The Night of the Burning

by Linda Press Wulf

  “Yes.” Papa laughed. “Enjoy them and play with them, because the peasants have no money for dolls now. Even potatoes are more precious today.”

  Papa pulled the cart alone for about half a year. I felt a little sick each morning to see him dragging it onto the rutted dirt tracks, turning to wave goodbye after adjusting the thick leather harness over his shoulders. Three kisses he would blow, the first one for Mama, of course, and then one each for Nechama and me, before pulling his cap down and making his way up the slight hill. The cart creaked and swayed behind him. It was lucky, I told myself, that Papa conquered the upward slope in the morning when he was fresh, while he descended the hill in the evening.

  But one chilly fall morning when I was ten and Nechama seven, Papa couldn’t pull the cart uphill. He couldn’t even get up. I heard Mama lighting the fire to boil water while it was still dark. Then she bent over me. “Papa is sick,” she whispered in a shaky voice. “I’m going to ask the barber for some medicine.”

  My stomach tightened. I slipped out of bed and ran over to stroke Papa’s forehead. He smiled faintly at me, but he didn’t look like my papa.

  Mama returned alone, carrying a bottle carefully wrapped in some rags. Her face was pale and drawn.

  “Go outside,” she told us. “Go outside to the well and wash your faces.” She began to lift the covers off Papa.

  I left the room unwillingly, pushing Nechama in front of me. At the door I turned back for a moment. Mama and Papa were both looking anxiously at Papa’s stomach, which seemed swollen and strange.

  I turned the handle of the well to pump up a bucket of water. It felt icy, but I washed Nechama’s hands and face and my own until they were red and shiny. Dear God, I prayed silently as I scrubbed, I’ll be very good and I’ll make Nechama be very good, and we’ll do exactly as Mama tells us, if you’ll only make Papa better.

  The next day, Papa’s face was grayer and he slept a lot. Neighbors and friends came to visit, whispering rather than talking. Papa didn’t seem aware of any of them. I held his hand and wiped his face with care, but mainly his eyes were closed.

  On the third morning, I woke from a cold, huddled sleep. Mama was crying, little peeping cries like a bird. I sprang out of bed to Mama’s side and held her tight. Papa looked as if he was sleeping and there were no lines of pain or hunger around his eyes and mouth. But Mama’s face was scrunched up and wet.

  “He’s gone, Devorahleh, Papa is gone,” she whispered.

  The world stopped. “No, no, no,” I protested into Mama’s shoulder. It could not possibly be that Papa was … dead.

  Nechama squeezed into Mama’s arms, too, her eyes confused as she turned from Mama to me and back again. She kept her face averted from Papa.

  Mama held us both for a long time. A weight of cold and grayness pressed down on us. Then Mama put Nechama on my lap. She tucked the bedcover close around Papa, his shoulders, his legs, his feet. Then she slipped in next to him and pulled the cover around both of them. I think she was trying to keep the last bit of warmth in her bed.

  GOODBYE TO EASTERN EUROPE

  1921

  Isaac Ochberg’s children were supposed to remain in Warsaw only a few weeks, just long enough to gather the two hundred who had been chosen. But as the last orphans arrived, the unthinkable happened.

  I heard the news from Nechama, who came flying back to our cot in the old schoolhouse one morning, wailing loudly. “Daddy is sick, Daddy’s sick,” she said, sobbing. “Maybe he’s going to die.”

  I stared at my sister. “Nechama! Papa’s dead already! He died of the swelling,” I cried, shaking her to bring her to her senses.

  But Nechama kept crying and suddenly I realized what she meant. What will happen to us if Mr. Ochberg dies? I thought. My stomach froze into a ball of ice. What will we do, stranded here in a strange city? We wouldn’t have left the orphanage if it wasn’t for him. He’s our leader.

  I cast about in my mind for alternatives. If we were still at the orphanage, we would be closer to our village. We could try to get home by cart. But there wasn’t any home. Panya Truda had warned us that it wasn’t safe to go back. So now we were stuck. Even Mr. Bobrow couldn’t help. He wasn’t South African; how could he take all of us to the safe country we were promised? Please, God, I prayed, please don’t let Daddy Ochberg die.

