Everybody had a task. Leah slaved away in the barn, though she was no expert at milking, to make sure the newcomers had fresh milk. Rachel and Dvora left the washroom sparkling clean, and moved on to the chicken coop, where they got two chickens and a basket overflowing with eggs. That evening, we would have a royal feast.
Time sped by, and by noon all the kibbutz members were anxiously standing by the side of the road. Waiting. Silently praying for a miracle.
Our excitement mounted as we saw the bus appear in the distance. I looked at my mother. She was excited. So was Leah. Everybody waited, holding their breath in anticipation. Maybe here, on this bus, they’d find their lost relatives.7 The outdated bus crawled its way toward us and stopped in the main square, raising a cloud of dust around it. People started coughing, and clothes were unwittingly stained, but no one cared.
The bus opened its doors, and a group of people stepped out. All were dragging tattered suitcases and bundles of cloth, with blankets tied around their belongings. Most of the men were unshaven. Their eyes were sunken and tired, especially the gaunt elderly men and women, who leaned on the younger ones for support. Some were clearly excited, while others were still shocked and overwhelmed. Saul encouraged them with cries of “Welcome!” Even we, the children, were waiting for them. We had no idea who they were, but we waited just like the adults.
Miriam stood by Leah, holding her hand, and looked on with hope in her eyes. Who was she waiting for? Suddenly, Leah let go of her hand and ran up to one of the newcomers. He was surprised to see her running toward him, as were we. But we smiled. At least one kibbutz member had found her family. They fell into each other’s arms and stayed that way for a few moments. When they let go, Leah whispered lovingly, “Uncle Yankel!”
“Henya!” he replied.
At that, they fell silent. They realized they had made a mistake.
“I’m sorry,” Leah apologized. “I thought you were …”
“Me, too. I thought you were someone else.”
Another hope shattered; Leah wiped a single tear off her cheek. We had seen it before, yet we knew they would never stop hoping, praying they’d see their loved ones again.
The other immigrants stepped off the bus and eventually made their way into the kibbutz, toward the rooms, accompanied by the members. The main square was now empty. Only a few remnants—a bench or two, flags, a table, a pitcher of cold water and glasses of orange juice—told of the joy and excitement that had just taken place there.
Just Leah and that man stayed behind. Leah apologized over and over for her mistake. He took off his hat, revealing his white, mostly bald head. “Sit down, my child,” he requested. She sat down on the bench by his side. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Leah,” she replied. “And yours?”
“Manek. You know, I had a niece like you once. Her name was Henya. Her hair was the color of yours, and her eyes were the color of yours.”
“And I … I thought you were my uncle Yankel,” she said sadly. “His walk was like your walk, and his smile was like your smile.”
The two of them fell silent. Then, Leah perked up. “I almost forgot,” she said, pointing to the pitcher of water. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, I’d like a glass of fresh milk very much,” he said.
“Wait right here,” she said, and ran to the kitchen, just as she had as a child, when she’d run to fetch whatever her father asked for. And, in fact, she felt like a child again. She tilted the giant container so that fresh, white milk flowed into the glass in her hand. The milk filled the cup and overflowed, spilling everywhere. Leah smiled to herself. Bracha, who was passing by and noticed this, was displeased. Spilling was wasteful.
“Leah? Are you alright?” she asked, a hint of reproach in her voice.
Distracted, Leah didn’t answer as she left with the glass of milk. She came back to the main square and saw Manek looking around and taking in his new surroundings. She was about to sit down by his side when Yael came running up, out of breath.
“Leah, come quickly!” she panted. “We were playing in the field, and Dan fell down. He’s bleeding … from his head.”
In her panic, Leah dropped the glass of milk. She urged Yael, “Run off and get the nurse!” She herself ran toward the field where the children were playing. She’d been so preoccupied with Manek that she’d forgotten to watch over them.
