Shores Beyond Shores

by Irene Butter

  “What we really need are toothpicks,” Bob said while using his finger to pry out gooey date.

  Back at the barracks, Mieke and I moved our beds next to each other.

  I awoke in the dark to the dream of an air raid siren, before realizing it was a scream.

  “What’s that?” I whispered, my voice shaking.

  “Vitek,” Mieke said, “the little five-year-old Polish boy who sleeps in the corner. I heard he lost his entire family—murdered right in front of him. Only a month ago. They almost made it out alive.”

  Almost made it. I curled into my pink blanket and covered my ears from the sound of so much pain. Vitek sobbed, Mama, Tata, Mama, Tataaaaa, until sleep won.

  It was not the last nightmare. We all had them from time to time. Bob talked about how his sister, Ellen, often woke up in the hospital in terror. But of everybody, Vitek had them the most. His shrills ran through my ears. His was the sound of a mind pushed to the brink of a cliff. He terrified me because I knew I was like him. Even though my belly was filling, my heart was cracking open, ready to fail. The pebbles under my feet were crumbling and falling over the edge.

  41

  Camp Jeanne d’Arc, Algeria

  February–March, 1945

  For those of us without parents, we had a “house mother,” a Spanish woman who only spoke Spanish and looked after the children’s hut. She smiled a lot as she swept the floors and tidied up. In the evening, she drank straight from a bottle of wine and sang songs to herself, and at night she would sometimes, just sometimes, shush away our nightmares. Mostly she slept and snored through all the terrors.

  Every day, an administrator walked around the camp to deliver mail and telegrams, precious handwritten letters and typed strips of paper that said who was alive, dead, or missing back in Europe. They foretold futures, revealing who could go home, or who had to find a new one. Going back to Germany didn’t look promising even when the Nazis were close to being defeated. Other countries, like the Netherlands, were in shambles. People cherished the letters and telegrams as if they were chocolate, savoring each one in small bites. Each word and phrase was repeatedly tasted and chewed, and swallowed slowly to make sure nothing was missed. Each sentence from a loved one far away was thoroughly licked clean before moving on. The words held life.

  I wrote to Mutti and Werner in Switzerland. I wrote about food—eggs, oranges, apples, meat, breads, coffee, and juices—and signed off with a thousand kisses, reminding them that I thought of them all the time. With each day of eating and sleeping, I felt a bit stronger. My fingers didn’t tremble any longer from hunger, but I also worried because I heard nothing back. Every day I asked the administrator if there was anything that had come for me, and every day he shook his head.

  “No news is good news,” said Mrs. Abraham.

  My thoughts would seem clear only to fall back into the abyss of bad dreams and nightmares. How would I survive as an orphan? Had I been wrong about miracles? They seemed hollow. We had escaped death for years only to lose Pappi in the space between release and freedom. I thought back to Mieke’s words: Vitek’s family had almost made it out alive. I knew that didn’t guarantee a thing. My whole family made it out alive only to be torn apart. The long road of hope was petering out at the end of a dirt path in a foreign country in the middle of nowhere. The end was dust.

  I stayed out of the hut as much as possible, away from the others and away from Vitek, until I was instructed to go in and go to bed.

  “Reni! Telegram!” came a shout one morning.

  What?

  The paper was dated March 2, 1945. My name was written in blue ink. For a scant second I hesitated, afraid of what would spill out, of how it would shape my future. I held it to the light of window and ripped open the end, careful not to tear what was inside.

  Mutti and Werner were better, but they were still in the hospital. Werner would keep his toe.

  My eyes darted back and forth several times to make sure I didn’t miss something. Mutti and Werner were ALIVE! I cried, and then I danced around my bunk and hugged the paper to me. I even hugged the startled housemother who was changing a bed. “ALIVE!,” I said to her. She smiled and raised an imaginary toast. There was no word about us reuniting, but they were alive, and that meant we would be together at some point in some place.

