact. And with any luck, I can give them something in return…if only a little more food that day.
The guard leaves. The slamming door causes the young woman to jump. She is new to the camp. Her body is not yet emaciated from the cruelly slow starvation inflicted on the prisoners. Her hand absently touches her head, unused to the shaven skin instead of hair.
She eyes my head curiously. I guess I'm due for another hair cut. My hair is almost shoulder-length now.
My visitor looks over the room and sits down uneasily on my bed. She is surprised when I hold out bread.
"For you." I offer softly. She eyes me suspiciously. "Go on," I say with a smile of encouragement.
"Why am I here?" She asks bluntly, then looks quickly between the bread and the bed. "Hey! I may be a little hungry but I'm not that kind of girl!" She immediately protests, surprising the hell out of me.
"Uh, I…Uh …One of my privileges is to get visitors occasionally," I blurt out, trying to explain but her eyes widen. "To talk to," I quickly add. Jesus Christ.
"To TALK," I repeat firmly. She seems to settle down and eyes the bread a moment before cautiously accepting the food, as if I was a wild animal that might scratch or bite her fingers.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Why?" she says harshly, looking even more suspiciously at me.
"I'd just like to know. I'm Janice Covington," I say, extending my hand.
She just eyes it and munches on the bread.
Patience, Janice. Patience. You'd be suspicious too. I pull my hand back and sigh.
"How long have you been here?" she suddenly asks.
"Over four years," I say.
"Four?" She says with surprise. I nod.
"I just got here. I thought this was an extermination camp. Maybe I heard wrong?" She says hopefully.
I look down and sigh, shaking my head no.
"Oh," she says uneasily. "Then how did you manage to…?" she looks at me curiously.
"It's complicated," I offer, scratching the back of my head. I feel uneasy, almost guilty. I am tempted to tell her I wish I didn't survive, that death would be welcome, but I don't. I was right with my first response. It's complicated.
"Life is complicated these days," she says with a sigh and finishes the bread. "I'm Judith Denkel," she says and finally holds out her hand.
I smile that the ice has been broken. I shake her hand and tell her I wish we could have met under better circumstances.
"Yeah. Well, maybe our circumstances will be better soon. You know the Russians are coming, don't you?"
"The Russians? Do you know how Germany is doing in the war?" I ask with great interest. I almost forgot there was a war on outside this camp. I was busy fighting the one on the inside.
"They'd like us to think they're winning, but they aren't. And they will lose. There are even rumors that the Fuhrer's health is failing," Judith relays with enthusiasm.
I nod. No surprise there if that pompous quack, Morrell, is his physician. I look at her, absorbing the optimistic news.
"How do you know about all this?" I ask, wanting to believe.
"I'm a war correspondent. Or, I was trying to be."
"Hard job, even for a man," I offer, knowing a few.
"I could always get a story. And I was never afraid of being in the trenches. I actually had a harder time trying to convince my father than the editor."
"He wanted to protect you?" I guess.
"No, he wanted to protect the paper. He owned it," she smirked.
I chuckle. "So what made him change his mind? Your work?" I guess again.
"No. Mother. She was the editor."
I shake my head with amusement.
"I really am a good writer though. Mother is demanding," she offers quickly.
I nod, smiling. "Well, Judith Denkel, I hope you're as demanding as she is and your facts about the Russians are right."
"I'll bet you they are," she challenges with a grin.
I pat my flimsy smock with a smirk. "Sorry, sweetheart, I'm all out of money."
"Who said anything about money?" she says, waggling her eyebrows.
My eyes widen. "I thought you said you weren't that kind of girl?" I ask, my voice cracks as my eyes nervously dart to the door.
My eyebrows furrow. Since when did a flirtatious woman start to bother me? Jesus Christ.
"I'm not bought, Janice, but a little wager . . . Well that's entirely another matter," she says moving closer to me, seemingly amused at my discomfort. At least one of us is.
The jingle at the door makes me jump up and thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and a couple of Saints. "Oh darn. Times up," I say with a weak shrug.
The guard opens the door and motions for my visitor to leave. "I hope I'll see you again," she says nervously, her bravado has suddenly fled.
I see fear in her eyes and understand why. She has to survive the extermination camp until her Russians come.
"Good luck, Judith," I say sincerely. She nods and starts to leave.
"Judith?? When they do come, I intend on reading your personal account of it," I inform her with a smile.
I receive a confident smile. "That's a deal."