Smoke

Smoke. It was a smell you could find in almost any country, city or even street. Smoke was heavy, unmistakable, a defining entity from everything it stood beside. It could envelop you, enter you, stand at a distance or rush at you like an avalanche. Smoke never spared anything either, and rather than resist it, the victims of smoke would weave their essence into the thick, black plumes and become a force all its' own. And though it seemed that smoke would leave eventually, it was never too far away. It would come back again, unleash its' havoc and leave a searing memory upon its' true sufferers. Those who could remember all the trouble it could cause.

I wasn't entirely sure that I could smell the smoke at first as I climbed the collapsible ladder up to grandma's attic. I was used to smelling smoke here. From the hearth where grandad taught me how to build a fire. "You've got to make sure there's space here, where you build up the kindling, before you place the log on top. Space makes oxygen; oxygen fuels the burning". Then from outside, when he and dad would have burn-offs during autumn and spring. That kind of smoke was comforting. The smell of old wood, turning to soot and ash, made me think of cold winter nights, huddling close to the fire. Making train-tracks out of kindling sticks. Toasting a cheeky marshmallow when the grandparents had gone to bed. Watching my brother, Jason, nearly singe his eyebrows, putting his face so close to the flames. In all of that, smoke was present. Wrapping around us like a warm, woollen blanket.

But there was no fire today. It was the end of summer, it was twenty-five degrees outside and if it weren't for the collective, sombre moods of our guests, the kids would've been outside, playing with the hose. I was wearing my black, chiffon dress with the yellow flowers. Perhaps not entirely appropriate, but I felt it was the right choice. Gran picked it out for me before she was sent to the Hospice. She loved the colour yellow. For as long as I could remember gran's face, etched with delicate creases, watery-blue eyes, I could remember her always wearing yellow. Yellow blouses with embroidered collars. Yellow sun-dresses that flared at the hips and fell below the knees. Yellow hats, felt and floppy-brimmed. And when the season was upon her, yellow daffodils in her silky, white hair. Yellow just felt right today. Even grandad, who looked absolutely shattered, wore a daffodil in his jacket pocket.

Jason was looking after him as I came up here for a break. I could only take so much of relatives I'd only see on family occasions and elderly friends I barely even knew, offering sincere condolences to me and my parents. I knew they meant well, but I felt as if I had no more tears to shed. Not when I'd wrung them all out on the days after she'd gone. So, after my obligations were fulfilled and everyone had come back here for coffee and food, I snuck up to the attic to take a breather. Nobody had been up here in years. Neither gran, nor grandad were able to climb the ladder anymore. Mum and dad didn't need to come up here for anything, and neither did Jason for that matter. We were meant to come up and go through gran's things together in the next few days or so. Something that grandad wouldn't have to worry about later. I wasn't planning to do any sorting whilst I was up here now but...well, just a look at their old things couldn't hurt, could it?

My eyes skimmed rows of boxes and old bits of furniture, covered in thick layers of dust. An old chaise-lounge, varnish worn off the legs. A sled that belonged to dad as a kid, still holding traces of its' green paint. And, sitting between rows of boxes, a baby cot. Painted periwinkle blue, almost perfectly preserved-saved the dust. Dad's cot, then probably uncle Terry's afterward. It was like a cavalcade of memories. All crammed up here, untouched for years. My first urge was to go through all of those boxes and examine every piece of their memories. Gran's memories. I wouldn't do that-obviously. Not on the day of her funeral. But if I could just open one...

I decided to choose carefully. A box that wouldn't be easily noticed and was small enough to stow behind the bigger ones. I was almost tempted by one labelled 'baby Adam', my dad's things, when, right near the back, collecting the most dust, I spied a smaller, older-looking one. Right away, the smell hit me. Must, traces of decay and something else. Smoke? No, no, that was impossible. Perhaps it was something burnt. I turned the box around slowly: no name. Odd. Every other box I saw in here thus far had a name or label on it.

Kneeling on the dusty floorboard, I gently lifted the box and placed it in front of me. As I lifted open the lids, the dust on top lifted like a cloud, tickling my nose. I held my nose for a good moment, hoping to God I wouldn't sneeze and give myself away. The attic wasn't exactly sound-proof-that much I could remember. Thankfully, the urge passed and I was free to investigate the box without suspicion. Stop it June! I swore to myself. You were looking through an old box, not burgling a jewellery store!

