The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  I stayed with the partisans until the end of the war in Europe when we were rescued by a band of Russian soldiers and taken to a refugee camp. It was at that camp that I was able to find a way to send a letter to Kalman in America. I told him what had happened to me and to my parents and I begged him to help me to get into the United States. I had no money, nothing at all. He was the only person I knew who was still alive. Can you imagine? It was as if my entire life, everyone I’d ever known, was wiped away. It took Kalman several months to answer my letter. I was afraid he was going to ignore my request. But he didn’t. He was married, he told me, but he and his wife had both agreed to help me. They were very sorry for what I had gone through and out of respect for my papa, Kalman offered to sponsor me to come to the United States. With my family and everyone I loved gone, I had no reason to stay in Europe. So I picked up my life and moved to Chicago, where I joined a group of other Jewish concentration camp survivors. We met twice a week. Most of us had lost everyone we loved and so we offered each other friendship and family. It was there that I met my husband, your grandfather, Shayna. I told him about Azriel and he told me he too had been married before. His wife died in Dachau. He was a genuine person, a kind man. I loved him. It was not the same passionate romance that I had shared with Azriel, but we had a good marriage. When your mother was born, I named her Anna. She is named for Azriel. Your grandfather was very understanding. He accepted my choice of names immediately. Then when your uncle Ben was born, we named him for your grandfather’s first wife, Bima. And so the years passed. I was blessed with two wonderful children and then when your mother married and had you, my little Shaynala, I was so filled with happiness that I thought I should be able to fly. You are my most precious person on earth, you are my grandchild, my legacy. And today you came to see me and you made an old woman very happy. I know my time is almost up on earth. And that’s all right. I am ready to go when the time arrives. So why did I tell you this whole story, Nu? Was it only so that the story would not be lost? No, Shaynala. It was so that you would understand what I am about to say. The most important thing in this world is love and the second is time. Money can be made and lost. Things can be bought and sold. In the end, when all is said and done, love and the time to share it with your beloved is the most important thing in the world. In fact, it is the only thing that really matters. How I wish I had been given more time with Azriel. Oh, how I loved him and how precious those few months that we shared were to me. I branded them into my memory and cherished them every day. And although I had thirty-two wonderful years with your grandfather, I wish they could have been a hundred and thirty-two. Your Zeyde was my best friend. When God took him it was far too soon. And it tore me to pieces to have to say goodbye. But that is how life works. You just don’t know how many years or days you have left to be with your loved ones. But now, I am blessed to have this short hour with you, my precious grandchild, heart of my heart. Remember my words. Don’t squander your time. Live each day as if it were your last. Hold on to your beloved with both hands. Cherish every moment you share with him because time waits for no one. And if you do decide to have children, and something tells me you will, love them with your whole heart. Children are your legacy, Shaynala. They are the tiny footprint that you leave in the sand when you go from this earth. They alone are the ones who will carry your memories and pass them down from generation to generation. And this was the reason I was spared that night when our camp of Partisans were attacked. I was spared so that you could be born and your children’s children too.”

  Chapter 7

  With that, Shayna’s Bubbe, Ruchel turned over and closed her eyes.

  “Thank you again for coming,” Bubbe said, her voice a faint whisper. “I’m tired now. Go; come back later if you want. I need to rest.” There was a peaceful smile on Bubbe’s face.

  Shayna walked out of the room to find her mother standing right outside the doorway. They walked down to the cafeteria and got cups of coffee then sat at a table in the corner. Shayna looked out the window. It was already dark.

  “Were you listening the whole time?” Shayna asked.

  “Yes, I was standing outside the door. I heard her story,” Anna said.

  “We’ve been here all day,” Anna said. “It’s past dinner time and you haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast. You must be starving.”

  “I’m all right,” Shayna said, although she was hungry.

  “What can I tell you? It’s a Jewish mother thing. The moment a Jewish mother thinks you might be hungry, she tries to feed you.”

  “Yes, I know,” Shayna laughed.

  Then her mother laughed too. “My mother, your Bubbe, was a good mother. It was odd when she told her story today. I had never thought of my mother as she had been when she was a young girl. It must be that way for you with me.”

  Shayna shrugged her shoulders. “I think every generation feels that way. It’s hard to imagine your parents as young people. Yet you know they were.”

  “I suppose that you’re right,” Anna said, sipping her coffee.

  “Did you know any of this about Bubbe, Mom?” Shayna asked. “Did Bubbe ever tell you anything at all about her first marriage?”

  “Never. She refused to talk about the war when I was a child. And then as I got older, I never pressed her.”

  “That man in the picture with Bubbe was Azriel. He was handsome and Bubbe was beautiful. That must be the photograph they took on the night they went to the theater together. Do you remember, she mentioned that night they went to see a play in the Warsaw Ghetto?”

  “Yes, I do remember,” Anna said.

  “Mom.”

