If I Should Die Before I Wake

by Han Nolan

  The car stopped and we removed our blindfolds. We were parked outside a freshly painted farmhouse, glowing white beneath the moon. We got out of the car and Henrick led us inside. His wife, Lili, showed us the bathroom with its running water, and our bedroom, with two heavy blankets folded at the bottom of the bed. We took off our coats and left them in the bedroom and then followed Lili into the kitchen. She handed each of us a plate of eggs, cheese, warm, fresh bread, and whole boiled potatoes.

  After supper, we each took a hot bath and climbed into bed, sinking into a soft pillow of eiderdown. Then Lili gave us the two bricks she had warmed by the kitchen fire, and we tucked them under the blankets, down by our feet. I snuggled up to Bubbe and sighed. "If only every day from now on could be this wonderful," I whispered.

  I had dreamed of waking up to the smell of eggs, sausage, and coffee so many times in the past few years that when I awoke that next morning I thought I was dreaming once again. I kept my eyes closed and let the warmth of that room, with the sun streaming in from behind me and spreading out over my bed, melt me deeper into the pillow, the eiderdown, the bed. This is what it's like to feel rich, I told myself. It's all I need. I will never open my eyes and everything will stay as it is this very moment.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard Bubbe whisper that it was time to get up, but I couldn't open my eyes. It was too real, this warmth, the richness, the deep comfort. Hang on to it, I told myself, hang on.

  "Chana, we must begin. You will want breakfast before we leave."

  I clutched the blanket, already pulled up around my ears—hang on.

  "We must return to Lodz this morning." Bubbe shook my shoulder.

  The nightmare, it's intruding on my beautiful dream—hold on tighter, hold on.

  "Chana, now you must get up. There has been a roundup this morning. We will have to hurry."

  A roundup. The old nightmare was moving in. Was this Tata's roundup, where they dragged him out of his own house and made him shovel dirt and shot him in a tree? Or was it Zayde's, where they drove us out of our homes and into the ghetto and worked him to death? Or maybe it was Mama's and Anya's roundup, where they used guns and dogs and whips to drive them into the carts and haul them away. Smell the sausage, thick, rich...

  "Chana!"

  "Bubbe, please."

  "More tears? This has been too much for you. I will let you decide. We can go back to Lodz to the ghetto or we can go to Lodz and join the roundup—but, Chana, we cannot stay here. It is too dangerous."

  I wiped my face and sat up. "A roundup. How could any good come from that?"

  "For freedom, we will have to take our chances."

  "But joining the workers and going to Germany, how will we find Mama and Anya that way? It would be better to live and hide in the puszcza, the forest."

  "You promised you would do as Jakub said. In the forest we would not survive long. We must first be safe before we can find out about your mother and Anya. We must trust Jakub, Chana. He said this plan is good. He said it has worked before." Bubbe pulled back the covers. "Now, quickly get dressed. I have here all your papers, your passport, birth certificate, your ration card, everything. We will tuck them in your coat, Ewa."

  I smiled. "Yes, Rachela." I threw on my skirt and blouse and then sat on the edge of the bed to wipe last night's dust off my new shoes with the edge of my skirt. As I polished them, I watched Bubbe collect the few belongings we had brought with us. All I brought was my violin. It wasn't practical, as Jakub had pointed out to me several times, but it was all I wanted.

  "Bubbe, is what we are doing a sin?" I asked her when she came back over to the bed and sat next to me. "Won't God punish us for pretending to be Ewa and Rachela, non-Jews?"

  "We are saving our lives and harming no one. It is more important, I think, to behave as God's chosen people, in the way of the covenant, than to proclaim we are His chosen people. You understand, Chana?"

  "I think so. Although we say we are two Catholic women from Lodz, Ewa and Rachela, we will always behave and believe as Jews."

  "It will not be forever. Now you go eat yourself a good breakfast. You will get fat this morning, eh?"

