6. Day by Day

Chapter six

Day by Day

"Behave yourself in class," I bend down and say goodbye to Rebecca at the beginning of another day. After she enters the classroom, I will take the wooden bucket and head to join the never-ending line at the water tap, followed by the line for food.

"But he disciplines me," she replies in German.

"What language have we decided we speak?" I remind her.

"French," she answers reluctantly.

"Then say it in French."

"Bye, Mommy," she turns and runs into the classroom, and I get up and sigh. When will she grow up and realize she has to change? When will he stop disciplining her?

I look at my fingers, remembering all the times in which my teacher, Mr. Werner, used to hit me with his ruler when I was a child. She must grow up and understand, like I did. I clutch the empty wooden bucket and walk to the line of men, positioning myself between them, and ignore their looks. I don't have a husband to help me in carrying the heavy water bucket. At least today's line is shorter, so I won't have to wait long.

"You're early," Charlotte remarks when she notices me standing in the room's doorway and hastily turns her back to me. I think she's trying to hide something. What is she up to? I put the bucket of water down and step inside. Did she take something from my belongings? Was I wrong to trust her?

Inside, I spot another man in the room. He's about thirty years old, dressed in a light, plain button-up shirt, and dark trousers, and seated on an upside-down wooden bucket. His brown jacket had been discarded on the floor. What's going on here? What's he doing here?

"Who is he?" I inquire, approaching Charlotte. What is she hiding from me? The unfamiliar man smiles awkwardly at me and stands up. What is she doing with him?

"Sarah, I need you to leave here for an hour," Charlotte approaches me and whispers as she grabs my arm and attempts to lead me toward the door.

"Why? What's going on here? What are you doing?" I ask, angrily. Despite her previous help, I still don't trust her.

"I apologize," the man interjects, turning to put on his jacket, "I didn't know you lived here too."

"Who are you?" I ask him, raising my voice. Why did she let him into the room in which Rebecca and I were sleeping at night? "That's why the other women hate you?" Did she lie to me before?

"Shh...please, Sarah, I'm begging," Charlotte continues to whisper urgently, "they hear everything here, please, it's not what you think. And you, don't go, wait a minute, please, everything's fine," she rushes to grab the stranger's arm, removes his jacket and guides him back to the upside-down wooden bucket. "Please, Sarah," she pleads with me, "I'll explain everything to you in an hour. I swear I'm not lying to you," she leads me to the apartment entrance.

"Are you doing this with him here, in the middle of the day?" I whisper. What will happen if Rebecca hears about it?

"No, I swear. An hour, come back in an hour, I'll explain everything," she implores while looking into my eyes.

"Okay," I finally concede and turn to the stairwell, debating whether to express my disbelief to her, but finally stop myself and slowly go down the stairs, out into the large yard. I'll give her one hour. Not a minute longer.

In the yard, I walk among the people standing and talking to each other or strolling around in the sun. Do they feel like I do in this place? I move away and approach the fence until I place my hands on the barbed wire and look out at the distant houses. They look so peaceful. Near the closed entrance I notice Mathéo, the policeman that Rebecca spoke to without permission a few days ago. He looks at me and smiles, but I don't smile back at him. I don't trust him either, even though he saved me and behaved nicely toward Rebecca. I can't trust anyone here, certainly not a French policeman. I feel he's looking at me, but I ignore him and watch the distant houses, searching for free people around them. What about Charlotte? She is probably lying to me. I will soon know.

Laughter makes me look toward the German commander's barracks, and I notice Captain Becker's two daughters sitting on the wooden porch, holding a book, and laughing. It had been so long since Rebecca had laughed. If only I could make Rebecca laugh like that.

The barrack door opens, Captain Becker emerges, stands on the balcony, and looks around. I tense up and hurry to release my hands from the fence, slowly turning around and walking away. I shouldn't have gotten so close to their area. Few people dare to stand near the fence in this area. Only when I get close to a group of women standing and talking among themselves do I feel that the tension in my body has dissipated. It must've been an hour already. It's time to go back.