She came running. Dan was still lying there in the center of a makeshift soccer court, the sand lot the children used as a playing field. “Dan,” she whispered, leaning over him.
Immediately following Leah was the nurse with her first aid kit, who bandaged Dan’s head. Dan rose to his feet, leaning on Leah and the nurse.
We walked him to the room. Everybody sat around his bed. Leah sat by my side and held Dan’s hand.
Dan’s mother was there too; she’d heard the news and dropped everything to come and sit by his side, caressing his brown hair. There was a sudden knock on the door, and Manek—the man from the bus—walked in. All eyes turned to him. He had a kind smile, like a grandfather.
“Hello there, young man,” he said to Dan.
Dan didn’t answer; he just nodded hello.
Leah welcomed Manek and said, “Come in, have a seat.” She gave him her spot and sat with the children.
“How do you feel?” asked Manek. Dan smiled. “Did you hit your head? Don’t worry, it’ll pass.”
The room was quiet. Manek looked around. Preparations for Hanukkah8 were underway, and paper decorations, menorahs fashioned out of different objects, and candles and dreidels9 were left on the floor from a recent game. He picked up one of the dreidels and studied it. After a few moments of silence, he looked up at us and said, “Would you like me to tell you a story about a real Hanukkah miracle?”
Dan nodded, as did the rest of us. And Manek began his story:
“I’m sure you know there was a war with the German Nazis. Thank the Lord, the war ended, and here I am, in the land of Israel.” He shook his head in disbelief, still amazed that he’d actually made it. “Well, it seemed nearly certain that the Nazis could and would kill all the Jews and leave not a trace of us. Before the war, I lived in a large, fancy house with my wife, my son, and my sister and her daughter. By the time we felt we were in danger, it was already too late to flee the country. So, we stayed where we lived, until we heard what the Nazis had done in the neighboring town and decided we should try to get away. Along with our neighbors, we found a small hiding place where we stashed all our belongings.
“Some believed it was an excellent hiding place for people, as well as their belongings, and they decided to hide there. Most of our neighbors did this, and my sister decided it was best for her to stay as well, since the danger of being on the road seemed far greater.
“We said our goodbyes to everybody, and we wandered for days upon nights. My wife resembled an Aryan,10 so she did not need to hide. She’d hand-roll cigarettes and sell them to people for spare change, which she’d use to buy us food as best she could. I, on the other hand, a Jew in both appearance and temperament”—he chuckled as he said these words—“I hid with my little boy and waited for her return. One day, she never came back. I looked for her everywhere. After a few days, I gave up. I understood that I would never see her again….” Manek spoke softly, practically whispering those last few words. Then, he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dab at his wet eyes. We averted our gaze, and Manek continued:
“We were forced, my son and I, to leave our hiding place and wander through various towns, looking for food and shelter. One day, as I walked through one of these towns, I knocked fearfully on the door of a house at the side of the road. To my surprise, the woman who opened the door was related to my wife. I knew she lived somewhere near there, but I didn’t know exactly where. I was overjoyed to finally see a friendly face. She took us into her house and fed us delicacies we hadn’t tasted in a very long time.
�
��I told her everything we’d been through in great detail. She told me there was a man in the neighboring town who could forge documents that might help us escape. Somewhat apprehensively, she wrote his address down for me on a piece of paper. I decided to try my luck and get documents for the both of us. In the meantime, to avoid putting my son in danger, I asked if I could leave him with her until I returned.
“She agreed, and I left, following her directions to the address she’d given me. The distance was roughly twenty-five kilometers,11 and I had no choice but to make the journey on foot. It took a lot of effort and money, but eventually I got the documents. A few days had passed by the time I completed my mission and returned to town. But by then, the town was no longer there.”
Manek’s voice was different now, deeper and drenched in sadness.
“It was a desolate dump. The relatives and my boy were no longer there. I searched for days. I asked people what had happened there and heard their stories. I knew it was a lost cause. So, I continued on my journey alone. It went on that way for many months.
