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her enough to take a few swallows, but she was too exhausted
for more.
    Throughout the rest of the
day his eyes were drawn to the still figure who slept the sleep of the dead.
Death surrounded her, so why was she different? Why did he want her to live so
much?
    At last, two women carried
in the vat from the kitchens. He filled a bowl with watery soup, scooping small
pieces of potato and turnip from the bottom of the container. He’d counted the
dead as well as the living when it was ordered.
    ‘Miriam?’
    The girl stirred.
    ‘Miriam, you must eat.’
    The two other women in the
bunk reached tentatively for the bowl.
    He shook his head. ‘Miriam
hasn’t eaten for three days.’ Had they understood? He supported her as she half
lay on the cramped bunk, and held the bowl to her lips.
    She swallowed and soup
dribbled down her chin. She wiped her chin with a finger and sucked it clean.
    ‘More. Drink more.’
    She drank greedily.
    ‘All of it.’
    Tears streamed down her
cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered with sobs.
    He put a hand on her back,
rubbing it gently. Her vertebrae were like knots in a rope beneath her thin
garment. ‘Come, drink. I’ve found potato and turnip for you, look.’
    A ghost of a smile lit her
eyes.
    The next day Miriam was
stronger. Again, he took her bowl of soup to her himself. She supported herself
on one elbow, not having space to sit upright, and took the bowl as if not
daring to ask.
    ‘It’s all for you. And look…’
    Her eyes widened. ‘A spoon.
I haven’t seen a spoon… not since the ghetto…’
    ‘It’s yours until you leave
here, and the bowl.’
    On the third day, though
still weak, she got out of bed without help to use the night-soil bucket, her
bowl and spoon tucked under one arm. She was ready to be discharged. He should
discharge her, the space on her bunk was needed urgently, but to what? He’d be
sending her to almost certain death.
    ‘Miriam, you said you were a
nurse.’
    She nodded. ‘I’d like to
help, if I can, while I’m here.’
    ‘I need nurses. The typhus
took so many. I want you to work here.’
    ‘Mother’s in the Hungarian
women’s camp. I need to be with her.’
    ‘You can sleep there, for
now, if I can get you a pass to work here.’
    Her eyes lit with hope. She
knew as well as he that being a nurse was a safer option than being a nobody , even with the risk of typhus and scarlet fever.
Members of infirmary staff weren’t subject to the selections; her number
wouldn’t be called.  ‘What do you want me to do?’
    ‘Temperatures. Anyone who
may be infectious must be recorded and then removed to the isolation barrack.
We can’t risk another epidemic.’ He hated doing it. From there the usual route
was to the chimneys, unless a whim of high command decided they should be given
treatment.
    ‘Yes, doctor.’
    ‘Miriam?’
    ‘Yes, doctor?’
    ‘I’ve something to show you,
first. Come.’ He took her into the surgery and closed the door. From the bottom
of a box he took a small wallet. He opened it and brought out photographs.
‘These are your family?’
    She took the images. ‘Where
did you get them? I thought they’d all been burnt.’
    ‘They fell from your
grandmother’s luggage.’
    Her finger traced her
daughter’s face. ‘Mary… Mother and Father… Efah and her little ones… This one
is of Grandfather and Grandmother. And these were taken when we visited my aunt
and uncle in Trier.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And this is my Benedek…’
    ‘Your husband? Where is he?
Do you know?’
    ‘They came for us, to take
us to the ghetto. He stood in their way… they shot him in the neck.’
    He shook his head. He’d
witnessed too much Nazi brutality. ‘I’m sorry, Miriam. These are terrible
times. I’m glad you lived.’
    ‘God protects me.’ She gave
the photographs back to him. ‘You’ll keep them safe?’
    ‘I will. I do what I can.
You do believe me?’
    She looked up at him, her
dark eyes unreadable. ‘This too