“Lena,” Jelena said, following me to the back where I washed my hands. “You need to leave her in her bed. You’re not strong enough to carry her while you work.”
But I didn’t want to hear it. I was afraid to leave her. Afraid if she cried I wouldn’t hear. Or that I’d fall asleep when I hadn’t planned to, as I had earlier this morning when I’d sat for just a moment, and then woke with a start when one of the women shouted for help.
Every night now, I went to sleep with my stomach complaining about the lack of food. Every morning I rolled from my bed, trying to ignore the hunger, distracting myself with Willa, who had started to complain now too about the smaller portions of milk my body was producing.
We’d scavenged the entirety of the camp, looking through the officers’ and guards’ old quarters, hoping to find something left behind that could be consumed. But there was nothing. The rations in the kitchen were nearly gone, the bags of porridge dwindling fast.
Jelena and I talked often of leaving. Of gathering those who were able and having them help the others. But there were still so many of us. We wouldn’t make it far, and we had no idea in what direction to head.
“Maybe just a handful of us could go,” she’d said one night as we sat in my room like we did most nights now, after everyone else had gone to sleep.
“And if you’re caught and sent back? Or...I don’t know. What if someone gets hurt and you get stuck with no shelter and no food?”
The problem was, we had no idea what was waiting for us beyond the fences surrounding the camp. And we couldn’t be sure the risk would be worth it.
Willa was three weeks old when Jelena found me listless in my bed, my daughter screaming in my arms. I had tried to feed her, but while she suckled furiously at my breast, her angry little cry made it clear little was coming out.
“Here,” Jelena said, holding out a bowl.
I stared at the steam coming off it and frowned.
“Sit up,” she said.
I struggled to do as she said and didn’t even complain when she took Willa in her arms so I could move easier. When I was upright, I reached for the bowl she’d left on the side table. It was heavier than usual and I stared at the portion size.
“It’s too much,” I said, but she shook her head, her eyes on my daughter as she rocked her.
“We lost three more last night,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you with it. They’re buried with the others.” She looked at me finally. “I gave you their portions.”
“Jelena—”
“Don’t,” she said. “You need it. For her.” She looked back down at Willa. “So eat up. And today you stay in bed. Doctor’s orders.”
“But—”
“We’ll make it through one day without you. I’ve already gotten a few of the others up and moving so that they can help out.”
I sighed. I hated adding to the burden, but I was exhausted in a way I’d never been before.
“Okay,” I said. “But just today.”
The extra food helped, and a couple hours later I was able to feed Willa, who snuffled delicately at my breast, making me smile. A rare occurrence these days.
But the one day of rest was only that, and the next day I was back making rounds, checking wounds, cleaning injuries and rewrapping them, and trying to make everyone as comfortable as they could be.
I held hands, wiped brows, and tried to put on a brave face.
“Do you think anyone will come and save us?” was a question I got at least three times a day in the beginning. Now no one asked. No one believed we’d be saved.
Not even me.
So when a man suddenly appeared in the doorway the following week, all I could do was stare in fear and confusion while several of the other women screamed and scurried as far from him as they could get, gathering together at the far corner of the large room, their faces filled with terror.
The man looked at us incredulously, disappeared for a few tense minutes, and then returned with two more men, all three of them looking around the room as if trying to figure out what they’d walked into.
My entire body shaking, I stepped forward. I had tended to these women for weeks. I’d cared for them and tried quietly to protect them, and I wasn’t about to let them down now. But as I opened my mouth to speak, I saw the insignia on the men’s sleeves. My knees buckled and I reached for the arm of the woman next to me.
“I’m sorry we scared you,” he said, his accent decidedly British, his step hesitant as he moved farther into the room, his arms up as if he himself were surrendering. “We are not here to harm you. We are here to get you to safety.”