The first thing I saw in that box was clothing. Something blueish-grey, folded and owning a long row of buttons across the front. I took it out, letting it fall down to reveal a dress. Not just a dress, I quickly found. A uniform. Was it...yes! A nurses uniform. I remember seeing one in a St. Johns museum a few years ago. The lapels demonstrated the nurses rank. These lapels were white, as was the collar. And on the left breast-pocket was a red cross. The red cross? But gran was a respite nurse! She cared for elderly patients in care-homes. And not once, did anyone ever mention her working in the red cross. I did think for a moment that perhaps it wasn't grans. Perhaps one of her sisters, or a cousin. So I did what I thought was the best way to find out for certain. I kept on searching.

The next few things I found were two, small photographs in plain, silver frames. One was of a man, wearing a sort-of uniform. A soldier, probably. He had a sweet, smiling face with a slightly sharp nose, crinkled, happy eyes and ears that stuck out just slightly behind his fair hair. Grandad! He still had those ears today. The other pictured a woman. darkish, wavy hair that tumbled down her left shoulder. Pretty, dark eyes. A face that was almost very beautiful. She might've been a model, had she been alive today. That was when it occurred to me. Gran. The pretty woman in the photograph was gran. This was her and grandad when they were younger.

I settled on the ground, crossing my legs, knowing the dust would mess up my dress but not caring one jot. Pulling the box onto my lap, I dug further in and pulled out the remaining items. A stack of letters, tied together with a silver ribbon. The one on the top, addressed to Robert Haynes. Grandad. When I looked on the back, I was puzzled. The letter at the bottom was posted from the John Paul II Hospital in Krakow, Poland. What was gran doing in Poland? When was she ever outside New Zealand?!

I decided to put the letters aside. Somehow, it didn't feel right to read those private thoughts between her and grandad. Mum said to me once that every couple had things between them that they just didn't share with anyone else. Even the ones that didn't last. I did, however, pick up one of the last things left in that box. A blue, tweed-covered book, worn at the corners. When I brought it close to me...I had to be crazy. Why was I still smelling it, even after it was very clear that there was no fire, anywhere?

Well, it was definitely gran's handwriting. She had the same, straight, clear-cut cursive back then that she used on letters, birthday cards and forms she had to fill out. The thing I liked most about her handwriting was that I could always understand it. Like the font on a typewriter. I couldn't help wondering sometimes if she meant it to be that way. It was as if everything she wrote had to be done in a precise, as-a-matter-of-factly sort-of way. When I flicked through those pages however, noticing dates and different place-names throughout, I could tell it wasn't meant for anyone's eyes but her. A diary. I never thought of gran as the sort of person to have a diary. She was always so open about things in her life. She kept up-to-date on things with a massive wall calendar. Why would she ever need this?

For some reason, I just kept on flicking until I landed on a random page. How was this any less wrong of me to read her private thoughts than the possibility of reading her letters to grandad? Probably not. But I was hooked. Hooked before I could even take in the words.

23rd January, 1945

Oswiecim

It was the foulest stench I'd ever smelled.

I couldn't bring myself to mention this to Robert. He will read of it soon enough, once it gets in all the papers, and he already knows why I had to come all the way over here. Even now, the whole process seems like a long, complicated dream. After all, what could a nurse from Ilam possibly offer the Red Cross units, all the way in Europe? It hadn't been my intention at first. My cousin Millie was already over there and had written that they were in desperate need of more staff. I thought I'd be doing little more than changing bed-pans and tying off bandages. If I could've known what was going to happen later, I might've saved myself from ever knowing that awful smell.

Oswiecim is a beautiful place. When you look at just township, you'd think it no different from what Rangiora is like during the winter. A harmless, rural connecting town with nothing worth writing home about. My college, Lieutenant Sasha Malevna, then told me that it was only a small part of what the town used to be. With what I had seen just a few hours before, I believed it. During the German occupation, this place was known by a different name. A German name. I cannot say it. The name curls around my tongue and chokes me, just thinking of it. As did the smell.

It had already been liberated by the time I'd gotten there. But the troops needed more re-enforcements, including food, medical supplies and most importantly, medical staff to treat the survivors. Millie and I went together. I thought having my cousin with me might've helped me prepare for all that Sasha had warned me about. But nothing could've prepared me for this. And it all started with that smell.

