Free Making Bombs For Hitler by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch Page A

my mother that way as well. It seemed that just as there were different soups, there were different ways of being killed, depending on your nationality.
    The cook and other kitchen workers had gathered atthe front of the gate with stretchers. The doctor was talking rapidly to the workers, gesturing with his hands. Close by stood the nurses, waiting for their orders. These women reminded me of the nurses who had separated me from Larissa. Were they here to assist the injured, or were they more interested in sorting through them? I thought of them as big white birds, circling, looking for scraps of meat.
    The train pulled up, and one by one, survivors limped out of the train cars, gashes of red on their scalps and arms. Some held onto each other for support, trying to look less injured than they were. The nurses dispersed among the wounded, assisting those on the spot who just needed first aid — dispensing a bandage here and quick stitches there. Those more seriously injured were seen by the doctor.
    Just then Zenia got off the train. She was cradling her left arm. Her dress hung in shreds and she was splattered with blood, but she was walking. I wanted to help her but Juli held me back. “Don’t call attention to yourself,” she said. “It will not help your friend.”
    The doctor walked up to Zenia and did a quick examination of her arm. “Surface scratches only,” he said. “You’re lucky.” He called a nurse over to dress Zenia’s cuts and went on to someone else. The nurse roughly swabbed the deep scrapes on Zenia’s arm with a disinfectant, then bound it up. “You can recuperate in your barracks,” she said, turning to another worker.
    Zenia’s face was white and covered with a sheen of sweat. I think she was probably relieved that her injuries were minor, but she still looked like she was in pain. Shewalked to where Juli and I stood. I guess she wanted to prove that she was still useful. I put my arm around her. “Let me help you to our barracks,” I said.
    “No,” she said, trembling. “I’d like to stand here and assist if necessary.”
    The next train car pulled up and the doors opened. Two labourers carried out a third by the arms and legs. I stood on tiptoes and was horrified to see the one being carried was Luka.
    “Stretcher,” said the doctor, waving his hand to the kitchen workers. The cook and his assistant set a stretcher on the ground and the two OST workers gingerly lowered Luka onto it. From where I stood, I could see that the entire top portion of one leg was covered in blood. His arms and face were also spattered, but seemed uninjured.
    “Luka!” I cried.
    His eyes fluttered open and he looked around for me, but Juli held my arm so tightly that I couldn’t run to him. The doctor examined him quickly. “To the hospital,” he said.
    My heart sank. Would he be treated or killed? I turned my face to Juli but she refused to look at me.
    More slaves were taken to the hospital. “I have to go help them,” said Juli, her voice cracking. She left Zenia and I standing there.
    I wrapped my arm around Zenia’s waist. “No,” she said, pushing me away. “I must walk on my own.”
    Once we were in the privacy of our barracks, she collapsed onto her bunk in a quivering mound of pain. What could I possibly do to help her? I grabbed my own blankets and covered her up, then I got my tin cup andran outside to get some water. I helped her drink a little bit, and held her until she fell asleep.

    Before the morning whistle, I was woken by Zenia’s hand on my shoulder. “Look,” she said, her eyes filled with tears. She had wrapped herself in one of the blankets. She held out what was left of her dress. Her tossing and turning in the night had caused even more shredding to her already threadbare dress. It was unrepairable and basically unwearable. I tore off the bottom strip of my own tattered dress and stitched that in place to make the top of hers decent.
    At roll call, those who were