If I Should Die Before I Wake

by Han Nolan

  The room was cold, or perhaps it was just I who was cold, sitting on the bare wooden floor next to my mother's stool. I tucked my legs and feet up under my dress and huddled in closer to Mama. I wanted her to pat my head, thinking her touch, her love, would warm me, but she was not thinking about me.

  I was aware of the peace, the dead quiet in the room, the way one is aware of it after a loud, long, crashing clamor has ended. There is usually that sense of relief; the body relaxes and one continues with what one was doing before the noise began. This time, however, was different. I remained tense. My muscles ached with readiness, my eyes were tired of the ever alert, almost unblinking vigilance I kept over the house, the family, myself. Yes, there was peace, but what came before it, and what was sure to come again, made that peace hover over the room like the blade of a guillotine. I tried to calm my nerves by reading to my six-year-old sister, Anya, who sat beside me, restlessly playing with Nadzia, the baby of the family.

  "Sit still, Anya," I reprimanded. "You are missing the most interesting part. Shiva is almost over, you can be still for just a few more hours."

  "I know, but I cannot wait to get some fresh air. Can you, Chana? Can you not wait?"

  I looked toward the window by the piano. The curtains were closed, but I had peered out earlier and knew what the weather was like.

  "It is too cold and gray outside. Even when the rabbi comes, I do not think I will want to go out."

  "It is not the cold you are afraid of, it is the Germans." Anya turned to Mama. "Will the Germans come to get us when we go outside, like Jakub said?"

  "Hush, Anya!" Mama said. "No more talk of the Germans. Your brother has filled your head with too many horror stories."

  "But Tata—his story is true. What Chana said was true. They shot Tata, hanging from the tree."

  "Hush, Anya," Mama whispered.

  Zayde looked up from his lap. "Jakub is wrong, Anya. His mind is so full of killings and burnings, it has got him running this way and that, and he goes nowhere. He should be here with his family. It is a disgrace to us all and to your father that he is not here sitting shiva."

  I watched as Zayde's face grew redder and redder, his head again bent low over his lap. He was like my father that way. We always knew how angry Tata was by the shades of red his face turned. Looking at Zayde now, I knew he was very angry indeed. I tried to change the subject, but before I could get two words out, my brother walked through the door.

  "Bad news," Jakub said as he hung his hat and coat up on the rack by the door. He turned to face Zayde, the now familiar challenge in his eyes.

  "We must pack our things, only what we need most, and be ready by six o'clock tonight."

  Zayde stood up and stretched. "This nonsense again, Jakub. And where is it now we are going?"

  "Nonsense, is it? Only four blocks down, the houses are empty. Not a person is left. The Germans have taken them!"

  Zayde's eyes darted about the room. Mama stood up and collected Nadzia up off the floor and held her close to her face.

  "God, grant that they come here in time," she whispered as she began rocking the baby in her arms.

  "Who, Mama? The Germans?" Anya asked, alarm sounding in her voice.

  I grabbed Anya's arm. "No, silly, the people who are coming to take Nadzia away. They are coming today, remember?"

  Anya jumped up off the floor and threw her arms around Mama's legs. "Why are they only taking Nadzia? Do I not need protection from the Germans, too?"

  Mama patted Anya's head. "Of course you do, and I will protect you. When Nadzia is gone Mama paused and closed her eyes. "When Nadzia is gone, I will be able to pay extra attention to you and make sure nothing and no one ever hurts you."

  "You promise, Mama? Truly, truly promise?"

  "Of course I do."

  Anya buried her head in Mama's dress and began sobbing. "Oh, Mama, poor Tata. Poor, poor Tata. How could it be he is not with us?"

  Bubbe, who had been silent and still through most of these seven days, called Anya to her.

  She held both of Anya's hands in hers and spoke in a firm, knowing voice. "He is with us, Anya, as God is with us."

  Anya stepped back from Bubbe. "Then he is not with us, because God is not with us. He would not let this happen. He would not take Tata right when we need him most."

  "Anya, please! Is anyone going to listen to me?" Jakub looked around the room at each of us. He was only fifteen years old and yet the weight of the world seemed to bear down on his shoulders so hard I thought it would surely crush him. His eyes, once the color of the black mud his shoes carried in each day, had a gray cast to them now. It was as though the cold gray clouds outside had settled there for good, no longer allowing him to see the sun.

  I wanted to cry for him, or for Tata, or maybe just for myself. I felt as Anya did; God was not there with us. Tata was gone, completely gone, as though he had never existed. Bubbe had said that our memories of him would keep him near, but we had no time for memories.

  Although we kept within our home, there had been little solitude; Jakub had seen to that. On the very day of Father's burial, during the seudat havra'ah, the meal that is served after the funeral, Jakub, already late, rushed in with panic in his eyes and voice. He told us that we all must pack our things and run.

  "If we do not leave now, right away, those Nazis will send us to the German work camps. They'll make us dig more of their infernal ditches and build roads that will help them win their war, beating us all the while, I am sure. If we go to the Russian zone we will be safe," he said, still panting with panic.

