PUBLISHED BY Cennan Books
an imprint of Cynren Press
101 Lindenwood Drive, Suite 225
Malvern, PA 19355 USA
http://www.cynren.com/
Copyright 2019 by Melissa W. Hunter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
ISBN-13: 978-1-947976-15-3 (pbk)
ISBN-13: 978-1-947976-16-0 (ebk)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019930314
This is a fictionalized account of true events. The author has re-created events, locales, and conversations from the narrator’s memories of them, as related to the author. To maintain their anonymity, in some instances, the author has changed the names of individuals and places, and she may have changed some identifying characteristics and details, such as physical properties, occupations, and places of residence.
COVER DESIGN BY Tim Barber
L’dor v’dor
From generation to generation
Contents
Prologue
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Part II
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Columbus, Ohio, September 1982
The approach to Harding Hospital, north of Columbus, Ohio, is pleasant. Just off the highway, a long stretch of tree-lined pavement leads to the institution where my grandmother now lives. Her single room is housed in a two-story clapboard building surrounded by sycamores, oaks, and evergreens. Walking paths weave through clusters of mature trees, branching off to a cafeteria, a recreation and arts center, doctors’ offices, and other residential buildings. Gardens with fountains and wrought iron benches are situated just off the main path, giving the grounds a parklike setting.
I sit beside my father in the passenger seat of his Audi, the window open, my hand rising and falling on currents of crisp autumn air. My father had been an aerospace engineer. He had once explained to me about lift and thrust and the speed of a moving vehicle, using scientific terms to explain why my hand, like an airplane, glides on the air outside the open window. He tried to calm my fear of flying the way he comforted me about everything, providing rational explanations and applying logic. Now, as I glance at him, I wonder what rationalization he could give to explain my grandmother.
My mother had stayed home with my little brother Josh. He doesn’t understand why my grandmother acts the way she does, and he refuses to see her. But I have other memories of my grandmother, memories from before my grandfather passed away. I remember her humming as she prepared Shabbat dinner, scolding her little poodle Heidi when she nipped at my toes. I remember the perfectly buttered grilled cheese sandwiches that she cut into triangles for me after Sunday school when I went to my grandparents’ house to change into my soccer uniform. I remember her warm, plump hands, her soft fingertips tracing circles on my arm whenever I sat beside her. I remember counting her rows of perfume bottles as I sat on her vanity stool in her very pink bathroom and she braided my hair. I remember sinking into bubbles in her large pink tub surrounded by curtains, imagining I was a princess.
But everything changed after my grandfather died.
As my father shuts off the ignition, he turns to me and says, “Remember, sweetie, your grandmother might not seem happy to see us. But it will be good for her to know we are here.” I nod and take the hand he offers me.
The air smells of autumn as we walk to my grandmother’s room. The scent of soil, earthy and damp, combines with a hint of burning leaves. Rose bushes line the path, blossoms burgeoning in a rush of late Indian summer bloom. But the moment we step into the dim hall, I am aware of a different smell, one I would come to identify as institutional and sterile. I squint into the shadows, waiting for my eyes to adjust. My father takes my hand and we walk halfway down the hall, stopping before a faded green door with a nameplate beside it that reads “S. Werthaiser.” My father knocks gently. “Mom,” he says, “it’s us.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning the knob as he speaks.
We step into the room, and I immediately see my grandmother sitting, motionless, on a plastic chair in the corner. She is a hollow shell of a woman. Her face, once meticulously made up with powder, blush, and lipstick, looks pale and drawn. Her cheeks are sunken, and her brown eyes appear cloudy and unfocused. I step behind my father, grasping his hand tightly as he walks to her. He gives me a reassuring squeeze.
“Mom? How are you?” he asks.
She nods vaguely, then turns her face away.
“Look, Mom. I’ve brought Melissa with me. We came to take you for a walk.”
Again, my grandmother nods, but it is a vacant gesture. Her eyes skirt the room as though she is searching for something. My father kneels beside her, taking one of her plump hands in his. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says. “Why don’t we get some exercise? We can go to the cafeteria, get a bite?”
“The food here is awful,” she responds. Her voice comes out hoarse, her thick eastern European accent noticeably husky.
“It’s not that bad,” my father says in the cajoling tone he sometimes uses with my brother and me when we are being stubborn.
