He ran a finger over the bridge of the boy’s freckled nose, in the manner of Mengele during one of his counts.
And this is where I tried not to listen to Twins’ Father. I couldn’t bear to hear him speak of the longing he’d had to be found out. How often, Twins’ Father wept, had he wanted to corner Mengele in the laboratory and reveal, with a hiss, that the doctor’s research had been tampered with, that his studies were jokes, idiocy easily undone by the lies of juveniles! He acknowledged that Mengele would have shot him on the spot. But it would have been better, he claimed, to die like that than to be doomed to save children only to watch them end like this.
Miri’s face blanched and she tried to shoo us out. Her voice took on an odd pitch as she told us that we should go see if there were any chores we could do for the farmer. Not a peep arose from us. Even the chickens hushed. I tried to trace a path from the still-open eyes of the dead boy to the rafters above. What had he seen as he left us? I had never been dead, but I’d neared it enough to know that it was likely he had focused on that tiny fissure in the barn’s ceiling, a crack just wide enough to accommodate the remote brilliance of a star.
“No need to lie to them,” Twins’ Father said stonily with a sudden, forced composure. The soldier in him had returned. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and straightened the collar of David’s torn sweater. “Let them say good-bye.”
And so it was that we gathered around the little boy who had been felled by the food he’d long been denied. His face was not peaceful. Twins’ Father gathered David into his arms and carried him out to the pasture, past all the frostbitten knots of fallow things, and though the soil was wintered and hard, it opened up to receive him. We filed past the brief grave, each bearing a stone.
But the farmer’s wife interrupted our procession with her own ritual. She scattered poppy seeds on the grave. To feed the dead that come back disguised as birds, she said. I watched the poppy seeds turn in midair and settle in the ice. I didn’t know why those seeds felt so dear to me, but I was lessened by the sight of their dark scatter. Already, the smallness of their lives were cold and stunted, and no sooner had our backs turned to depart than I heard the flap of a bird’s wings slice the air, too eager to seize upon the abundance wrought by David’s death.
In the bed of the farmer’s truck, the troop propped themselves against the wooden slats. Red-eyed, Twins’ Father surveyed us and consulted his list, dragging his finger down the weathered paper.
We waved good-bye to the farmer’s wife, who stood with the bag of poppy seeds at her side, and to the six mothers, who had decided to linger at the farm, convinced that their children were mere steps behind even as the rest of their group had fractured, each of them wandering off on her own desperate quest. Yet still they searched the faces in the back of the truck, as if they had yet to accept that their loved ones were not among us.
Then the truck roared to life, a horn honked, and as we trundled off toward Krakow, I heard Miri say David’s name into the wind—she said it softly, as if he could hear her where he lay, so deaf and cold beneath the earth.
“Forgive me!” I heard her whisper.
Miri’s plea was puzzling—she was not responsible for David’s death. She had cared for him to the end. But as mysterious as it was, it struck something inside of me.
The whole world might be obsessed with revenge.
But for my part—I knew I wanted to forgive. My tormentor would never ask for my forgiveness—this was certain—but I knew it might be the only true power I had left, a means to spare myself his grasp, the one that I felt close on me every morning when I woke. And if I could do this, if I took on this duty of forgiveness—maybe my Someone would return to me. Or at least maybe I would stop seeing my Someone’s face on every refugee we passed, the dead and the living both.
Stasha
Chapter Seventeen
The Ruins Watch Over Us
Horse uplifted us. Mile after mile, we burdened this bony hero. In witnessing his enduring gallop, so unlikely for such a hungry animal, one could only believe that he, too, longed for the holy murder of Josef Mengele. But Warsaw would not be easily reached.
After four days of travel, we encountered roads thick with tanks and found ourselves turned about, choiceless, and pressed into Poznan. This had been Zayde’s city; he had taught at the university. Poznan, he liked to declare, was a jewel of scholarly devotion, a maker of great minds, of believers of art. But violence seemed the only lesson we might learn here now. The Wehrmacht stalked through the city, its streets silent but for the warning rattle of their gunfire and the echoes of their songs, rowdy bits of verse that surfaced as they braced themselves for the Russian advance.