  I could see the fury in Mama's eyes. In front of all her closest friends, her oldest child had refused to go to his own father's funeral. Instead he was scurrying from house to house, collecting news, adding to the hysteria that was spreading through every street and alley.

  It was Zayde who spoke to him, on that first day of shiva, trying to steady his voice. "Now, you will listen to me. We will not have such craziness brought into this house. Respect this day of mourning, Jakub, and understand that we are going to continue with our lives in spite of the war, and the Nazis. And right now that means sitting shiva and honoring and mourning the man who gave you this life you are struggling so hard to protect."

  "But, Zayde, I am honoring Tata by asking you all to do what he would have wanted. He would not stay where they do not allow him to have a business or even to walk down the street without fearing for his life. Every day people are disappearing. They are dragged off the streets to do some menial task and then they are beaten or—or killed. He would not stay where there is so little food, where there is no chance for dignity."

  "And across the River Bug, where Russia occupies Poland, if we ever made it there without them shooting us first, you think life would be better? It is wartime, son. Food will be scarce everywhere, and who will give us jobs? The jobs, they will go to the Russians. We have no place to go, and no money to get us there. We have no choice, we must stay here and wait." Zayde stepped closer to Jakub. "It's not safe for us anywhere, but we must not fear, such insanity cannot last. You will see, evil always destroys itself. We will pray, Jakub, and have faith in God, in our deliverance. All the hysteria will soon die down, it has to." Zayde put his arm around Jakub's shoulder and guided him toward the table.

  Mr. Hurwitz, who was standing beside Mama, smiled and held his hand out to Jakub. "It is all difficult and frightening, but we are all together and—"

  "No!" Jakub shouted and broke away from Zayde. "I cannot afford to be a luftmensh, walking around with my head in the clouds. None of us can. Look around you. Do you not see what is happening out there? They killed Tata, remember? He was shot for no reason by those—those—Nazis. And the shut, our beautiful synagogue, they set it on fire. It is just ashes now. And neighbors"—Jakub sobbed in hurt and frustration—"neighbors who were once our friends are suddenly spitting on us and laughing at us. They kick us and beat us and—and I will not stay here and wait! I will not wait to be mu
rdered. I am leaving. I shall join up with the partisans in the forest and fight the Nazis." He ran toward his room and then turned back to face Mr. Hurwitz. "And Mosze is coming with me; he is next door packing right now."

  During the next two days the air was thick with panic, the guillotine hovering ever closer. Closed off as we were from all the news except what Jakub and our friends could bring inside, we were unable to sift out the truth from the rumor. Sadly, Tata was all but forgotten. Good friends rushed in uttering the short prayer, "May the Almighty comfort you among the mourners for Zion and Jerusalem," and then Tata and his memory were abruptly dismissed. It was on to the latest news, the latest information on the laws set down by the Nazis to make life for Jews more impossible. Even Zayde could no longer demand that Jakub remain with us. No one could say which was the safer path. Was it wiser to try to escape without travel permits, the Stars of David torn from all clothing—meaning certain imprisonment or even death if one were caught? Or was it better to remain there at home while rumors of Jews being dragged out to the woods to dig their own graves before being shot became facts, as the list of friends and neighbors who had disappeared grew longer?

  Only Bubbe remained calm, living in a world of certainty as she did. Not only did she have a sixth sense about things, bringing people from near and far to seek her advice, but she had total faith in God. Somehow she was able to see a much larger picture of life and humanity than most people. It was this constant faith, and her calm, Mama said, that kept Bubbe looking so young and gave her so much energy. I tried to imitate her when, on the second night of shiva, we said goodbye to Jakub and Mosze. We watched them walk away into the shadows, away into the night, until as far as we could see, they were the night.

  On the outside I felt sure I looked like Bubbe—that same hint of sadness in my eyes, acceptance and faith in my posture, standing straight and tall—but inside, I felt as if a giant rat were gnawing away at my stomach.

  As Zayde closed the door behind the boys, Mama fell to the floor and cried. I forgot about wanting to be like Bubbe and started to run to Mama, to comfort her the way we had done during the day of the funeral, but Bubbe held me to her and whispered, "Leave her, Chana."

  It was hard to watch my mother in so much pain. I wanted to be there with her, to cry with her, but I couldn't. I was saving my tears for Tata. I was storing them up for when shim was over and I could play my violin, and remember. While I played, I could imagine us together again. He would be at the piano, his long fingers stretching like wings across the keys, and I would stand beside him with my violin. Together we would play the music of our favorite composers: Bach and Mozart.

  I left Bubbe's side and moved over to the violin, which sat upon the piano bench. I closed my eyes and ran my hand along its worn leather case, and leaving the Germans and Jakub and Mama far behind, I dreamed of the last time Tata and I had played together.

  Three long days after Jakub had fled toward Russia, he returned, dirty, thinner, and defeated. Saying nothing, he brushed past all our open arms and retreated to his bedroom. A moment later Mr. and Mrs. Hurwitz entered our home with such a look of horror and disbelief on their faces, we knew immediately what had happened. Jakub had stopped by their house before coming home, to tell them the story of their son's death.