“I hate it here,” my grandmother says in a near-whisper. I inspect the room. It is not awful, but it isn’t particularly welcoming either. The walls are cement bricks painted a pale yellow. Her bed sits in a corner, covered with a thin green blanket, a pillow propped against the nondescript wooden headboard. Next to the bed is a chipped nightstand holding one of the few personal belongings in the room: a picture of my grandfather. A threadbare rug lies on the cold linoleum floor, a simple wooden dresser stands against one wall, and next to the chair where my grandmother sits is a four-paned window framed by two thin curtains. The bright autumn leaves outside her window are a stark contrast to the muted tones in the room.
“Mom,” my father begins, exasperation creeping
into his voice.
“What do I do?” my grandmother interrupts, looking over my father’s shoulder. “Esther, what do I do?”
I frown and glance behind us at the door to the room. No one is there.
“Mom?” my dad asks, trying to meet her eye.
“Esther, I don’t know what to do,” she says again.
“Daddy,” I whisper, “who is Esther?”
My father says with a frown, “I have no idea.”
Part I
Before
One
Olkusz, Poland, spring 1938
I knew all too well why my parents were dressed as they were.
My mother was wearing her best scarf. She kept the scarf carefully folded in a drawer in her bureau, only pulling it out for holidays, weddings, or the occasional funeral. The drawer was a small treasure chest, holding every cherished item in my mother’s life: the cloth her own mother had embroidered that covered our Friday night challah, the ivory pin she had inherited from her aunt, her few mismatched pieces of china, the knitted shawl she had made from the expensive yarn my father once bought her, her single strand of pearls. Her scarf was neatly pressed and preserved in the drawer between two sheets of tissue wrapped in newspaper. My mother didn’t read, and we only read Polish or Yiddish. This newspaper was in German.
It was unusual to see the scarf on my mother’s head in the middle of the week. I should have known at that moment, as I watched from behind the curtain that separated my small alcove from the rest of the apartment, that this was a premonition. She was dressed in what I knew to be traveling clothes. My father, for once, was not wearing his work trousers and apron with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. That day, he wore a pair of weathered boots and a long black coat, his beard neatly trimmed, a fur-brimmed hat covering his kepah.
Tears gathered in my eyes as I watched them collect their few bags. My mother’s hands worked nervously as she looked around for anything she might have forgotten. Behind me, on our shared mattress, lay my sister Esther. Her face was white and her breathing labored. Over the past few weeks, her complexion had grown increasingly sallow, so that her beautiful brown eyes looked too large in her gaunt face. We had watched helplessly as her energy drained a little each day. Now she didn’t even have the strength to lift her head from her pillow. She was sick, yet without the usual symptoms. She did not have a cold or cough or complain of a sore throat or upset stomach. It was a mystery to everyone. She had random aches and pains that sometimes woke her in the night, fevers that spiked at any hour, and as she had grown weaker, her appetite had waned. Every remedy my mother procured was useless.
I turned to look at her. Her eyes were closed, but sensing my gaze, she opened them and gave a faint smile. “Don’t worry, Sarah. I’ll be back soon,” she whispered. “You should enjoy having the bed to yourself.”
“No, Esther,” I replied in a choked voice, moving to her side and reaching for her hand. “I won’t enjoy it. Who will I talk to at night? I’ll be lonely without you.”
“No, you won’t,” she wheezed in a voice that barely escaped her dry lips. “You always complain that I kick too much.”
My parents were standing behind me now. My father rested his hand on my shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. I nodded, swallowing over the lump in my throat and moving aside as my father lifted Esther in his strong arms. I followed them into the adjoining room, where my brothers waited. They were standing in a line beside the door, their concerned expressions mirroring my own. Jacob and Sam were almost the same height, although Jacob, at seventeen, had dark hair growing along his jawline and upper lip, while Sam, at fifteen, still had the smooth face of youth. Isaac was slightly younger than me and stood just off to the side, staring down at his feet. David and Majer, the five-year-old twins, ran to my side as I joined them.
Esther was small and fragile in my father’s embrace. As they passed us, I reached for her hand once more, not wanting to let go.
“We’ll send word at the post office,” my father said. “Jacob, you’re in charge while we’re gone.”
Jacob nodded and stood taller. “Yes, Papa,” he said.
“You’ll have your meals with your aunt and uncle,” my mother continued. “Aunt Leah will be here to see you off to school each day. If you need anything at all, they are just upstairs.”
We all nodded silently.
“Good-bye, meyn kinder,” my mother said, leaning to kiss each one of us on the cheek. Mr. Geller, one of our few neighbors who owned a car, had offered to drive my parents to the train station. They would continue from there to Krakow and the hospital our small town of Olkusz lacked. Our local doctor had finally admitted to my mother, after numerous visits to our home, that he was baffled by Esther’s condition and had done everything he could. My parents now hoped, as we all did, that the more experienced city doctors would have the answers to help my sister.
