The strangeness of pale Northern skies: here, one can’t call it a blue sky, but a white sky. For three months I’ve seen every sunrise, the sumptuous ones in Ravensbrück, when the sky quickly sweeps away a somber blue as the invading purple strikes brusquely in every direction – perhaps too brusquely. And weeks ago in Berlin, on that little river that we crossed at daybreak before reaching Gartenfeld Station, we saw the blushing shoreline from a distance as we left for work.
Now it seems that the sun will never rise again. Daytime seems dirty, that’s all. And water mirrors the shadows from under stripped trees. Recently, we’ve also seen sunsets when, working the dayshift, we’ve returned to camp at 6:30. Behind the trees, a red globe throws flames onto the little river. “It’s pretty,” I said one day.
“It’s only pretty because France is beyond it, ”Germaine responded.
Since then, each time that I walk over the bridge either at daybreak or at the arrival of night, I think about how France is very far away.