Fearing that these soldiers might tire of their music and seek to amuse themselves with the torture of Horse and two refugees, we undertook the utmost stealth in our passage. Feliks took custody of our sacks, and I led Horse by his bridle. Ducking down a street, its lampposts strewn about like uprooted weeds, we found our path interrupted not by a menace of gray uniforms but by a beggar whose palm fell open at the sight of us.
That anyone might see us as prosperous enough to approach for food or coins seemed a wonder. But we decided to strike a deal. Some bread for the date, Feliks offered.
“February,” said the beggar. He said it could be the third day, it could be the fourth. I wanted to ask for our heel of bread back. “All you need to really know is that the Russians are coming. Leave now. This is my advice. And look,” he continued, biting into the bread. “I am not even charging you extra for this wisdom!” Having imparted this information, he limped off into the evening, leaving us to wonder at the sight that loomed behind us.
There it was, the old museum: a collapse of walls, a shudder of brick, a stagger of columns. The remaining windows were pocked and rent, glassy veils. The grand doors had fallen in surrender, and through the jagged entrances in the facade, I glimpsed the museum’s devastated interior. It appeared as if there was nothing to see but ruin. But when I looked still further, into my own memory, I saw the museum restored, its halls traversed by Zayde and Pearl while I lagged behind. I could see my seven-year-old sister pause on tiptoe before a painting while Zayde taught her what perspective meant.
Memory, it drove me into the museum.
I lied to myself and to Feliks, I said that we could find supplies in that building—in truth, this mattered little to me; what mattered was that I thought Zayde would be by my side if I entered. I might hear his whistle. I might smell the mothballs of his coat.
So we sat upon Horse’s back, our heads held high, for entry into this wasteland. Horse picked his way delicately up the crumbled stairs, his white flanks flashing silver in the evening light. On the fragmented marble of the threshold, his front hooves slipped—he threatened to founder, his whinny draped the devastated foyer with echoes, and then, as Horse always did, he pressed on.
There should have been paintings for us to see. Pictures of things real and not real, of landscapes and people. But in that museum, we could find only a portrait of ruin. We watched a hurricane of black pigeons swoop through a hole in the eaves. The floor opened wide and threatened to swallow us. Where it didn’t open, it hosted black pools of water. Light winced across the crumbled walls; rats philosophized from their holes.
“Blessed are the rats, for they at least believe in blood,” Feliks intoned. “That’s what my father the rabbi would have said.”
As if angered by this blessing, the theories of the rats increased in volume.
“Turn back.” Feliks shuddered. “That’s what my brother would say. Turn back!”
But I couldn’t turn back, because even in the shambles, I had this treasure: I was surrounded by what Zayde had loved. Though devastated, the museum still spoke of Zayde’s compassionate logic, his will, his science, all that he loved. And what Zayde had loved, they could not smash or burn or plunder. What he had loved was my tradition.
And as we moved through the savage disarray,
we kept a vigilant watch. Horse’s eyes flickered in the dark. We let our path be informed by traces of brass, coins that pillagers had left behind, snippets of wire. Bits of antiquity minnowed among the gravel that peppered the floors, and we soon found ourselves in a room where a chandelier swung. Horse startled us by shattering a teacup beneath his foot, and we saw then that we were in a grand tearoom, the very kind we’d heard our pale friend say she longed to visit as a true lady, before Taube snapped her neck.
This ruin reminded us like no other ruin had—we still lived while our friend did not. With respect to her loss, we climbed down from Horse to pay tribute.
“I would like to buy another day for the lovely Bruna,” Feliks whispered to the sky.
The wind offered nothing in reply.
“I don’t accept your answer,” he said, his voice dangerously veering from its whisper. “She was the bravest soul in all of Poland, and you let the world take her down.”
