35

I wasn’t there. I wasn’t with them. Not with them. I should be dead with them. I was meant to … die.

I went over to the window. It was still dark. There were no streetlights on in the ghetto anymore. There was no one left who could use them. I noticed a small crack in one of the windowpanes. I could see myself breaking the window, picking up one of the pieces of glass, and using it to slit my wrists. Going to the pantry to join the others. Taking Hannah’s lifeless body in my arms and slowly bleeding to death beside her.

Being with her seemed right.

I looked around for something to smash the window. The old saucepan in the dresser, maybe? Or the broken kitchen door handle? I could easily pull it off the door. Or I could try to break the glass with an elbow. If I was going to slit my wrists, it wouldn’t matter if I cut myself first.

I lifted my elbow and rammed it into the glass, but nothing happened. I tried again, with more force, but the window simply wouldn’t break. All I did was hurt my elbow. I went over to the dresser, took out the saucepan, went back to the window, and struck it with all my might. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces, which all fell out into the street. I should have worked that out beforehand. The pieces of glass didn’t make much noise when they hit the ground, but the sound echoed through the empty streets.

If the Germans heard that, they would come, find the broken glass, notice the window, storm the house, and shoot me.

Let them come.

That would be quicker than bleeding to death. I’d sit beside Hannah in the pantry and just let them execute me. Then I’d die the way I was supposed to.

But no Germans came.

I broke off another bit of glass from the window and cut my hand without meaning to. For a moment, I stopped thinking about everything—Hannah dead, wanting to kill myself—and instinctively started to suck the cut to try to stop it bleeding. The blood tasted vile, and I realized I was thirsty.

I stood by the broken window. I could feel the gentle breath of fresh air blowing across my face. The night was cooler than it had been over the past weeks. Autumn was on its way, but it was deepest darkest winter in my soul.

I opened the window wide to breathe in more fresh air, as if it could quench my thirst. Another piece of glass fell out onto the street. Still the Germans didn’t come.

I looked down to where the glass had gone, though I couldn’t actually see it in the dark. Maybe I should just jump.

Like my father.

I could understand him now.

And I could forgive him.

But if I jumped, I wouldn’t be able to lie beside Hannah.

My hand was still bleeding. I kept sucking the cut, remembering I really was thirsty. I hadn’t drunk anything for more than a day. I was getting more and more muddled. I wanted to kill myself, but I wanted to drink something, too. My spirit wanted to die, my soul was dead already, but my starving body wanted to live.

There should still be a jug of water in the pantry. I could drink from that if it wasn’t shot to bits. I left the window and went over to the three dead bodies. They didn’t seem real. As if the corpses riddled with bullets had nothing to do with Hannah, Ruth, or Mama anymore. Their souls were gone. There was nothing left but skin and bones and congealed blood.

The stone jug filled with water stood behind the bodies on the floor. I stepped into the dark room to fetch it and trod on Mama’s arm. I stopped and lifted my foot and stared at the body. For a long time.

I never did tell her that I loved her.

My eyes wandered over to all that was left of Hannah, her mutilated soulless shell. Her death was absolutely pointless. So was her whole life.

So was my life.

So was my death.

I leaned over and picked up the jug. I couldn’t see if there was any blood in the water in the dark. Some could have splashed in. I raised the jug and let a little bit of water run over my dried lips. It tasted stale, but not like blood. So I lifted it again and drank a bit more water. Slowly, so as not to choke, I took another mouthful. And one more. And another, until the jug was empty.

Then all of a sudden I could think clearly again.

There was no thirst left to confuse me. I still wanted to die. Yes. I did. Even more than before. But I wasn’t going to slit my wrists. Or jump. I would die in a different way. A very different way. And not yet. Not today. Suicide was pointless. I wanted my death to have a purpose. It was the only way to give Hannah’s death any kind of meaning. Or her life.

Or what was left of mine.