I poke him hard in the ribs, and even though all his clothes, I can feel he’s no more than bone.
As he shivers on the wagon, I pull the sledge alongside. I pray in time with each footstep, “Don’t let him die. Don’t let him die.”
On the mountain to the right of us is a ski slope, with motionless cable cars. Clouds cover the tops of the mountains. We pass a tall observatory tower on a hill and then a town with factories. The houses are half-timbered like in a fairy tale. One is thatched.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life just to take one step after another, and pulling the sledge up the steepest hills is pure pain. Then after the crown of the hill, the sledge wants to run down the other side, and I have to hold it back.
We pass a grand house with stables, perhaps a riding school, and a flock of geese. At a railway station the tracks head off in different directions, and I wonder if it would really have been worse than this to be carried in cattle trucks.
There’s a redbrick church with a Gothic steeple, and we begin an agonizing climb to a high plateau where the wind snatches away every breath as though the world begrudges us even that. An old windmill spins implacably. I can almost smell the corn it must be grinding.
On the fifth of February, word comes down the line that we’re almost there, just one more hill and we can rest. But even one more hill feels like an impossibility. Max heaves the sledge. Bill’s with the men pulling the wagon of the injured. More men have fallen in to help with that, both pulling and pushing to get their comrades to safety. I don’t know how they are finding the strength to risk their own lives for one another.
We somehow sweat and struggle to the top of the hill, and before us is peaceful, snowy country with clumps of trees, and a huge prisoner of war camp. The line slows to a crawl. It’s only two weeks since we left Lamsdorf but it feels as though I’ve been forcing my exhausted body to keep moving for months or maybe even years.
Eventually ahead of us loom the tall gates with the eagle and swastika emblazoned on them. The wire fences and watchtowers spread out over the top of a huge flat hill. We stagger into Görlitz, Stalag VIIIA.
Twenty-five
Görlitz is so crowded with thousands of men from all the Eastern European camps that nobody counts us or takes our details. We’re told there may be room for us in hut thirty-seven, but when we find the hut, all the bunks are taken, and there’s barely space for us to find a patch of floor. Ralph struggles down to sit on the floor, and Bill props our sledge beside him. I sit down too, huddled close to Ralph to make room for the others.
“You stay here,” says Bill. “I’ll go and see if I can find anywhere better.”
“I’d better come with you,” says Max, “so one of us can stay to guard the place we find and the other can come back for these two.”
I feel stricken as I watch Bill walk away. I try to hear Cousins’ voice in my head, “Steady on,” he says kindly.
Ralph’s watching me. “It’s OK,” he whispers, tapping my arm. “He’ll be back soon.” Sometimes I think Ralph understands me better than Bill.
Max comes back alone, and my heart leaps into my mouth.
“We’ve found somewhere,” he says. “It’s not much better, but there’s one bunk, and we can take turns. We decided Bill looked better able to defend it than me!”
I exhale in relief. This means they’re on speaking terms at last.
He leads us to the other hut. It’s hard to pull the sledge through the icy mud of the parade ground. The empty bunk is a top one, which means insects will fall from the ceiling, but there’ll be a little more warmth. The warmth now matters to me more than the insects.
“Can you get up there?” Bill asks Ralph, but he shakes his head.
“I’m off to see if I can find a quack,” he says, and we all know he must have come to the end of his endurance to even consider such a thing, because it will mean parting from us.
Max nods. “Bill, why don’t you hold the bunk and our stuff, and we’ll pull Ralph to the sick bay on the sledge?”
Bill agrees readily, and I can see he’s longing to stretch out and sleep, even on a lumpy, lice-infested straw mattress. We pass up our blankets and kit bags. Max’s rucksack is surprisingly heavy, and I wonder if he’s stockpiling food and hiding it from us. Then I’m ashamed of the thought. I want to stay with Bill, but I know Max can’t manage Ralph on his own.
Max and I drag Ralph on the sledge to the sick bay hut, which is full but has a stove lit and is at least less cold. Patients sit on packing cases and the floor as well as on beds. A British soldier takes Ralph’s name and asks what the problem is. “Frostbite.” Ralph grimaces.
“Oh, another! Well, over there and wait.” He looks at Max with the sledge. “You can’t bring that fucking great thing in here.”
“Well, I’m not leaving it outside to get nicked by the first tea leaf who passes.”
Max makes a decision. “I’m taking it back to the hut,” he says. “Then I’ll come back. You stay with Ralph.”
I sit close to Ralph on the floor, and I see that most of the sick and injured have a buddy close by. I think how human beings cleave together in pairs—husbands and wives or close friends—and how truly lost we are when we’re alone. I think of all the years that Bill had Harry with him, and how he left him behind to run away with me. Ralph’s hand rests on the floor. Out of sight, I cover his hand with mine.
Max returns just as a harassed medical officer arrives to look at Ralph’s feet. I help him remove the boots and peel off the socks. All Ralph’s toes are black now, and they seep with pus. The doctor says, “Well, you aren’t walking a step further. You’ll be taken on by train—if the Russians don’t get here first.”
“Are they so close?” asks Max.
“Apparently. A week away.”
But Ralph has other concerns. “Will I lose my feet?” he bursts out.
The doctor considers. “We haven’t got anyone to do it, but if your mate can come in and bathe them in warm water every couple of hours, we might be able to save them.”
I nod eagerly. The thought of Ralph with his toes or feet amputated is a horror. I remember how much he loved walking with his friends, and I think I’ll do everything in my power to give him that again after all he’s done for me. I point to an imaginary watch, and the doctor looks questioningly at me.
Ralph explains, “He doesn’t speak. Mute. Some sort of shell shock.”
The doctor looks interested. “Do you want to stay here too and go on by train?”
I shake my head with such force that the doctor laughs. “OK, OK. Well, for as long as you’re here, come at two-hourly intervals. You can start now if you like. There should be some water on the stove. Just warm mind, not hot. “
He turns to Ralph. “It’ll hurt like hell,” he says. “I’m sorry I haven’t got anything to give you for it.”
“I know,” says Ralph, and we know he does. “But if it means I don’t lose my feet…”
Max says, “I’m going to see if I can lay my hands on any grub. I’ll come back.”