by Carol Matas
I hope we don’t have to stay in the woods. The woods are scary. I look at them at night and hear the strange noises coming from them and always think how happy I am not to be there. Until now. Thank goodness I am wearing a warm sweater and my boots and so is Mama, but it will still be cold tonight. At least there is no snow.
Mama keeps us moving for the rest of the afternoon. By the time we stop we are very deep in the woods, probably lost, and I’m hungry and thirsty. She motions for me to sit. I sink down under a tree. She only lets me rest for a few minutes and then makes me get up. She takes a coat out of the rucksack for me and an extra sweater, and an extra sweater for her, and an extra pair of stockings for me. She helps me put them all on, layer after layer. We must keep moving, she says and she takes my hand and we start to walk.
Then she starts to sing. She makes me sing with her in Hebrew. I can hear her voice crack as she sings, remembering, maybe, Shabbos in our house before the Germans came and when she would light the candles. She would have a beautiful scarf over her head and she would wave her hands over the candles and then put both hands over her eyes as if she were playing hide-and-seek.
Shalom aleichem
Mal’achei hasharet
Mal’achei elyon.
Mimelech mal’achei ham’lachim.
Hakadosh baruch hu.
Bo’achem leshalom,
Mal’achei hashalom
Mal’achei elyon.
Mimelech mal’achei ham’lachim
Hakadosh baruch hu.
We always sing this song on Shabbos. Some of its verses are about two angels who come home from shul to share Shabbos with the family. Come in peace, bless me in peace, and go out in peace.
But it’s kind of slow and sad, so then we sing an old lullaby about a rabbi teaching the little ones their ABCs in front of a fireplace.
I am slowing down and getting tired and I am so cold I am shaking from head to foot, so Mama thinks of something more rousing, the song the fighters would sing in Yiddish:
Don’t say even once that this is your final journey
Not even when dark clouds block out blue skies
As the time we’ve yearned for nears
Our march sounds like a drum: We are here!
But just as we finish the last line, suddenly she stops dead. “Hush!”
I hold my breath. I hear it too. Voices — German, I think — shouting.
There is a faint light coming through the trees from the moon and the stars. Now that our eyes are used to the night, it isn’t really that dark. She takes my hand and we try to walk as fast as we can without bumping into trees and big bushes or falling over logs. It’s not long though before both of us trip and fall over, crashing into another log. I can feel my hand is cut. Mama picks me up and carries me, but now the sound of men yelling is getting much closer.
And then there is a dark shape standing right in front of us and a man’s voice growls, in Yiddish, “Who are you?”
“Ania and Rozia Rabinowitz from Warsaw.”
“The rabbi’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“This way.”
We follow his shape until he stops and says there is a stream ahead. “You’ll get wet but there is no other way.”
Mama continues to carry me so I stay dry while she slogs through the freezing water. She gasps from the cold. Once we get far upstream and step out on the other side, the man takes us farther into the forest until we reach a very small glade. He seems to reach down and pick up the forest floor! Under the ground is a small space, like a shallow grave. He motions for us to get in. We do. We have to lie down scrunched up. He pulls the “cover” back and we are left in the dark.
Mama holds me tight. She whispers in my ear. “We will survive this night, Rozia, my little Rozia, we will be all right.” And quietly, very quietly, she says in my ear, “Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.” Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. That is the prayer Papa always used to say if someone was dying. And sometimes the dying person would say it themselves. If I heard it on the ghetto street once, I heard it a thousand times. It doesn’t make me feel much better.
Friday, March 5, 1948, Very late!
We sang “Shalom Aleichem” at Susan’s house tonight. I almost cried, but managed not to. It must be so nice for Susan and her brothers to be able to sing such a beautiful song and not have it wound up in memories. I miss my family so much.
Sunday, March 7, 1948
Terry and I still aren’t speaking. Saul doesn’t understand why the atmosphere is so bad and Rita doesn’t either, but I’m not a tattle-tale so I won’t tell them. Saul joked about it and asked me and Terry if everything was all right, and Terry smiled and said everything was just fine, and then I said the same.
Dinners are strained and I think Saul and Rita might be starting to wonder if taking me in was really a good idea. I am wondering if it was a good idea to return here when Miss Kobrinsky convinced me and Saul to give it another go. It’s not that Saul and Rita don’t try, but especially after a meeting with the other orphans, like today, it feels as if Saul and Rita, and certainly Terry and I, are from different worlds altogether.
It’s hard to explain how I feel when I go to my Sunday meeting at the Y with the other orphans. The rest of the week seems to fade away and I somehow feel like I’m with my true family. We have all been through hell and somehow survived, and we understand each other. I wish I could just live with all of them!
It’s getting late now though, and I need to keep writing about me and Mama.
I REMEMBER
December 1943
The “cover” of our hiding place turns out to be a mass of branches and leaves and grass tied together by a cord. I see it as I am pulled out by the same man who helped us the night before. “I’ll take you to our zemlianka,” he says. “This one is only for emergencies.”