It was smoke. That much was obvious. But smoke wasn't always just smoke. It depended upon what was being burnt that determined the fate of that smoke. At first, I didn't know. Neither did Millie. But it was a smell neither of us are likely to forget. Smoke, thick and black, mingling with a smell of burning meat. But not a meat either of us knew. I'd smelt burning chicken, burning beef, especially burning bacon when father used to cook it. But this kind of smell didn't make any sense to me. I was told we were dealing with malnourished people who were practically skin and bone. My training in treating malnutrition was still fresh. Never, ever give them too rich a diet straight away. No matter how much they yearned for the taste of meat, cheese or sugar. If that be the case, why in the devil were they cooking so much meat?

Tents were set up to accommodate the medical staff. As soon as we'd disembarked from the truck, I tied my smock and got straight to work. The matron there introduced herself as Rachel Bell and was quick to assign us patients. I think she was just glad to have more staff! As far as I understood, there were hundreds of patients to attend to. It was a lot, but I've faced worse. At least, that was what I told myself as I entered one of the barracks of the main camp. Matron Bell informed us that those still alive were being moved to the camp we were currently stationed in. 'Camp?' I asked her, 'there's more than one?'. Soberly, she told me that there were three camps altogether, and the one we were in was the most viable to house the patients. Much of the second camp had been destroyed before the Germans fled, as had the munitions factory that made up the third. Munitions, I'd learned, that were responsible for bombing England. It was then I understood what Sasha meant about the town. The occupiers had taken most of it and turned it into...into this.

When I saw the barrack, I saw the rest of it for myself. People, skeletons really, dressed in rags, lying in portable beds that were brought in from a nearby hospital. Probably because whatever they used as beds there weren't adequate. The barrack itself barely was. The floors were swept and the place was practically drenched in disinfectant, but it couldn't disguise that this was once a filthy, wooden hovel. Nor could it cover the overwhelming smell of urine and faeces. The latter of which was even splattered across the walls.

The patient I was assigned to was a woman-or rather, what I was told was a woman. When I look at them from a distance, I cannot tell which is which. She was bald, emaciated, very weak and suffering severe anaemia. But she could still talk.

"I have two," she said to me. "One yellow, the other red."

"What does red mean?"

"Political." She coughed hard as I wrote down her heart-rate onto her chart. "I gave out pamphlets. We knew they weren't really sending us to work-farms so we tried to tell others the truth. So they took me from my school in the middle of a lesson and they sent me here."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." Her eyes went to the window then. A dirty window. "My brother is out there, you know. He was thrown onto a pit days ago. I don't think it has stopped yet."

"A pit?"

"Didn't you know how they got rid of the others?" She laughed at me then. It was a strange sound. Hollow. "You must be new to this. All the others knew already. They said it was the smell. There are no, other places that smell like these places. It sticks to the inside of your nose like glue."

Now you see why I had to write it all down here? It wasn't meat that was burning. It wasn't meat. When the death-tolls finally came in, months later, it was clearer still. How long was that smoke there for? How long? They were liberated just days ago and the smoke was still there? I had seen some things in my life. Sad, painful, terrible things. But this place, the victims, the pits and the smoke...I couldn't erase the smoke from my mind. She was right. It stuck to the inside of your nose, even days after I left the camp. My duties there were fulfilled and my work there was over. But in my mind, the pits would still burn and the smoke was still there. Still polluting the air, turning the white snow grey.

Robert can never know about this. He already did his duty, as I have done mine. He's written to me; he's on his way back to Christchurch as we speak. From Germany, I am going to take the next ship going out to Australia and get an old friend, Wally, to take me back in his plane. Once we're together again, we'll build our future, just as we'd planned to. No regrets, no looking back. As for this, being in Oswiecim, well this can stay here. On these pages where only ink and paper could carry any weight. He'll never see this. I'll make certain of it. But I fear, for a long time coming, that the smell of smoke will always haunt me from now on. Because I know the devastation that comes when the depths of depravity are handed the matches.

I sat there, for the longest time, clutching that diary as if my life depended on it. The air was still musty. Sunshine still poured in from the attic windows. Outside it was still warm. But in that moment, I felt boiling hot. Feverish. As if a sudden surge of heat was creeping up my skin. Then, for a devastating second, I could smell it too. Smoke. Sickly smoke.

I should try to do as gran did and leave it behind. The uniform, the diary, all of it. But as I began to descend down the ladder, I couldn't help myself. I turned back for a second, wondering if I'd inhale once more, whether or not I could catch the scent again. But when I did, there was nothing. Just the musty smell of an old, forgotten attic and the memories buried within it.