He leaped onto a pedestal bereft of its statuary, and on this surface he posed and flexed and shook his fist at the God he believed in. Looking at this monument he’d made to our anger, I saw that we were children still, but mercenary children, half-murdered troublers. I had to wonder what such a child looked like. I stalked about the velvets of this tearoom looking for some opportune reflection. But the darkness was unrelenting; the shards of glass said nothing about appearances at all. I remarked on the blackness of this evening to Feliks but received no answer. Seeing that he had left his pedestal, I looked about in a panic. Whenever Feliks left my sight, even for a moment, all feeling but loss fled me. Distraught, I searched in the dimness for a single hair of his bear-fur coat.
This is when I felt a tap at my back. The touch was musical; it clinked.
And when I turned, it was to the sight of a silver fist, brandished high by an armored individual. It lingered above my head; its enmeshed fingers stabbed the sky. In the confusion of this darkness, I was certain that this was a warrior who was aware of my dealings with Mengele. I could tell by this warrior’s bearing that he or she had a great love of justice and an awareness of my accidental crimes.
In my bewilderment, it didn’t occur to me to call for Feliks. It didn’t even occur to me to mount any defense on my behalf. I could’ve pointed to my greater scheme, my plans to thwart Mengele, my assumption that Pearl, too, would benefit from the needle.
Instead, I fell to my knees in the rubble, and I bent low. I made my neck vulnerable and ready for penalty. So bowed, I begged this warrior to punish me, to deliver me the greatest judgment of all, if he were able. I’d be happier dead, I declared, so long as I could be near my sister. I would bring death to myself, I swore, if I could!
“But I could never kill you!” the warrior proclaimed. He had a terribly pitchy voice for such a fearsome spectacle. It was the unmistakable squeak of Feliks. How could it be—was I so desperate to be delivered from my life that I mistook my gentle friend, clad in pilfered armor, for some divine hand of vengeance?
“Why would you make such a joke?” Feliks queried. “After all that we have endured! I understand your need for humor. But this?” He shook his silver head dolefully.
“I am not funny,” I agreed.
Fortunately, he was too enraptured with his latest acquisition to pursue this further. He turned so I could appreciate his appearance as one of the old Polish winged hussars, but the armor was creaky and ill-fitting. The torso piece swung and gaped over his bear-fur coat, and he had only to take a step before the silver piece fastened at his legs loosened and fell with a piteous clink. Still, my friend desired praise for his ferocity.
Naturally, I informed him that he looked a grand figure. If I were a Nazi, I said, I’d take one glance and flee. To this, he thrilled. I wished that I could have shared his delight, but I felt only anguish. Spying my mood, Feliks did his best to cheer me with another find from the depths of the rubble. In the air, he raised a tiny flask. I caught it up greedily and took a sip. The embered sensation in my throat made it known: this was not water.
“Vodka,” Feliks declared, repossessing the flask. “Good for bartering, but we could use some now.” He attempted a tipple and I snatched it away. But just as my hand closed on the flask, I heard Zayde.
To Pearl! Zayde toasted. Keeper of time and memory!
I had to honor this toast. So I let Feliks take a swig on my behalf, but he was not familiar with swigs. He knew only indulgence, and drink promptly overtook the emptiness of his stomach. He staggered about like a tin fool, then collapsed in a silver heap. For a moment, it appeared as if I would have to drag him up. But then he peeled the armor off in disgust and swung himself up onto the back of Horse, who looked askance at his tipsy burden.
“You aren’t fit to ride,” I protested, but he would have none of it.
And what could we do but ride? The soldiers patrolling the streets outside cared nothing for the condition of a thirteen-year-old boy.
“Fine,” I conceded, “let us go now.”
With the ruins behind, distant villages floated before us. On horseback, we picked our way across the puddles of black pocking the snow, Horse sinking midstep into the mud. The same sky that had witnessed our imprisonment winked innocently above us. Such a naive sky seemed at risk of forgetting its involvement with our dead. Would it use the alibi of a cloud to deny all that it had seen? I hoped it would not. But doubt was beginning to overtake me. We were hungry, tired, lost—only bereavement bent us forward as we traveled on. We were forced by the Russian tanks advancing into Poznan to go in any direction available to us; we were turned and turned about in our passage toward the Warsaw Zoo, and as we rode, we begged our respective authorities—God for Feliks, fate for me—for the strength to end the man who’d lured such a wild hatred into our hearts.
