“Be a good girl,” I say. “We will be staying with you, don’t worry.”
It is all I can think of to say. I cannot lie and say that everything will be all right.
The sound of guns becomes louder by the second.
We are pushed, shivering, towards another area where we are commanded to remove all our clothes and just keep on our underclothes.
There is no point refusing. We are done for, either way.
A group of young Jewish women take the clothes and sort them into piles. They do not look at us once. They have guns in their backs and no expressions on their thin faces.
There is no longer any deception, any faint hope that things will be all right or that we are going to a work camp.
The shots, the screams, the shivering, the terror.
Here, now, right in front of us.
Mama and I squeeze Sascha’s thin little hands as tightly as we can.
A part of me watches all this from above, detached and furious.
I can hardly believe that my short life is soon to be over in this way.
The cold bites into our bare flesh.
I am pushed on, shivering in my white knickers and vest, clinging to Mama and Sascha, who are also in their thin underclothes.
All around us women, children and old people are screaming, crying and praying. It is a mass of anguished sound, like thousands of trapped and wounded animals all baying for help.
We are forced forwards for a short while longer and then stopped with an abrupt command of “Halt!” from the soldiers.
And then I see it.
The pit.
It is almost full to the brim with bodies. Some of them are still. Others seem to be moving.
My eyes try to adjust to what I am seeing. The clack of the guns is deafening and people are being shoved into the pit so fast that they almost seem to blur.
“Oh my God,” Mama cries, gripping my arm. “Hanna, Hanna. It is the end.”
Tears begin to pour down my face.
In a flash I understand what is happening.
The Jews are being shot in the head where they lie in the pit. Then the next line of Jews is forced to lie, packed like Omama’s Baltic sardines, on top of the dead bodies. These living people are then killed in the same manner.
People are running and jumping down into the pits. It is like they are pleased to get in there, but I know this is not the case. It is just that you cannot disobey the order of the SS and their dogs and guns.
I hold Mama’s hand so tight that I am sure they can never break us up.
“I love you,” I say to my mother.
“Not as much as I love you,” says Mama. “I am proud to have been your mother.”
“Do you forgive me?” I say, panic rising in my heart. I have to know. I can’t go to my death not knowing.
“Nothing to forgive,” says Mama.
We are ripped apart by the guards.
“NO!” I scream. “Mama! Don’t leave me!”
Sascha and Mama run in front of me, down into the pit.
Everything seems to slow down. I see every exaggerated detail of their climb onto the dead bodies. The way that Mama’s knees fail to bend properly and she half-stumbles and lands on her back on top of the corpses. The way that Sascha does a tumbling head-over-heels into the grave, as if she is on a rubber mat in the school gymnasium.
I make to run after them and take my place by their side but I am halted by a gun in my chest.
They have enough people in that row.
And so, standing at the edge of that pit, I am forced to watch my mother and Sascha die.
Two shots. They seem louder than all the rest.
Mama gives one small jerk and then lies still.
But Sascha flies up into the air like a rag doll in white underwear before flopping back down again.
My screams fall on empty ears.
Everybody here is screaming.
I am alone.
“Into the pit!” commands the Latvian policeman standing next to me.
I start to stumble towards the pit, towards the dead bodies of Mama and Sascha.
I lie down on top of their corpses. I can feel the knees, knuckles and noses of the dead, poking into my back. I retch over and over but nothing comes out.
In my head I offer up my final prayers to God. I ask Him to find Papa and send him back to Rīga safely, so that at least one of our family might survive this war.
I ask Him for strength to face my final moments on this earth and I even manage to thank Him for all the good things I used to have in my life.
I lie and wait for my bullet. I squeeze shut my eyes and clench my teeth, ready for the impact.
And then He listens.
God listens.
There is a momentary uproar elsewhere in the forest. It is loud enough to distract the four marksmen who stand with their guns, one on each corner of the death pit.
I half open my eyes.
Their heads are turned for maybe five seconds.
I burrow right underneath the body of my mother. She is still warm.
Then I hold my breath with my mouth full of white cotton drawers. I pray like I have never prayed before.
Don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
More people are driven into the pit and lie down on top of Mama and Sascha.
I am squashed under the weight of the new people. They are all praying and muttering and crying to God. I can smell them – dirty clothes, unwashed bodies and hair, the smell of disease and starvation.
I hold my breath a little. I keep on praying and picturing the face of my papa.
The shooting starts again and the people on top of me jerk upwards and then are still. They grow heavier.
I pray to God that they are the last row of people to be put in this pit.
Blood begins to ooze downwards onto my face and arms but I daren’t move.
The breath is being squeezed out of me by the weight of the bodies above me. Mama is as light as a feather but the people on top of her are squashing us right down.
I start to feel dizzy from lack of air. I use my hand to make a cup around my mouth and I try to breathe in and out in slow, measured breaths.
