by Jane Yolen
Shmuel spat.
A guard hit him with the butt end of his gun in the stomach and Shmuel went down on his knees, but he made no sound.
“These men . . . ,” Breuer began, “these pieces of, in your Jew language, drek tried to escape last night. Escape! And where would they go? To the mine fields? To the woods to starve? To the town where no right-thinking Pole would give them shelter? This camp is in the middle of nowhere, remember that. You are in the middle of nowhere. All that gives you life is work—and my good wishes. Do you understand?” He glanced around as if daring any of them to challenge him.
They were silent.
“I see I have been too easy on you. I have made you into my pets. That is what they call you, you know: Breuer’s dirty little pets. The other transports, they do not come here and sleep in barracks and have three meals every single day. They are not cared for in a modern hospital. They are not given clothes and shoes.” He held up a pair of woman’s shoes and Hannah tried not to stare at them, but they drew her eyes. “No, they are processed at once, as has been ordered from Berlin. They are part of the Final Solution to the Jewish Problem. But you, my little pets, I have let you live to work. And see how you reward your master.”
He walked over to the violinist, who had been pushed to his knees by a guard. Pushing the man’s head back, Breuer spoke directly to him, but in a voice that carried around the compound: “I let you play music because it is said that music feeds the gods. Well, now you shall feed your god.” He signaled to his men. “Move them to the wall.”
There was a protesting sound from the crowd, a strange undercurrent of moaning. Hannah realized suddenly that she was one of the moaners, though she didn’t know what going to the wall meant. Something awful, that she knew.
“Silence!” Breuer said, his voice hardly raised at all. “If you are silent, I will let you watch.”
They were all silent. Not, Hannah thought, because they wanted to watch, but because they wanted to be witnesses. And because they had no other choice.
The guards dragged the men to a solid wall that stood next to the gate. The wall was pocked with holes and dark stains. To the right and above, the sign ARBEIT MACHT FREI swung creakingly in the wind. Birds cried out merrily from the woods and the tops of the trees danced to rhythms all their own.
The six men were lined up with their backs to the wall, four standing and two sitting. Shmuel alone smiled.
Slowly the soldiers raised their guns and Hannah bit her lip to keep from crying aloud.
“Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheynu . . . ,” the violinist began in a clear voice. The other men at the wall joined him.
But Shmuel was silent, searching through the watching crowd, that same strange smile on his face. At last his lips moved and Hannah read the word there.
“Fayge.”
“Shmuel!” came a loud wail, and Fayge pushed through the crowd, flinging herself at his feet. She lifted her face to his and smiled. “The sky is our canopy. God’s canopy. The sky.”
He bent down and kissed the top of her head as the guns roared, a loud volley that drowned out birdsong and wind and screams.
When it was silent at last, the commandant threw the shoes on top of Fayge’s body. “Let them all go up the stack,” he said. “Call the Kommandos. Schnell!”
The soldiers marched off to the side of the compound, except for one, who opened the door into Lilith’s Cave. Out came ten men in green coveralls. Though she’d heard of them, feared them, mourned them, Hannah had never actually seen any of them before. One, hardly more than a boy, put his fingers to his lips and a shrill whistle pierced the air. The Kommandos lifted their heads at the sound and in mocking parody of the soldiers marched over to the wall. They began to drag the dead bodies back toward the gate.
The boy who had whistled stooped down and picked up Fayge in his arms. His beardless face was grim, but there was no sign of sorrow or horror there. Still he carried Fayge as one might carry a loved one, with conscious tenderness and pride.
Rivka whispered to no one in particular, “That one, carrying Fayge, that is my brother, Wolfe.”
The blokova came forward, a wooden spoon in her hand with which she dealt out blows right and left. “Schnell. Schnell. Scum. There is work to do, much work.” Her voice held a note of hysteria. The hand with the spoon didn’t rest, but her other hand was held stiffly by her side. It was wrapped in a broad bandage, the white stained with fresh blood.