I enter our room and look around. The man who was here before is gone, and the upside-down wooden bucket is placed in the corner of the room, next to the water bucket I brought earlier.

"Take it, it's yours, thanks," Charlotte approaches and hands me a cigarette from her dress pocket.

"I don't smoke," I stand in front of her and refuse to take it while looking around. She owes me an explanation.

"Me neither," she says, continuing to hold the cigarette she offered me. "It's not for you to smoke."

"Then why are you giving it to me?"

"You know it's the best currency in this place. Camp replacement for the German Reichsmarks or the French Francs."

"You owe me an explanation. You won't buy me with cigarettes," I stand before her and examine her brown eyes.

"As you wish," she tucks the cigarette into her dress pocket, but after a moment takes it out, this time with a box of matches. She lights it up, and inhales the smoke with pleasure, while closing her eyes.

"I thought you didn't smoke. "

"I haven't smoked in a very long time. I can't afford it," she gives me with an embarrassed smile while holding the cigarette, "but every now and then I have to." She walks over to the window, looks outside, and after a moment looks back at me, "It's not what you think, I didn't steal anything from you, nor did I do anything immoral with him; I didn't sleep with him. I think we're old enough to say that word," she awkwardly smiles at me.

"So, what did you do with him?"

"I did this," she takes a small pencil out of her dress pocket and holds it up, showing it to me.

"It's a pencil, I don't understand," I remain standing at a distance from her, alert.

"I draw," she says after a moment and inhales from the cigarette she's holding. "I draw people, I sketch them down with the pencil, they come here, and I sketch down their portrait. And they pay me in cigarettes," she lifts the cigarette she's been holding a bit higher.

"Why are they coming to you to paint them? I don't understand."

"For the same reason that people go to a photographer to take their pictures, so they have a memory to be proud of."

"But we're in a detention camp. There's nothing to be proud of here."

"No one here has a camera, and people want to be remembered as they are, even here," she says quietly.

"And why are you hiding it?"

"Because this camp is a dangerous place. The people here are unemployed and are willing to tell the Nazis about you in exchange for a handful of cigarettes; everyone has enemies here, and if you don't have one yet, you will in the future," she replies while carefully stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette on the sole of her shoe and tucking the remaining half back into her dress. "I'll save the rest for next time I need it," she smiles at me awkwardly.

"And why did you want to pay me with a cigarette?" I slowly walk into the room, pointing to her dress pocket, feeling safer to go inside.

"For not shouting and bringing all the nosy neighbors into the room. They might've informed me to the Nazis. They don't like us anyway."

"Do you think the Nazis will do something if they know?"

"You and I already know how the Nazis are. They don't need a reason to do something."

"And that's why you stole the makeup brush from them?"

"Not to draw people. A simple pencil is enough for me to do that."

"Why then?"

"To paint, I paint, I've always painted. I studied at an art school in Berlin before I ran away. I paint people, situations, and feelings, and I want to paint this horrible place."

"Why would you want to draw this place? Everything here is so terrible."

"Because when I paint, I'm alive, and also to leave something behind me, for them to know," she replies. "To know that once was a young woman named Charlotte Salomon, to know that this woman lived in this terrible place."

"And did you paint?" I sit down next to her. I'm not mad at her anymore .

"Very little," she replies and raises the cardboard she sleeps on. Underneath it are several paintings of the camp, the policemen, fences, and people queuing for water. Some characters are drawn flying in the air, like birds escaping this place.

"These are great paintings," I run my finger gently over one of them.

"Thanks, but I can't paint anymore. I ran out of colors and couldn't get more. Eventually, that other woman hated me for nothing," she sits on the floor and leans against the wall. "At least I have some kind of job in this place, sketching people with a pencil. Something to do in exchange for cigarettes. Cigarettes are worth an extra soup portion, and in this place a soup portion is equivalent to not losing weight and coming down with an illness."

A few days later, the children run out of the classroom, and I look at them as they pass me by while talking and laughing. Where is Rebecca? She is not with them. Could the teacher have left her in the classroom?

