I nod, watching the ground, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, not to be visible. I want eggs and cheese and a big hunk of my mother’s rye bread.
“It must be the devil of a job not to say anything; I wouldn’t have a hope,” he says.
I lift my head and smile at him. If only he knew what a chatterbox I am.
“That’s better.” He grins. “Now, then, I’ve got a little present for you.”
From his pocket he draws half a roll of toilet paper. I hesitate.
“Can I spare it?” he continues. “Yes, look I’ve got another. Been stockpiling them, just in case we get a chance to scarper.”
I reach out and take it, nodding my thanks, wondering how long I have to make it last.
Most men, including Ralph, Max and Tucker, set off for the latrine and washroom, but first Bill and I have to double back to the hut to pick up the apple tub containing the night soil. Scotty has volunteered to help us. He says the tub will be too heavy for me and Bill. I want to protest that I’m stronger than I look.
Scotty crouches down beside it and indicates to me and Bill to get around so we can take the weight between the three of us.
I hope that having Scotty to help won’t draw undue attention to us, but the tub is surprisingly heavy, and the contents slosh about alarmingly as we make our way to the latrine to empty it. It’s difficult for three people to walk in rhythm. A powerful stench of ammonia comes off the urine, and we all walk with our heads turned aside and our eyes watering. Somehow we maneuver it into the latrine and tip it down one of the holes, splashing everywhere.
Bill carries the empty tub over to the taps, and Scotty show us where a stiff brush and carbolic soap are kept on a window ledge. I take it from him, kneeling on the washroom floor, scrubbing out the tub. The water is freezing, and my hands turn bright red, but the tub is clean, and I’m glad to have done something useful.
• • •
To wash myself, I choose the tap nearest the wall, where the water runs down into the drain. The tall guard regularly passes the doorway to the washroom, but Bill or Ralph or Max or Scotty or Tucker or one of the other twenty prisoners we’ve trusted with my secret seem to be able to casually position themselves between me and the door. Now I begin to see why more men had to be told. Some of the prisoners around me strip to the waist, while others just splash their faces. I wash my face with my cupped hands, like a man, and use a rag to wipe beneath my clothes. I sense the other men casting curious glances at me—the ones who know. Some of them are unshaven, but Ralph makes a show of carefully scraping his face. “It’s a way of proving to them they haven’t beaten us,” he says.
Bill moves to the sink next to me and hums as he shaves in a scrap of mirror. When he’s finished, he hands me the razor and soap. For a moment I don’t understand, then go through an act of soaping my face and gently pulling the razor through the thin scum on my cheeks. Max and Ralph saunter off so the guard can see me “shaving” if he looks my way. I must think more like a boy if I’m not going to give myself away. Bill holds my hand for a second as I give him back the razor.
“All right, chum,” he says reassuringly.
With ablutions done, Max leads the way to the cookhouse. My eyes skitter around me at everything, aware all the time of the guards and the guns, trying to watch the other prisoners and do whatever they do, sick to my stomach with anxiety. I lengthen my stride to match Max’s.
Walk like Gee-gee Cousins, I tell myself in English. Tough boy.
“Don’t bother with the acorn coffee,” Max says. “The mint tea isn’t so bad once you get used to it. And you can have a brew of your own once you get a parcel.”
Back in the hut, I sip my mint tea, and Bill and I share another thin slice of the loaf we were given last night. I’m already so hungry that my stomach seems to be glued to my spine. Ralph has disappeared and comes back triumphantly with a Red Cross parcel for me and Bill. Apparently this one is Canadian, which means it doesn’t have cigarettes like the British and American parcels. I think, That doesn’t matter. We don’t smoke, till Bill explains, “We need the cigs to trade. Fags are like cash here.”
I cut the string with my ID tag and open the brown paper like a child, impatient to see what’s inside. A woman far across the sea has carefully packed neat rows of tins. I lift out each and study the label carefully, trying to translate the English: milk powder, butter, cheese, corned beef, pork luncheon meat. Luncheon. What could that mean?
“That’s the pink meat we had last night,” says Bill. “We’ll give some back to Max and Ralph.”
I’m pleased to see soap and puzzled by things called kippers, prunes and marmalade.
Tucker saunters over to our bunk and scans the contents of our parcel, nodding to Ralph. “Good going to get one so quick.” He winks at me as he walks back into the hut, and I’d like to run after him and knock him to the ground.
“Bloody coffee, not tea,” says Bill ruefully, though I am delighted.
“I’ll swap you my tea,” offers Ralph, and I want to shout no, but Bill looks overjoyed, so I turn my face to hide my disappointment. I prefer coffee, but if I’m meant to be an English boy, I realize tea is what I’m supposed to drink.
“I’m for a brew,” says Bill, and Max lends him the ingenious little blower and retreats to his own bunk with a book. The dark circles under his eyes seem even deeper today, and I wonder why he can’t sleep. Straining my eyes in the gloom, I see he has a small library above his bunk. I’d like to know what he’s reading and where he’s found books.
“What’ll we have for breakfast?” Bill asks me. “This lot has to last a week—maybe more if the parcels don’t get through. A little slice of cheese?”
I nod with one eye on the biscuits. They are called Pilot biscuits. I begin to see that while I can’t speak, Bill will make all the decisions for both of us. How astonished my mother and father would be to see me so docile when I fought them for my own way over every small thing.
“You are a selfish, willful girl,” my mother used to say. I pick up the biscuits, pleadingly.
“Just one, then,” says Bill.
But as I’m about to take one, someone shouts, “Goon up!” and the bushy-eyebrowed guard marches noisily into the hut, directly toward us. I grip the wooden edges of the bunk, like someone on a raft in a storm. He’s come for me. It’s over.
The guard takes the contents of our precious parcel and stabs the lid of each tin with a knife, but nobody seems surprised at this strange behavior. When he’s done, he looks around casually and then leaves. I breathe again and release my grip on the bed. Did I think I could hold on as they dragged me out?
Bill explains, “It’s so we can’t hoard the food, for escapes. It starts to go off as soon as the tin is pierced.”
He turns to Ralph. “Do we need rackets bags?”
“Not here. Not in this hut. We never leave it empty.”
Bill nods and turns to me again, and I can see it pleases him to be able to tell me things about this life, to be the expert. “In some camps, some huts, men steal each others’ food and clothes while they’re out, so they have to carry it round all day in bags. Seems like we’ve landed in a good hut here. No tea leaves—thieves.”