Someone Named Eva by Joan M. Wolf Read Free Book Online

hand through the fence. This was where I would stay, I decided, in my memories of my home, until Mama or Papa came to rescue me.
    A hand tapped my shoulder and I looked up, startled out of my thoughts, to find a Nazi guard motioning for me to follow the other girls. We walked as a group on a tour of the center. Fräulein Krüger led us, smiling and speaking in German the entire time. Besides the auditorium and sleeping room, the building had classrooms and a gymnasium. Outside, a little past the church, Fräulein Krüger pointed to the razor-wire fence that surrounded the compound in a neat square. She was no longer smiling.
    She spoke in clipped, harsh German and turned her bright eyes on each of us, then pointed to the fence that could be seen in every direction. Although I couldn't understand her words, the message was clear. There was no escape, no running away.
    We walked back in silence except for the chatter of Fräulein Krüger, who had become eerily cheerful again. Along the way I looked for other buildings, other people, and any roads or paths that might lead to my rescue—any way for Papa to come find me. But there was nothing, only open, empty space and the distant shadows of the mountains.
    Our tour ended with one last message delivered by Fräulein Krüger in Czech. She swept a pointed finger across our line. "You will not speak any language but the chosen Aryan language of German. Ever. Should you disobey, you will be punished. Severely."
    I stood listening to the birds in the trees, wondering how they could sing, how Fräulein Krüger could smile, and how everything else in the world could go on as if nothing was happening in this once-holy place that had been turned into something awful.
    Ruzha stayed next to me as we walked, but neither of us tried to speak. Even though we were together, we were very much apart.
    Later that night on my cot, as the lights were turned off and the sound of girls whispering faded, I spoke my name softly to myself:
Milada, Milada, Milada.
I pictured each of my family members, and remembered what my grandmother had said as I traced the bumpy outlines of her pin.
    Remember who you are, Milada. Remember where you are from. Always.

Four
Summer–Autumn 1942: Puschkau, Poland
    E A C H day began before the sun was up. The strains of what I now knew was the German national anthem would swell into our small room until all fourteen of us were awake and standing by our cots. With hands outstretched in salute to the large picture of Hitler on the wall, we waited to be released by Fräulein Krüger so we could dress and prepare for the day. Freshly cleaned and pressed uniforms were waiting for us each morning, along with new ribbons for our hair. Every day I secretly pinned Babichka's star to my shirt to keep it close, before walking to breakfast with everyone else.
    Breakfast was always delicious and nourishing, with real sugar and delicacies such as fresh meat and fruit. Nutrition was important, we would learn in home economics lessons. Proper nutrition helped German bodies, and therefore Germany herself, grow strong. We had plenty of food, more than I had seen in years, and plenty of new clean clothes. All our physical needs were taken care of. Fräulein Krüger and the other Nazi guards and teachers were outwardly friendly, but there was always something sharp and distant about their actions.
    Breakfast was followed by lessons and drills and exercises. At first, from morning until night, we studied only the German language. After our first day no adult ever translated again. Instead, gestures and signs were used if needed. We remembered the warning that the punishment for speaking in any language other than the true Aryan language of German would be severe.
    During those first few weeks at the center, we spent endless hours practicing the formation and pronunciation of German words. Our language instructor, Fräulein Schmitt, was both animated and