  Later that day I was introduced to a tall woman named Madame Benatar. Although from Morocco, she spoke English so it was hard for me to understand her, but an officer translated. She was a lawyer helping reunite families. She said that the camp administration had also received a telegram from family in the United States who could sponsor us to move there. They were already in touch with Mutti and Werner, and had tracked me here. This wasn’t a guarantee, Mme. Benatar explained, but a good sign that we might go to America.

  The sun was dropping. The hills seemed to be both advancing and retreating, aglow in golden light and purpled in deep shadows, and looked more beautiful than ever. I imagined Werner with his Henki Express map in his hands, trying to figure out the trains, buses, and ships that would bring us back together. I blew one thousand kisses into the wind to lead the way.

  The next day, I received a letter from Werner. Instead of giving any details about his or Mutti’s health, he wanted to know all about the camp. I figured he must be feeling better to ask so many annoying questions. I did my best to answer: there were 400 people in our camp; 200 Jews; lots of Yugoslavian soldiers; I didn’t know how big it was; yes, I had eaten delicious oranges; and yes, I would try to get him Algerian stamps.

  The kids’ barracks began to empty as parents got healthy enough to take care of their children. Mr. Wolf came for Mieke and Jaap after Mrs. Wolf died of her cancer. Mrs. Joski took Bob. Ellen left the hospital with their father, Dr. Joski. Mrs. Joski had light brown hair, glasses, and eyes that were kind and open. Ellen, at twenty-one, had the wide smile, blonde hair, blue eyes, and figure of a movie star. Then there was Bob. The impish boy who had thought dates were bugs.

  “Please celebrate Passover with us,” Mrs. Joski said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Don’t agree too fast,” said Ellen. “Mom’s matzot is thick and dry and pretty awful.”

  “Okay,” I said. Homemade matzot. It had been a long time.

  “Wonderful, it’s decided,” said Mrs. Joski.

  “Reni,” Bob said, “a group of us friends are going to walk on the beach later. Want to come?”

  Friends? Friends! That sounded good.

  “Okay!” I said.

  I joined a group of teens around my age—a group I hadn’t really known existed in the camp. My isolation melted like butter in the sun. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being with people my own age. We usually met up after breakfast, took English and French lessons from Mr. Wolf, and figured out what to do in the hot afternoons. The group waxed and waned depending on the day and the planned activities, but it usually consisted of about six to eight of us, including Lex Roseboom.

  Lex was nineteen. Tall with a lean face and body, for which he almost seemed apologetic whenever he stooped over to talk to others who were almost always shorter than him. Lex could appear stern when he was listening, but he could also light up with a full, teeth-showing smile in an instant when he thought of something funny, like Mrs. Bing and her singing.

  Mrs. Bing was a short, plump woman who loved to sing, most notably on a full belly. The instant she left the dining hall after a meal, she’d break into an off-key tune for all to hear. With the cafeteria door barely closed behind her, Lex leapt up, put one hand on his heart and the other high in the air and began to mouth her words. His lumbering gait and wide-open eyes were a perfect imitation, and everybody bent over their empty plates with laughter. His straight brown hair stayed neatly parted on the side throughout his antics, which reminded me of Werner. He sat down next to me on the bench when it was done and cocked his head at me for approval.

  I surrendered a small smile.

  42

&
nbsp; Camp Jeanne d’Arc, Algeria

  April 1945

  The day came when I was the last girl and Vitek was the last boy in the children’s barracks. One night, I dreamed of Pappi out in the water at the beach. I screamed for his attention. He stopped and turned. His mouth moved, as if he were telling me something, but I couldn’t hear him as the surf got louder and louder until I jolted upright in bed.

  “Mama! Tata!”

  It was Vitek. Where was the housemother? I waited for her as I watched the small window curtain gently wave and felt a breeze wash over my face. The curtain parted again to reveal far off stars like the torches of a million souls looking for each other. She wasn’t coming.

  “Mama! Tataaaaa!” Vitek wailed for his dead parents.

  Mutti. Pappi.

