Rena's Promise by Heather Dune Macadam, Rena Kornreich Gelissen Page B

for the bugs to gnaw on. Suddenly I am struck by an idea and take off my pants.
"Rena, what are you doing?" Danka sounds concerned.
"I'm going to fold these horrible trousers and put them under our mattress at night so they have a crease down the leg."
"Don't, Rena. It's cold."
"I want to look neat, and there is no place to wash and iron these clothes." I spit on the fold and begin running my fingers down the

     

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material, squeezing it together. "If I can't be clean, at least I can be neat." My glance falls to the floor. My shoes are filthy.
Our poor feet are too miserable to look at for long. They are no longer pink with health but pale and dyed with reddish brown stripes left by the leather straps. Soon it will be summer and at least our feet will not be cold, but now it is spring and the weather is the worst it's been in years. I spit on the leather strap, using the inside of my pant hem to polish the leather. "I can clean my shoes first without dirtying my pants too badly!" I hold the first strap out for Danka to admire.
"You're crazy."
I return to pressing the crease into my uniform before motioning for her to move. Lifting the mattress up, I lay my trousers lengthwise, smoothing them until there is not a wrinkle. I place the mattress back in its place and let Danka get back in bed. She shakes her head but doesn't say another word.
In the morning we roll off our straw pallets. I lift up the mattress, retrieving my neatly pressed pants. Shivering a little, I pull them on, tuck in my shirt, and tie them with my rope. Smoothing my trousers down my leg, I smile; the leather strap has a sheen even in the dark. What I wouldn't do for socks, as well as a bra.
"You look nice, Rena." Danka observes. We head out the door. We rarely have to use the bathroom more than once a day because of dehydration, although I try to wash both morning and night. It is more to my liking to use the facilities in the evening than to wait in the morning line and chance a beating at roll call.

We turn over the dirt in a field. Shovel after shovel, we lift the damp dirt and rocks into the air, dropping them back to the ground. Sprigs of spring grass shoots stick up from the earth. When no one is looking we sneak these little blades into our mouths. The white portions of the grass are sweet and succulent. However small, they comfort our dry throats.
The SS woman over our detail today is gorgeous. Her raven-

     

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black hair gleams in the sun. She must have had a perm. I remember the last perm I had before I came to Auschwitz. She is dressed in gray. Her skirt is tailored to her waist and her boots are polished to an obsidian gloss. Her skin is alabaster, radiant against her rosy cheeks, and her lips shine with health despite the wind.
It is a cruel day. The wind is damp and nips at us between the holes in our clothes. Her black cape keeps snapping in the wind as if teasing us, saying, Look at me! Look at me! Aren't I gorgeous? Look how far superior I am to you. She stays far away from us. We have lice. We are poison to her sophisticated senses. I cannot help but steal a few precious glances. Her beauty holds my gaze. I am in awe. We are so wretched in comparison.
She is Reichdeutsche. Her German shepherd has fine bloodlines, too; his head is not too pointed and his ears are upright, attentive to her voice, her commands. He is gray and black. He matches her outfit. Together they strut outside of the postenkette, the work boundary that separates her from her slaves. Her whip cracks against her boot. The wind cracks her cape. We shovel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take her army cap off her head. Her hair dances in the wind, against her cheeks. Her eyes are defiant as she looks at Emma, who is not, who will never be, her equal. She throws her cap outside of the boundary which we are restricted to work within. I quickly drop my gaze to my work. The wind is still.
"You there!" the SS woman barks. "Get my cap."
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