10 July, 1941, 05:45 — As the sun comes up the next morning, we exhaustedly come upon a small house not far from the road. Smoke billows from the chimney, and we all salivate at the smell of baking bread.
At the same time, Ita and I spot an oblong ornament affixed diagonally to the inside of the door jamb at about head height, inscribed with Hebrew. We look at each other.
“They have a mezuzah,” I say.
“It used to go without saying that if Jewish people were in a strange city and found themselves in need, if they found another Jewish person or family, they could count on them to be kind and help in any way that they could.”
“Let’s pray that holds true now,” I say as I motion for Herschel, Sarah and the kids to stay back while Ita and I cautiously approach the house. In the least-threatening way I can muster, I rap on the door.
It is some time before a woman, who is probably in her forties but looks much older, opens the door and peeks through a crack. Ita and I smile and wave, coaxing the woman to open the door wider. She has straight, shoulder-length graying hair, a long, bulbous nose, and dark bags under her eyes.
“Hello!” I say in Yiddish. “We mean you no harm. We have been running for three days...” I pause.
The woman’s look indicates that she understands, and she understands why.
“And we are tired and hungry. Please help us,” I plead.
The woman, who wears a black wool dress with a white apron around her waist, appraises Ita and me. She glances behind us at the rest of our entourage, takes a deep breath, and appears to process an internal dialogue. At last, she cracks a weary smile and says, “My name is Dvore, please come in.”
I flash an “okay” sign to the family.
“Thank God,” Rivka says. “We may have found the last bastion of human decency on earth.”
We file into the small but warm house and are enveloped by the smell of baking bread. In the living room is a couch and enough chairs for everyone.
“Please, take a seat,” Dvore says.
I flash a grin Ita, raise my eyebrows and motion for everyone to sit. Everyone collapses into the nearest seat.
“You must be hungry,” Dvore says.
“Yes. That bread smells like heaven,” I say.
“Your timing is impeccable.” The woman smiles and goes into the kitchen. She opens the oven and pulls out a perfectly browned loaf of bread.
“Do you live here alone?” Ita asks.
“No. My husband and son are… gone. To war,” she says.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah says. “My two sons are, too.”
There was a long silence as the woman cut the bread into slices.
“Can I help you?” Ita asks.
“No, don’t worry about me. Relax.”
“Where are we?” Ira asks.
“Near Butuceny,” Dvore says.
Ira’s mouth shifts into the shape of an “O.” He extracts a map from his pocket and looks at it. He points toward the middle and says, “That’s about eighty kilometers from where we started.”
Dvore carries a tray with the sliced loaf of bread and containers of honey and strawberry preserves, sets it before us and then goes back to the kitchen for a pitcher of water and glasses.
Ita makes sure everyone is polite as we make short work of the loaf of bread, washing it down with water. We chat with Dvore, ingratiating ourselves to her with personal family stories.
I muffle a belch and say, “The question is where do we go from here?”
“To sleep,” Ira says, barely able to keep his eyes open. Whether in chairs or on the floor, everyone finds an adequate spot and falls asleep.
17:00 — “It’s weird. We haven’t heard any bombing or planes all day,” I say.
“Plug in the radio,” Ira says.
“Very funny,” Rivka says.
There is a pause in the conversation, and my attention goes to Ita’s forehead. “How is your eye feeling?” I ask Ita.
“Much better,” she says.
“May I have a look?”
“Sure,” she says.
I remove the bandage and examine it. “It looks good.”
“We endure what we have to,” she says.
“I think these stitches are about ready to come out,” I say.
Ita gives me a look of dread.
I hold her hand reassuringly. “I had a similar wound when I was a child, and as I recall, the doctor took the stitches out after about three days. You don’t want to leave them in too long.”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do it.”
“Okay.”
“Rivka, will you get the scissors for me?” I ask.
Rivka rummages in her rucksack, pulls out the first aid/sewing kit and produces a small pair of scissors and some tweezers.
As everyone watches, I deftly snip and pull out the stitches. Again, Ita doesn’t so much as utter a peep as I perform the procedure.
When I finish, Rivka applies a new bandage, and everyone is amazed and relieved.
“You’re one tough woman,” I say.
Ira changes the subject. “I still want to know what’s happening with the Germans.”
“It’s horrible not knowing anything. There’s an invasion one day and then nothing,” Ita says.
“Maybe it’s over,” I say.
“Maybe we just overreacted and everything is going to return to normal, or at least to the way it was,” Herschel says.
“It could be that Stalin has negotiated some sort of truce with Germany,” Ita adds.
“It could be a lot of things. Maybe I should go back and investigate,” I say.
“It would be awful if we continue on when we don’t have to,” Ita says.
“Okay, okay, let’s find out,” I say. “I’ll go back and check it out. I think it would be best if the rest of you stay here and save your strength.”
Dvore says, “You all are welcome to stay here until Elazar returns. Let’s hope it will be with good news, and you can all return home.”