  I peeled back my coverings, draped my pink blanket over my shoulders, and went to Vitek. Sinking onto the edge of his mattress, I hushed and shushed him as if I were the hut mother. It didn’t help, so I sang him the Dutch lullaby Twee emmertjes water halen…the same lullaby that had quieted the hungry babies in the Hollandsche Schouwburg theater. As he calmed, I lay down beside him, pulling his head onto my chest, and wrapped my pink blanket around him, allowing it to soften the stony weight of all his sadness.

  Each night I rocked Vitek back to sleep, and after a few days I coaxed him outside into the morning rays. Like a chick imprinted with a new mother, he suddenly wanted to be with me all the time. He startled less often. His terrors subsided, though they didn’t go away entirely.

  One day, while we walked across the camp hand in hand, Vitek and I nearly bumped into the singing Mrs. Bing as we rounded a barracks’ corner, her lilting voice ringing off the metal building with alarming intensity.

  “Good morning, Reni!” She serenaded my name and shook an open letter. “I just found out that my son is alive! My beautiful boy is alive and well!”

  She repeated “alive and well” several times as if she were a drunken sailor; she was not to be contained, and I was afraid she would scare Vitek so I held his hand tightly, ready to pick him up. To my surprise he looked up at me, pointed to Mrs. Bing, and laughed.

  As I got to know the other kids better, they invited me to do more, and I participated more, especially going to the beach and wading in the shallows. We were warned not to go out further, even though it was getting hotter. The locals warned the camp director that the undertow was strong enough to pull you out too far, too fast, with little chance of swimming back. There was talk of swimming lessons, which led to talk of marking off a swimming area. With the rising temperature there would be no keeping the kids from the sea.

  Mostly, though, I tended to Vitek. He needed me. Vitek still had a reputation, and my new friends were leery about him being around. He wasn’t yelling as much, but that didn’t mean he seemed normal. The wildness in his eyes mirrored the war that we were all trying to forget. What I didn’t say was how much I needed Vitek. Other kids wouldn’t understand because they had families. Maybe the two of us could stay together, and maybe he could join our family.

  “I promise to take care of you,” I said into his hair as we settled for bed, though I knew he couldn’t understand my words.

  Then I remembered Mrs. Eisenberg and her same promise to me—the one she couldn’t keep. Part of me knew this wouldn’t be forever. I would take care of Vitek for as long as I could, but then somebody with a clipboard would tell us what was really going to happen. Tears slid down my cheeks, but I wiped them before they landed on Vitek.

  The next week, Mme. Benatar arrived with an administrator and a woman I hadn’t met. Vitek and I were outside in the shade, flipping through a worn magazine. The new woman had a large face and a tentative grin that revealed missing teeth. She wore a headscarf. Mme. Benatar explained that she was the mother of a newly arrived Polish family. Vitek and I were looking up, squinting into the bright sky when the mother began speaking in what I assumed was Polish. Vitek looked confused, glancing between her and me and back at her. Suddenly, he spoke a few words in a rusty little voice that I had never heard. Then he started rattling off in a way that felt how miracles were supposed to feel. Full.

  Mme. Benatar went on, saying that the mother and father had a little boy; they would take Vitek when they returned to Poland, to help him try to find his relatives, or take care of him themselves. Vitek was to join them now. I took Vitek’s hand.

  Mme. Benatar: “It’s okay, Reni. You will still have time to see each other.”

  I held his hand tighter.

  “Reni….”

  I knew what she was going to say: I had to let him go. But I didn’t.

  It was Vitek who pulled his hand from mine. He took me into the barracks, and as the others followed, he rummaged around the edge of his suitcase, took something out, and placed it into my palm. It was a tiny photo of a beautiful Vitek, his eyes wide, but relaxed. His cheeks and lips full. It was pre-war Vitek, as he should have been. As he, hopefully, would be again.

  That night I sat on the beach alone, watching the sky darken, and stars seemingly search for each other over the sea.

  43

  Camp Jeanne d’Arc, Algeria

  May 1945

  “We heard that Vitek has a new home,” said Dr. Joski.