Through the open door, I can see him standing with his back to me, erasing the blackboard. I go in and look around. The classroom is empty. Where is my daughter?

"Excuse me, Mr..." I address him.

"The name is Mr. Gaston," he turns and looks at me as if noticing me for the first time. "Can I help you?" He asks as he bends down and picks up his leather bag from the chair next to the board .

"My daughter, Rebecca, where is she? I brought her to class this morning."

"The German girl?" He asks me while picking up his coat and hat hanging on a hanger next to the board. He acts as if we were in a normal school and not in a Nazi detention camp.

"Rebecca, my daughter, and yes, we're from Berlin," I reply. I want to add that we did not come here of our own free will, just like any of the thousands of people in this camp, but I remain silent.

"Your daughter is uneducated. She is rebellious," he watches me, his eagle nose pointed in my direction.

"She's a little child, she needs to study."

"She needs a parent to educate her."

"Where is she?" I ask him, what did he do to her ?

"She deserves to be disciplined, but she ran away from class," he approaches me on his way out, "Mrs...."

"Mrs. Bloch," I cringe at his brown eyes as they size me up.

"Mrs. Bloch, make sure that Mr. Bloch educates your daughter. Even if students laugh at you because you got the question wrong, you do not snatch their notebook away. And if the teacher calls you to come forward and be disciplined, you don't run away from class."

"Yes, Mr. Gaston," I quietly reply, feeling smaller by the moment under his inquisitive eyes.

"I look forward to seeing your daughter in my class tomorrow," he says.

"Yes, Mr. Gaston," I take a step back.

"Good day, Mrs. Bloch," he puts on his hat and tugs on it, gesturing goodbye before leaving the classroom, leaving me to look at the empty desks and chairs. Where is Rebecca? She didn't come to our room. Where could she have gone?

I walk through the yard full of people, searching for her, but she's nowhere to be found, not even near the water tap or the line of people waiting to use it. Where can she be? She is also not with the men playing pétanque or with some girls playing catch in the yard. I'll discipline her for running away from Mr. Gaston's class. She will be a well-behaved girl, like all the other kids in his class. I scan the yard again. Where can she be? But then, as I approach the fence and gate, I happen to look out and find myself filled with dread. Rebecca is on the other side of the fence, playing with the camp commander's daughters outside the wooden barrack.

How did she get there? How did she manage to get past the barbed wire fence? Rebecca is running in front of his two daughters. They wear pink, flowery dresses, and their light, curly hair tied with colorful ribbons. They both stand and laugh as they throw stones on the grass, and Rebecca chases them. She runs nonstop, her plain, brown dress fluttering and her untied, dark hair waves around like a wild foal's mane. The ribbon I tied in her hair that morning is gone.

I cling to the barbed wire fence and hold it tight, feeling the metal spikes hurting me through my dress. Shall I try calling out to her? Isn't it dangerous and will attract attention to her? What should I do? My entire body freezes as I see a German soldier getting out of the barracks. What will he do to her? I'm shaking.

One policeman is sitting on the bench outside the French police officers' barracks. Why isn't he doing anything? Why doesn't he bring her back in? I try to shout at him while watching the German soldier, but I can only let out a stifled shout.

As if in slow motion, I see the soldier descending the two stairs leading out of the hut and approaching the girls. One of the commander's daughters ignores him and throws another stone, and Rebecca runs to bring it. How did she get past the fence? Step by step, the German soldier approaches her. As he draws nearer to her, he keeps walking and passes her by, toward a nearby military vehicle. I bend down and throw up, holding on to the wire fence so as not to fall on the hard ground.

Breathe, breathe. I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The sour taste is still in my mouth. I have to do something. I have to bring her back; someone will eventually catch her. I walk toward the gate, my hand occasionally gripping on to the barbed wire fence for support. I'll ask the policeman at the gate to bring her back.

"Wait, where do you think you're going?" He stands in front of me.

"I have to go outside just for a moment," I tell him, panting. I'm even afraid to explain to him what had happened, fearing they'd discipline her.

"Go back," he points his gun at me, "stay away from the gate. Are you new here?" He bursts out laughing, his big belly shaking.