  “Yes, Shayna?”

  “I think I am going to call Joel when I get back home and tell him that I think I’ve changed my mind. I think I am ready now to have children. I love him. What am I waiting for? He is my best friend. Bubbe is right, the business can go on the back burner. Love is the only thing that really matters. When Bubbe told me her story, all I could think of was wanting to share it with Joel. I want to tell him and our future children the story of my Bubbe, of how strong she was and how she survived the Holocaust.” A tear ran down Shayna’s cheek.

  Anna wiped the tear with a paper napkin. “I know it’s selfish but I’ve always wanted you to have a child. I guess every mother wants a grandchild.”

  “Let’s go back and tell Bubbe my plans to have a baby, Mom,” Shayna said.

  “Yes, let’s. I know she’ll be very happy to hear your decision.”

  Mother and daughter walked quietly into Bubbe’s room.

  “She might be asleep,” Anna said.

  “I know, but I have to tell her,” Shayna said. Then she turned to take Bubbe’s tiny frail hand into her own. It was ice cold. “Mom,” Shayna said, her voice shaking. “I am afraid she’s passed away. She’s freezing.”

  “Mama, Mama?” Anna shook Bubbe’s shoulder gently. Bubbe did not respond. “Nurse! We need help,” Anna cried out but she didn’t move away from her mother’s side. “I am afraid that my mother has died.” Anna looked at Shayna with a mask of shock covering her face. “Your Bubbe might be gone,” she said.

  Then Shayna heard the faint sound of a bird chirping. It grew louder as the bird perched on the sill outside the window.

  “Mom, look. It’s a nightingale,” Shayna said.

  “Oh my gosh! I believe that it is. Look at that, Shayna. It’s amazing that the little bird is right outside your Bubbe’s window.”

  “Do you think it’s Azriel coming to take Bubbe home with him?”

  Anna shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t know so many things. But I want to believe it,” she said. Three nurses rushed into the room turning on the light. The nurses gently pushed Shayna and her mother aside. One checked Bubbe Ruchel for a pulse. Another listened with a stethoscope for a heartbeat. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” the young pretty nurse said to Anna and Shayna. “She’s gone.”

  “Mama! My mother is d
ead,” Anna said in a whisper. Her voice held shock and disbelief. Then she ran over to the bed and sat down. She took Bubbe Ruchel’s hand in her own and raised it to her lips.

  Shayna looked at her grandmother. Bubbe’s face was peaceful. “Goodbye, Bubbe. You’re so right. Love and time are the most precious things in the world,” Shayna said as she took her grandmother’s other hand and held it tightly in her own. Then Shayna went on speaking to her grandmother as if she were still alive. As if she could hear her. “I am so glad I came to see you today. I waited far too long to come home. But I feel blessed that we had this day together. I will always cherish these last few hours I spent with you. And I will never forget your words. I’ll share them with my husband and my future children. Yes, Bubbe I’ve decided that I am going home to tell Joel I love him and I want to have his children. I will tell my loved ones all you said, and I’ll make them understand what matters most in life, as you have made me understand today.” Shayna thought she saw a smile on Bubbe’s face. But how was that possible?

  “Did you see that?” Shayna asked her mother.

  “You mean Bubbe smiling?”

  “You saw it too?”

  “I thought I was hallucinating,” Anna said.

  “We both saw it. That means Bubbe was here. She smiled at us before she left,” Shayna muttered, putting her arm around her mother. The two women embraced and wept softly. But the little nightingale kept on singing his joyous tune.

  The End

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  About the Author

  I am an American author. My father was Romany and my mother was Jewish. When I was very young I learned about the Holocaust. I couldn't understand how something like this could happen. So, I began to research and learn more. I met with survivors. I even met with children and grandchildren of SS officers. But I still had no answers. I cannot say that I have all of the answers to all of my questions even now. But what I do know is that soon all of the survivors will be gone. Their message must be remembered, the sacrifices that they made must not be forgotten. And so I humbly and with the utmost humility try to tell their stories. It is painful, but I must convey the darkness and horror of the time. However, I also want the world to know and celebrate the unsung heroes. Because there were many ordinary people who acted in heroic ways. I realize that writing these books is a great responsibility. I pray every day that I am able to do this correctly. I am trying to reach out and touch many people, not with the message of the horrors but with the promise of hope. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for considering my work. It is an honor that I never take lightly.

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  Catriona’s War by Jean Grainger

  Synopsis

  CATRIONA’S WAR

  An Irish journalist goes missing in occupied France and only his daughter can save him.

  * * *

  Catriona McCarthy adores her father. Apart from her late mother’s family in France, he is all she has, but as war looms over Europe, Kieran finds himself away from his daughter much more often than either of them want.

  An outspoken journalist from neutral Ireland, he soon draws unwanted attention from the corridors of power in Berlin as he tells the truth to the rest of the world about the rise of National Socialism.

