Enemies To Lovers 1: The Arrival

Poland

1942

Joanna Finklestein's body slumped against the sweaty form of one of untold thousands of unfortunates. After hours on her feet, she was much too tired to stand, yet there was no room to lie down nor even to sit in the cramped boxcar. The air inside her totally dark prison reeked of sweat, urine, vomit, and even more unpleasant smells that she didn't even want to consider the source of. She felt as if she would suffocate, yet she willed herself to keep inhaling the fetid air, in futile hope of benefiting from what little fresh oxygen might remain in it.

"Where do you suppose they're taking us, Joanna?" She recognized the voice of her younger brother, Herschel. Born with one leg shorter than the other, the fifteen-year-old had never been able to do nearly as much on the farm as other boys his age, although he'd tried his best. He'd always idolized Joanna, who'd defended him from the cruel teasing of the other children when they'd been younger.

"I don't know, but I sure hope we get there soon," Joanna replied.

"I'm scared," said Hinda, Joanna's ten-year-old sister.

"No reason to be afraid, little one," said Joanna's grandfather. "Surely Hashem will not let anything happen to us that is outside His will."

Untold hours passed, and the train rumbled on. Joanna dozed off and on, sometimes unsure at any given time whether she was awake or asleep. At last the train came to a stop.

The sunlight nearly blinded her as the doors of the boxcar slid open to reveal a scene of horror such as she had never witnessed in even her worst nightmares. Acrid smoke filled the sky, permeated with a smell that was even worse than those that had been contained within the boxcar, if indeed that were even possible. It was much worse than just the smell of burned food; underlying it was a sweetish odor that she couldn't quite identify but knew that its origin was horrific. Swarms of insects buzzed about, several of them landing on Joanna's face. She was almost too weak to shoo them away. Above the general cacophony of work yard noises, she could hear shouting and cursing in German, wailing and pleading in Yiddish.

She became aware that she and her fellow passengers were being herded into two separate lines; she and her parents together in one, her grandfather, Herschel, and Hinda in the opposite one. The second line was moving; its occupants were being herded along by the butts of rifles. Joanna thought she heard something about showers, but deep inside, she knew that she would never see her loved ones again. Deep sorrow pierced her soul as she watched them disappear into the general melee. She hadn't even been given the chance to say good-bye.

Suddenly she felt a blow to her head that was so hard it doubled her over and nearly sickened her. "What are you looking at, Jew girl? Get moving right now, unless you want to join them!"

Barely strong enough even to stand, Joanna put one foot in front of another in an effort to keep moving, to keep up with the others. She looked over at her parents, who were doing the same. Terrified of more cruel blows, they didn't say a word to each other.

Just when Joanna thought she couldn't take another step, she and her mother arrived at the women's barracks, rows and rows of wooden cots stacked one on top of another like egg crates. Joanna stood with the others until her name was called, when she climbed into the indicated enclosure. Exhausted, she was asleep almost immediately.

Jurgen Schiller looked at his reflection in the mirror, adjusted his hat a millimeter or so, then looked again. As a representative of the Third Reich, it was imperative that his uniform be spotless, perfect in every way. When he was satisfied that nothing in his appearance lacked, he headed for the barracks.

A new shipment of prisoners had been brought in the previous afternoon, and it was Jurgen's duty to sort them, issue identification marks such as gold stars, and assign them to various tasks.

As he entered the women's barracks, Jurgen wondered, as he often did, why the Fuhrer despised the Jewish race and considered them unattractive. Jurgen himself found many of them to be quite desirable. The young woman who stood before him this morning, for instance; she had voluptuous curves in all the right places, her breasts firm pillows billowing against the material of her clothing. She was proportional but not too thin, just like Jurgen liked his women. Her dark brown eyes were so rich, so soulful, and in them Jurgen saw not the fear combined with loathing which he expected, but other emotions: curiosity, intrigue, and possibly even a touch of something else.

To Joanna, it seemed she'd barely closed her eyes before she and the other women were being ordered to stand at attention. Fighting an overwhelming urge to close her eyes again, she struggled out of the bunker to stand in position with the other women, all of them facing the man in the Nazi uniform who'd come to issue their work assignments for the day.

He was some ten or fifteen years older than Joanna, appearing to be in about his mid thirties. His hat almost completely covered his short blond hair, and as his pale blue eyes fell appreciatively onto Joanna, the young woman unexpectedly felt her heart flutter.

Suddenly the pale face was transformed into a scowl, and Joanna realized in horror that the Nazi's ire was directed at none other than herself!

"You, there!" the German roared. "Why do you slouch like that? All prisoners are to stand tall when being addressed by their commanding officer! I'm going to make an example of you for the others!"

Her fellow prisoners, even her own mother, shrunk back in fear as Joanna stepped forward. Scared out of her wits, the quivering young woman tried her best not to think about what might be in store for her.