"No," I breathe, "just for a moment. I won't run away," I shift my gaze from the three girls outside to his gun pointed at me. There's a bayonet attached to the end of his rifle, and the long blade is pointed at my stomach.

"You Jews should be inside. It's your place," he shouts at me. "Go back. These are the rules, you know that." He pushes his rifle forward a little, until the blade of the bayonet almost touches my belly.

"Please," I beg him, "I have to, just for a moment." My eyes look at the policeman sitting outside the barracks. Maybe he'll help me? It is Mathéo. Why doesn't he bring her in?

"Back!" The guard shouts at me, and I step back and stand next to the fence. What will happen to her?

Rebecca continues to run between the two girls, ignoring everything around her. Please look in my direction, notice me, and come back inside. I try to signal to her with my hand. But she doesn't notice me, and I keep holding on to the fence, ignoring the wounds the metal spikes make in my hands. Just look at me for a moment. Just lift your head.

Suddenly, the barrack's door opens once again, and someone stands at the door. I'm all coiled. The camp commander's two daughters drop the stones to the ground and run inside the barracks, leaving Rebecca alone. What will she do? She remains standing and looks around.

"Rebecca," I shout at her and wave my hand, but she doesn't hear me. Mathéo gets up and approaches her. What is he going to do to her? His gun rests on his shoulder. He doesn't point it at her. He says something and she nods, and they both walk side by side towards the gate. She comes back to me.

"I told you to stay away from the gate," the big policeman shouts at me. I don't listen to him. I'm focused on Rebecca coming closer to me, next to Mathéo. What right did he have to take her out and endanger her like that without my permission?

"Go inside," he smiles at her, opening the gate for her, and she slips in. I hold her, pick her up, and hug her tightly .

"So, what if I'm Jewish," I shout at Mathéo, no longer able to stop myself. I feel all my fears burst out in a flood of screams. "So what if I'm locked inside and have no rights? Why do you think you can take my daughter away from me?" I keep yelling at him while holding Rebecca, gasping, and crying.

At first, his smile disappears, and he takes half a step back. His hand comes up and grabs the weapon strap on his shoulder, but he doesn't take it down. An inner voice tells me to thank him and get up and leave, but I can't stop myself, and I keep yelling at him. Even though I'm not allowed to do it and even though I'm putting me and Rebecca at risk.

"Woman, be quiet, stay away," the other policeman yells at me and points his gun at me.

"It's okay, Fernando, I'll take care of it," Mathéo tells him, deflecting Fernando's rifle barrel away with his hand. He watches me through his glasses, his brown-green eyes studying me without moving. Will he discipline me? I can't apologize to him.

"I'm still human, even though I'm imprisoned here," I tell him and stop talking. I just keep watching him and breathing. I was so worried when the German soldier approached her, and he did nothing.

"It's not us who set the rules here; it's them, and they're also the camp commander's daughters," he tells me quietly, "and if they want to play with her, they'll play with her."

"We're locked up here like zoo animals," I tell him, even though I have to keep quiet. "For your amusement and theirs."

"Yes, sometimes they want to be amused, like their father, and that's what they do," he keeps watching me, "and maybe you should be happy that they like to play with your daughter, even if they do humiliate her."

"No one likes to be humiliated, even if they're a child," I reply while holding Rebecca in my arms.

"Your daughter won't be playing with them for much longer," the other guard, Fernando, interjects and laughs.

"What do you mean?" I turn to him.

"Soon you will know," he continues to smile, takes out a green cigarette case from his pocket, and puts a white cigarette in his mouth. His dark eyes look at me ominously. "Do you want it?" He hands me the box, "A gift from me. You don't have to pay the usual fee for it this time."

I want to turn around and walk away from him, but I need cigarettes. I need to purchase more straw for Rebecca's and my beds, and I have no other way to do so. I reach out to take the box, but he doesn't let go.

"What do you say?" he asks me, the white cigarette stuck in his mouth.

"Thanks," I whisper, feeling sick.