  I had told myself he was Mr. Ochberg. I had scorned the children who called him Daddy Ochberg, worshipped him, and wanted to walk next to him, sit next to him, hold his hand. But he was a good man, a kind man. And he took care of me.

  That night and for nights afterward, Nechama and I joined the other orphans huddled outside the sickroom and we cried and prayed together. Some of the older boys knew Hebrew prayers; the others simply whispered to God in Yiddish. We understood one another. I felt close to the group for the first time.

  After breakfast each day, Mr. Bobrow would try to call us to attention. “Come now, children, we must keep going with our lessons.” But all of the faces matched my own feelings; we were too worried to concentrate on learning.

  In the afternoons, I sat sipping my soup silently in Madame Engel’s kitchen. Madame talked to her chief cook about Isaac Ochberg, and I grasped at every word for information.

  “It’s the influenza, Batya,” Madame announced sadly. “The doctor says it’s not the worst case he’s seen, but it is that wicked flu.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Batya clicked her tongue as she stirred with her scarred wooden spoon. “My cousin who works at the central telegraph office says millions of people have died from it already. Even more than in the war.”

  My spoon felt like lead; I let it fall into my soup. Millions? But Daddy Ochberg couldn’t die, he couldn’t!

  “I’m not surprised he came down sick,” Madame said grimly. “That man is exhausted. Three months of traveling across Poland, Galicia, the Ukraine to gather his orphans, with most of the trains not working and gangs of bandits roaming the countryside.”

  “To think of the poor mites he had to leave behind … How on earth did he choose which children to save?” Batya asked curiously, wiping perspiration from her forehead with her ample linen apron.

  “It nearly killed him to choose the lucky few,” Madame said more quietly, her voice sad.

  I blinked. I had nearly turned down Mr. Ochberg’s invitation; I had gone with him only because Nechama insisted.

  “The matron or principal of each orphanage helped him,” Madame related. “He told me they used three conditions to choose. The children had to be full orphans: no mother, no father. They had to be healthy: he’d promised the South African government he wouldn’t bring in any sick immigrants. And they had to really want to go with him.”

  After a pause, Batya asked, “Who’s nursing Mr. Ochberg?”

  “The oldest orphan, Laya,” Madame told her. “The girl with braids who manages the small children’s table at the restaurant. She’s seventeen.”

  “That slip of a girl! How can she keep going day and night?” the cook asked with admiration in her voice.

  “She’s chosen two of the other teenagers to help her. You should have heard all the older children begging her to choose them, the angels,” Madame answered. “They take turns at night, two of them sleeping for a few hours while the other watches him.”

  I bent forward over my soup to hide the tears in my eyes. I had wanted desperately to be one of the nurses. I knew I could do it. I remembered how I had helped Aunt Friedka to nurse Mama.

  Then one night, Isaac Ochberg’s fever began to drop. I was waiting outside the sickroom with Jente’s solemn older sister, Liebe, early the next morning when Laya opened the door. A smile crept across her tired face.

  “Good morning, Liebe; good morning, Devorah. The doctor said he thinks we are over the worst. Now, be quiet—no noise even if you’re excited.”

  We raced off to wake the others with the news. This time it was my turn to run to my sister’s bed.

  “Nechama, he’s getting better. Daddy
’s getting better!”

  I heard what my own voice had said and I blushed. Daddy was getting better, but Papa had not gotten better; Papa had died. Was it all right to be so glad now?

  Nechama reached up to hug me tightly and then we hugged little Faygele and everyone else nearby. I can feel their hearts, I thought, I can feel each one’s heart.

  “Breakfast, and then your English class,” called Mr. Bobrow. “We need to prepare ourselves for our new country.” There was relief in his voice and his fingers trembled a little as he pushed up his spectacles.

  Nechama couldn’t stop talking about Africa. She heard from the bigger girls that there were diamonds in the mines, and gold. Why, if we just dug a little, we would be able to buy as many dolls as we wanted. And great bowls of milk, and even fruit.

  Sometimes I, too, thrilled with excitement at the thought of a new life, but there was a sadness that I hadn’t expected. It was the parting from Madame Engel. How could I leave my kind friend, who moved around her kitchen kingdom with her tall, regal bearing?

