But when he comes back, Max and Izzy are sitting apart, heads down with fatigue. All the fire in her has been doused by exhaustion, and the sight of it twists Bill’s heart.
“There’s some soup,” he says. “Bring your mess tins.”
The riding school owner has provided buckets of steaming pea soup and an inch of sausage each. It tastes better than anything Bill’s eaten for weeks even though it’s not like proper bangers. He smacks his lips over the soup, and says, “Sorry,” to Max.
“No, I’m sorry,” Max replies. “It’s just…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
Bill unpacks the vegetables from his and Izzy’s kit bags and divides them into three on the straw.
Max says, “No, I can’t. Those are yours.”
“Oh, we need you to help us carry them.” Bill grins. “They were getting too heavy.”
There’s a commotion outside, and Bill sees the riding school owner bringing buckets of hot water for the prisoners to wash and shave in. One of the posterns is arguing with him, sneering at the filthy prisoners. The owner says something in German and then repeats it slowly in English. “My son is a prisoner of the British,” he says. “I hope they would let him shave and wash. Would you be less than them?” The postern reluctantly stands aside.
They take their mess tins to get a share of the warm water and use thin gray rags to wipe the water over their faces and necks. Max and Bill both shave, and Izzy pretends to do the same. Some men are trying to wash under their clothes. One has opened his shirt and is scraping lice from his chest hair into a matchbox. He laughs and nods at the postern who didn’t want them to have the water. “I’m catching these little beauties to throw at that one tomorrow, a little present from me. I got some right down the back of one of their necks today!”
Bill laughs aloud and thinks he’ll try to catch some of his own.
Twenty-seven
The following afternoon, it begins to rain steadily, soaking our blankets and making them heavier and heavier, until I stagger sometimes under the weight. Max opens his kit bag and pulls on the hat Bill knitted, the one with earflaps. I know Bill notices, though neither of them mentions it. We carry our mess tins in front of us to catch rainwater to drink.
“At least we won’t die of thirst,” mutters Bill.
Now the whole column is shuffling and limping rather than walking, heads down, looking at nothing but our own feet, left, right, one in front of the other.
I try not to look ahead, not to focus on any landmark in the distance, a brick chimney or farmhouse. Once you’ve seen something like that, your eye strays back to it, and you walk for hours, or maybe days, but it never seems to get any closer. I’ve learned that it’s better to let your eyes rest on the small things by the road: a rabbit hole, a dripping drainpipe, a sparrow’s skeleton with its head missing. Those things can be passed and left behind. Small progress.
We see one of the posterns kick over a stool on which an old lady has set up a bucket of steaming acorn coffee. He tells her she’s a disgrace to her nation, and she answers back, “But I won’t have to answer to God for my actions.”
In another village, a woman holds herself and rocks, constantly calling out, “Kinder, kinder, warum kämpfen wir?” “Children, children, why are we fighting?” I can’t find an answer. I know my brother doesn’t hate her son.
The boots have rotted on some men’s feet, and they are walking with sacks wrapped around them. Even so, from time to time, a defiant shout comes down the line, “Are we downhearted?” and Bill and Max lift their heads to roar, “No!” with the others.
“My boots are letting in water,” says Max, and I pay attention to the strange sensation around the toes of my left foot. My boots are wearing through too, and the felt is soaking up water from the puddles. Much of the road is awash, and some puddles are deep enough to let water through the lace holes.
A Russian fighter plane appears from nowhere, flying so low that it seems to skim the top of the hedges. We all dive to the ground, nose down in the mud.
When we get up, the front of our clothes are sodden too. For the first time I think, I can’t do this. I’m just going to have to stop. But I know Bill wouldn’t let me just sit down and die; he would insist on staying with me, and then he would be shot too. So I keep on, one foot in front of the other, bent double like an old woman under the weight of my wet coat and blankets.
And then, just when I think I can’t go a step farther, the posterns point out our next resting place. Tall chimneys rise from a brick building, and fear shudders up the column of men. “Chimneys,” they whisper to one another. “Death camp.” Max’s and Bill’s eyes mirror the panic I’m feeling.
But then word comes down the line that it’s nothing more sinister than a brick factory, and we breathe again.
As soon as we enter it, a wonderful warmth dries our wet faces, and our clothes begin to steam. It’s warm everywhere from the kilns; even the brick floors are warm. And it’s big enough for all of us to have space. Someone has scattered dry straw on the floor, and as we find a corner to bed down in, I wish blessings on them and their family.
We pull off our coats, and through my exhaustion, I note that the waxing on Bill’s and Max’s coats has still worked, their shoulders and backs aren’t soaking like the front of their clothes. Our coats and blankets can be dried simply by hanging them from nails on the wall. Most men immediately strip to their underwear, which is gray and ragged, and their wet clothes festoon the factory.
A cry goes up. “Warm water! There’s warm water to wash in.”
Bill goes to investigate and comes back full of excitement. “There are sinks. We could wash ourselves. Maybe even our underwear.”
Max says, “I’ll look after our stuff. You go to see.”
Men are forming an orderly queue, as if in barracks or at a holiday campsite. There they might have a towel over one arm; here they are holding their filthy underclothes. Many are stripped to the waist, and some of are dressed in a second set of long underclothes, or pajama bottoms, or shorts. A few are naked and look like skeletons with skin loosely hanging from them. In the steamy room ahead, there’s laughter. I can’t see how I would hide my sex here, and I’m bitterly disappointed at the thought of not being able to wash.
We return to Max.
“We could wash the clothes first,” Bill suggests to him. “And you and I could wash ourselves while Cousins stays with the bags. Then tonight, when everyone’s asleep, I could take him back to wash. What do you think?”
I nod and nod. I’m willing to risk almost anything to be clean.
Sitting behind Bill and Max, I wriggle out of my trousers and three sets of long underwear and pull on Jan’s grubby pajama bottoms, tying the cord tighter than it’s ever needed before. I keep on my battle dress top but contrive to remove the long-sleeved vests beneath it, leaving just my chest corset, which is crawling with lice. I’d like to get rid of it completely. In the secret part of my kit bag, I still have the small vest belonging to Marek. Clean and smelling of home. I think that would now be enough to hide my shrunken breasts.