8. The Lists

Chapter eight

The Lists

End of May 1942

A few days after the altercation with the other women, I enter the room carrying a bowl of potato soup and half a loaf of bread.

"Rebecca, take a seat. I brought you some food."

"I'm not hungry," she replies, lying down.

"Sit down. You have to eat," I insist and force her to sit. Over the past few days, she's developed a cough and seems to be getting weaker. "Try it, you'll it." I spoon a bit of the watery potato soup into her mouth, my hand instinctively touching her forehead. She feels warm.

"That's enough for me. I'm full."

"Rebecca, you need to eat more to regain your strength so we can go out and see if the bus has arrived. Maybe the suitcase with Sylvie's book will be there today," I encouraged, supporting her back, and preventing her from lying down. She must eat .

"Maybe you could go in my place?"

"I can't. If the bus driver sees only me, he won't agree to give me the book. He'll only give it to you. Eat, and then we'll go wait for the bus."

"Okay," she relents, but after two spoons of soup, she stops.

"I'm full."

"You need to eat the bread too. The bus driver won't give a book to girls who haven't eaten their bread," I insist, tearing off a small piece and putting it in her mouth. She chews slowly and swallows, coughing as she does so.

"That's it, Mommy. I'm not hungry anymore. I'll eat tomorrow."

"Just a little more, and then we'll go," I shove another piece of bread into her mouth. What's wrong with her? Why is she so weak? I glance towards the entrance door, feeling as if the other women in the building have cast some sort of curse on her.

"Enough, I'm not hungry," she spits out the bread.

"Let's go and wait for the bus," I say, lifting her to her feet. I need to know if she's okay.

"Okay," she agrees, taking Sylvie with her. She'll be fine. She has to be.

"You need to let her rest," Charlotte whispers to me.

"She just needs some air. It's nothing," I reply.

"She's sick. You know it."

"She's not sick," I retort in a whisper as I help Rebecca stand. I've seen what happens here to those who are sick. "Can you find her more food?" I take out two cigarettes from my dress pocket and hand them to Charlotte. I've been saving them in case of an emergency .

"Yes, of course," she takes them. The most important thing is that Rebecca gets stronger.

"Come on, honey, let's go wait for the bus," I say, picking her up and cradling her in my arms. I don't want the women in the other apartments to see that she can barely walk.

"Enjoy, tell me who came with him today," Charlotte strokes Rebecca's hair as we leave the room. The fresh air outside will make her feel better.

A cool breeze brushes against our faces as we stroll through the yard toward the fence, with me holding her tightly in my arms. Waiting for the bus with her will make her feel better, I'm sure of it.

For a moment, I entertain the thought of the bus driver arriving and handing us the suitcase, just like in the stories I tell Rebecca. But the barbed wire fence that contains us and the fair-haired policeman standing by the gate, scrutinizing my body, make it clear that nothing will change.

Even though holding her in my arms for so long weighs heavily on me, I don't put her down, not wanting him to see her weakness. No one can know that she is weak.

His eyes continue to stare at my breasts as he smiles at me, probably wondering if my proximity to him is an invitation for a nightly rendezvous in exchange for cigarettes or food. I avert my gaze and take a few steps further along the barbed wire fence.

Soon, the bus will arrive with more people, and I'll be able to divert my thoughts from Rebecca, who remains silent in my arms. Why is she so quiet? Soon, Charlotte will find more food for her, and she'll eat, regain her strength. I stroke her hair .

"Mommy, maybe the bus forgot the way, and we can go back to the room?"

"No, it will come soon. The driver promised me he would arrive today," I reply, continuing to cradle her in my weary arms.

Another policeman approaches the gate, replacing the one who had been making me uncomfortable. It's Mathéo, the policeman with the round glasses. Though I'm unsure if I can trust him, I lower Rebecca to the ground. I need to let my tired hands rest for a moment. There's no other choice. Rebecca grasps the barbed wire fence with her small hands, leaning against it.

