The Red Ribbon Page 16

  I was tucked away on the top bunk, and I had my shoulders hunched for secrecy. Even so, other Stripeys climbed up to have a look. They hung around me like hungry monkeys. As the dress began to take shape, more and more Stripeys wanted to watch. It was warmer having them there, if unnerving. I guess they were drawn by the simple normality of the scene — a girl sitting sewing.

  I knew I’d have to do something to stop them from getting restless (and to distract them from the temptation to touch). So I took a deep breath and, in true Rose style, began. . . .

  “Did I ever tell you about the time a poor dressmaker sewed herself a magic dress that could take her away to a City of Light?”

  It wasn’t even a good story. Rose would have been far better at it.

  Everything was better when Rose was alive.

  Many evenings later, Girder shouted up to my bunk, “You done yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  The next evening: “Done yet?”

  “Almost.”

  And finally: “How long’s that feckin dress going to take?”

  I answered, “It’s ready. Don’t expect anything fancy, though. It’s not exactly couture.”

  “Not in that fabric,” Girder snorted. “Come on then — give us a parade!”

  I shook off a few bits of mattress straw, removed my striped sack, popped the dress over my head, and slowly eased my bones down from the top bunk. Clunky in my stupid shoes, I modeled it along the strip of floor space between the bunks and did a nice sashay around the stove in the center of the hut. Stripeys cheered feebly. Girder whistled. Then she shouted, “All right, lights-out!”

  I took the dress off and spread it under my mattress, both to flatten out the creases and to keep it hidden. Success!

  The next evening I came back from roll call and the Liberation Dress was gone. Stolen.

  Girder offered to throttle the thief with their own intestines. No one confessed to the crime. Without the Dress, I felt as if there’d be no Liberation either. No Liberation, no homecoming, no Grandma, no Grandad, no hope.

  “You could make another,” Girder said.

  I shook my head. “No point. I’m broke. No cigarettes, no spare bread, nothing left to barter with.” It was a stupid idea anyway. Birchwood was Birchwood, and nothing would change that.

  Cheer up, whispered an echo of Rose that night. It’s always darkest before the dawn.

  It was dark at four thirty the next morning, same as every dreary start to every dreary day. Some of the big camp lamps were out — a power cut? — so we crashed into each other as we ran to roll call. The air was freezing — like breathing cut glass.

  Grandma had a special cupboard in the kitchen for her cut-glass collection. There were wineglasses, sherry glasses, a trifle bowl, and even a bonbon dish etched with white doves. Only for special occasions, I was told. If I ever got home, and if those glasses and dishes still existed, I was going to get them all out and set the table for a feast. Wouldn’t matter if there was only water in the wineglasses and bread in the bonbon dish. It would be a special occasion — we’d be alive and together.

  Mind you, I wouldn’t complain at all if there was a proper feast. Grandma’s signature piece was a celebration cake smothered in white icing and dusted with sugar, just like the sugar being sprinkled on us at roll call. I opened my mouth to taste some. It was cold but not sweet: just snow.

  When the whistle blew and I tried to move, I almost couldn’t. My shoes had frozen to the ground. I scraped at the ice and frost until my fingers were raw and my shoes finally budged. By then my feet were too cold to feel the cold. Would it be so very bad if I just stayed still on that spot, like an ice sculpture?

  Rub your feet, Rose-in-my-head said. Don’t get frostbite.

  Probably too late, I told her.

  Did she sigh? I imagined she did. You don’t know how the story goes, Ella. There’s always the next chapter.

  Yeah, yeah, and it’s darkest before the dawn, and . . .

  “Ella?”

  Someone real was talking to me.

  “What?”

  “Are you Ella? Ella who sews?”

  “Y —”

  “This is for you.” A packet was thrust into my arms. The messenger vanished.

  No chance to open it. Not even to peek. Why did the Washery have to be so busy on this day of all days? There was tons of laundry to get through. Why were the guards still bothering about ironed shirts and clean socks? They knew the end was coming. They knew the guns were near. We knew They were making Lists: people who’d be leaving Birchwood, and those who’d have to stay.