  As Jakub had said, becoming part of the roundup of Polish workers was easy. There was chaos everywhere. Armed guards were posted in front of roadblocks, and packed behind them were the people they had rounded up from a local church. People were so busy shouting across the barricade to their friends and relatives, pleading with the deaf guards, saying good-bye to loved ones, trying to slip out from behind the blocks and join the throngs in the street, that no one bothered with the two of us as we strolled down the street toward the assembly and slipped past the barricades. The guards had no objection to people wanting to get in, just out.

  When the train arrived, the guards separated the men and women and loaded us into separate cars. There was more chaos as husbands and wives tried to stay together while guards pushed and pulled and beat the people into the train.

  Bubbe and I said nothing to one another or to anyone else. We pushed our way to the back of the car and sat down. I held on to Bubbe's hand and watched as other women, many in tears, tried to find a seat. Finally the train lurched forward. Bubbe squeezed my hand and whispered, "Freedom."

  We had been riding for perhaps an hour and a half—I with my head resting on Bubbe's shoulder—when I felt Bubbe squeeze my hand again. I knew that this time she was signaling not pleasure but danger. I opened my eyes and standing before me was an old schoolmate, Marila Yankowitz, as fat and hairy as ever.

  Her eyes widened as I looked up at her. She pointed a stubby finger at me and said in a booming voice, "Yes, I thought so. I know you!"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Chana

  I TRIED NOT TO BE BITTER about Marila turning us over to the Germans. As Bubbe had said, she had been separated from her family, and it was her chance to get back home. When the guards tossed us out of the train, however, and we landed on our knees on the concrete, I couldn't help but wish I could shove Marila under a moving train.

  Two other guards, ones I hadn't seen before, ordered us to get up and come with them. They led us out of the train station and through the gray, unlit streets of a bustling German town. The people on the sidewalks were hurrying home for supper, but all of them took a little time to stop and watch the guards march us along, guns at our shoulders.

  I wondered where they were taking us. Were they going to shoot us? Was this the last I'd see of the world? We stopped in front of a well-lit building with iron gates that towered above our heads. More guards were waiting for us there. They took us inside, led us down a long corridor and into a dingy, foul-smelling shower room. Here two women washed us in disinfectant, cut our hair—no style, just chop, chop—and handed us prison clothes. I watched them as they hauled away my clothes, my coat, and my violin.

  My violin! Would I ever see it again? Would I ever play it again? Did orchestras still exist on the outside, or had they disappeared with the war, with Hitler and his mission of hatred and annihilation? Were they now just echoes from within the ghetto, echoes of a time and a world that could never be again?

  A Defense Corps wardress with a beautiful face and deep creases in her forehead led us to another room and took our fingerprints and our pictures. Then she marched us downstairs through yet another corridor, this one lined on both sides with narrow cells. She opened the door to one of the cells and motioned for Bubbe to enter. Bubbe squeezed my hand and murmured, "Have cheer, at least we were not shot." Then she stepped past the wardress, bowed, and said," Danke, "and the door closed behind her.

  I followed the wardress down to the end of the hall, up a short set of stairs, and into a large room. The first thing I saw upon entering the room was my violin case. Without thinking, I made a move toward it, and two men, the wardress, and another woman charged toward me.

  "My violin," I said as I backed away from them.

  One of the men, a tall, emaciated-looking man with a fat nose and
glasses that sat smashed up against his face, grinned down at me.

  "You want your violin?" he asked me in German.

  " Jawohl, "I replied. Of course I did.

  "Good, we can arrange that for you. If you tell us your name and where you got these papers"—he gestured to my passport and birth certificate on the desk behind him—"then you will get your violin back and everyone will be happy. It is easy, no?"

  I opened my mouth to speak and saw the other woman in the room hurry to her typewriter, which sat on a small desk at the right-hand side of the room. She was almost a midget, coming up, perhaps, to my rib cage, and yet her hands were normal-sized, with long, thick fingers that waited poised above the typewriter for me to speak.