“Throughout the entire war I fought hard to save my life. What kept me going was a vow I made for myself, to one day go to the land of Israel and tell the world what had happened to us, in memory of my wife and child. And when the war was over, when the allies finally defeated the Germans, I felt alone in this world, and I decided to go back to my town to find any surviving relatives. When I got there, I found nothing at all. The looters had taken everything. No one was left, an entire Jewish community evaporated, and all our family belongings, too. Not even a photograph, a tiny charm, or a piece of clothing was left behind for me to keep as a precious souvenir. I dug up the spot where we’d buried our belongings, but I found nothing except for a piece of paper with the words ‘Mama, Manek was right!’ written in a child’s handwriting. When I read the words, I could hear the voices that might have written or said them. I didn’t know if one of the neighbors’ children had written it or if it was my sister’s daughter. But I understood how terribly they had suffered.”
He pulled a torn piece of paper from his pocket, folded and wrapped in plastic, and showed it to the children. We gazed at the page in wonder. Manek continued:
“I gave up hope of finding any trace of my family, so I made do with this precious piece of paper. I went to a tavern. Pioter, the Polish bartender, was still there, pouring beer just like he had in the days before the war. I took a seat at the bar. Pioter turned to me and asked, astonished, ‘Manek?!’ ‘Yes,’ I responded.
“He hugged me warmly. ‘Manek, my friend,’ he said. ‘I saw them … I saw how they took them away.’
“I asked him countless questions, to learn everything I could about the fate of my family. Pioter told me everything he knew and what he had heard from others. I listened closely.
“I wanted to know everything about them. Maybe there was still a chance of finding them? But he kept cutting his story short because he had to serve someone a drink or because someone asked him a question. I looked around. Everything was exactly the same. Nothing had changed. But then I remembered that before the war Pioter had a painting hanging of a flowing river. My wife had loved that painting. I looked around for it. I wanted to etch it into my memory, maybe even buy it. But in its place on the wall, there was …”
At this point, Manek stopped telling his story. We all stared at him, waiting, curious. We thirsted for his words. What happened next? Then, he continued:
“Hanging on the wall, I saw a menorah. It wasn’t too big, and it was made of copper. Pioter saw the shock on my face and said, ‘Oh, that. One day some merchant came by and sold it to me. To be honest with you, I don’t even know what the thing is used for.’ He said this dismissively.
“‘Will you sell it to me?’ I asked and pulled out all the coins in my possession.
“Pioter looked at all my money and said, ‘That’s too much, my friend. I’ll sell it to you for 100 zlotys.’”12 Manek chuckled and explained, “That, too, is a lot of money. He took the menorah down off the wall and handed it to me. That menorah was dear to my heart and is still precious to me. I got it from my father-in-law, who got it from his father-in-law. Imagine my joy at finding that precious treasure.” Manek untied his bundle of clothes and revealed the menorah hidden deep inside. He showed it to us and said:
“I stayed in Poland for a while, and then I decided to finally come to the land of Israel. But there was one problem. The authorities didn’t allow us to take our personal possessions with us—nothing but clothes and essentials. So, I baked a big loaf of bread, hid the menorah inside it and got ready to leave the country. When I reached the port, where they checked our luggage to see if we’d followed their strict orders, the officers noticed my big loaf of bread. ‘What is that?’ an officer asked. ‘It’s food,’ I told him. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us, and I might get hungry.’
“He nodded suspiciously. I’m not sure he believed me, but eventually he let me through. I breathed a sigh of relief that I was able to fool him and reach the land of Israel with the menorah … to tell you this story.”
Manek finished his story, and we were left with tears in our eyes, unable to move or say a word.
Suddenly, Dan’s mother said, “Children, what do you think about staging Manek’s story as our Hanukkah play?” She turned to him and said, “I’m sorry. Only if you agree to it first, of course.”
“It would be a great honor,” he said, and then added, “I love children, but I have no one left in the world. Will you accept me as your uncle?”
