We squeezed between bodies and beds. So many beds. Bunks stacked three high, reminding me of the planes I’d worked on carrying the wounded. Reminding me of William.
The baby kicked inside me and I ran my hand over my belly. Without fail, should I think of William, a kick followed.
“This is you,” the woman said, pointing to a middle bunk. She frowned and took in my belly, which was much more prominent in the striped uniform than it had been in my father’s bulky sweater. “Hmm. This won’t do.”
“I can manage,” I said, not wanting to bother anyone by making them move.
“We can do better. Not much, but certainly better than making a pregnant woman climb up to bed.” Her eyes flicked over me. Friendly, but guarded. “I’m Zuz, by the way.” She held out a red, calloused hand. “Zuzanna.”
“Lena,” I said, placing my hand in hers.
She showed me around then and introduced me to several of the other women, their names and colored triangle patches floating in and out of my mind as I tried to breathe in the acrid, humid air accumulated by so many bodies gathered in one enclosed space.
The population was mostly Polish, but there were women from the Soviet Union, Germany, Hungary, France, Czechoslovakia, the Benelux countries, and Yugoslavia too. A cacophony of languages filled the large building, our only saving grace to communicating the overlapping English we’d either learned in school or picked up from friends and family.
We ended up back at the bunks and the woman who was assigned the bottom was thankfully amenable to swapping. I was shown where to put my belongings, where to find the threadbare and stained towels for showering, and then I followed the crowd through the cold to another building where a small bowl of lukewarm soup with barely more than a couple of small potatoes was served for dinner.
Throughout the next week I was put to work doing physically demanding labor in the sprawling, near-frozen fields surrounding the camp. Digging, planting, building fences... My pregnant belly allowed me no mercy, but I kept my mouth shut, refusing to utter even a whimper as my body, now depleted of the meals I’d had access to only a few weeks ago, were reduced to rations that couldn’t adequately nourish an adult body. Much less one carrying a baby. I was tired, exhausted...and starving.
“Can I have that?” a voice said.
I stared at my bunkmate, Agata.
“Can you have what?” I asked, looking to where she was pointing on my body and seeing nothing.
She reached over and pulled a thread hanging from the cuff of my sleeve.
“You want the thread?” I asked.
She nodded and I shrugged, holding out my arm and watching as she wrapped it around her finger twice and gave it a quick tug, severing it from my uniform.
“Thank you,” she said, and then set it beside her with a small pile of similar bits of thread and fabric.
“What are you making?” I asked, noticing what looked like a small lump of fabric in her hand. She held it up and my eyes widened. “Oh! It’s a doll.”
She smiled and nodded. “One of the kids in the other barracks lost her mom two days ago. I’m making it for her.” She pointed to my belly. “I could make one for you too if you like.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
She shrugged. “Helps pass the time, searching for scraps, putting them together.”
“What do you stuff them with?”
“Usually just more scraps. Sometimes hair.”
My mouth went dry.
“Hair?”
“I was able to fill five dolls when Zuz first got here. She had a beautiful head of dark hair. She saved a handful for me when they shaved it off. Snuck it from the floor and stuffed it in her pocket.” She glanced at my hair. “Yours is nice too. They won’t shave you though.”
“They won’t?”
“Nah. They don’t shave the Germans. Only the Poles and Czechs.”
“Why?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine with a frank look. “Why do they do any of it?”