"Can we go home? Sylvie is cold, she's shaking," Rebecca says, trembling.

"Yes, let's take her home so she won't get sick," I pick her up again. In what world does a six-year-old girl consider this place home?

"Is everything okay?" Mathéo calls from the other side of the fence. Can I trust him?

"Yes, everything is fine," I straighten up and force a smile, hoping he didn't notice my teary eyes. He is one of them. I can't trust him.

"There's a doctor at entrance four, maybe he'll agree to come and see Rebecca," Charlotte whispers to me the next day as I place a wet rag on Rebecca's forehead. She hasn't been able to stand up since the morning; she's been feverish all day. Yesterday, she still had a little to eat.

"He won't agree, they hate us."

"She won't recover without help. She's getting weaker."

"No, she'll get stronger. She looks better than she did yesterday," I reply, but I know she's right. Rebecca is getting weaker, and her fever doesn't seem to relent. She also threw up the food that Charlotte had managed to get her the previous day. "Can you look after her while I go?" I ask Charlotte after a few minutes and wipe my forehead. I'm sweating, too.

"Yes, go," she takes three cigarettes from her dress pocket and hands them to me. "Take these so you have something to pay with."

"Are you sure?" I look at her. She was going to trade the cigarettes for more food for herself. We all need more food in this camp.

"Yes, I'm sure. I haven't been hungry these last few days."

"Thank you," I take the cigarettes and put them in my dress pocket. I don't believe that she hasn't been hungry. We're all hungry. All the time.

"Who are you looking for?" A woman I don't recognize asks me at entrance number four. She appears to be around thirty, dressed in a light brown dress with a belt that was once fashionable. She is leaning against the exposed concrete wall by the stairs, smoking a cigarette. She seems to take pleasure in every drag from her cigarette.

"I'm looking for the doctor."

"He's gone. They took him in the transport a week ago. He was taking care of people, and they accused him of subversion," she says, casually flicking the finished butt onto the ground without bothering to extinguish it.

"What will I do?" I whisper to her, even though I don't know her, and she has no idea what I'm talking about.

"Do you think a doctor can help you here?" She laughs bitterly. "Even before they took him, he didn't have any medicine, just his notebook. He would write prescriptions without anyone being able to use them. Maybe it's good that they took him to the East. Maybe there they'll give him some medicine to prescribe."

"Thank you," I reply, turning away from her, starting to retreat. What will I do?

"There's the pharmacist. Maybe she will know what to do," I hear her voice again.

"Where is she?" I turn back to her.

"Do you have anything for me?" She asks, holding out her hand.

"One."

"That will do," she says, leaving her hand outstretched. "Anyway, she doesn't have any medicine either."

"So why am I paying you?"

"Because you're desperate for something, like everyone else here, and I'm desperate for a cigarette."

"Half a cigarette," I bargain.

"I'm not that desperate," she insists, keeping her hand out. "A cigarette, or you'll go back to your corner and never know if the pharmacist can help you or not."

"Take it," I hand her a cigarette.

"Floor three, apartment three-five-six," she says, bringing the cigarette to her nose, eyes closed. "You can go up there, but judging by your accent, she won't help you," she opens her eyes, looking at me.

"Why?" I ask, feeling my stomach tighten.

"That's how it is here. In the end, we all become animals, live in packs, and each pack hates the other."

"Thank you," I say and walk past her. We're human, not a pack of animals, and my daughter needs medicine.

"You're one of the foreign women, aren't you?" I hear her say, making me stop.

"Yes, so what?"

"I can hear your accent. You're one of the Germans," she says as if to herself. "Whose girl is it; yours or the other's?"

"That is none of your business."

"Is she the one that needs help? People here aren't really fond of Germans these days; you surely can understand them," she gestures to the gray building around us. "There are rumors that you have a connection with the Nazis outside. You know how it is with rumors; they are easy to spread, especially when your daughter beats the other girls. Was it your daughter? You look like a mother," she nonchalantly leans against the concrete wall, carefully holding the cigarette.