  "My name is Ewa Krisowski," I said. "That is all I have ever been called. If I have another name, I do not know it."

  The man snapped his fingers. "Give me that paper with the names on it."

  One of the other men, also tall, but well filled out, lunged toward the larger desk in the center of the room and grabbed up a sheet of paper. He handed it to the man with the fat nose.

  "You are Chana Shayevitsh, are you not? A Jew from Lodz, Poland."

  "That girl from the train must have told you that. She wanted very badly to return to Poland. Of course, she told you that so she could be set free. I, too, have family I left behind. They do not know where I am. She was clever, that girl from the train. She fooled everyone. Even you."

  The man with the fat nose straightened up. His eyes darted sideways to the other man beside him and then returned to me. In less than a second his expression changed from pleasant but serious to ragingly angry as his skeletal hand came down upon my shoulder in a chop that knocked me to my knees. It felt as if my collarbone had snapped in two. Where had his strength come from?

  I began to stand up, but again his hand came down upon the same shoulder and rammed me back onto the floor. I stayed there, frozen, my left shoulder throbbing.

  "Now you understand. To enter the Retch illegally is a serious crime. You will tell me where you got those papers."

  "I have always had them. I do not know what more I can say." I braced myself for another blow but none came. Instead he ordered the wardress to take me away so I could think about it awhile.

  As I stood up to leave, I saw through the window that dawn was breaking and wondered if the Germans ever slept.

  The wardress took me back to the cells and opened the one where Bubbe was waiting. When she saw me, her eyes filled with tears and she reached out for my hands.

  Before I could respond, the wardress had stepped in and grabbed Bubbe's arm. She pulled her out of the cell. I wanted her to know that I hadn't said anything.

  "Good-bye, Rachela," I said.

  I don't know how long I had slept but when I awoke Bubbe still had not returned. I stood up and peered through the door. I hadn't noticed earlier if there were any other prisoners in this hall of cells, but now I could hear movement coming from the cell next door.

  "Rachela?" I called out. "Rachela, is that you?"

  I heard a low chuckle coming from the cell to my right. "She'll not be coming back, that one," a voice muttered.

  I backed away from the door as though it were a wall of fire. What does she know? She doesn't know.

  "Please, Bubbe, please come back."

  I waited—hours? days? I didn't know. The lighting in the windowless cells never changed. All I knew was that Bubbe was not with me and that I was so thirsty I had begun to lick the bars on my door as if they were bars of ice. I had not been fed or given anything to drink since we had arrived. I thought perhaps I would go mad. I slept as much as I could, always hopeful that when I awoke Bubbe would be standing in front of me, her hand reaching down to pat my head.

  Every time I heard the light steps of the wardress tapping down the hall, I rushed to the door, expecting to see Bubbe behind her, but she was never there.

  I prayed for long periods of time, stringing together any bits of prayer I could remember.

  "Look upon us in our suffering and fight our struggles," I prayed, recalling the seventh blessing of the Shemoneh Esrei "Redeem us speedily, for Thy name's sake, for Thou art a mighty Redeemer. Blessed art Thou, Lord, Redeemer of Israel."

  I repeated this for hours and tried to convince myself that Bubbe was all right, that she was alive. I was down on my knees chanting with my eyes closed when I felt a presence in the room. I turned toward the door, expecting to see Bubbe, but instead I saw my "friend," the one I had seen before the death of my father, and before we left for the ghetto, and then again as Mama and Anya were carted away.

  "You have been a comfort to me before," I said to the image before me, as though she were real, "but not now. You are always here when someone leaves me. You bring with you bad news. Go away."

  I closed my eyes and began reciting my prayers, but I could tell she was still behind me. Finally, I could take it no longer. I whipped around and shouted, "What have you to tell me then? Bubbe is dead? I know that! Now you can leave. Go away and never return, never! There is no one left. There is no reason for you ever to come back. I'm all alone!"

