by Jessica Gold
I made a lame attempt a soothing Miriam, running while rocking a baby proved more than I could manage, and her screams got louder.
“Quiet that baby, or I will,” a solider yelled at me in accented polish with a voice like granite.
I shivered at the thought of what the solider might do to Miriam and hastily unfastened the top three buttons of my white night dress. A fussy eater, Miriam was used to feeding on a schedule. I prayed that she would take my breast. Frantic questions filled my head. Did I even have enough milk for her to drink? What if she wouldn’t stop crying? What kind of person could harm an innocent baby? Just as the solider approached she started drinking—I was able to breathe again.
German Soldiers had been to our village before, but mostly just to steal our wine and kill a few of our chickens; never once had they roused us out of bed and marched us through the forest. But who could argue with the callous point of a gun, or those intimidating steel gray uniforms, adorned with the twisted cross of evil.
Maybe, if I had known how things were going to turn out I would have refused to go any further; I would have said no more. No more. But I was silenced, along with the rest, believing in the false protection of a God I thought I knew. I and everyone around me, obeyed.
Rutka tripped on piece of unearthed bedrock and stumbled. Yaacov bent to help her, and instead felt the butt of a gun make contact with the back of his head. Blood immediately surged out of the apparent wound as Yaacov made a feeble attempt to regain his balance.
“No stopping,” a solider ordered, and pushed the barrel of the gun in Rutka’s back. The solider fell back, and shared a smile with one of his counterparts. An unspoken enjoyment passed between them.
“Rutka,” I whispered, “Yaacov will be fine, you need to keep running. He will find us when we stop and…”
It was a gunshot that halted me mid-sentence. On any other day the sound could have been mistaken for the joyous pop of a champagne cork, but today the sound was finite. The sound was death.
I turned to Rutka, “You don’t know if it was him, you don’t know.”
“I know.” She said, “We both know.”
After that, it didn’t matter what I said to her. She wouldn’t respond. Her limbs were moving, but her mind was gone. I choked back tears.
The group or rather what was left of the group emerged into a small clearing. In between attempts to catch my breath, bewilderment set in. Why were we here? What did the soldiers want? Why had they robbed us of sleep? We were to sit down while the soldiers determined what to do with us. Miriam was asleep and I was grateful for that, I scanned the group. David was nowhere to be seen. Did David also meet his end at the hands of a bullet? From what little German I knew it seemed that some of the soldiers just wanted to kill us while others wanted to use us to work first and then to kill us.
“Stehen Sie auf,” a soldier barked.
The group stood up. I held Miriam in my left arm, so close, so tight; she was being such a good girl. I slid my right hand in Rutka’s, but she made little effort to grip mine back. I led Rutka and carried Miriam to the centre of the clearing, and for the first time since our journey began we were allowed to walk.
The soldiers lined us up in rows of eight, the entire village forming a perfect square. I am embarrassed to say that it took me so long to realize what was happening; but once I did, I was determined to look my murderers in the eyes as they carried out their diabolical deed. The soldiers fanned out and surrounded us. Guns were readied. Time slowed. I held Miriam tight against my breast, kissed her forehead, and then waited for the shot. In an instant we were at Rutka’s wedding again, the corks of champagne bottles popping all around us.
*****
Ashley arrived in Tikochin just after ten in the morning. The closest she had ever been to a shtetl was watching Chaim Topel as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. Ashley gazed at a ramshackle roof where she imagined a fiddler could have perched; a garden in which fears of upcoming nuptials would be sung; cobblestone lined streets where big dance numbers would have been performed. The circumstance of having a survivor on her arm made it very clear that this wasn’t Anatevka, where thoughts were sung, and fears were danced, this was Tikochin where Jews were marched and murdered.
Ashley’s group passed the well at the centre of town. Dried up and bucket missing, passer-bys started to use it as a wishing well. The group made its way to the unmarked shul. The survivor tensed and Ashley thought for a moment that she would not enter. With Ashley’s encouraging words she walked through the threshold, and the mood of the group changed.
The survivor immediately went over to the ark, and ran her hands down the length of the crimson velvet curtain. Ashley brightened. This was the most alive Ashley had seen the survivor since the start of the trip nearly a week ago.
“We should dance.” The survivor announced to the entire group.
Ashley linked arms with the woman, “But we have no music, and we want to honour the memory of the people who lived and worshipped here.”
The survivor addressed the group in a louder voice. “Believe me, this is what these people would have wanted. Let us dance for them. Let us truly honour what Tikochin stood for.”
The group needed no further urging. Some of the boys started singing Hava Nagila and then everyone joined in. Ashley couldn’t think of a better song to dance to, its lyrics the perfect backdrop for this moment: let’s rejoice, let’s sing, and let’s awake with a happy heart. A large circle surrounded the bimah at the centre of the shul, and in almost no time at all the entire group was swirling and singing in concentric circles, a hora, with a joy that the survivor could not fathom ever returning to this place.
As the festivities wound down, Ashley made her way back to the survivor, knowing the most difficult part of this excursion would be quickly approaching. The group exited the shul and then made their way to the adjacent forest. The terrain of the forest floor was jagged and the survivor used Ashley to steady herself. The survivor clutched her left arm to her chest, her pace quickening. Even with the increased speed, it took the group nearly an hour and a half to reach the clearing.
A torrent of tears erupted from the survivor, and Ashley bent down to her. The woman had not shed a single tear in the gas chambers, or the crematorium, instead pouring her emotions into the telling of historic detail, but the grief of what happened here was too overwhelming.
Ashley hugged the survivor and let a few minutes pass before speaking. “Bubby, what happened here? Do you know this place? I am here for you, we all are. It is time you told us your story.”
“You’re right,” Ashley’s Bubby conceded, “It is time.”
The group sat in the clearing and learned all about Rutka, and Yaacov, David and Miriam.
Ashley’s Bubby recalled with haunting detail, “It was not the popping of champagne corks but the firing of a gun. Rutka’s eyes widened, she squeezed my hand, and the life went out of her. As quickly as the firing started it had stopped, and all of Tikochin was destroyed. ‘Alle jüdische Schwein ist getötet worden’—which I later found out meant: all Jewish swine have been killed, was chanted aloud, and the soldiers vacated the clearing. How was I still breathing? I was bewildered, and frightened, but Miriam was being such a good girl—not a peep. I felt an immense weight on my body and I was wet. Bombarded with the smell and taste of metal, fearing a single breath would betray me, I didn’t dare move—not even to feed Miriam. I don’t recall how long I lay there, motionless and afraid. After I was sure the soldiers were gone, I opened my eyes and gasped. A wide eyed Rutka was staring at me, the fire behind her eyes extinguished. Panic set in and I clawed my way through the fallen corpses. I carefully supported Miriam’s still body, all the while singing a lullaby to help her sleep. I was told it was a farmer who found me three days later, begging my baby to eat. My white night dress was stained with the blood of my sister, my village, and the blood of my baby. The bullet meant for me had pierced her heart.” Ashley’s Bubby let
out a sigh.
Not a single member of the group stirred. The burden of knowledge was thick in the air, and Ashley now knew the original bearer of her Hebrew name—Miriam. At last, after all these years Ashley’s Bubby said something.
###
Thank you for taking the time to read my short story. In April of 2000 I participated in a program, with a 150 Jewish teenagers from Toronto; this experience was called the March of the living. During the two-week trip we would gather with 7,000 international Jewish teens and visit Nazi death camps to mark Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day). Our trip would culminate with the re-enactment of the infamous death march from Auschwitz to Birkenau.
If you have any questions or comments please feel free to contact me at [email protected]