"I'm Jewish, just like you," I start shaking and show her my Star of Life and Death. She has one too.

"People here are like packs of wolves. When things get tough, they look for traitors to blame, and you're a stranger. I'll save the cigarette for later," she says to herself, tucking it into her dress pocket. "It's nice to know I have one in my pocket," she smiles at me .

"I'll pay them. Everyone here sells things for money or cigarettes, including you," I respond, though it's none of her business.

"She'll take the cigarettes from you as payment, but she won't help you. We French have our pride too, and you Germans aren't really popular here," she tells me, turning her back and disappearing into the stairwell. What should I do? Go after her and take a risk? I breathe slowly. I need help, and I need medicine. What if she's right and the pharmacist won't help me after she takes the cigarettes? I look at the dark opening of the stairwell as if it's a gaping mouth waiting to swallow me. I have to go or find someone else to help me.

"Who are you looking for?" An older man asks, leaning against the wall in the stairwell on the second floor. He's dressed in an old jacket, and his yellow badge is almost torn.

"I'm looking for Mr. Charpak," I reply, panting.

"What do you want from him?"

"He knows me," I answer, trying to hide my accent. I hope he hasn't heard the rumors about Charlotte and me.

"Let her in," I hear Mr. Charpak say. The man looks at me in silence, carefully scrutinizes my body, and only then does he move aside and let me walk under the sheet covering the front door. I enter the room and my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. The table in the center of the room is deserted, and no one is sitting on the wooden buckets around it. There's a pack of cards on the table, and next to it are two half-empty glasses. Where is he? I hear a noise from the corner of the room and turn to look.

Mr. Charpak is sitting in the corner of the room on a straw bed. There's a woman sitting beside him. He stands up and pulls his pants. Slowly, he tucks his tank top into his pants and hangs the suspenders on his shoulders. "I'll be right back," he softly says to the woman. She doesn't reply; all she does is look at me. She has black hair, and her purple dress is slightly unbuttoned. "Let's go," he says, leading me to the side room.

"My daughter," I say to him once we enter the small room, "she's sick. She has a fever. She's been vomiting, she has diarrhea, and she's breathing heavily. I need you to find out what medicine she needs and get it for me," I blurt as I put the two cigarettes in his hand.

"You don't need me. You need to go to the pharmacist, the woman from entrance number four, and I don't take that kind of payment," he hands me back the cigarettes. "Maybe she does."

"I can't go to her."

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you. I'm afraid she won't help me."

"Then why did you come to me? I'm busy," he leans in, almost clinging to me.

"Because I don't have anyone else who can help me," I gasp; I'm about to burst into tears. What will happen to my daughter if I fail to find her medicine?

"Shhh…" he whispers, "she might hear you," he puts his hand on my mouth. I'm disgusted by the touch of his fingers on my mouth, but I'm helpless. "You know you're going to pay for the medicine whatever price I demand? Do you have more gold coins?"

"No, I don't."

"I'm a merchant. I don't do things for free. "

"I know," I whisper and nod. "Just go to the pharmacist and get me the medicine. I'll pay what needs to be paid," I tell him, knowing exactly what the price will be. It doesn't matter, I don't want to think about it now. The only thing that matters is that he'll get the medicine for Rebecca.

"Wait here. I'll be right back. The cigarettes?" He reaches out and touches my waist.

I place the cigarettes in his other hand, close my eyes, and ignore his hand on my waist. I have to get used to it. That will be the price. But after a moment, his hand seems to have disappeared, and when I open my eyes, he's no longer there. I hear whispers in the other room, followed by his steps descending the stairs.

"Please, help me, I'll pay any price, I'll pay it every day, I don't care. Just help me find medicine. That's all I ask," I whisper to myself as I lean against the wall and my fingers touch the Star of Life and Death on my dress. "Please," I raise my eyes to the sky and close them in prayer. "Please save her, she's only six."

