“Sam,” I said softly, “Harry asked me to marry him.”
His body stiffened and he looked away into the distance, over my shoulder. “What did you tell him?”
“I said yes,” I whispered.
Sam swallowed and bit his lip, still avoiding my eyes. “You’ve only known each other a short time, Sarah,” he warned.
“But I love him, Sam.”
At last, Sam looked back at me. “How do you know what love is?”
I thought about Harry, feeling a wonderful combination of anticipation, longing, and contentment. I shook my head. “I don’t know, Sam. I just know that when I’m with him, I’m happy. I feel safe. When we’re not together, time drags. I can’t stop thinking about him. And I don’t ever want to be too far away from him.” I snapped my mouth closed, embarrassed that I had confessed these feelings to my brother.
As the sun set behind Sam’s back, throwing his face into shadow, I witnessed a war of emotions take hold of my brother. His hands twisted and his mouth contorted into a scowl. He breathed heavily, shaking his head, murmuring under his breath. Finally, he sighed. “If you’re going to marry, Sarah, then I am too.”
I gaped at him, shocked. “What?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Who?”
“Her name is Sophie,” Sam said, watching my face carefully. “We met in town. We’ve been seeing each other for a little while.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I’ve been wanting to ask her to marry me, but I was afraid of upsetting you.”
“Upsetting me?”
“With Helena married, and Gutcha gone, how could I do that to you? Sometimes, I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore. But all I’ve ever wanted to do is protect you, Sarah.”
“I know, Sam,” I said, gripping his hands in mine. “I’m happy for you. Truly happy. This is what Mama and Papa would want for both of us, don’t you think?”
He put his hand on my cheek, and for the first time I saw something soften behind his eyes. And I knew I had his blessing.
Forty-Six
Reichenbach, Germany, August 1945
Harry and I were married on August 17, 1945. I wore a dress made of soft lace, and Helena gave me the ruffled veil she’d worn at her own wedding. As she stood behind me and placed it on my head, I remembered as though from another lifetime her lifting her mother’s veil from a box in our kitchen, the veil she was going to wear when she married Jacob. “You look beautiful, Sarah,” she said as she spread the material around my shoulders. I reached up and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Helena,” I whispered. I missed Gutcha, but I was grateful that Helena and her new husband had decided to settle in Reichenbach.
Harry’s borrowed suit was too large for his slender frame, but to me he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. We stood under the homemade chupa, surrounded by Sam and his new fiancée, Sophie, her sister Ruth, Pinky and Erna, and Helena and her husband, Wolf. Rubin and a large number of his Russian comrades were present as well. He beamed like a proud matchmaker, telling anyone who would listen that he was the reason we had met.
As was tradition, I circled Harry seven times, and after we both drank from the kiddush cup, Harry stomped on the glass to a chorus of “mazel tov !” Unlike the weddings I had attended in my youth, where the bride and groom didn’t touch until their wedding night, Harry took me in his arms in front of everyone and kissed me full on the lips. I melted into him, losing myself in his embrace. When we pulled apart, my eyes locked on his, blue and deep, and my pulse raced.
We had a celebratory dinner in the courtyard of a tavern in town. The air was humid and clung to us like an outer garment, but we didn’t care. A small klezmer band played while we danced on the cobblestones. Fireflies lit the branches of the trees like strung lights. I became drunk on wine and the obligatory vodka the Russians provided. Around midnight, a summer rain shower fell on us as we danced so that our hair and clothes were plastered to our bodies. Before parting, the Russian soldiers lifted their rifles in the air and fired in unison. The sound reverberated in the small courtyard, and I jumped with a squeal. Harry caught me round the waist and spun me in a circle.
I had never been happier.
Harry took my hand and led me to the bed. I regarded it with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Before the war, I wouldn’t have known what was expected of a woman on her wedding night, but now I knew. Memories surfaced of the Pig’s office, and I fought to push them away. I didn’t want to desecrate the evening with such ugliness.
Harry gently sat, and I sat beside him. Raindrops still clung to my hair and dripped down my face. I clutched my hands tightly in my lap, my knuckles white. Harry lifted my hands to his mouth, kissing my fingers softly with his lips. “Sarah,” he breathed in a husky voice.
Without looking at him, I said, “I’m scared.”
He turned my face to his so he could gaze at me with his blue eyes. “There’s nothing to be scared of, Sarah,” he said. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
I nodded. With gentleness and care, he bent his head to mine, and our lips touched. His breath tasted of vodka. My pulse quickened as his fingers entangled themselves in my hair. His body was strong and solid against mine. He tenderly pressed me to the bed, his mouth moving to my neck, his tongue moving in circles against my collarbone. I sighed at the sensation, and I could tell he knew what he was doing. His hands moved down my arms to my stomach, then lower, and I suddenly grew tense as more uninvited thoughts rushed into my mind. I was at war with myself.
“Harry,” I gasped. “Harry … stop.”