  I crawled up onto the bed and cried, my face buried in the mattress. I was going mad, hallucinating. I could feel my insides boiling up in my throat. I cried harder, trying to block out the presence of that girl. I could feel her drawing closer, feel her standing right next to the bed. I looked up at her and stopped crying. I felt something cold and heavy run through me like an iron, smoothing out all the black knots inside of me. My breathing slowed down until I was hardly breathing at all. I lay on my back with my eyes closed and felt the stale air inside the cell evaporate, leaving behind fresh air and the scent of grass.

  "Thank you," I whispered. "I am all right now." I opened my eyes and smiled at her. "Thank you, my Shvester. I—I will call you that, Shvester, because sisters have a special bond."

  A few minutes later I heard the jangle of keys outside my door. I sat up and saw the wardress signal to me to come with her. I was taken to the same room as before, and as before the two men and the midget were there waiting for me. The only difference was that my violin was no longer there and Shvester was. She stood above the two men and smiled down at me. There was no sorrow or hurt in her eyes this time.

  I looked at the man with the fat nose. He took a step forward.

  "We will not waste time today. Your mother has already confessed. She has told us everything. Now you must confess. If your story is the same as hers, then neither of you will be hurt. What is your name?"

  My mother has confessed? Had Bubbe made up some other story or were they just bluffing? I wondered. I had the feeling they were bluffing. Bubbe had told them nothing and they did away with her, as they would do with me, if I didn't tell.

  "I told you, I know of no other name. I am Ewa Krisowski."

  I don't know why I felt so calm. I stood before these two men and looked above them at Shvester. Perhaps I had accepted my fate.

  I saw the hand rise up above my shoulder. As it came down upon me, I sank readily to the floor, no resistance. The pain, which had been excruciating before and had made sleeping on my left side impossible, was minimal this time.

  "Get up!" the man shouted.

  I stood up.

  "Where did you get those papers?"

  "I have always had them."

  This time he slapped my face, and again I moved in the direction of his hand so I felt only a slight sting down the left side of my face.

  He asked me the same questions again and again, and I answered, and again and again he slapped me. At last, when he had drawn blood, he stopped.

  "You will regret this," he said to me, and then turned to the wardress and said, "Cell D."

  I was led away, back down the long corridor, all the way to the other end and up the same stairs we had come down when we had first arrived. Then we walked down another hallway. The wardress stopped in front of a door and held it open for me. It was the bathroom. Th
ere were no toilets in the cells, so every once in a while I and the other prisoners were taken to the bathroom. I looked forward to this time more than anything else. It was a chance to get some water. I would go to the sink to wash my hands and face and allow the water to run into my mouth.

  I didn't know whether the blood was coming from my nose or my lip, but the wardress allowed me time enough to splash the cold water over my face until the bleeding stopped.

  I was then taken down yet another hallway and down three flights of stairs. I could feel the temperature change as we stepped down the last flight. The hallway was wet and cool, the walls made of stone. I could see drops of water oozing out of these stones as though they were being crushed by the weight of the building. The wardress unlocked the door and motioned me into a dark room. As I followed her in, I realized that Shvester was gone. Where was I going, I wondered, if she would leave me alone?

  The wardress walked across to the other end of the room, unlocked another door, and motioned for me to go in. It was darker still. I could see shadows and movement; other people were already there. The door closed behind me and the key turned in the lock.

  "Ewa?"

  "Rachela?"

  "Ewa! At last it is you!"

  I stumbled forward, reaching out for my bubbe, and fell at last into her waiting arms. We sat on the floor rocking and holding on to one another, talking, laughing, and crying. Bubbe had told them nothing. They told her I was dead, but she knew it wasn't so. She had been in this dark cell since we had been separated, and had spent her hours between visits to the two men in prayer.

  "What now, do you think?" I asked her when we had caught up with each other's lives.