I don't know how much time has passed, nor do I dare open my eyes as I mutter the same prayer over and over again. I occasionally hear noises coming from the other room; I'm afraid that the brunette woman will kick me out. Is she also paying him for something? But she doesn't approach me, and I'm left there, on my own, leaning against the wall and praying.

"They hate you and your girl," a voice jolts me awake, and I find Mr. Charpak standing before me.

"The medicine, do you have it?" I reach out my hand.

"There are those here who envy you, not the pharmacist. She's a good woman, but others. "

"Do you have the medicine?" I grasp his hand and press it against my breasts. His touch sends shivers down my spine, but I don't care. I need medicine.

"I don't have the medicine. Nobody in this place has medicine," he withdraws his hand, "I'm a dealer, not a thief. I only take what I deserve. But I have managed to get something for you. I exchanged your cigarettes for it," he slips a note into my palm.

"What is it?"

"This is the medicine she needs."

"Then get it for me," I grasp his hand again, pressing it against my breast firmly. I made a deal with God, and I'm willing to pay the price.

"It's impossible," he says quietly, "it will take days. We're at war; obtaining medicine is difficult."

"She won't survive a few days," I tell him in a broken voice. "She's getting weaker, please." I start kissing his fingers, ignoring their bitter taste, "please."

"I'm sorry, I can't. I'm not God. I'm a Jew like you. Maybe everyone thinks I'm bad, but I'm just like you; I too have a yellow badge on my jacket. Maybe you should pray to God and trust in Him."

"Believe me, I haven't stopped praying."

"Or you could go to the Nazis. They can get anything. You just need to know who to ask and how. I think you already know how," he tells me before leaving the small room, joining the woman waiting for him on the straw bed in the corner.

I descend the stairs to the building's entrance, place my hand against the wall and lean forward. I feel nauseous. My other hand tightly grips the note with the name of the medicine. There's only one person in the world who can help me. Even if he isn't a Nazi, he still works for them. What will I do if he isn't on duty? I have no one but him.

I leave the building and walk past the people in the yard as they relish the last rays of the afternoon sun. Can't they see that I have a sick dying child? I want to stand in the middle of the yard and shout, ‘Help me,' but I know no one will pay attention. It would just result in her and me being taken to the transport going east. They add to the list anyone who might seem sick or crazy, so they won't infect others. Too many have lost their minds in this place; too many have fallen sick and died.

The last rays of the sun blind me as I walk to the gate and the barbed wire fence. I squint, trying to distinguish whether he's at the gate today. But I can't see a thing; I have to get closer.

"What do you want?" A large policeman standing on the other side of the fence asks me.

"I'm just walking here," I reply. He examines me. I can ask him about Mathéo, but it's dangerous. He can also demand that I get away from the fence. The policeman continues to scan my body with his eyes while he carelessly touches his rifle. He doesn't say a thing when I approach the guard post. Mathéo isn't there.

I keep walking along the fence surrounding the building. I have to find him. The guards know exactly why women like me approach the fence. They'll get their reward later at night at the dark entrances of the building. We women pay the price, wounded souls in exchange for slices of bread and cigarettes.

I see him standing in front of the policeman's barracks near watchtower three. He's speaking to another policeman. I approach the fence and pause, watching him, hoping he'll notice me.

The minutes go by, and he doesn't notice me or walk toward the fence. What should I do? What should I do if he goes inside?

My daughter is going to die. I have nothing to lose.

I look around to make sure there aren't any policemen nearby, bend down, pick up a stone, and throw it in his direction. He must notice me.

At first, he and the other policeman don't seem to notice the stone thrown right next to them. But a few seconds later, the other policeman turns and starts walking in my direction.

‘Not you, I need Mathéo, not you,' I whisper, but he walks slowly and approaches me. He casually places his hand on the leather holster of his gun. He's large, has dark brown hair, and a well-kempt mustache.

"What do you want?" His dark eyes scan me from behind the fence. He smirks, as if he knows what I'm about to offer in exchange for his help.

