Sapphic Voices General Fiction

No Men On The Island

The dull crump of the bombs blended into the usual camp noises. After all, they’d been audible for a number of days and it hadn’t changed anything. The low wails of the selected women, the groans of pain and hopelessness that escaped from throats, dry and parched. Whimpers as we watched with dull eyes as the guards beat the stragglers as they were marched away. And away they always went – away for ever.

On this day, the guards had burst into the hovel which we’d called home for more time than any of us could guess at. They had grabbed at women, indiscriminately, pulling them to the door, flailing their batons on legs, shoulders and heads as the women cringed and tried to drag, thin, shaking legs, as they lifted emaciated arms to protect heads covered with weeping sores. In my weakened state I could still feel the flutter of relief as the guard passed our bunk, ignoring the three of us who lay there, huddled together. For what? Love? Protection? Or support?

We were dimly aware of a change in the routine. Normally the guards chose carefully – pulling out the weakest, dragging out the sickest. Today there was a sense of panic about the guards. They were nervous, tense, hurrying. The officers were screaming orders. My knowledge of the language was good enough to pick out the words -- “More, More. We need more! Faster! Faster.”

They disappeared out of the door and I turned to my bunk mates. I looked with concern at the shaved head of Eva as she moaned and held her abdomen in pain. I knew the kick she’d received days before had caused untold internal injuries. Katrina and I had tried to cover for her, had taken up the slack of her work, ignoring our own wracking pains as we’d shovelled the dirt and snow from dawn to dusk, digging what could be our own future graves. My hand reached for her and I glimpsed the hated number on the inside of my left arm. “We’ll make it, you’ll see. They didn’t choose us, not today.” My hand stroked the haggard, pain ridden face and felt the sharp contours of bones, barely covered by the paper-thin skin.

Different sounds seeped into my consciousness, loud, flat sounds, many of them. Small arms fire, closer than the recent bombing. I heard the added fear in the orders. “More, more, faster, faster!” I stumbled to the door and watched as the stream of hopeless humanity was shepherded towards the building that had towered menacingly over us for months -- years. Where more and more of the evil-smelling smoke poured out of the chimneys, as the guards fed the flames as fast as they could, hiding the evidence of their atrocities, hiding their own contribution towards this crime called genocide.

The slowly moving throng of women was unaware of the new sound, was unaware that this sound of rifle fire so close at hand meant that rescue was also near. They walked, limped, stumbled unprotestingly to their fate. Docile, the life in them already crushed, as the lives of previous loved ones had been extinguished before them.

I wanted to shout, “Stop! Fight them! Run! Help is on hand!” but I was scared. I was scared that it would draw attention to me. That I would feel the rain of blows on head and shoulders, that I would be dragged along with the others into the showers. The showers from which nobody returned.

I turned to Katrina and buried my head into her bony shoulder, ashamed of my cowardice, drawing comfort from a fellow sufferer. I lifted my head as I heard the cars and trucks start up, as the officers began to flee. The guards jumped on the trucks as they raced past but the bowed and beaten procession continued to press on towards the building, seemingly drawn to its horror. They marched on, unaccompanied, accepting, even welcoming, its promise of release from pain and fear.

As I watched, a bullet-ridden, uniformed body fell from a lookout post. He crashed to the ground in front of the slow moving women, making the first ones hesitate, unsure of what to do, bewildered at the sight of one of their tormentors, limbs grotesquely tangled, lying in front of them in a pool of blood. Some made a move to go around, to continue their gruesome march towards death. Others became aware of the unusual movement around them, at the lack of guards prodding, driving them on. They stood in confusion, not yet daring to believe that life may still be theirs, scared of allowing hope to burgeon once more in their breasts, only to have it crushed once more.

I saw the first of the Russian soldiers enter the camp. I saw their astonishment, their growing horror as they looked around. I saw young soldiers vomiting as they stumbled from the building which housed the ovens, their faces green, their eyes telling the story that the sights would never be forgotten. Katrina and I stood together, arms around each other. Eva joined us and our three wasted bodies embraced and wept tears that had long since dried up. I looked around this island of women that was known as Auschwitz and vowed that the world would learn what had happened here. No one would be allowed to forget.

Not us.

Not them.

Not anybody!

If you have enjoyed F.J. Davey's "No Men On The Island", then please be certain to e-mail her at  francis7[at]bigpond.net.au  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of F.J. Davey's Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.