No Woman's Land: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 2) by Ellie Midwood

Author:Ellie Midwood [Midwood, Ellie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-05-31T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

“It is impossible to estimate the loses, but…” Liza’s brows were tightly drawn in concentration as she translated what sounded like complete and utter gibberish to me, at the same time marking things down on a piece of paper. “Marshal Timoshenko says they underestimated the 6th Army’s potential and overestimated their own forces… Over two hundred thousand casualties.” She shook her head, her hands lying limply in her lap. Abruptly, she turned to the radio, which we shouldn’t have been listening to in the first place, and switched it off. “And those are censored numbers; Soviet Informbureau always ensures that they make Red Army loses appear smaller than they are. Nakrylos kontrnastoupleniye mednym tazom,” she added in Russian, with a note of desolate finality in her voice.

I understood her without understanding her language. The Soviet counteroffensive near Kharkov, in which the Stavka had such high hopes, along with our kin in the ghetto, resulted in a decisive German victory. When Superintendent Richter, who followed the events in Ukraine with great interest, read out the latest reports from the front last Sunday, we took it with a grain of salt. Didn’t they lie to us in the same manner about the German troops taking Moscow and planning a parade in Red Square, just a few months ago, in winter? Perhaps, the Kharkov disaster was the same type of lie, another means of breaking our spirit? Liza nudged me in my ribs as we stood listening to the obligatory “concert” after Richter’s address – it was Austrian waltzes that day, a good day for Richter – and inquired if Schultz’s office radio could catch the Soviet radio waves. I pleaded with her to abandon such a suicidal idea but she simply barged in with her bucket and broom the next day, boldly lied to Willy that the brigade needed his attention outside and began working the radio knob until Russian speech poured out of the speakers.

I had sat with my back pressing onto the front door, my hand on the handle holding it fast, beads of sweat collecting under my collar, while she listened to stern voices, interrupted by mechanical rustling from time to time. Now, I let go of it at last and crawled toward her on my knees. For some time, we sat in silence.

“Will you put it in your leaflet?” I asked her, regarding her notes dubiously.

“I will. People need to know the truth, whatever it is,” she replied with calm resignation.

“This is not the end of the war,” I tried to console her. Judging by the sympathetic look she offered in response to my attempt, the consolation came out as rather pitiful.

“I know it’s not, you innocent little baby.” She touched my chin. “The whole trouble is, we’re playing against time. Have you noticed how they keep pushing the borders of the ghetto towards the Cemetery each month? New Gentile tenants had just moved into the houses, in which our friends used to live before they ended up in yet another pit.

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