SARAH
The boy they bring back to them on that black night is a diminished version of himself, even more withdrawn and morose than before.
He’s fighting them with silence, using it like a sharp knife. It’s ripping into Sarah’s soul, tearing it to pieces. Once again, David puts him to bed with a story he refuses to listen to, his head turned toward the wall. They go straight to bed after they’ve tucked him in. They’re both exhausted through to their bones. But sleep doesn’t come easily.
“David,” Sarah whispers in the dark.
“Please, Sarah. We need to sleep.”
“But I can’t. I feel terrible.”
“Sarah, you have to stop this. We have done nothing wrong. It’s not wrong to love your child, to want to raise him. You mustn’t feel guilty like this.”
The words she really wants to say are stuck in her throat, like a cancer growing. So instead she skirts around it. “I’m not strong enough, David. I can’t do it.”
“Give him more time.”
“We’ve given him time. Time is not helping. His resentment for us grows stronger with every day that passes.”
“He won’t be able to keep fighting us like this. He’ll run out of steam, and we’ll be ready to catch him when he falls. He will come back to us. We just need to be patient and keep our faith.”
“Faith,” she murmurs.
He turns to face her. Sighing, he reaches for her hand. “We all have our moments of doubt, Sarah. This has been very hard for us, but you’ve been so brave. You’ve always been brave.”
“I didn’t want to have to be that brave.”
“I know you didn’t.” He strokes her hand under the sheet.
“Sometimes I feel so angry inside, then sometimes I feel guilty. I just don’t know how… how…” Tears slip down her cheeks.
“It will be all right, Sarah. It will. I promise you.”
“How could it have happened? Auschwitz—how was it possible?”
David continues to stroke her hand. “Sometimes man is evil.”
“But was he not created in God’s image? David, it’s—”
“Shh, shh. It’s going to be all right.”
But she can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t keep still. Her nerves are raw, as though they’re about to split open any minute. Her body aches from her shoulders down to her toes. It feels like the last two months have aged her well beyond her years. She can’t take any more, can’t see the point in having their son back if it’s only to witness his pain. She turns away from David, trying to calm herself, but the panic is rising up from her belly, threatening to overcome her. She pulls the sheets aside and slips out of bed.
She goes to the kitchen and opens the window, breathing in the cool night air. She would like to pray, to ask for guidance, but she no longer feels worthy. When she tries to find the words, she encounters only a void. She looks out into the dark night. “God,” she whispers. “If you have something to say to me, say it.”
A cold silence answers her. And she understands why. Twice she begged God to keep her son safe, and twice he answered her prayers. But the last time she promised something in return. You can’t break a promise to God, can you?
Putting her hands on the windowsill, she leans out, dark thoughts playing in her mind. What if they had died at Auschwitz? Sam would have continued to live in ignorance of his true history. He would have grown up happy and free from it all. No religion. No history. Free.
She wants to be free too. Free from all this guilt, pain, and anguish. Gazing out into the night, she realizes there is only one path to freedom and peace.
For the first time in months, she sleeps calmly and wakes feeling ready for the day.
As she and David set the table for breakfast, she broaches the subject. “I’ve been thinking. I’ve got an idea. It might help.”
“Yes?”
“I could visit Beauchamp in prison. I could ask him questions about Samuel, find out more about how he was brought up, what he was like as a small child. It might help us understand him better.”
David pauses as he fills the coffee grinder with beans. “Let me think about it.”
This is as much as she could have hoped for. Patience.
He looks at her. “It’s seven thirty, time to wake Samuel.”
She can’t help resenting the way this task is always left to her. She dreads getting him up in the mornings. He’s so lethargic, as though he’s crawled deep within himself, putting himself into a state of dormancy or hibernation. As she pulls back the covers and strokes his shoulder, coaxing him to sit up, his little body resists her touch. The eczema on his legs and elbows needs taking care of before he can get dressed. She rubs the cream in softly, then passes him clothes for the day, leaving him to dress while she prepares his hot chocolate. She brings his drink into the bedroom; an excuse to check that he’s not climbed back under the sheets.
Today, she talks softly to him. “Sam, don’t fret so much. We’ll work out a way to make you happy again. I would give my soul to see you smile; my heart too, to hear you laugh.” She looks into his eyes, but they are blank, no glimmer of understanding peeking through.
When they get to the kitchen, David is gulping back his coffee. He puts the bowl down on the table with a small thud. “I need to leave now. Samuel should get up earlier.” Bending down, he grips the boy’s arms and kisses him, once on each cheek.
Sarah sees Sam go rigid, as though he wishes he were made of stone.
After breakfast, she takes him to school. She no longer tries to hold his hand or even walk next to him. The pavement is too narrow anyway. Instead she walks ahead, and he drags his feet behind her. The school’s only around the corner and it should just take five minutes, but she has to allow fifteen to get there.