The Judenrat told us,
Bring only what you can carry.
Only what is necessary.
What do I pack?
Mama fretted.
Only what is necessary,
Tata answered.
But what is necessary?
Mama’s voice rose.
We don’t know where we are going.
We don’t know how long we will be gone.
Just take,
Tata said,
what you cannot live without.
A change of clothes.
Something nice
for Shabbos.
Wool sweaters
overcoats
to keep us warm.
A silver frame
to hold the family together.
Shabbos candlesticks
wrapped in Mama’s undergarments.
tucked under his suit.
Iser’s tallis and tefillin
gifts for becoming bar mitzvah.
Such a good boy and a better man, Mama said.
Necha’s well-worn book
read a dozen times.
You will go blind you read so much, Mama said.
The engine to Lázaro’s train set
with wheels that spun.
It’s so heavy, Mama said.
I looked about
the home where I was reared
the home we all loved.
But what about . . . ?
These are just things, Zlatka,
Tata said.
Things can be replaced.
As long as we are together
we will be home.
Tata kissed my forehead.
No matter what comes,
the spark of God
in us all.
No one can take that.
That night
even though it wasn’t Shabbos
Tata wrapped his arms around
Iser
Necha
Lázaro
and me
and whispered a blessing,
May God bless you and keep you.
May God shine His face upon you
and grant you graciousness.
May God’s presence be with you
and grant you peace.
In the morning
I packed what I could not live without
a pad of paper and colored pencils,
a strand of paper soldiers, precisely cut
to entertain Lázaro.
Such a hobby for a smart girl, Mama said.
Our worldly possessions,
in three small cardboard suitcases.