  Rumors spread faster than disease.

  It’s best to get out, some said. They’re going to burn the whole place to the ground then rake the ashes into fields as fertilizer.

  Best to stay here and hide, said others. Wait for the liberators.

  They’ll shoot us all first.

  They’ll shoot us all either way.

  Finally, when the last sheet was folded and the last socks paired up, I got to see what was inside my mystery parcel.

  Item — two meters of rich pink wool fabric

  Item — one pair of fabric shears, gleaming silver

  Items — one tape measure, one needle, and one spool of pink cotton thread

  Item — a small paper package that rattled, labeled with a speech bubble that read PINS!!

  Item (the one that finally made me cry) — five tiny round buttons covered with scraps of the pink material. Each button had been embroidered with a letter.

  E R F S B

  The embroidery was done in tiny chain stitches, nearly as neatly as Rose’s handwork. At first I thought the letters would make a word. Then I realized they were initials: An R for Rosalind and an E for Ella. F for Francine. S for Shona. B for Brigid the hedgehog, who never smiled because of her teeth. There was no M for Marta.

  As I cupped those teeny buttons in my palm, I felt a savage satisfaction: murderous though it was, Birchwood couldn’t completely kill off love and generosity.

  Told you so, whispered Rose in my ear.

  Word of my Liberation Dress had spread, even as far as the workshop. And word that it had been stolen.

  I hugged the new treasures close and I hoped there’d be time to make a second dress before the end came. Birchwood was restless — more chaotic, and therefore more dangerous. Change was coming.

  “It’s very pink,” commented Girder, when she saw the new material. “I don’t do pink. It’s for frilly dolly-girls.”

  I shook out my work in progress. “My grandma always says, Pink for perking up. It’s a happy color. When she’s having a bad day, she swears putting on pink panties helps her feel cheerful.”

  “Pink panties? S’more my thing.”

  I bent low over my sewing to hide a smirk. Girder wouldn’t have been so enthusiastic if she’d seen Grandma’s giant pink balloon pants hanging out on the washing line.

  Pink was a great antidote to War. You never saw dictators spouting hate on a pink podium. No pink flags flew above conquered towns. There were no Secret Police or invading armies or sadistic guards in pink. About the only people who wore pink uniforms were hairdressers and beauticians. It was hard to imagine them plotting world domination or genocide.

  The morning after I was done making this second, miraculous Liberation Dress, I passed Girder during the early rush for roll call.

  “Show me. Tonight!” she ordered.

  At the Washery I cleaned myself as best I could, even my short hair. Standing at evening roll call I imagined putting on a dab of makeup and a spritz of perfume — something apple-fresh and light, not Blue Evening. I stepped into invisible high heels and fastened a necklace of invisible pearls.

  Then I imagined scrubbing my face clean and ditching all the finery. This dress was about me being me, not about pretending to be some film star or fashion model.

  The bunks were crammed full; they always were. What was shocking was the sheer number of women peering out at
me when I arrived in the block. And the women from other barracks, hunkered down on the floor in front of the bunks, clustered around the door and pressed up against any patch of wall.

  “Is that her?” someone sniffed as I came in. “I thought you said it was a fashion show — proper posh like in the films.”

  I turned to hide outside.

  Girder blocked my way. “We want to see the frock. Now.”

  There was nowhere private to change. I just had to undress right there in the middle of the block. Oddly, it wasn’t so bad. Not like that awful first day in Birchwood when we went straight from civilized people to shivering nudity. Now, naked, I just felt completely, obviously human. A body, with a mind and a heart.

  This body had a dress to wear, however.

  “Ooh, that’s a beauty!” I heard as I slipped my arms inside, then let it fall over my bones and bumps.

  Others joined in. Nice fit. . . . Not too tight. . . . Look at that skirt swish. . . . Smart matching belt. . . . and so PINK. . . .