"I want to talk to him," I gesture at Mathéo who's watching us. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing.

"You're not in a position to want anything," he gives me an evil smile. "You're only in a position to offer."

"I'm not offering anything," I quickly reply. He doesn't care about my daughter. Maybe I'm wrong, and Mathéo won't either, but I'm out of options.

"Then why do you want to talk to him?" The policeman continues to scrutinize me, his hand still on the holster.

Think, think quickly about an answer.

"He knows," I reply after a moment. I couldn't think of anything better.

"Then call him yourself, dirty Jewess," he spits in my direction. "I came all the way here for nothing," he turns and starts to walk back to the barracks.

What will he say to Mathéo? I look down at the spit on my dress and feel sick. But when I look up, I notice Mathéo walking towards me. I breathe slowly. I have to choose the right words.

"What do you want?" He asks from the other side of the fence.

"I want to see you later tonight."

"I don't do those things," he replies. His green-brown eyes look into mine.

"Please, I have to."

"Then you should have said yes to the other police officer."

"Please, meet me tonight at ten o'clock at entrance three," I quickly say and turn around. I start walking away without waiting for an answer. I feel his gaze fixed on my back as I hastily leave. I'm all out of breath. I need him to come. I need him to help my daughter stay alive.

It's nighttime, and I wait in our room for the guard's shift change, due at ten o'clock. Soon, I'll go out to meet him .

I gently stroke Rebecca's hair as she breathes heavily. Occasionally, she coughs. I'm exhausted and scared.

"You know," I say to Charlotte, "before we went to the police in Paris, there was another option."

"What?"

"There was another opportunity," I swallow, "going to the police wasn't my only mistake."

"What do you mean?" Charlotte asks, her hand find mine.

"Before everything that happened with the police, we could have attempted to escape from Paris, heading south to the Free Zone and from there to neutral Spain," I speak slowly, weighing my words, "with a smuggler. He had several Jews with him."

"And what happened?"

"He claimed that Rebecca was too small and put all of us at risk. He wanted me to pay a special fee for her."

"Money?"

"No," I answer, taking a deep breath, "all he wanted was the payment that men desire. I couldn't bring myself to pay it because I'm a married woman." My finger brushes against my wedding ring. It feels so heavy.

"You did the right thing," Charlotte reassures me, squeezing my hand. "You shouldn't blame yourself."

"If I had known where we would end up, I would have paid the price. Believe me, I would have paid it without hesitation." I whisper. Since arriving at this camp, I've been blaming myself.

"You couldn't have known."

"But now I can, and I'm going to pay him. I have a daughter to save," I gently kiss Rebecca's warm forehead and stand up in the darkness, turning toward the stairs and entrance number three. I'll wait for him there.

The building's entrance is dark at night. I crouch near the stairs and take a few steps inside to avoid the rain that has started falling. As I stand there, protected from the rain and embracing myself, all I can hear is the raindrops echoing through the large yard. I'm going to do it. I won't think about what he'll do to me. I'll give him what he wants as long as he gets here.

The watchtower's spotlight suddenly turns on and startles me. I peek out and see the beam of light scanning the barbed wire fence and the yard. The raindrops look like fireflies fluttering through the beam of light before crashing into the puddles on the muddy ground. For a second, the beam of light shines on a woman and a policeman who are pressed against each other in one of the entrances. They appear exposed, like an American bomber in the night sky caught in the glare of Nazi anti-aircraft searchlights. Yet, after a second, they rush inside, seeking refuge once more from the probing light that continues to sweep across the building and surrounding fences.

Mathéo will come. I need him to come. As the spotlight fades, I step outside the entrance, disregarding the rain and peering towards the dark gate. I shiver with cold as my wet dress clings to my skin. I clutch the note with the medicine's name tightly in my hand. How long have I been waiting here?

In the darkness, I hear footsteps in the mud. I become tense, hopeful yet afraid. Then, I see a silhouette standing before me. Is it him? I struggle to recognize him in the dark. His body is completely covered by a military cape made of tarpaulin fabric. The raindrops loudly tap on its thick surface. Is it him? Or did he send his friend? He stands at a distance and says nothing.