In the morning light I can see that we are by a stream. We walk downstream for about half an hour until we come to a small hill in the forest. We follow him right up to the hill. There are branches piled up on one side. The man pulls them aside and there is a door! A real door — well, made of wood, not fancy, but a door. I wonder for a moment if this is some kind of fairy tale like the Brothers Grimm tell. That was one of the books Papa insisted on taking to the ghetto and he would read me the stories at night. They were scary, but not as scary as the ghetto.
A magic door in the hillside. When the man opens it there are steps! Wooden steps! More and more I’m thinking that perhaps we will find a gingerbread house or an ice castle or … Instead I am hit by the worst smell I have ever encountered. It is so bad that I have to turn around and retch and Mama too looks like she is going to vomit.
“You must get down or go on your way,” says the man. “We cannot be out in the open during the day.”
I take a deep breath of fresh air and follow Mama down the stairs. There are about twenty people lying or sitting on straw beds, all scrunched together. The walls are wooden logs, as is the floor. It’s like a little underground house. There seems to be some kind of stove, but it is not lit. It’s cold enough to see your breath, but not as cold as outside. The roof has some log beams and there is a small window. As I watch, someone empties a chamber pot out of the window.
The man announces who we are and then tells us his name, Max. There are mostly men there and three women. I’m the only child. I see guns and rifles. They must be fighters! I wish I were old enough to go shoot some Nazis. Shoot them dead.
He motions us over to a mat of straw and we settle in. And before I know it I’m asleep.
Friday, March 12, 1948
Susan and I have been so busy studying together that I haven’t had a chance to write at all. Well, that’s not exactly true. We aren’t just studying anymore. Something has changed. We’ve started to talk. She complains to me about her older brothers and I tell her how lucky she is to have them. She rolls her eyes, but then looks at me seriously and nods yes, she understan
ds.
I even confided in her about Oskar! She wasn’t horrified at all and told me that she loves Len from our class and would give anything for a kiss from him, but that all the boys think she is ugly. She’s not ugly. She’s short and a little plump, but unlike me — I’m too tall and thin — she has a lovely figure. Her hair is a bit unruly. It’s long and naturally curly and mostly looks like a strong wind has hit it, and she does have a prominent nose, but what’s wrong with that? I tell her she looks like pictures I’ve seen of Fanny Brice, and look how she turned out!
At any rate, her mother invited me over for Shabbos dinner and Saul and Rita seemed fine with me going. Mr. Churchill told jokes again. At one point he told this joke: “God, I only wish you would help me while I’m waiting for you to help me!”
I remember so well how everyone always said God would help us when we were in the ghetto. I suppose you could say He helped me then, but what about Papa? And Abe? And Sophie? And Mama? And every single one of those others? What about the ones who died, gassed in the chambers?
Maybe I will always be different from anyone else, outside of the other orphans. For instance, when Mr. Churchill told that joke everyone laughed. They didn’t immediately think of millions of people killed, and their own family being murdered. And yet, it was funny and I laughed too.
Susan’s brothers talk over one another all the time, but Susan makes sure she is heard. She’s not shy at all in her own house. There is never a dull moment there, that is for certain. And the food is wonderful.
Mrs. Churchill asked me how Rita was feeling and I said she must have the flu because she’s been quite ill, but instead of looking worried Mrs. Churchill smiled. That seemed odd and a little unfeeling.
I REMEMBER
December 1943
I wake up scratching. And scratch more and more and more. I see Mama is scratching too. Lice! There must be lice here. Oh no! I wish I could crawl out of my skin like a snake.
Mama whispers to me that children aren’t allowed here with the fighters in the zemlianka. She has begged the leader, Max — it’s an all-Jewish group — for time to find me somewhere to go. She says we could try to make it to a family camp, but she needs to find the safest place for me. She has asked them to try to get a message to Mia if they can — maybe she can help us.
Saturday, March 13, 1948
I don’t know what to say. I’m so shocked. Today Saul took me and Terry and Rita to the movies and then out for dinner at The White House. We went to see Road to Rio, with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour. It was silly but I didn’t mind, and the Andrews Sisters were in it and I loved them! Afterwards we went to eat and, like before, the food was wonderful. As we were having dessert, Saul cleared his throat and said to me, “Rose, we have some very happy news.”
I looked at Terry. She’s still not really speaking to me. She had a funny look on her face. As if she’d just won a fight with me and I’d lost. I put down my fork, still with an uneaten piece of chocolate cake on it, and asked what the news was.
“Rita is expecting a baby in the summer,” he said.
“But that’s wonderful,” I said. And I meant it. I looked at Terry. She was smiling. She didn’t care about me at all in that moment. I could see how much she was looking forward to a baby brother or a baby sister. Saul smiled too. And Rita. They were all so happy.
“Thank you,” Rita said to me.
Then there was this strange silence, as if something else should be said, but wasn’t. I didn’t know what to do so I returned to my cake.