“Gitl . . . ,” Hannah said as they walked back toward the kitchen. “Did you see?”
“I saw,” Gitl said, her voice ragged. “I saw everything.”
“I mean, did you see that Yitzchak wasn’t there?”
Gitl turned, took Hannah by the arms, and stared at her. “Yitzchak?”
“He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the lineup either.”
“Hush,” Gitl said, turning away, but her voice held a measure of hope. “Hush.”
Hannah said no more, but in her mind’s eye she saw a swift shadow racing into the dark trees. She smiled with the memory.
Later that afternoon, the cauldrons all set for cooking, Hannah walked with Rivka and Shifre to the water pump. Esther was there already, filling a bucket in slow motion for the women in the sewing shop. She had lost a lot of weight, the dress hung in loose folds on her frail body, her eyes were dead.
Overhead the swallows dipped down to catch bugs rising from the ground. Then they soared back up beyond the barracks. Hannah watched them for a moment, scarcely breathing. It was as if all nature ignored what went on in the camp. There were brilliant sunsets and soft breezes. Around the commandant’s house, bright flowers were teased by the wind. Once she’d seen a fox cross the meadow to disappear into the forest. If this had been in a book, she thought, the skies would be weeping, the swallows mourning by the smokestack.
Her mouth twisted at the irony of it and she turned to the three girls at the water pump. Suddenly, with great clarity, she saw another scene superimposed upon it: two laughing girls at a water fountain dressed in bright blue pants and cotton sweaters. They were splashing water on each other. A bell rang to call them to class. Hannah blinked, but the image held.
Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to bring the camp back into focus; it was like turning a camera lens. One way she could see the water fountain, the other way the pump. Her heart was thudding under the thin gray dress. She was afraid to move. And then suddenly she made up her mind.
“Listen,” she said to the girls at the pump, “I have a story to tell you.”
“A story?” Shifre looked up, her light-lashed eyes bright. “You have not told us a story since the first day. At the . . .” She hesitated a minute, afraid to name the memory, afraid a guard might hear and, somehow, steal it away.
“At the wedding,” Hannah said. “Funny how saying it brings it back. At the wedding. At school. At home.”
“Tell the story,” Rivka pleaded. “I would like to hear it.” For the first time she sounded like the ten-year-old she was.
Hannah nodded. “This isn’t a once-upon-a-time story,” she said. “This is about now—and the future.”
“I do not want a story about now,” Esther said slowly. “There is too much now.”
“And not enough future,” Shifre added.
Hannah moved close to them. “Now—six million Jews will die in camps like this. Die! There, I’ve said the word. Does it make it more real? Or less? And how do I know six million will die? I’m not sure how, but I do.”
“Six million?” Shifre said. “That’s impossible. There are not six million Jews in the whole world.”
“Six million,” Hannah said, “but that’s not all the Jews there are. In the end, in the future, there will be Jews still. And there will be Israel, a Jewish state, where there will be a Jewish president and a Jewish senate. And in America, Jewish movie stars.”
“I do not believe you,” Esther said. “Not six million.”
“You must believe me,” Hanna
h said, “because I remember.”
“How can you remember what has not happened yet?” asked Rivka. “Memory does not work that way—forward. It only works backward. Yours is not a memory. It is a dream.”
“It’s not a dream, though,” Hannah said. “It’s as if I have three memories, one on top of another. I remember living with Gitl and Shmuel.”
“May he rest in peace,” Rivka said.
“May they all rest in peace,” Hannah added.
“And Lublin,” put in Shifre. “You remember Lublin.”
“Yes, there is Lublin, but that memory is like a story I’ve been told. I don’t remember Lublin, but I remember being there. And then there’s my memory of the future. It’s very strong and real now, as if the more I try to remember, the more I do. Memory on memory on memory, like a layer cake.”
“I remember cake,” Shifre said.
“Impossible,” Esther said.
“Even crazy,” Rivka pointed out.
“Nevertheless,” Hannah said, “I remember. And you—you must remember, too, so that whoever of us survives this place will carry the message into that future.”