  “We are hoping that you can come live with us.”

  “We asked and got written permission from the camp directors to take care of you,” said Mrs. Joski. “If you agree, we will just need to get written permission from your mother.”

  “Which we are sure she will give,” added Dr. Joski.

  “Unless you want that entire hut to yourself,” Ellen said, “and Lex,” she added with a whisper meant just for me.

  Ellen had been teasing me for the past week about Lex. At first I had assumed it was because she was interested in Lex, but in a sing-songy voice she repeated the claim. When I told her I was too fat, Ellen told me I was shapely and womanly. When I said all the men looked only at her, Ellen admitted it was mostly true, but that Lex ‘only had eyes for me.’ Me? Womanly? I guess so.

  “I never liked the idea of you being on your own,” said Mrs. Joski. “It has been a thorn in my side. What a stupid rule that children have to live on their own. It’s good that Vitek has a home, and now you can have one too.”

  So I moved in, sharing a room with Ellen, which we decorated with flowers. I even put up a picture of Mutti and Pappi.

  The next week as Mieke and I were having breakfast in the dining hall, a chatter rippled between everybody, but I wasn’t listening as we had recently gotten a kilo of oatmeal each because we were “children under the age of 15,” and I was busy stirring jam and milk into our porridge. Mieke was quiet, like she had been since her mother died. Lex ran to the table.

  “Hitler’s dead. He’s really dead!” He hugged me. I felt the heat of him as I squeezed back. I didn’t expect Hitler’s demise to feel this good.

  The next week had even better news: the Germans had surrendered.

  The camp burst with jubilant yells. The Yugoslavian guard jumped up and clicked his heels together. Players took to the piano with upbeat tunes. We hugged, we danced. Even Mieke started to brighten. Ellen, Mrs. Joski, and I swung each other around by the arms in a circle, faster and faster. Dr. Joksi swung Bob by the arms, Bob’s feet flung out to the side like a crazy bird trying to take flight.

  For the first time, people could think about returning home or going to new ones. I felt sure now that Mutti and Werner would be able to leave Switzerland, now that the threads of evil had been snipped, the web’s strands blowing away.

  Later that day there was a spider on my bed. I hated spiders; I rolled a magazine to swat it off the blanket and onto the floor where I could finish it. Mieke took one look at my weapon and commanded me to stop.

  “Don’t kill it. Spiders are good luck if you find them in your home.”

  “Really? Ugh.”

  “Just promise me you’ll not kill it. Please.”

  “Okay,” I sai
d, my fingers crossed within the folds of the magazine in an attempt to get around my obligation.

  “It’s good luck, Reni. Like ‘you’ll get some time alone with Lex’ type of good luck.”

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t find the words.

  “Everybody knows he likes you,” she said.

  “I thought only Ellen knew.”

  “Sure, Ellen. Ellen and everybody else.”

  I could only blush.

  “You know what else everybody knows?”

  I shook my head.

  “That you like him back.”

  I liked to sit at the table of our barracks’ section to write and read my letters while Mrs. Joski chopped vegetables and cooked on the small stove. A cup of flowers stood on the windowsill, the pedals pointing in all directions. I wiggled back and forth, pulling on my skirt that had become tight and uncomfortable.

  “You’re big,” said Mrs. Joski.

  “Big?”

  “I mean you’ve gained weight. Grown, I mean you’ve grown.”

  “I know, but I don’t have any other clothing.”

  “Do you still have some of your mom’s things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe we can adjust something of hers for you.”

  Maybe. But Mutti’s clothes weren’t better than mine. Oh, I so wanted new clothes. And that didn’t include the fact I only had two pair of underwear. I was constantly washing.

  The administrator came by with mail. There was an airmail letter for me from the United States. The postage stamp had a little plane on it, which I would save for Werner. Cousins of my mother’s had invited us to live with them in New York. Moving suddenly felt real.

  I started asking Mrs. Joski questions she couldn’t answer: How would we get there? When? What was New York City like? How would I fit in? Learn English? What about Mutti and Werner?