I nervously approach him without saying a word. The cold water seeps through my shoes. I notice the frame of his glasses.

"Come with me," I whisper, even though I can speak aloud. No one will hear us in this rain.

Wordlessly, he follows me to the building's entrance. All I can hear is his heavy breathing. He must have run in the rain. Why isn't he undressing and touching me?

I reach out, grab his hand, and place it on my wet dress, forcefully pressing his fingers against my breasts. I've done it with Mr. Charpak. I can do it now. "Take me," I say.

"I told you, I don't do those things," he pulls his hand away.

"I need this medicine," I grab his hand again and force it open, placing the note in it. "My daughter is going to die," my voice trembles; I sound like a wounded animal. "Please," I open the top buttons of my dress, grab his other hand, and place it on my belly. "Just take me, I want you to do it," I try to push his hand down. His fingers feel warm against my cold skin. "Please, I need to save my daughter. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

"Sorry, I can't," he repeats and pulls his hand away. He turns around and walks into the rain.

"Please," I follow him and try to grab his cape, but in vain. He continues walking, disappearing into the darkness. What shall I do? I need medicine. My whole face is wet; I can't tell if it's covered in tears or rain.

"Please," I shout to the darkness as I drop to my knees and frantically search for the note in the puddles. Did he take it or throw it away when we spoke? I dig through the mud while the rain continues to hit my back like sharp pins. My tears mix with the raindrops falling on my face. But as much as I look for it, I can't find the piece of paper in the dark.

"Sarah," Charlotte calls me the next day at noon, after having looked out the window.

"What?" I respond. I'm sitting next to Rebecca, wiping her face with a wet cloth, trying to break the fever. She's breathing heavily.

"Your policeman is standing by the fence and looking inside."

"Where?" I stand up, go to the window, and look outside. My heart starts to pound in my chest.

He stands by the fence and watches the people walking in the yard among the puddles after the rain has stopped.

"Go to him," I think she says, but I can barely hear her. I'm already running down the stairs, panting. Did he change his mind? Will he agree to meet me at night?

In the yard, I stop running and start walking as fast as possible to avoid attracting attention. My gaze is focused on him. I long to believe he has changed his mind.

He stands upright behind the fence and looks inside. His arm is behind his back, and he scans the yard left and right until he notices me.

He has good news. He didn't just come to talk to me. He'll agree to meet me. I tell myself as I quickly approach him yet refrain from running .

"Good afternoon," I say, trying to catch my breath.

"Good afternoon," he examines me with his green-brown eyes. The golden frame of his glasses glint in the sun.

"Will you meet me in the evening?"

"Take this," he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small cardboard box.

"What is it?" I reach over the wire fence and take the box, feel his warm fingers for a split second, and hastily pull my hand away. I don't want to draw any attention.

"Give her one pill at a time, three times a day, for at least a week," he continues to look at me and takes a step back. The touch of the cardboard box in my hand feels like the flame of a campfire in the darkest forest. He got me the medicine. How can I thank him?

I try to say something, but I'm choked, and can't utter a single word. I look down at the small cardboard box with German words, and a swastika stamp under the red cross. I have to say something. He waits.

"Why did you do this?" I finally ask, though I should thank him. But the thoughts spin through my mind. I look into his eyes, and all I can think about is Rebecca. "Why did you help me?" I try to catch my breath.

"Because I also believe in God," he replies, turns around, and walks back to the barracks.

"Thanks," I whisper, but I don't think he can hear me. "Thank you," I repeat and bring the cardboard box to my mouth, kiss the Nazi eagle clutching the swastika and the red cross, and tuck it into my pocket. I would hug him and place my head on his shoulder if I could. I tremble with excitement and am overwhelmed to the point that I have to hold onto the barbed wire fence, before I collect myself and walk quickly back to our room. I might be able to save my daughter.