War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 337

Chapter 4

T

he barracks had windows, but no glass in them. In order to keep the bugs and the weather out, previous prisoners had used paper, rags, and pieces of wood to seal the openings.

When Johann entered his new home, a shudder ran down his spine. He’d seen many depressing sights throughout the war, but this was in a category all of its own.

The barracks was set up with narrow two-tiered bunks on either side with a small aisle between them. He estimated that three hundred men were crammed into the building. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the interior in almost complete darkness.

Suddenly, he wished he’d died in combat.

Karsten assigned the newcomers bunks. He bared his rotten teeth with an apologetic smile and said, “Sorry, but you’ll have to share, at least for tonight.”

Helmut elbowed Johann and headed for one of the few bunks fitted with a mattress, but he was held back by one of the

Altgefangene

.

“No, lad, those have to be earned. You start down there.” He pointed to the far end of the barracks where the bunks had neither mattress nor blanket.

Another shiver ran down Johann’s spine and he was grateful for his greatcoat – and the prospect of sharing some body heat with Helmut. It was April and while the days could be hot, the nights were still chilly.

Supper was a sorry affair, consisting of a ladleful of watery soup and a piece of black bread.

“What is this?” Helmut asked as he removed a wilted greenish leaf from his mouth.

“Stinging nettle,” Karsten said. “Eat it; it’s healthy for you.”

Healthy?

Johann frowned, but decided anything was better than nothing. And the plant might even contain some much-needed nutrients. Although he certainly would have preferred a hearty piece of meat.

At the thought of meat, his stomach forcefully clenched, protesting the empty promise. He hadn’t eaten meat since the day he’d been captured months ago.

“What day is it today?” he asked, since he’d lost count during the long journey.

“Workday.”

“Like every day.”

“A good day to die.”

He stared at the other prisoners, doubting their mental health. How long would it take him to lapse into an equally pathetic state of mind? He clenched his teeth, willing away the self-pity and desolation threatening to swallow him whole.

The night was cold and short, but an improvement over the cattle car. His first morning in the new camp started with wake-up call at four-thirty a.m. He rubbed his sore eyes and began to scratch his itching body.

“Bed bugs,” Karsten said. “You never get used to them.”

Oh, well. Another pleasantness to look forward to

. Out of habit he’d slept in his clothes and jumped off the bunk bed, hungry as a wolf.

Unfortunately, there was no food. Only work. First, they had to stand in front of their bunks, waiting for the Russians to count them. The living and the dead were summed up and had to match the number on a list.

Thankfully, it did. Then the newcomers were ordered to remove the comrades who’d died during the night. Sixteen in total. Johann could only shake his head, but everyone else seemed to consider this a normal number for the barracks of three hundred prisoners.

“We’ve had fifty dead per night during winter,” Karsten said. “Spring has really helped.”

After that ghastly task was accomplished, Helmut grabbed Johann’s elbow and led him to two of the bunks that were now empty. “They said we could use these. Do you want the top or the bottom?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Johann wanted to scream. His future looked bleak. His only hope was that the war would be over soon, and everyone would be released home. He could cling a few months to the thing they called

life

.

The men walked outside to a row of buckets stacked against the fence.

“What are we doing?” Johann asked.

“Getting water from the river.” One of the old prisoners bent down and took a bucket in each hand. “Better get going, or there will be no breakfast.”

His words frightened Johann’s empty stomach and grabbing two buckets he followed the man in front of him to the exit.

“They let us leave the camp?” Gerd whispered, renewed hope in his voice.

Nobody bothered to answer. The column of prisoners walked in darkness to the river, accompanied by several armed guards. Johann eyed the flowing water with longing. It would be so nice to take a bath and rub off the layers of grime. But he didn’t even reach near the river. The file stopped and his fellow prisoners started handing empty buckets down the line and full ones up, until everyone had two heavy buckets in their hands.

A whistle gave the sign to return and they trudged back to the camp. Carrying the heavy buckets cost Johann every bit of strength he had left, and he arrived at the camp out of breath, his arms sore and his back aching. He glanced into the empty eyes of the

Altgefangene

and observed their scuffling gait. They were but shells, devoid of an actual human being inside.

Every man was handed a tin cup full of water and the rest was used to make lunch, and dinner: a thin soup with stinging nettle. On a lucky day they’d find a morsel of potato at the bottom, but most of the days it was just soup.

Breakfast consisted of a piece of black bread. The bread was different than the one he knew from home. It was hard, but humid. The Russian word was

khleb

, but the German prisoners dubbed it

Klebe,

or glue, because it was slimy as soap and if you threw it against the wall it stuck there.

The bread stuck to the roof of the mouth, especially when eaten without water. But if chewed long enough, it became soft and sweet.

“A gift of God,” Helmut, who’d been unusually quiet this morning, said.

Johann didn’t have enough energy to engage in a conversation, so he simply nodded. Conserving what little energy he possessed had become his main concern. The breakfast took only five minutes and they lined up to hand over the dishes to the kitchen staff.

“If you want to survive, get a job in the kitchen,” a man behind him murmured.

Johann looked up. The kitchen prisoner was by no means fat, but he didn’t have the same zombie-like look as the rest of them. He wondered what one had to do to become kitchen staff or if it was simply a matter of the stars aligning.

Back in Brest-Litowsk the Russians had assembled the prisoners according to groups of professions, so he expected them to somehow make use of that information. But at yesterday’s registrations nobody had asked for a profession. Every old prisoner attached himself to a work detail, while the newcomers were left to wait in the courtyard.