He lifted up on an elbow, staring down at me. I blinked, trying to relax, but every fiber of my body was taut with anxiety. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, turning my face away. He rolled off me, gathering me in his arms so that my back was pressed to his chest. “It’s all right, Sarah,” he said softly in my ear. “We’ll just lie here for a bit.”
I drifted in and out of sleep, feeling the warmth of Harry’s body against mine, feeling his heart beating steadily against my back. The clock on the mantel chimed the hour of one o’clock, and I heard Harry’s low snoring. I turned to face him, drinking in his countenance in sleep. His soft, pale skin glowed in the moonlight from the window. His long blond lashes touched his cheeks, and the damp hair plastered to his forehead smelled of summer rain. I reached up and placed my palm on his warm face, my thumb tracing small circles over his cheekbones. All thought left me, except for a sudden longing, a tightening in the pit of my stomach. I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at me in silence in the moonlight. I moved closer to him, opening my legs to him. And when we came together slowly, gently, I knew what it meant to feel true desire.
I was eager to leave the large home that had once belonged to a Nazi general, so we rented a small apartment in Reichenbach over a tailor’s shop. Sam and Sophie moved above the general store next door. Sophie had worked in her parents’ own store before the war, so she and Sam took over the small shop and reopened its doors to the public. I went over daily to help her stock the shelves, clean the counters, sweep the floor, and check the inventory in the storeroom. I had brief memories of my father’s bakery and remembered how often I had begged to help out there, just like my brothers. I would stop occasionally and glance at the counter and thought I saw the ghost of my father, talking to a customer or kneading dough or folding pastry, his head bent over his work. When I blinked, he was gone.
Sophie’s sister Ruth worked as a secretary at the local police station. She would come to the store after her shift, and together, Ruth, Sophie, and I would lean against the counter and gossip about the latest activity in town or flip through fashion magazines, studying the current hair and clothing trends. Sophie always gave me bags of goods or food in exchange for my help.
One day Helena ran into the store waving a letter in her hands. “Sarah,” she exclaimed. “Sarah, look! Wolf just gave this to me! It’s from Gutcha.”
“Gutcha?” I asked, hurrying to her side and taking the letter in my hands. I saw my name written across the envelope in my cousin’s handwriting. Eagerly, I tore it open and read:
My dearest Sarah,
I hope this finds you well. I have settled on a kibbutz near the city of Netanya. Cousin, I have never been anywhere so beautiful. The sea is the deepest shade of blue with beaches that stretch for miles. There is so much green as well, in the trees, in the gardens. We work hard, but we also find time for leisure activities. There is music and laughter and singing every day. The people are all very nice, and we work together as one community. I can’t explain the feeling of kinship that exists here. I met a man named Boris. He is a good man, Sarah. He was born here and he takes me on trips to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, sharing the history he grew up with. I hope you are happy. I hope you have found peace. I will see you again soon, my dearest Sarah.
Love,
Gutcha
I cried, hugging the letter to my chest. Helena looked at me with a concerned expression, but I handed her the letter so she could read it for herself. “She’s happy, Helena,” I said over my tears. “My cousin is happy.”
Harry and Pinky began building their own feather and down business. They left each morning to meet with local farmers to examine their ducks and geese and establish working relationships. More Poles moved into the area, and I overheard Sam mention that the city was now being called by the Polish name Rychbach. Some evenings, Harry, Pinky, and Sam attended meetings led by the Rychbach Jewish committee to discuss the future of Jews in Europe. They came home and sat around the table, drinking and smoking and deliberating the growing conflict between the local Zionist movement, which argued for a Jewish future in Palestine, and the Communist and Bund parties.
I sometimes listened in on the conversations, but I was more comfortable with domestic life, turning our small apartment into a home. I was more at ease in the small, simple rooms of our apartment than I had ever been in the large villa. I sewed curtains for the windows and arranged fresh-cut flowers from the small garden outside in vases and mason jars. I tacked clippings from magazines onto the walls of all the new appliances and art and furniture and jewelry I hoped one day to own.
I waited impatiently for the moment each evening when Harry would come home and take me into his arms. We spent many nights lost in each other, not sleeping, coming together with a sense of abandon.
When we weren’t exploring each other’s bodies, we lay naked beside each other on the mattress, sharing stories of our time in the camps. I told him about Otto. I told him about the female guard who would pick a random number and have us count off by that number at roll call, sending those who landed on that number to Auschwitz. Harry told me about how he and Pinky had stolen a loaf of bread to save their brother Joseph when he fell ill. He told me about the job he was assigned throwing the dead bodies of young girls who died from typhus into pits and setting fire to their emaciated corpses. As we shared each horrid detail, we felt lighter, as though the memories were forever being expelled from our souls. The curve of his arm around me became so familiar that I felt I was always meant to lie against him, my hand resting on his bare chest and touching the fine hair that grew there. I began to see a life, a real life, with Harry.
Forty-Seven
Reichenbach, Germany/Rychbach, Poland, late November 1945
As fall turned to winter, I began to suspect there was something wrong with me. One afternoon when I was stocking the shelves in the general store, the room began to spin, and I closed my eyes, leaning heavily against the counter. Sophie came into the room and saw me swaying on my feet.