The noise of the guns has stopped.
There are other noises – engines revving up, men shouting and laughing, dogs barking.
Then a new substance begins to filter down to where I am lying.
It feels like sand. But it has a sharp smell and a burning feel. My face and eyes begin to get sore and blister so I shut my eyes tight and press my face into Mama’s back. I think of when she was pregnant with me. I must have been pressed up against it from the other side, safe inside the womb.
“Mama,” I whisper, tears mixing with the burning substance in my eyes. The tears cool them a little.
A new weight begins to press down on me. I can’t think what it is, but then I strain my ears and think that I can hear the sound of shovels. Something thumps on top of the bodies and tiny lumps of grit and mud work their way down onto my face and body.
I panic.
Earth. They are closing the grave.
I am to be buried alive.
It is very dark.
I have no idea how long I have lain here.
My mouth is full of earth and insects. Soil chokes the back of my throat. It is steeped in the blood of the victims. I can taste the metal tang. I retch over and over. My nose is full of the damp earthiness of the forest mixed with the smell of bodies.
I am running out of oxygen. I feel weak from having no air to breathe and from the relentless weight of the bodies and the earth on top of me.
Disjointed thoughts pass through my head.
I think:
This is what it is like underneath trees, all the time.
I wonder if any of my bones have broken?
Am I really down here? Still alive? Or am I dead?
Later on, as the pressure on my chest increases and I feel weaker:
This is how Omama died.
She was so tiny and thin. She’d have never stood a chance.
Neither would Mama or Sascha. They had lost all their fight.
Then I think:
But I am still here, thinking stuff through. So I must be alive, right?
And if I’m alive, I might be able to work out what to do.
I have no indecision at all now. I know that I have to survive this. Not just to find Papa, but to tell other people what has happened to the Jews of Rīga.
“I need to get out of here,” I say into the dark earth.
My mouth is crammed with the stuff.
I lie for a while longer, to make sure that I have the best chance.
I count the seconds and minutes in my head and try to get to another hour.
Then I summon up all my mental energy and focus it into my arms.
They are thin and weaker than they used to be and I am numb from lying still for so long, but I have a plan.
I have never forgotten my ballet moves. Even when I couldn’t physically do them in the ghetto I would run through them in my head when I couldn’t sleep at night.
One of the first things we were taught was how to do our five basic arm positions.
I am lying down rather than standing up. But I take the deepest breath that I can and try to bring my arms in front of me. Then I push my arms away from one another into second position. I am aware that I am pushing my arms into the bodies of dead people but I pretend that I am in the swimming pool in the days before Jews got banned and that I am pushing my arms against the weight of the water. Then with a superhuman effort I heave one arm up over my head into fourth position and with it I manage to shift Mama’s body a little, just enough to push my arm a little higher into the earth above. My other arm goes up to join it and I stay in fifth position until my arms start to shake and tremble and I have to rest.
I wait until I can summon up a little strength.
Then I repeat the whole sequence again.
All the time I try to ignore the horror of what I am pushing against and I just imagine myself in that pool, parting the current with my arms. After what seems like a lifetime I have positioned myself on top of Mama’s body rather than underneath it.
I lie there for a moment, gasping for breath with silent tears adding to the mix of tastes in the back of my mouth.
I am glad I cannot see anything.
But I feel her there. I say:
“Goodbye, Mama. I love you.”
I don’t want to leave her. But I have to get out of here.
With another couple of mighty pushes I start to work my way past the next row of bodies.
My head hits the fresh air what seems like years later.
I gulp and cough and wipe the soil and the stinging substance off my eyes and face.
I stand with my body still submerged in the pit and my head peeking out of it for quite some time.
I use my eyes to look left and right. I keep my head motionless. I do not know who might still be in this forest and what they are planning to do.
I can’t tell whether the faint light in the forest is the beginning of another day or the end of the previous one. I don’t know how long I have been lying in this ghastly pit.
I wait a while longer, straining my ears to pick up even the slightest noise.
There is nothing, save the rustle of leaves, the distant sound of trains and traffic and some odd humming noise which I can’t place.
I can’t even hear any birds.
The birds won’t sing at Rumbula.
I heave myself right up out of that grave.
I stand on the edge of the pit and look down at it.
The humming noise increases.
My stomach lurches with shock.
The Latvian soldiers have filled in the grave with earth but they must have failed to aim their shots as accurately as it seemed.
The earth is singing.
Moans and cries filter their way up into the cold air.
The earth is moving.
Red, oozing, shifting.
The full horror of what has happened hits me harder than the butt of a soldier’s rifle.
I drop to my knees on the edge of the grave.
I call “Hello?” in a wavering voice. “Can I help anyone? I am a Jew.”
Then I call again, as loudly as I dare.
But nobody can hear me. They must have been buried lower down.