Mr. Geller stood beside his car, cap in hand, as my parents walked to meet him. I ran out the door and onto the path, a feeling of deep panic turning my stomach. I was only twelve and still needed my parents. This was the first time I had ever been left at home without them.
My father gently set my sister in the back seat of the car, and my mother slid in beside her, resting Esther’s head in her lap. My father then turned to shake Mr. Geller’s hand and stepped around the car to the passenger seat. As the car pulled away, my mother looked out the window and waved at us. My brothers stood behind me and waved back, but I only stared after them, feeling an awful sadness. I didn’t know if I’d see my sister again.
I’d first noticed something was wrong a few weeks earlier, when Esther was setting the table for supper. I had been sweeping the floor in the corner and jumped when I heard the crash of a plate. Both my mother and I turned in surprise. Esther was staring down at the broken fragments, her eyes wide, her hands covering her mouth. After a moment, my mother knelt before her and started to gather the pieces.
“Sarah, hand me the broom,” she said. I obeyed, but I’d noticed something that my mother hadn’t—Esther’s hand was shaking. She gripped her left hand in her right, desperately trying to stop the movement. I could see the guilt on her face. We had so little money, and to provide enough place settings for a family of nine was not cheap. Now we would have to replace the broken plate.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered, and her voice shook along with her hand. My mother was a soft-spoken woman, and while she could be strict, she knew an accident when she saw one. Instead of scolding my sister, she simply replied, “Nothing to fret over. It must have slipped from your hands.” Then she glanced up. I think she was surprised that Esther still stood there instead of bending to help collect the broken pieces. My mother opened her mouth again, perhaps to ask for help, but then her eyes rested on the unmistakable trembling of Esther’s hand. A little too hurriedly, my sister clasped her hands behind her back.
Another moment passed before my mother said, “Perhaps you’re tired, no? Why don’t you go rest a bit, and then join me before your father and brothers return home. I’ll need some help peeling the potatoes.”
“Yes, Mama,” Esther said, backing away, the muscles in her cheeks going slack as she unclenched her jaw. She disappeared behind the curtain into our alcove. “Sarah, please finish setting the table, and then you can continue your chores,” my mother said, turning to me.
I opened my mouth to argue. It wasn’t fair! Now I had twice the work! But I could see my mother’s brow furrow in concern as she continued to gather the shards of broken plate into the skirt of her apron. I frowned at the injustice of the situation and continued my work in sulky silence.
When I was finished, I walked into the alcove, pulling the curtain closed behind me. It was a small space my sister and I shared. There was one window high in the wall that let in the late afternoon light. At night, we would lie next to each other and look up at the stars through the thi
ck pane of glass, gossiping or telling each other stories and laughing until our sides hurt. Our mattress was tucked into a corner, topped with a featherbed and wool blanket. Tacked to the wall above our pillows were pictures we had drawn over the years, notes our friends had written us, school notices, and the academic ribbons Esther had received for handwriting and etiquette and I had received for mathematics. A small writing desk passed down from my father’s brother stood in the other corner with our schoolwork spread on top.
Esther was lying on her side, facing the wall, when I entered. My annoyance simmered and I asked, “What happened? What’s wrong with you?”
She sighed and rolled over. When I saw her face, I immediately felt remorse for my harsh tone. Esther still cradled her arm against her chest, although her hand had stopped trembling. Her cheeks were pale as her bloodshot eyes fixed on my face, and she looked frightened.
“I don’t know. I just—I don’t feel right,” Esther muttered.
“Well, what’s bothering you? Are you sick?” I asked, sitting beside her. I reached for her hand. It felt cold and clammy in my palm.
“I felt tired and faint all of a sudden. I can’t really explain it. My head went all fuzzy and my arms felt weak. I thought I was going to fall, and when I reached out to grab the table, I dropped the plate. My hand was shaking and I couldn’t stop it. Do you think Mama noticed?”
“No,” I lied, hoping to make her feel better. “Besides,” I added as I lay beside her so our heads were next to each other on her pillow, “you’re probably just tired. You didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I didn’t?” she asked, glancing at me. She frowned and bit her lip.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted. “You were talking in your sleep again. That’s all.”
Esther often talked in her sleep. It was a fact I found both irritating and amusing. Some nights, I’d kick her softly to stop her murmuring, and other nights I’d prop myself on my elbow and watch her in the moonlight, her eyes closed and moving beneath the lids as she dreamed, furtively listening for whatever secrets she might reveal.
What She Lost Page 1