“What message?” Rivka asked, her voice breathy and low.
“That we will survive. The Jews. That what happens here must never happen again,” Hannah said. “That . . .”
“That four girls are talking and not working,” interrupted a harsh voice.
They looked up. Standing over them was a new guard, his nose reddened from the sun. He had a strange, pleased look on his face. “I have been told that the ones who do not work are to go over there.” He pointed to the gate.
“No!” Rivka cried. “We were working. We were.” She held up the empty bucket.
The guard dismissed her pleas with a wave of his hand, and all four of them held their breath, waiting.
“I was told that we need three more Jews to make up a full load. Commandant Breuer believes in efficiency and our units do not work well with short loads. So I was sent to find three of the commandant’s pets who were not working. He told me—personally—to make up the load.”
“We were working,” Shifre begged, her words tumbling out in a rush. “And we are healthy. We are healthy hard workers. You never take healthy hard workers. It is one of the rules. Never.”
The guard smiled again. “Since Commandant Breuer makes the rules, I guess he can change the rules. But why are you worrying so, Liebchen? I only need three. Perhaps I won’t take you.” He looked over the girls slowly, the smile still on his face. “I’ll take you. You are the least healthy.” He pointed to Esther, who almost fell forward in front of him, as if someone had suddenly kicked her in the back of the knees.
Shifre drew in a great, loud breath and closed her eyes.
“And you,” he said, playfully putting his finger on Shifre’s nose, almost as if he were flirting with her, “because you protest too much after all. And . . . and . . .”
Hannah let out her breath as slowly as she dared. She did nothing to call attention to herself. To stay alive one more day, one more hour, one more minute, that was all any of them thought of. It was all they could hope for. Rivka was right. What she had was not a memory but a dream.
“. . . and you, with the babushka, like a little old lady. I’ll take you, too.” He pointed to Rivka, winked at Hannah, then turned and marched smartly toward the gate, confident that the chosen girls would follow.
Rivka gave Hannah a quick hug. “Who will remember for you now?” she whispered.
Hannah said nothing. The memories of Lublin and the shtetl and the camp itself suddenly seemed like the dreams. She lived, had lived, would live in the future—she, or someone with whom she shared memories. But Rivka had only now.
Without thinking through the why of it, Hannah snatched the kerchief off Rivka’s head. “Run!” she whispered. “Run to the midden, run to the barracks, run to the kitchen. The guard is new. He won’t know the difference. One Jew is the same as another to him. Run for your life, Rivka. Run for your future. Run. Run. Run. And remember.”
As she spoke, she shoved Rivka away, untied the knot of the kerchief with trembling fingers, and retied it about her own head. Then, as Rivka’s footsteps faded behind her, she walked purposefully, head high, after Shifre and Esther.
When she caught up with them, she put her arms around their waists as if they were three schoolgirls just walking in the yard.
“Let me tell you a story,” she said quietly, ignoring the fact that they were both weeping, Shifre loudly and Esther with short little gasps. “A story I know you both will love.”
The strength in her voice quieted them and they began to listen even as they walked.
“It is about a girl. An ordinary sort of girl named Hannah Stern who lives in New Rochelle. Not Old Rochelle. There is no Old Rochelle, you see. Just New Rochelle. It is in an America where pictures come across a cable, moving pictures right into your living room and . . .” She stopped as the dark door into Lilith’s Cave opened before them. “And where one day, I bet, a Jewish girl will be president if she wants to be. Are you ready, now? Ready or not, here we come . . .”
Then all three of them took deep, ragged breaths and walked in through the door into endless night.
19
WHEN THE DARK FINALLY RESOLVED ITSELF, HANNAH FOUND she was looking across an empty hall at a green door marked 4N.
“Four for the four members of my family,” Hannah thought. “And N for New Rochelle.” She couldn’t see Shifre or Esther anywhere. They had slipped away without a farewell. She almost called out their names, thought better of it, and turned to look behind her.