  Catriona is following her father’s instructions, to wait patiently for his return, but a visitor one day causes her to question who her father really is. The future looks bleak, and there is a chance that he is in very real danger.

  Can she defy his instructions and do as she is asked?

  Chapter 1

  October, 1938. Eupen, Belgium

  ‘Au revoir, Catriona, bonne chance, et que Dieu te bénisse.’ The Mother Superior of Lycée Sainte Yvette de Huy insisted on kissing Catriona on both cheeks – brushing dry, crusty lips across her skin. Catriona steeled herself not to flinch.

  ‘Je vous remercie, ma bonne soeur,’ she whispered, eyes downcast, as the nuns had taught her.

  Her father had already carried her luggage to his car, thanked the nun, and now he was waiting for her, his hand resting on the passenger door. Following him, she climbed into the open-topped MG, careful not to shock the watching nun by revealing a glimpse of knee. Kieran McCarthy walked around to the other side, lowered himself into the driver’s seat, started the engine and drove away down the long, sunlit avenue.

  Catriona didn't once look back at the red-bricked convent boarding school that had been her home for so long. She was eighteen now and her school days were over, yet it wasn’t until they had passed through the imposing black wrought-iron gates – topped by an enormous crucifix – that she finally felt able to breathe.

  ‘Well, thank God that’s done with.’ Uncrossing her legs, she reached into the glove compartment for her father’s packet of Gauloises.

  Kieran nodded, handing her his precious silver lighter: ‘I know. That last half hour was tedious in the extreme.’

  She was incredulous at his audacity. ‘Are you seriously complaining to me about putting up with that walking corpse for five minutes? I was stuck in there for twelve bloody years. And I could have been out of there three months ago if you’d only bothered to collect me before the summer.’

  He winked at her. ‘Ah Catriona, my pet – you know I have to travel for my work.’

  ‘You don't “have to” anything, Kieran.’ She never called him Father or Daddy, as her friends addressed their fathers. To her, he was always just Kieran. She lit two cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, and inhaled gratefully the other one herself, then settled back into her seat, blowing out a long blue line of smoke. ‘You don't have to be a foreign correspondent for Reuters. You could choose to go back to being a home reporter for the Irish Times.’

  ‘But that would be no fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘It’s only you who’s been having fun while I’ve been stuck here with those awful nuns, with all their praying and their stupid rules.’

  ‘Ah Catriona, I brought you home with me to Dublin every summer…’

  ‘For a few weeks and then you'd rush off again!’

  ‘But at least you weren’t too far from your Uncle Gaston, and Mémé and Pépé in Saint-Émilion…’

  ‘But this summer Mémé and Pépé retired and Uncle Gaston had to take over the chateau and vineyard. So everyone was far too busy to be bothered with me, and I’ve been trapped in that prison without a break.’

  He grinned. ‘Prison?’

  She scowled. ‘Yes, prison. The nuns were horrible. If they caught me speaking “en anglais” they went mad altogether. Herr Paasch taught maths in German and I’m bad enough at maths anyway without having to figure out his awful Hamburg accent, and Frau Moller, a total beast of a woman, tried to teach me deportment but I was terrible at it. She told me I was the wrong shape, too big on top and legs like a heron. I was always falling over my own feet.’

  Kieran McCarthy was laughing as he drove.

  Catriona glared at him. ‘It's not funny! I was always in trouble, constantly punished, while you were living it up in hotels around the world. And the postcards only made it worse let me tell you, in case they were to salve your conscience.’

  Crossly, she turned to the window, undoing the top buttons on her tight school blouse and pulling off the regulation navy blue ribbon that kept her silky blonde locks in check. She shook out her hair, loosening it in the autumn breeze.

  ‘Catriona…’ He gave her a playful nudge.

  ‘Shh. Don't talk to me. I’m being angry with you.’ She was only mock disgruntled though, and he knew it. It hadn’t been that bad: she�
��d made good friends like Margot and Trudi, and at least on most holidays she’d got to visit her grandparents Louise and Philippe de Clairand in the chateau, and her mother’s brother Gaston and his lovely little family.

  As the car sped on down the tree-lined roads, she realised she was still clutching his beloved silver lighter in her hand. Turning it over, she read the inscription for the thousandth time.

  Car, vois-tu, chaque jour je t’aime daventage, aujourd’hui plus qu’hier et bien moins que demain.

  Ton Amour, Eloise

  How often she’d read those words, as a child:

  Because, you see, each day I love you more, today more than yesterday, and less than tomorrow.

  Your love, Eloise.

  A fleeting glimpse of her mother surfaced in her mind, but failed to solidify and flickered back to nothing. She had always longed for a true lasting memory, but it had eluded her for her whole life. All she knew of her mother was from old black and white photographs, which showed a small, beautiful young woman with an hourglass figure, very pale hair and dark eyes.