ASHER BLUM

He watched clouds of fury gather on Alexandra’s face. She looked ready to erupt, to scream. Looking down at his lap, he forced himself to leave the papers scattered on the floor. He could understand his daughter being so angry, and he couldn’t begin to defend himself, but he was drowning in memories and regrets. With his only offspring glowering at him, snapshot moments tumbled over each other, memories drenched in joy and sorrow, in a wild waltz of angry words and loving ones. Iris had always hated how at moments of sorrow he disappeared into his brain, leaving her alone and uncomforted. He felt himself deserting Lexi now, but was unable to stop himself.

Images of hiding in the woods with partisans danced the hora with memories of his daughter’s birth and his deep joy. Shame about things he did in his life merged with the babies Iris lost, the pain that carved deep worry lines around his sweet wife’s eyes.

Without thinking, he hummed a few verses of the wordless lullaby his sister had sung to him eons ago. By the time he realized what he was doing, it was too late, and the old memories enveloped him. Iris and his work had mostly banished those demons. When they came, rarely, usually triggered by a snippet of song or the smell of pine forest, he couldn’t resist them. Within seconds he tumbled back into the war, hidden with his brother and sister deep in the forest, while their parents fought with the partisans.

“Dad?” Lexi slapped the top of his desk to get his attention. “Look at me.”

Asher struggled to bring himself back to the present.

“Talk to me. You can’t keep avoiding this.”

He would talk to her. If she understood his past, maybe she would be less critical of the things he’d had to do to protect his family. If she understood his childhood, maybe she would stop asking about Harriet.

“I was born in Warsaw.” His voice softened into velvet with the remembering. “When the Nazis began moving Jews into the ghetto, my family escaped, fleeing through the dark alleys and sewer tunnels late one night, carrying blankets and food. My parents, my brother and sister. I was twelve.”

“Oh, Dad. You never told me this. Where’d you go?”

“To the Kampinos forest. My parents joined the partisans who were sabotaging supply routes. We children were sent to the family camp deep in the woods, where it was safer.”

Of course, it was never safe in the forest. There were bands of Polish fascists searching for the partisans. Bandits, they called the Jews. And the Nazis searched too, since the partisans’ actions destroyed their bridges and arsenals.

“One day, my sister and I went foraging for mushrooms and edible greens for the soup pot. We wandered along the banks of a swamp, where dead trees stood stark and bare in the water. She sang softly to me, a folk song in Yiddish.”

The lyrics still eluded him, except in dreams.

“My sister was older, smart and responsible. The fighters thought their records would be safer in the family camp, so my sister carried the small leather journal which listed partisan actions in their sector deep in the pocket of her coat.

“That day in the woods we heard German voices. My sister made me hide in the hollow of a rotten log. I was small for my age. She covered me with branches and leaves. She tucked the leather book inside my shirt and told me to keep very quiet.”

“You must have been so scared.”

He wasn’t sure what was true memory and what came from the dreams and the nightmares he’d had for decades. “I don’t remember much. Bits of the songs she sang me. The putrid, dead smell of the swamp. She pushed my log into the tall reeds. And then she hid herself. But not well enough.”

Lexi took his hand and squeezed it. Her cheeks were wet. Asher wondered if he had said enough. Enough so that she’d feel sorry for him and stop asking for more details. But, no. The story had its own motor. He had to finish.

“I heard her yell a warning in Yiddish. Then she screamed. I never saw my sister again. I spent the night floating in a rotten log on that dead pond. In the morning people from the camp found me. They never found her.”

“What happened to the rest of your family?”

“All killed. In a year or two I was old enough to fight with the partisans. After the war my uncle in Brooklyn tried to get me a visa but by then the borders were closed to Jews.” He glanced at Lexi, hoping sympathy would dissolve her anger, but she still frowned. “He bought me forged papers.”

“What happened to the journal?”

“Years later I translated it into English. It was a list of partisan actions. Telegraph wires cut, railroad bridges blown up, grenades and rifles captured, turpentine confiscated, trains derailed.” He swallowed hard. “I donated it to the Holocaust Museum in memory of Alexandra Elizabeth Blum.”

“I’m named for her?”

He nodded, swiped his wet cheeks with his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Alexandra. So sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Everything.”

“Why didn’t you ever share this with me? Mom must’ve known, right?”

He shook his head. “Only a little. Living through something like that takes away your tongue. It silences you.”

“I’m sorry about what happened, and I’m glad you finally told me. But it’s not enough. I need to know what’s going on now. The whole story. What’s going on with Mom? What happened to her?”

He covered his face with his hands. How could he tell her about Harriet, about the things he did? His actions had all seemed reasonable at the time, more than reasonable, really. They seemed right. Right and necessary and justified. Now those actions had somehow twisted themselves into something wrong. Evil, even. How could he unpeel the layers of what he did, of actions spanning decades?

He stared out his study window. The late afternoon clouds were dark and threatening. Then he turned to face his daughter. It was clear he had to tell her other things. But maybe not everything. Hopefully he could hang on to a little bit of self-respect.