"You're welcome. Stinky Jewess, you should learn to be polite to the police," he releases his hand, and I hold the box tightly, feeling the lump of insult in my throat. I look at Mathéo, but he turns his back to me and walks away from the gate and us.

"What are you waiting for? Get away from here before I regret being so nice to you," Fernando yells at me, and I turn my back and walk while holding Rebecca in my arms. I slowly approach the group of men who are playing pétanque as if nothing happened.

"Mommy, you smell weird," Rebecca says.

"It's nothing, sweetie. I didn't feel well for a moment. Let's go stand in line for the water tap, and I'll wash my mouth." I continue to walk with her and watch the people peacefully pace around the yard. What did the other policeman mean by what he said?

"Why did you go play with those girls?" I ask Rebecca later in the evening while caressing her hair. We're lying on the straw bed I exchanged for the cigarettes, and our laundry is hanging on a rope strung across the room. The cigarettes were also enough to buy some soap.

"With Hilda and Liza?" She asks.

"These are their names?" I don't want to tell her what their father is doing. I mustn't scare her.

"Because Mr. Gaston wanted to hit me with the ruler, like he hits anyone who doesn't know the answer, so I ran out of class and waited for the bus with the other people and my suitcase, then the good hunter with the glasses came and told me that they wanted to play with me," she rambles on.

"The good hunter with the glasses?" I ask.

"Yes, and he took me from the gate and brought me to them, and we played with stones, and they told me that they'd tell me what to do, and I'd do it because the Jews have to serve the Germans, and I'd be their maid. They don't run fast at all. I'm faster. "

"And you don't mind running and doing what they tell you to do?" I ask her, trying to think of how to convince her not to go near the barbed wire fence again.

"No, they're funny. They said I was the dog and should catch the stones and Mommy, they also know how to speak German, unlike all the other kids in Mr. Gaston's class, who only speak French, which is a funny language."

"But you should be at Mr. Gaston's class and listen, along with the other kids," I caress her hair.

"Mr. Gaston is always angry and spits when he talks and says I'm stupid and understand nothing. And the good hunter with the glasses said I should play with them. Can I keep playing with them? Why were you mad at him?"

"No, you must keep going to Mr. Gaston's class and learn French. And I wasn't mad at him. Now, close your eyes and dream sweet dreams about Sylvie, the girl bear," I reply and think that maybe Mathéo is right, and I should be happy they like to play with her. Perhaps the more they like her, the safer she'll be.

"And I'll also dream about Dad?"

"Yeah, about Dad too," I sigh, knowing he should've been here to discipline her. I haven't thought about him in a while.

"And the other hunter with the rifle also told you something. What did he say?" She adds, a moment later.

"He said you should listen to me and go to sleep," I kiss her forehead and remain sitting against the wall in the dark. What did the other policeman mean when he said it wouldn't last much longer?

"Everyone to the yard now." I hear the announcement through the window the next day, and I get up, go out, and run down the stairs. I have to find Rebecca.

"There's a place for everyone; they won't start without you," a man in a long coat says as I push myself between him and the wall and continue running down the stairs, but I don't answer him. I need to find her before the roll call starts or the police come inside the compound.

"Rebecca," I stand in the yard, shouting and looking around for her. My eyes scan the large yard that quickly fills up with people. "Rebecca..." More and more people emerge from the big building's entrances. "Rebecca..." She doesn't stand next to the fence. Policemen and German soldiers are already standing outside the gate at a respectful distance from Captain Becker, wearing his black uniform. Where can she be? I look around. Could she have gone outside the fence again? I look at the German commander's barrack, but the grass in front of it is empty. Where is she? "Rebecca…," I shout aloud.

"I found her. She's with me," Charlotte approaches me, holding her by the hand. "She was in the classroom with the other children for a change," she hands her over to me. "Let's go to the back," she paves our way through the crowd. The soldiers are entering the compound. We must not be in the first few rows, they're always the more dangerous ones.