Sobbing, I turn away.
My body is jerking and buckling with the cold.
I am still dressed only in my underwear.
I look around. I see the mountain of clothes, sorted into piles but not yet taken away.
I scuttle over, all the time looking around the forest. I am very nervous of soldiers arriving back unexpectedly.
I grab clothes from the pile. I choose women’s clothing but some instinct tells me to cover them up with men’s. I put on an oversized white shirt and a long black pullover, a pair of men’s grey trousers. I find the pile of coats further back in the forest and I choose the thickest I can find in the darkest colours. Then I shove my hair up into a flat grey cap.
I am warm.
But I am not safe.
And I am alone.
No mother.
No grandmother.
Nobody.
I run deeper into the forest as quickly as I can, trying not to make much noise on the twigs and leaves underfoot. I find a tree with a wide trunk and squash myself up behind it.
Then I wait.
Chapter Twenty
I spend the next few hours pressed up against the tree with my chin on my knees and my arms wrapped around them.
The sun is starting to rise so I know it is the dawn of a new day.
I don’t have long to sit here.
I am shivering from shock and cold and each time I start to think about Mama I try to push the thought aside. I am not ready to accept the full horror of what has just happened to me.
My brain runs feverishly through a list of possibilities.
I can’t go back to the old town to try and find somewhere to sleep. That much is clear. I will be shot or, at best, allowed one night sleeping rough before somebody recognizes me as a Jew and reports me to the authorities.
I can’t hide out in this forest for long. The SS might be planning to bring more people here to kill.
I can’t walk out of the forest and ask anybody for help. They might be a Jew-hater.
Mama! my soul cries out in pain.
There is nobody left to help me.
Nobody.
Then it is as if a light shines into my brain.
Yes.
There is.
I have not seen him for some time but if he was taken away to work in the Small Ghetto then there is a chance that I will find him there. I might even find his father, too.
I must get back somehow to the Small Ghetto and find Max! He will help me. I am sure of it.
My heart gives a little skip of nervousness.
I stand up, ready to find my way out of the forest. Then I remember that it is now daylight.
I sit down again.
I look around.
I have spent a long time lying under the dark ground and I don’t much want to do it again but this is the only way I might get out of here alive.
With weak arms I manage to dig myself a pit, just big enough so that I can lie inside it and cover myself with leaves and earth. I pray to God that no SS sniffer dogs will come to this part of the forest in the next few hours.
I am starving. I pick a few berries and some soft leaves and stuff them into my mouth, not caring that in a few hours I will probably have the worst cramps of my life. My stomach has shrunk so much that even a few bits of unripe fruit will have a bad effect.
Then I crawl inside my tiny pit, shut out the light and wait.
I have to judge the amount of time gone by without being able to see much sky.
There’s a tiny crack in the leaves I’v
e covered myself with. I peer up through it and watch as the sun rises. Then I try to sleep for a while. When I wake up the sun has started to lower again. As far as I can make out, it must be about four or five o’clock in the afternoon.
I push myself out of the ground and sit still for a moment.
I listen. I sharpen my ears and strain for any sound.
Nothing.
The humming has stopped.
I stand up and brush my strange men’s clothing free of earth and leaves.
Then I leave this forest of Hell.
It takes me a while to get my bearings as I go.
I’m weak from lack of food and still in shock.
As I walk in what I hope is the direction of Maskavas iela I think of this time last year. I can’t believe that the only thing I had to worry about back then was how long it would take me to save up for new ballet shoes and whether I could get a new dress too.
This time last year, Mama, Papa and I were still living in the beautiful villa with the cherry trees. I was studying at the ballet school and spending most of my time trying to look pretty for Uldis.
Just the thought of his name makes me feel sick.
Traitor.
The word is spat out in Omama’s voice, not my own.
Tears rise up in my eyes but I trudge on.
The only thing which matters now is finding a friend.
I need to stay alive.
In case Papa is still out there somewhere.
There is no use going straight to the ghetto.
If I did that I would face the Latvian policemen on the gate and if they asked me to remove my cap they’d be sure to realize that I was left over from the forest massacre. They would wonder what on earth I was doing on the other side of the gates and probably shoot me on sight.
I have ripped off the yellow stars from my borrowed clothes. I have no fear of doing that now. It is not about being Jewish any more. It has gone beyond that. It is about being alive or being dead. I pull the cap tighter over my hair and button up my oversized coat. I roll up the legs of the man’s trousers a little bit to stop them flapping around my ankles.
Then I lower my head and walk along the pavements. Even this feels odd after so many months spent walking in the gutter, but I mustn’t be suspected as a Jew.
I am reaching the old part of town. It is nearly dark.
I make my way across the town to Jelgavas iela. It takes me a long time, because the streets look different at night and I am not thinking straight.
The Earth Is Singing Page 17