But now that I’m home and alone in my room, I have to wonder if they are going to find me another place to live, or ask me to leave. There are only three bedrooms here and I suppose they’ll need this room for a nursery when the baby is born. If Terry and I got along well, then it would be no problem, because we could share a room. I suspect they have already talked to her about that and I can just imagine what her answer was. Her friends are still tormenting Susan — except not when I’m there — and Terry has started to join in even more. I think maybe that’s to get back at me for choosing Susan over her when I live here, and she feels I owe her something.
I REMEMBER
December 1943
We’ve only been here three days and Mama has already returned from her first raid with the fighters. They bring back food — cooked food they must have liberated from somewhere. Stew with some kind of meat — probably squirrel or something — but I really don’t care. It tastes delicious to me. I’m glad her first mission with the group was just stealing food. Mama told me before they went that she intends to fight with this group if she stays here. She says that at night the group raids farms and police stations for guns. They also attack small convoys and kill as many German soldiers as possible. Sometimes they connect with the Polish Resistance and take part in a bigger action.
After we eat we follow everyone to the river where all the fighters strip off their clothes, wash them, then heat them over a fire. I am a little shy but will do anything if it helps get rid of the lice. Mama says it will only help for a day or so because the lice lay eggs in our hair and even though we manage to kill them, we can’t kill all the eggs at the same time. But even a day without itching is better than nothing.
I know Mama is worried about us — especially me. I am not welcome to stay here any longer. There are not supposed to be any children at this kind of camp.
Sunday, March 14, 1948
As always, today at the Y we swam and played ping-pong and ate and talked. Oskar and I are competing now to see who can do more laps. I am becoming a strong swimmer and because of my long legs I am just as fast as him and sometimes even beat him. When I told him Rita’s news, his eyebrows went up and he said he was happy for them, but the first thing he asked was whether or not it would affect me.
I wish I knew.
I REMEMBER
January 15, 1944
Mama brought me a book she discovered in some garbage while looking for food. And since it is my ninth birthday today I can’t think of a better present. Doris stole a fresh bun for me from the local bakery. I don’t know how she managed it, but she did.
Friday, March 19, 1948
I don’t even know where to start. After Shabbos dinner, again with the Churchills, Mrs. Churchill took me into the den, away from everyone else. She sat on a couch and had me sit beside her, and then took my hands in hers. That shocked me. As long as I’ve been living with the Boxers, no one has ever held my hand or given me a hug or anything at all. She said to me, “Rose, this might come as a bit of a surprise, maybe even a shock, but I’d like to ask you something, and then I want you to think about it before you make any decision.”
I nodded, with no idea what was to come.
“I know that you and Susan are becoming good friends.”
Again I didn’t reply.
She took a deep breath. “We would like you to think about coming to live with us.”
Honestly, I was so shocked I couldn’t get any words out. She didn’t wait for a reply this time but rushed on, saying that Susan would happily share her room with me and that it was actually Susan’s idea. She suggested that it would be good for both of us, because we could easily study together. And apparently the boys thought it would give Susan a fairer shake in the house — you know, better odds! And with so many children there already, she and Mr. Churchill really couldn’t see how adding one more could do anything but perhaps make things more fun.
“I see you are very surprised,” she said, giving my hands a squeeze. “We just want you to think about it.”
“Don’t the Boxers want me anymore?” I asked, finally.
“Well, let’s put it this way,” she answered. “We want you more.”
She went on to say that although they haven’t known me for long, they would be happy to have me live with them and share their home. She told me that she and Mr. Churchill both feel life has treated them well, that they have been very lucky. Her husband’s business
has flourished, they have five healthy children, and Mr. Churchill was even spared the war because of an ulcer!
“We can’t really even imagine what you have been through, but we would like to …” she paused again, “to share some of our luck, I suppose. Does that sound fair?”
So that’s it, diary. When I got home — or maybe I should now say, when I got back to the Boxers’ house — I didn’t say anything to Saul or Rita, but they must have known what was happening because they looked at me as if expecting me to say something. Instead I said goodnight politely and came straight here so I could think.
The thing is, I think Saul really quite likes me and wishes things had worked out better. Maybe it’s a bit more his fault that they haven’t worked out than anyone else’s though, because if he hadn’t made Terry lie about Paula, maybe she wouldn’t have hated me at the start. And honestly, I don’t think she ever stopped hating me. So why stay here? On the other hand, Susan’s family haven’t known me for very long, have they? What’s going to stop them from wanting me to leave one day too?
The more I think about it, the more miserable I feel. Why did God leave me with no family at all? Not even one brother or sister or parent? Why did He leave me all alone in the world? He doesn’t care. He couldn’t care. The Nazis killed my family as if they were dogs — actually, a dog would be put down with more kindness than what happened to Papa or Abe. And what about the children who were gassed — and the few parents who survived knowing their children had been murdered that way? If He created the world, what was He thinking? Why create all this pain? This cruelty?
Why?
Why?
So, God, What do you have to say for yourself? Can you explain any of this?
When you have an answer you can let me know.
I REMEMBER