There was a large table set with a white cloth. The table was piled high with food: matzah, roast beef, hard-boiled eggs, goblets of deep red wine. Seven adults and a little blond boy were sitting there, their mouths opened expectantly.
“Well, Hannah?” said the old man at the head of the table. “Is he coming?”
Hannah turned back and looked down the long, dark hall. It was still empty. “There’s no one there,” she whispered. “No one.”
“Then come back to the table and shut the door,” called out the other old man. “There’s a draft. You know your Aunt Rose gets these chills.”
“Sam, don’t hurry the child so. She’s doing her part.” The woman who spoke had a plain face lit up by a special smile. “Come, sweetheart, sit by Aunt Eva.” She patted an empty chair next to her, then reached over and picked up her glass of wine. “You look so white, Hannahleh. Like death. How can we fix that?” She raised her glass, looked at Hannah. “L’chaim. To life.” She took a sip.
Hannah slipped into the chair, knowing it was the one the family reserved for the prophet Elijah, who slipped through the centuries like a fish through water. She watched all the grown-ups raise their glasses.
“L’chaim.”
Aunt Eva turned toward her, smiling. Her sweater was pushed back beyond her wrist. As she raised the glass again, Hannah noticed the number on her arm: J18202.
“Hannahleh, you’re staring,” whispered Aunt Eva as the talk began around the table: Uncle Sam arguing about the price of new cars, Grandpa Will complaining about the latest government scandal, her mother asking Aunt Rose about a book.
“Staring?” She repeated the word without understanding.
“Yes, at my arm. At the number. Does it frighten you still? You’ve never let me explain it to you and your mother hates me to talk of it. Still, if you want me to . . .”
Hannah touched the number on her aunt’s arm with surprising gentleness, whispering, “No, no, please, let me explain it to you.” For a moment she was silent. Then she said: “J is for Jew. And 1 because you were alone, alone of the 8 who had been in your family, though 2 was the actual number of them alive. Your brother was a Kommando, one of the Jews forced to tend the ovens, to handle the dead, so he thought he was a O.” She looked up at Eva, who was staring at her. “Oh! Your brother. Grandpa Will. That must have been him carrying Fayg
e. So that’s why . . .”
Aunt Eva closed her eyes for a moment, as if thinking or remembering. Then she whispered back, “His name was Wolfe. Wolfe! And the irony of it was that he was as gentle as a lamb. He changed his name when we came to America. We all changed our names. To forget. Remembering was too painful. But to forget was impossible.” Her coffee brown eyes opened again. “Go on, child.”
Hannah took her hand from her aunt’s arm and dropped it into the safety of her own lap. She couldn’t look at her aunt any more, that familiar, unfamiliar, plain, beautiful face. “You said . . . ,” she whispered, “. . . you said that when things were over, you would be two again forever. J18202.”
They sat for a long moment in silence while the talk and laughter at the table dipped and soared about them like swallows.
At last Hannah looked up. Her aunt was staring at her, as if really seeing her for the first time. “Aunt Eva . . . ,” Hannah began and Eva’s hand touched her on the lips firmly, as if to stop her mouth from saying what had to be said.
“In my village, in the camp . . . in the past,” Eva said, “I was called Rivka.”
Hannah nodded and took her aunt’s fingers from her lips. She said, in a voice much louder than she had intended, so loud that the entire table hushed at its sound, “I remember. Oh, I remember.”
Epilogue
AUNT EVA TOLD HANNAH THE END OF THE STORY MUCH later, when the two of them were alone, because no one else would ever have believed them. She said that, of all the villagers young Chaya had come to the camp with that spring, only two were alive at the end of the war. Yitzchak, who had indeed escaped, had lived in the forest with the partisans, fighting the Germans. And Gitl. When the camp had been liberated in 1945, Gitl weighed only seventy-three pounds because she had insisted on sharing her rations with the children. But she was alive.
The blokova and all the villagers from Viosk were dead, but among the living, besides Gitl, Yitzchak, and Rivka, were Leye and her baby, a solemn three-year-old.
