as I stroke her back, marvelling at the way I can feel the bones under her skin, not covered by the layers of fat that I know hide mine.
‘Why not? I’m your friend. I won’t repeat it. I won’t tell anyone else. What are friends for if we can’t share secrets?’
The noise of Beate’s crying and my whispering starts to wake the others.
‘Shut up, Behrendt. Just shut up and get back to your own bed!’ hisses Maria Bauer, the dorm leader. ‘And you, Ewert. Stop your snivelling. Both of you get back to sleep, otherwise we’ll all get put on extra work duties.’
Beate quietens, responding to Bauer’s bullying threats rather than the comfort of my body next to hers, but I stay there. In her bed. My fingers tracing the indentations of her spine. Counting the bumps. Stroking her hair. Wondering why every night it is like this.
Then suddenly footsteps outside the dorm door. Louder. Closer.
The bolt of the lock is thrown back.
Light on.
I try to jump back to my own bunk, but too late. Frau Richter’s huge frame fills the doorway, her eyes trained on me, as I’m frozen half-in, half-out of Beate’s bed, shielding my eyes from the bare electric bulb above.
‘What’s all this noise coming from here? Jugendliche Behrendt! Jugendliche Ewert! Get back to sleep immediately. Behrendt, get back in your own bed – and see me in my office tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast.’ She clicks the light off again. ‘And I do not want to hear another word from this room otherwise it will be even more serious.’
The door slams shut, the bolt is locked. I climb slowly back into my bunk, turn away from Beate and listen to the waves of the Ostsee below, crashing onto the beach. I think of Mutti. Of Oma. Of better times far away from Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost.
I do sleep, and when the morning bell rings I almost forget why this overwhelming sense of dread is hanging over me. As the girls start to put on their work clothes, I dawdle and move towards the window. I pull myself up, tensing my arms against the grey-painted iron bars that fill half the frame, and on tiptoes I peer out over the top of the grille to the Ostsee below. The beach stretches to left and right for kilometre after kilometre, but so, I know, does this building. I know it all too well from our anti-fascist lessons. How this was supposed to have been Hitler’s seaside playground for his workers. Tens of thousands of them in these grey, forbidding walls. But tens of thousands of them who – if it had ever been completed – would have been able to look out on a beautiful seaside scene. To splash in the water, play in the sand, things that are now just memories to me.
‘Irma!’ shouts Beate behind me. ‘Come on. We’ll be late. After last night we don’t want that. Richter’s already got it in for you.’
I turn, retrace my steps to my bed and start pulling on my clothes.
As I take my usual place next to Beate at breakfast, I realise that my plate is empty. Everyone else’s plate has its usual contents: roll, sausage and cheese. I see bully girl Bauer smirking at me at the head of the table. I look towards Frau Schettler, who’s still finishing putting out the plastic cups full of margarine and jam. She will help me. She’s one of the few friendly adults. Her and the new maths teacher from Berlin, Herr Müller. He usually has a kind word for me.
I put my hand up to attract her attention. ‘Frau Schettler. My plate is empty.’
She looks at me apologetically, then raises her eyes to a point somewhere behind me. I turn to follow her gaze, and there is Richter.
‘You should know by now,’ Richter says, ‘that the roll, cheese and sausage are a privilege. A privilege unique to this establishment. A privilege lost for bad behaviour.’ She reaches over to the other bread basket, the one with the stale sliced bread in it, and passes it to me. I shake my head. She slams the basket down on the table. ‘Very well then, Jugendliche Irma
‘Why not? I’m your friend. I won’t repeat it. I won’t tell anyone else. What are friends for if we can’t share secrets?’
The noise of Beate’s crying and my whispering starts to wake the others.
‘Shut up, Behrendt. Just shut up and get back to your own bed!’ hisses Maria Bauer, the dorm leader. ‘And you, Ewert. Stop your snivelling. Both of you get back to sleep, otherwise we’ll all get put on extra work duties.’
Beate quietens, responding to Bauer’s bullying threats rather than the comfort of my body next to hers, but I stay there. In her bed. My fingers tracing the indentations of her spine. Counting the bumps. Stroking her hair. Wondering why every night it is like this.
Then suddenly footsteps outside the dorm door. Louder. Closer.
The bolt of the lock is thrown back.
Light on.
I try to jump back to my own bunk, but too late. Frau Richter’s huge frame fills the doorway, her eyes trained on me, as I’m frozen half-in, half-out of Beate’s bed, shielding my eyes from the bare electric bulb above.
‘What’s all this noise coming from here? Jugendliche Behrendt! Jugendliche Ewert! Get back to sleep immediately. Behrendt, get back in your own bed – and see me in my office tomorrow morning, straight after breakfast.’ She clicks the light off again. ‘And I do not want to hear another word from this room otherwise it will be even more serious.’
The door slams shut, the bolt is locked. I climb slowly back into my bunk, turn away from Beate and listen to the waves of the Ostsee below, crashing onto the beach. I think of Mutti. Of Oma. Of better times far away from Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost.
I do sleep, and when the morning bell rings I almost forget why this overwhelming sense of dread is hanging over me. As the girls start to put on their work clothes, I dawdle and move towards the window. I pull myself up, tensing my arms against the grey-painted iron bars that fill half the frame, and on tiptoes I peer out over the top of the grille to the Ostsee below. The beach stretches to left and right for kilometre after kilometre, but so, I know, does this building. I know it all too well from our anti-fascist lessons. How this was supposed to have been Hitler’s seaside playground for his workers. Tens of thousands of them in these grey, forbidding walls. But tens of thousands of them who – if it had ever been completed – would have been able to look out on a beautiful seaside scene. To splash in the water, play in the sand, things that are now just memories to me.
‘Irma!’ shouts Beate behind me. ‘Come on. We’ll be late. After last night we don’t want that. Richter’s already got it in for you.’
I turn, retrace my steps to my bed and start pulling on my clothes.
As I take my usual place next to Beate at breakfast, I realise that my plate is empty. Everyone else’s plate has its usual contents: roll, sausage and cheese. I see bully girl Bauer smirking at me at the head of the table. I look towards Frau Schettler, who’s still finishing putting out the plastic cups full of margarine and jam. She will help me. She’s one of the few friendly adults. Her and the new maths teacher from Berlin, Herr Müller. He usually has a kind word for me.
I put my hand up to attract her attention. ‘Frau Schettler. My plate is empty.’
She looks at me apologetically, then raises her eyes to a point somewhere behind me. I turn to follow her gaze, and there is Richter.
‘You should know by now,’ Richter says, ‘that the roll, cheese and sausage are a privilege. A privilege unique to this establishment. A privilege lost for bad behaviour.’ She reaches over to the other bread basket, the one with the stale sliced bread in it, and passes it to me. I shake my head. She slams the basket down on the table. ‘Very well then, Jugendliche Irma
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