One of the policemen is holding a megaphone, and when he raises his hand, the crowd falls silent. All I can hear is the sound of a plane in the sky. It looks like a big bird of prey that passes above us with its black wings, the German Iron Cross painted on its fuselage. I signal Rebecca to be quiet and carefully lower her to the ground. I want her to disappear among the standing crowd.

"The French Vichy government and the Third Reich have decided to expel you to this camp," the policeman begins to speak slowly through the megaphone, emphasizing each word. "You are expelled from society because you are a danger to it, with your ideas, your love of money, your greed…" he stops for a moment. I see the Nazi officer standing at a distance, watching us, his eyes almost hidden by the peaked cap he's wearing. Next to him are several other German soldiers, standing at attention while holding their weapons.

"But, as a gesture of goodwill," the policeman once again brings the megaphone to his mouth and continues to speak, "the Third Reich allows you to move to the East for resettlement. There, you will work in agriculture. You will work for the Third Reich in return for better food and, in the end, your freedom," he stops speaking again.

"This is our chance to get out of here," I hear a man whisper behind me, but I don't look back. Is this really our chance to leave this horrible place? I continue to hold Rebecca and look forward, staring at the Nazi officer. This is the father of the girls who are playing with my daughter as if she were their dog.

"Tomorrow morning," the announcer continues, "everyone who wants to volunteer to be the first to leave for resettlement, please show up in front of the registration office with all your belongings. Of course, those who choose to leave first will get better houses, better land, and a special allowance of butter, oil, flour, and chocolate." He stops talking again, and my mouth fills with saliva at the word ‘chocolate.' I haven't eaten sweet chocolate in such a long time. Rebecca also shakes my hand upon hearing the word ‘chocolate.' I think she didn't understand much of what he said, but I'm sure she understood ‘chocolate.'

I keep watching the Nazi officer as he nods to the policeman, and the latter comes closer to him, listening to what he has to say before going back to stand before us.

"As I said, those of you who'll go to the East will get better conditions. For those who stay here, the food portions will be reduced. Remember, tomorrow at 7 AM, at the registration office, with all your belongings for the travel to the East. You are dismissed," he lowers the megaphone and turns around, but the people remain standing in silence until the Nazi officer leaves the camp, followed by the soldiers and policemen. Only then do people start talking to one another.

"Is this our chance?" I ask Charlotte.

"Do you think this terrible place is our chance?" She points to the big, gray building surrounding us and the barbed wire fences.

I look around at the people talking to each other while slowly dispersing. Is this a sign of a new beginning?

"Will we have chocolate?" Rebecca asks me as I pick her up in my arms.

"Yes, we'll get chocolate," I smile at her but look again at the camp commander's barrack on the other side of the fence. The commander goes inside and closes the door while the soldiers remain standing outside. My stomach churns, and not from hunger.

"Are you excited for tomorrow?" Charlotte asks me at night.

The building is quiet after the storm caused by the announcement. People were packing and arguing all evening, and there were also those who went to sleep in front of the registration office, looking to secure their place tomorrow morning on the train that would take us to the East. Rebecca's sleeping peacefully, and I caress her hair. She had a hard time falling asleep from the excitement.

"You know," I tell Charlotte, "I've made some big mistakes since we arrived in Paris - me and my husband, Erwin, who God knows where he is right now. My biggest one was going to the Paris Police with Rebecca back then," I recall that day and wince.

"They would've found you even if you hadn't gone to them," Charlotte says from the darkness.

"An inner voice whispered that I was doing the right thing by going to the police, but I was wrong," I say. I cannot tell her what happened with the smuggler, and about the chance Rebecca and I had to leave Paris.

"You did the right thing. We all got here in the end."

"Yes, I acted right," I gently stroke the wedding ring on my finger. I have to believe that I acted right at that time. And the smuggler probably would've taken his payment and then betrayed us and handed us over to the Nazis. I couldn't trust him. But my inner voice wouldn't stop bothering me, even now.

"We'll leave this place tomorrow. You'll see, we'll be better off in the East," Charlotte says.

"I know we'll be better there, and Rebecca is happy too, but I still have this inner voice."

"And what does it say?"

"That it's not true, that we shouldn't get on that train tomorrow."