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!”