  Daddy Ochberg is too busy to love any of the children more than the others, I thought. I never feel sure whether the special smile he gives me is given to each of the other children, too. But Madame’s smile is just for me. Madame Engel is the only grownup person in the world now who cares about me the most. Mama and Papa died; Aunt Friedka was killed; but Madame is still here. How can I leave her?

  Yet I hadn’t been invited to stay. And there was Nechama. Certainly Nechama would not change her mind about going to South Africa.

  On our final morning in Warsaw, the sun outlined the gracious old buildings in gold as if to accentuate what we were leaving behind. We walked almost silently, two by two in a long line, to a dock on the banks of the Vistula River. Daddy Ochberg had almost all of his old energy as he packed us into a heavily laden riverboat.

  “Pesha, you’re in charge of the ten-to-twelve-year-olds,” he called out. “Itzik, you take the eight-to-tens. Laya, you’re good with the six-to-eights, and I’ll manage the little ones with Mr. Bobrow. Children, put your suitcases under your benches and sit down. No moving around now.”

  I gulped as I saw Madame Engel arrive at the dock to say goodbye. Madame must have been up since dawn to pack the two hundred food bags she was handing out. My heart was tight with pain as I watched the familiar figure move slowly along the lines of children. Finally she reached me, stopped, and held out her arms. I flew into them.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said, sobbing, but the words were strangled. I tightened my grip around her neck and buried my head under her chin.

  Madame squeezed me close for a long time and then she held my face between her hands and looked into my eyes. Her face was as wet as mine. “You are strong as well as sad, mamaleh,” she whispered. “Hold on to the strength, but let go of the sadness. It is up to you to make a new life now.”

  I stared at her. It was true; there was something inside me, something that Madame called strength, which held me up when I could not afford to fall. I nodded slowly.

  “I am proud of you,” she whispered.

  The boat blew an echoing hoot, and Madame hugged me closer and kissed my forehead for a long time. I forgot my strength, cried out, and clutched her skirts. But she loosened my hands gently and kissed me one more time. Then she turned away slowly and walked up the ramp onto the shore.

  The boat began to move. The other children chattered excitedly and blew goodbye kisses to Warsaw. I was alone. Madame Engel stood erect on the dock and waved farewell, her dark eyes looking directly at mine.

  “Mama!” I called. The name forced itself out of me. “Mama!”

  THERE WAS NO ANGEL

  1919–20

  Although Mama climbed into Papa’s deathbed and pulled the covers tight, there was no more warmth to be found. I don’t remember the sun coming out once after that. Every day was cool, and I felt as if I were pushing through thick mist. Mama couldn’t push. She never stood up straight again, it seemed to me. She didn’t even prepare food for meals. Aunt Friedka moved into our house and took care of all of us.

  Neighbors and friends came to visit each day for shiva, the traditional week of mourning. “We wish you long life,” they murmured. “Long life, wish you long life.”

  Mama didn’t seem to hear. She sat in a low chair or on the floor. The visitors’ little children played outside with Nechama. Gradually the children’s chatter and laughter began to penetrate the dim house.

  “Nechama! Shhhh!” I ordered furiously from the front doorstep. “Be quiet! How can you play when Papa is dead?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Nechama burst into loud tears. I felt torn. I was glad that Nechama realized she had done wrong, but I hated to see the little face twisted in sobs. Hurrying to my sister, I hugged and kissed her and dried her face with my apron. Then I settled the small children under an old cherry tree and told them all to play very quietly.

  But when I went back inside, Mama was staring downward and didn’t seem to be aware of the commotion. A neighbor began to apologize for her children’s part in the games, but Aunt Friedka cut her short. “They’re still young,” she said. “It would be better for Devorah to be out there with them.”

  How could she say such a thing? Of course it would be nice to run with the girls again, to be chased by the boys and shriek with laughter, but the time for such childishness was over. I sat down low next to Mama.

  Exactly seven days after Papa was buried, visitors stopped coming. And so did the little gifts of food they had brought—two potatoes from one neighbor, a few strawberries and a bowl of milk from another. Aunt Friedka went out to barter for food every morning. She gave Nechama and me the biggest portions, but we felt hungry all the time. So did Aunt Friedka. Only Mama never complained.