Pearl
Chapter Eighteen
Partings
We arrived in Krakow and wandered through the city; we went from house to house. Here and there you’d see a sudden flutter of curtains—you could see fingers appear at the edge of the lace, and it was as if every adult had turned into a child in a game of hide-and-seek. Many did not want to look at us at all. Like the girl I saw—she was sitting before a wall papered with flowers and she was reading a book. I wanted to read a book someday. I wanted to read one that would tell me who I had been before my cage.
And on that someday, I wanted Miri beside me as I read. But since she’d spent the ride to Krakow begging for forgiveness beneath her breath, I began to wonder if her sadness might thwart the future I’d envisioned for us.
“It is not as bad as it could be” was Twins’ Father’s assessment of Krakow. He looked to Miri as if expecting agreement. None came. Her lips remained set with a silent dismay as we walked along the strings of houses and experienced a series of closed doors. Through the streets, we saw women chased by Russian soldiers, saw them taken into alleys, pressed into walls. We did not see them emerge. We saw beggars approach us for food and curse us when we said we had none. Most notably, we saw a man watching us from a bench outside a clock shop. He sat with a little book to write in and the day’s newspaper, drinking coffee and listening to a woman whose distraught gestures made her appear as if she was petitioning for help. She was not the only one. There was a line of widows and refugees and townspeople, six or so, all waiting to speak to this figure. But when he saw the tattered assembly of us, he leaped up from his chair and dashed to Twins’ Father’s side to ask after our origins.
He was young, this man, but his face was old, windburned, and battered, as if he’d lived his whole life outdoors, hunting and hiding. In him, there was the presence of a soldier, but a soldier far different than Twins’ Father. In his gaze, there was protective instinct—it was as if we had become his family simply by entering his city. Later, we would learn that he was deeply involved with the Bricha, the underground movement that helped Jews flee to other, safer lands. But at that moment, we knew only that this man named Jakub was determined for us to take shelter i
n the abandoned house adjacent to his own, a structure with boarded windows whose gray dreariness reminded one of a rotten tooth.
“I know its owners will not return,” he insisted. Twins’ Father hesitated at the door, noting the blank space where the mezuzah should have been, the paint there so bright and unfaded, but Jakub said, Don’t be foolish, and he flung the door wide so that we had no choice but to enter.
So we had an abandoned house to sleep in and it had all four walls and a roof that leaked. Everywhere we looked, we saw the flight of the former inhabitants. The bookshelves were upended, and a woman’s nightgown sat in a pale blue puddle in the sink. A trio of bricks had been pulled from the wall, revealing a secret compartment. A sheet of paper sat at the kitchen table alongside a pen, but only a salutation adorned it.
After we had gratefully surveyed the interior, dinner was announced, and Twins’ Father doled out beets from a lone, mammoth jar in the pantry. We passed the beets around, each taking a bite, our hands pinked, our mouths encircled by their pickled blush. Miri alone refused. Outside, snowfall resumed, but for once, this seemed a celebratory frost. As we ate and passed around a single cup of water, the children made note of more absences.
“No Ox,” they toasted. “No rats, no blocks, no gates, no needles!”
It was my turn. After the silence of my cage, I would never truly be comfortable with speech, but in that moment, the words found me. I don’t know how they found me, but they were my zayde’s, and when they occurred to me, they fell as bright and easy as snowfall.
To the return of Someone! I toasted.
Miri raised her glass to me, but the smile that accompanied this gesture was wan and unconvincing. I wondered if she feared abandonment. Was she worried that when I found Someone, I would have no need of her?
I slept in fits and starts, always waking to the question of Miri’s sadness. And whenever I woke, I saw that she hadn’t retired at all; she sat in her chair, hands folded, utterly still. Seeing this, I realized that it was not Miri who had to fear abandonment, but myself.
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