  There weren’t any mirrors so I couldn’t see what I really looked like. But I know how I felt: fabulous. As I walked the length of the block, careful not to tread on anyone, I imagined stepping out in the City of Light, with blossoms falling all around me. I got to the end of the block and turned back. Stopped.

  Silence.

  That was a bit off-putting. Didn’t they realize the work it had taken to make this dress? Couldn’t they understand how special it was, with the five embroidered buttons going down the front, over my heart?

  Then I saw the faces near me. They were wet with tears.

  More slowly this time, I began walking back. Thin arms reached out, and thin hands pulled at the frock, just to touch the pink.

  I heard someone murmur, Do you remember colors like that?

  As I got to the end of my catwalk, there was a sudden eruption of noise as everyone spoke, and laughed and cried, and remembered dresses from days long past. It got so rowdy we almost didn’t hear the commotion at the barrack door.

  “Guards! Quick! Quiet!” came the warning.

  I was trapped. My fingers fumbled at the belt buckle and the buttons, desperately trying to get the dress off before it was spotted. Stripeys jostled around me, hiding me from predators in the center of the pack.

  It was no killer lion, however. No guard with a whip and a stick. Three faces I recognized came into view. Three friends fought to get closer.

  “Are you there, Ella? Are we too late?”

  “Francine? Shona? Is that you?”

  “Large as life, sweetheart, and just as ugly!” laughed Francine.

  Shona smiled and waved. She looked too weak to stand properly. I saw that Francine was propping her up.

  Francine pushed the third girl nearer. “And do you remember —”

  “B for Brigid!” I interrupted, touching the B button on my dress. “Of course I do.”

  Brigid the hedgehog flashed a shy smile, then quickly put her hand to her mouth to hide it.

  I should’ve said thank you in a million eloquent ways. I should’ve curtsied and bowed and told them endlessly how kind they’d been to organize everything for my dress. But, overwhelmed by their kindness, I couldn’t say anything. I just cried.

  “We heard about your last dress being stolen,” Francine explained. “We had to try to help. Thank god Marta never noticed what we were up to.”

  Shona took a deep breath. Even speaking was hard work for her now. How could she be so thin, so ill, and still keep such a bright light in her eyes?

  “You made a dress for you, not for Them!” she said in a faint voice.

  Francine nodded. “About time They didn’t have everything Their own way.”

  “Damn right,” said Girder.

  “It’s a really good dress,” Francine said, all matter of fact. “Pink’s cheerful, isn’t it? Anyway, this morning a little bird sent word that you were done.”

  “Not so little,” said Girder, flexing her arms in a bodybuilder pose.

  “Fair enough. A chunky big bird sent word you’d be trying it on, and we just had to come see. What d’you call it — a Liberation Dress?”

  Mute, I nodded.

  Liberation. The word spread like fire through the block.

  “Do you really think we’re getting out of here?” Shona asked.

  “Let’s feckin hope so!” shouted Girder.

  “Out! Out! Everybody out!”

  A guard threw open the Washery door and screamed at the girls inside. When they just stood there in shock, soapy water dripping from their hands, she began hitting them with her whip handle. Then they moved.

  I was watching from the drying ground, hidden behind lines of underwear. It was time.

  If they were emptying the Washery, it meant the guards were going too. They wouldn’t want to stay at work without clean socks, poor babies.

  “All of you rats to roll call!” screamed the guard. “Right now! Run!”

  I dodged between the laundry lines and managed to catch the eye of one of the girls near the back of the group. My bad luck — it was Shrew. I signaled to her: Over here.

  She skittered between undershirts and pants, closely followed by Hyena and a couple of others.

  “We have to go to roll call,” Shrew squeaked. “Or do you think we should hide?”

  “It’s up to you what you do; I don’t care,” I said. “Whatever you decide, you’ll need to have food and warmer clothes than these rags.”

  “Where from?” scoffed Shrew. “Have you got a magic wand?”

  Casually I fingered the gray-white wool hanging on the line.