  Life went on somehow for a few months. Then came news of a pogrom in a Jewish shtetl to the west. Aunt Friedka whispered about it to our neighbors when she thought I wasn’t listening. “I heard some Cossacks rode in and got all the Poles from the surrounding villages filled up with liquor. Strange bedfellows, Cossacks and Poles, but they get on well when it comes to killing Jews. Aagh, may the typhoid find its way to them!”

  But the typhoid took a wrong turn. Mama woke up one morning burning with fever.

  “Water,” she cried. “My lips are parched, bring me water.”

  Aunt Friedka sprang up and examined Mama. I rushed to her, too. I could see small pink spots covering Mama’s thin back and chest.

  “Water, Devorah. Quickly!” Aunt Friedka ordered.

  I sped to the well and pumped as fast as I could, then stumbled back with the bucket, water spilling over my bare feet.

  “I’m coming, Mama. Water’s coming,” I said, panting. That was the first of many trips. Mama drank and drank, clutching the cup with shaking fingers, but the thirst couldn’t be satisfied. Nechama was sent to a neighbor to keep her away from the fever, and Aunt Friedka tried to send me, too.

  “No!” I declared. “I’m almost eleven; I’m old enough to look after my mama. I won’t go.”

  “All right.” Aunt Friedka gave up, turning back to Mama’s bed. “I can use all the help I can get.”

  In the end she really did need me, because the barber said he could not come to help; he was busy.

  “Busy!” Aunt Friedka exploded. “That lying coward. Why doesn’t he come straight out and say he’s too scared to come near the typhoid.”

  Typhoid. It was the name of the terrible fever everyone feared. They said it could kill all the people in an entire village.

  Aunt Friedka continued muttering. “Oh, he can take our money and treat us when we have the toothache or the gout, but when it’s something he could catch, he’s busy, is he? Devorah, build up the wood in that stove.”

  After that, Aunt Friedka and I had no time to talk. Mama wanted to drink water constantly; she needed her swollen dry lips moistened every few minutes and a cool damp cloth placed on the pounding pain in her forehead
. Her feet were cold; then she was burning and sweating. Then her feet were cold again. The blankets had to be tucked in, removed, replaced. I thought my heart would snap the first time I saw my mama’s legs. They were so thin, so bony and shrunken.

  “But I can take care of her,” I whispered to myself. “I want to take care of you, Mama.”

  Tears rolled hot and prickly as I ran to and from the well, but I didn’t put down the bucket to wipe them away. I wanted every minute with Mama.

  I had only two days. Some of the time Mama slept, but mostly she tossed and turned and moaned for water. She said lots of things that didn’t make sense, and often she seemed to be speaking to her own mama, my grandmother, who was dead. On the second evening, Mama grew quiet, and when I moistened her lips, she gave a weak smile and whispered something very faintly.

  “What, Mama?” I asked, bending forward to listen.

  The words were soft as a cat’s breath. “You’re a good girl, Devorahleh. Take care of Nechama. Say your prayers every night. Never forget who we are.”

  I clung to her hand. “I’ll never forget, Mama. I promise,” I said, sobbing.

  Then Mama whispered, “I’m going to Papa now. You stay with Nechama.”

  “Don’t go, Mama!” I cried. “Mama! Mama! Don’t leave us.”

  Mama’s eyes closed and her breathing became rough. I felt Aunt Friedka’s arms lifting me away, and I sobbed into her chest. There was a rattling sound from the bed. I turned back quickly, terrified of seeing the Angel of Death himself lifting my mother into the air. There was no angel. But my mama was dead.

  LONDON DREAM

  1921

  From Warsaw, the boat traveled down the Vistula River. I sat silently, staring at the riverbank. I glimpsed a tall woman pumping water vigorously at a well, and for a moment the woman was Aunt Friedka. I saw a man in a cart pulled by a horse. Papa? But the boat kept moving onward, and soon we were accosted by the shouts and smells of the huge and busy port of Danzig.

  “Stay close to me,” Daddy Ochberg ordered. “This is no place to get lost. Children, hold hands tightly. Don’t let go!”