“Sarah, what’s the matter?” she asked, leading me to a chair in the back room.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a moment of dizziness. I think I might be coming down with something.”
“You look very pale. Why don’t you rest for a few minutes?”
I nodded, accepting the glass of water she handed to me. Before I knew it, my eyes were closing, and I fell asleep in my chair. The ringing of the bell above the door in the shop woke me some time later. As I carefully stood up, I recognized Harry’s and Sam’s voices. I pushed through the swinging doors that separated the back room from the main shop and saw them deep in conversation with Sophie.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, immediately turning to me with a look of concern. “Sophie said you’re not feeling well.”
“I’m fine, Harry,” I reassured him. “I’m just very tired.”
“Let’s get you to bed, then,” he said, walking to my side and taking my hand. I nodded good-bye to Sam and Sophie as Harry led me to our apartment next door. Once inside, I dropped onto the feather mattress and again felt my eyes closing. “Let me rest just a short while more and then I’ll start supper,” I said in a groggy voice. Harry sat beside me, stroking my hair to fall behind my ears. “Don’t worry about supper,” he said. “Just sleep.”
I nodded, already surrendering to exhaustion.
The following morning, I awoke sick to my stomach. I felt weak but not unwell afterward, and walked into the kitchen to find it empty. Harry had already left for the day. I washed and dressed, and by the time I entered the store, my energy had returned.
“You look better,” Sophie said, glancing up as I came around the counter and tied an apron around my waist. I noticed that it felt slightly more snug than usual, but I dismissed the thought as I said, “I feel much better.” I was grateful that whatever virus I had contracted was short-lived. The next morning, however, the same sudden wave of nausea turned my stomach so that I ran to the sink. I wiped my mouth afterward, frowning, trying to remember if I had eaten anything that might have spoiled. By the end of the week, as the symptoms persisted, I’d become truly concerned.
I stood in front of the mirror, my brown eyes wide with worry, even with panic. What if something was really wrong? What if this was more than just a virus? Should I tell Harry? Should I see a doctor? But then, suddenly, my breath quickened as a new thought replaced the others. I stared at my reflection, my hands folding over my stomach. It had been at least a month, I realized, since I’d had my monthly bleeding. Maybe more. I had received enough of an education in the camps to know what pregnancy looked like, and a feeling of pure joy burst in my chest, eradicating all concern. Could I be pregnant? Could this be morning sickness? Could a new life be growing in me?
I walked into the kitchen in a daze, my hands caressing my stomach. I remembered my own mother, who had been bedridden when she was pregnant with the twins. I remembered her growing belly and the way she looked uncomfortable and pale but so very happy. I remembered holding the twins after they were born, their little fists latching onto my fingers, their faces red as they wailed. I remembered the feeling of delight as I rocked them, overwhelmed by an immediate, unconditional love. Now perhaps I would have my own child to love. Harry’s child. I realized with a start that I wanted nothing more in the world than for that to be true.
For the rest of the day I wandered the apartment aimlessly, elated, unable to keep from smiling at the idea. I was eager to share the news with Harry, but I wanted to be sure first. A small, nagging part of me also worried about how he would react. He’d had a son. Would he want to be a father again? Would he be happy? I decided to wait a little longer before telling him.
During the month that followed, I woke up with no appetite and on the verge of being sick. Some mornings were better than others. Harry looked at me once across the kitchen table and noticed me picking at my food. “You’re not eating, Sarah. Is anything the matter?” I smiled and set my fork down, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’m just not hungry, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
My suspicions were confirmed as the mo
rning sickness began to ebb and I still hadn’t bled. My clothes began to grow tighter around my waist, so I had to let them out. I began to have strange cravings for foods I normally disliked. Each new sign was like an unexpected gift, but I still hadn’t told Harry. I lay awake, planning the perfect way to share the news. One day, as I was preparing breakfast, I knew I couldn’t keep it from him any longer. I could see in my own reflection that my body was changing. Surely he would soon notice as well.
I set the table, putting a cluster of dried baby’s breath on his plate, finding the name of the flower poetic. But before he could join me, there was a knock on our door. I wiped my hands on my apron and opened it to see Rubin and a few of his soldier friends standing on the threshold, grinning at me.
“Sarah!” Rubin exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. “Just who I was looking for!”
“Rubin,” I laughed, pushing him away. “What are you doing here so early?”
“We have something for you!” Rubin said, and I could smell alcohol on his breath.
“For me?” I asked, confused, as Harry came out of the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. Rubin waved him over and threw an arm around Harry’s shoulder.
“What’s all this about?” Harry asked. Rubin passed him a flask, and Harry paused for a moment before taking a long swig.
“Come with us!” Rubin beamed. “We have something to show you!”
Together, we descended the steps to the small garden that grew along the back of the building. In winter, the small patch of land was brown, the trees barren. At the bottom of the steps, I froze. A small calf the color of rich coffee was tied to the fence. She regarded us with large brown eyes, then bent her head to chew at the dead grass growing in tufts around a fence post.
What She Lost Page 27