“Yes, Uncle Manek!” we all cried out.
Leah stood up. “And now, children, to the dining hall. We’ve got a celebration dinner to go to. Let’s let Dan rest.”
Chapter 6
The Hanukkah party was getting closer and closer. As time passed, I grew more and more concerned, because the play was based on Manek’s story, and Miriam, who’d come from over there—and by now was, to my amazement, speaking Hebrew well but with a heavy accent—was given one of the best parts: Manek’s wife. The role of Manek, of course, was promised to Dan.
At mealtime, my worries were interrupted by Rina, Yael’s mother, who was the show coordinator in addition to being in charge of laundry for the kibbutz, as she walked into the dining hall. “Quiet, children, quiet down,” she said as she tried to silence the ruckus around our table. “I have an announcement for you,” she said. “Today we’ll be having a rehearsal. While we’re there, we’ll have a chance to decide if the children we picked last week will still be playing the parts chosen for them. Anyone who doesn’t show up for rehearsal will not be in the play. Michal.” The teacher turned to me. “Come see me after the meal.”
I finished eating and walked over to the teacher’s table. “Michal,” she said quietly. “Miriam and Dan are on duty right now. Please let them know about the meeting at four o’clock.”
“Sure, of course,” I said.
I stepped out of the dining hall. To my delight, Miriam just happened to pass by.
“Today, at six, there’s a rehearsal for the play,” I told her confidently.
“Isn’t that late?” she asked in wonder.
“I don’t know. That’s what I was told,” I said, and ran off to look for Dan. I found him in the chicken coop. I didn’t linger there; I gave him the message, word for word, and went off to work in the barn.
Night fell, and the hour of the rehearsal came and went.
Yael’s mom made good on her threat, and when Miriam failed to show up, she cancelled her participation in the play. The role of Manek’s wife fell to me.
At exactly six o’clock, out on the lawn, away from everybody else, a girl stood waiting, tapping her little feet. After waiting a long time, she finally gave up, and she went off to the toddlers’ room. When she walked in, the caretaker greeted her by whispering, “Hush … hush. They just fell asleep.” But Miriam nevertheless pushed the door open and stormed in. The babies sleeping peacefully filled her with a warm an
d pleasant feeling. She walked over to her brother’s bed. He still slept restlessly, and would wake up several times a night, frightened and yelling words Miriam could not understand, before falling back asleep. She looked at him with sorrow and love. Their mother would have been proud if she could see them now, she thought. “Mama,” he mumbled, as if reading her mind, and at that moment she missed their mom with all her heart. By his bed, Miriam left him a piece of chocolate that she’d gotten and saved for him all day. From there, she went to the children’s communal room. Everybody was at the dining room at the time.
She opened the dresser by her bed, which was nothing but a wooden box with a drawer in it, and pulled out her old dress, the one she’d worn when she arrived in Israel. She’d kept it as a souvenir. Miriam held it in her hand. The dress seemed so different to her now, and it smelled bad.
Have I adapted to the kibbutz? she wondered. She looked at her clothes. They were identical to the clothes of all the other children on the kibbutz—a short-sleeved shirt and pants which revealed skinny little legs. Suddenly, she noticed me, standing at the doorway watching her. We looked at each other. And then she averted her eyes. Meanwhile, my eyes sparkled and remained fixed on her. She got up from her bed and turned to leave.
I felt a pang of sadness at the pitiful sight. I’d never felt that way before. Was I changing?
She stopped before leaving and stared at me, her gaze piercing. Then she left the room, walking slowly. I moved toward the exit and kept watching her. Rina, who was strolling along the path, walked over to her. “Are you going to get some food?” she asked.
“Yes,” Miriam answered, sounding angry.
“Are you in a bad mood or what?” asked Rina.
“No, it’s nothing,” Miriam said dismissively, before walking even faster.
The Girl From Over There Page 3