  He had died because of a loaf of bread. It was as simple and as horrible as that. Neither my brother nor Mosze had the proper papers necessary to cross the country legally and so, like so many others, they planned to travel through the woods at night toward the River Bug—the dividing line between German- and Russian-occupied Poland—and sleep under cover as best as they could during the day. On the morning of the second day, Mosze must have felt the knapsack he was sleeping on slip out from beneath his head. He looked up to find an old man squatting on the ground and rifling through the sack. A moment later the man located the bread, pulled it out, and fled. From his cover of leaves and dirt, Jakub had watched all this, too, and it took both boys a moment to realize that what had happened was not a dream. Without thinking, Mosze jumped up and took off after the old man. Jakub called after Mosze, but Mosze ignored him and a minute later the old man and he were standing beneath the morning sun, fighting over the loaf of bread. Jakub stood up and had just decided to go and help his friend when he heard the gunshots. He turned and spotted four Nazis standing in a row a few yards away from his friend and the old man, their rifles held high as they waited for their bullets to hit their marks. Jakub ducked back behind the brush and watched as Mosze and the old man fell, one on top of the other, the loaf of bread squashed beneath them both.

  Yes, it was Jakub who had kept things in a constant turmoil, preventing us from mourning Tata properly, and here he was again, on the seventh and last day of sitting shiva, telling us to pack up our things. Had he not learned anything? Had our father's and his best friend's deaths not shown him anything? I resented the way he kept trying to take Tata's place, telling us all what to do, trying to erase the last bits of Tata's memory we might carry.

  Without thinking, I found myself jumping up off the floor, tears streaming down my face, and hurling myself at Jakub. I knocked him down and sat on his stomach and began pounding his arms and chest.

  "Why should we listen to you?" I screamed. "Why? Who do you think you are anyway? It is all your fault! All of it! I hate you, you are worse than any Germans. To them Tata was a stranger, a nobody, but to you? Was he a nobody to you, too? You have taken Tata away. You will not even let us mourn. You with all your bad news!"

  Zayde was struggling to pull me off Jakub, but I had grabbed my brother around the waist with my legs and would not let go. I was still hurling my hateful words at Jakub when there was a knock on the door. We all stopped, frozen in our places. Was this the guillotine falling at last, quick, sharp, final? During shiva no one knocked; a visitor just entered the home, perhaps with food to share and a kind word or two. Jakub was the first to react as another set of knocks pounded on the door. He sat up, shoving me aside as though I were a mere blanket covering his chest.

  "Let us not be foolish," he said. "No Germans would politely knock on our door."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chana

  JAKUB WAS RIGHT. No German would be waiting patiently behind the door while we mustered up the courage to answer it. However, it had not been that long ago—before Tata was killed—when they had charged through our house, seizing our radio and two of our best quilts and ordering Tata and Zayde to report to them for work the next day with shovels in their hands. For me that had been the beginning of all the craziness, and now I could not trust anything—even something as innocent as a knock on the door.

  I looked over at Bubbe. We all did. She always knew who was at the door. It was one of her "gifts," as she called them. Her expression was one of pleasure, as though she were expecting to see an old friend on the other side, and Mama, noting her expression, rushed forward and threw open the door.

  "You're here! You've made it!" Mama cried as she threw her free arm around a woman's neck and then kissed her on both cheeks. "And Oskar, you, too." She hugged him. "You've worked a miracle. Please, please come in. You are safe?"

  "There was no problem, but please, we are Helga and Fritz now, and this is our precious daughter, Gerta." He took Nadzia from Mama's arms and examined her face and fingered her hair. "She will pass, of course. There's no need to worry."

  Anya stepped forward. "She will pass, Mama? What does that mean, and why are Oskar and Roza calling her Gerta? Isn't Nadzia going to England? Where are your American friends? I thought you said those people you taught Polish to, those Americans, remember, they were supposed to keep Nadzia."

  Roza laughed. "So many questions, Anya. You must be a very smart girl."

  Anya was not to be sidetracked. "What does it mean, she will pass?" she asked again.

  "She doesn't look Jewish," Jakub spit out. "Her eyes are blue and her hair, what little she has, is blond. She could pass for German like Oskar and Roza." He eyed
them with disgust. "How does it feel to suck up to those—those—"

  "That's enough!" Zayde stepped forward, his face a deep purple. "Oskar and Roza have risked their lives to come here, and they will be risking it again as they cross the borders with their false passports. It's because of people like them that so many have been able to escape."

  "Yes, people who can pass, but we, we are not fair enough, so we are to suffer, we are to be beaten up and torn out of our houses and sent who knows where. And for what? What sin have we committed?"

  "Those are not their rules, Jakub. You cannot blame what the Germans have done on Oskar and Roza," Bubbe said as she stepped forward with a large leather-bound book in her hands. "They are giving little Nadzia a chance."

  "It's all right, we understand," Oskar said as he moved farther into the room. He looked sadly at Jakub, his arms still cradling Nadzia. "It is not fair, but it is life, and we each have to decide the best way to live it, despite the circumstances." He turned to face the rest of us and said, "But where is leek? He is not sick with the heart again, I hope?"

  "He is dead, Oskar. Chana found him. The Germans, of course," Mama said.