  I can’t say it was a treat to feel long johns worn by Them against my skin. Better than freezing, at least. I took socks too. The other girls silently watched me layer up in warm clothes, then there was a scramble to copy.

  I wasn’t going to stop there. I had my pink dress on already — I hadn’t dared leave that unguarded in the barrack. Now I had plans to get more layers.

  “Who wants to go shopping?” I asked.

  Shrew scowled. “Haven’t you seen the guards in trucks roaming around? They’re shooting prisoners for fun.”

  I knew that. They were like big-game hunters herding prey.

  “Suit yourselves,” I said. “I’m off to the Department Store, with or without you. They stole all our stuff when we got here. Why shouldn’t we get something back?”

  For months — years — trains had been rattling out of Birchwood carrying goods from the Department Store. As order collapsed, valuables were still being looted. We narrowly missed being mown down by two trucks piled high with locked boxes. Money, probably, and gold. I thought of the “diamond” ring Carla had given me and wondered whose finger it would end up on. Not mine, for sure.

  I’d trade diamonds for decent boots any day.

  There were still people in the Little Store. I thought I heard glass smashing. There was a stink of something strong in the air . . . possibly Blue Evening perfume.

  The Big Store looked as if a team of angry ogres had played rugby inside. Clothes and shoes were tossed everywhere. I scrambled into a hut and began to pull at piles of clothes. Other scavengers fought me for my finds. I fought back. First, a wool coat and sweater. The coat was quite fashionable, with big padded shoulders. It didn’t match the ski hat and scarf I got next. Who cared? Getting an actual pair of gloves was lucky, though I’d’ve settled for odd ones. Decent footwear was the hardest. It felt wrong, somehow, stepping into someone else’s shoes, but I grabbed a pair of fleece-lined boots and an extra pair of socks to pad them out.

  It was the craziest shopping expedition I’d ever been on, like a parody of New Year sales.

  “Hurry, hurry,” I called to the other Washery girls. “I smell smoke!”

  We assembled at the hut door. Hyena pointed and laughed at how bulky we all were, like multicolored snowmen. It was stupid, but all of us joined in laughing too. My outfit didn’t seem so funny when I suddenly wanted to pee and r
ealized that I now had a million layers on.

  Not long after, flames took hold of the Department Store. If They couldn’t profit from all the loot, They were going to make sure no one else could.

  “Hey — you’re not leaving, are you?” A fist thumped my arm. I whirled around. There was Girder, with not one but two girlfriends hanging off her.

  I froze. Girder could be friendly when she wanted, but she was a boss after all, and I was loaded up with stolen goods. “We . . . we . . . organized some clothes.”

  “No kidding. I’m heading to do the same before the whole store burns. We’re sticking here in Birchwood. Guards are running like rabbits. If we can avoid getting shot or blown up, it’s just a matter of time before we’re liberated. As for them”— she jerked her head in the direction of roll call, where Stripeys were assembling —“they’re all going to be herded as far away from liberation as possible. It’s nothing but a death march in the snow: no one’s meant to live to tell tales. Come back to the barrack and hide with us. Be here when we walk out of those gates as free people.”

  It was tempting. I believed what she said about Them not wanting us to survive. Also, part of me didn’t want to say good-bye to Rose’s ghost by leaving.

  I shook my head. “I’m going. I’ve just got to get home. Find my grandma . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, you in your Liberation Dress! Good luck to ya, sewing girl. I’ll be there at your dress shop, first customer. Got to keep my ladybirds looking nice, haven’t I, darlings?”

  She chucked one of her girlfriends on the cheek, then dragged them away. I ran to roll call.

  It was a sign of how harassed the guards were that we didn’t get shot on the spot for wearing nonprison clothes. I sensed rather than saw other Stripeys shiver and fall — mostly women just in a thin dress without stockings or coat. Sometimes they could be helped to their feet. Mostly they never moved again. I couldn’t bear to watch. I went cross-eyed trying to look at the snowflakes that landed on my nose. Around me there were dogs snarling. Motorbikes growling. Guards shouting.