10 to 17 April 1943
They left only 50 men and 10 women to clean the ghetto. They are forced to go to the forest to add soil because the mass graves are sinking. They are forced to sing while they march. Imagine they have to sing over the mass graves of thousands of people, otherwise they are hit over the head. One of the people left to work is Rela’s brother Dudio. Mrs Beck saw him.
It had been several days since the akcja and we still hadn’t heard what had happened to Zygush and Zosia. Our fasting and praying didn’t bring the children to us. All the hopes I had had for the survival of our loved ones were now concentrated on Zygush and Zosia. Their survival might assuage some small portion of our suffering. If Uchka knew her children survived, she would accept the pain of her own death, would be at peace. Those two small precious bodies, if they survived, would mark some kind of victory over suffering and terror and senseless death.
I had got used to sitting on my pallet for long periods of silence. I always had my nose in a book. It was my escape, but there was no escape now. Before Uchka’s death and the last akcja, I could just about shut out the others and leap into another world beyond the 50 or so square metres of this one. But now I could not even read. The book lay on my lap, open. I looked at the pages but the letters didn’t form words that made sense. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to little Moshele. I needed to talk. To my mother. To Mania. To anybody, but before I could utter even one word there were looks telling me to shut up, especially from Mrs Melman and Mrs Steckel. My mind started to race. He was such a darling little baby, all blond curls and blue eyes. I could still see the joy in my uncle Josek’s eyes. Moshele, the first son born to a Reizfeld of Josek’s generation! His bris was the last party we had as a family. As usual Mr Beck spared us no details. And as he was compelled to confess, we were compelled to beg for details. It was insanity. We hungered for every word. Wanting to hear every horrible word that painted the vivid pictures of these deaths. The colour of the sky, the weather, what they were wearing, last words, their expression, were they buried or left to rot, who was with them, how many died, did anyone survive and a hundred other questions.
Beck had told us a German SS officer came to the ghetto and asked for a volunteer to bury a Jew out near the marsh. Dudio offered himself up. He had never volunteered before, but for some reason a feeling came over him that he had to go. He didn’t know why. The two of them walked to the marsh. As they got closer to the common grave, Dudio could see the rain had washed away much of the sand. Parts of bodies, arms and legs and the occasional face, were visible. Among them, Dudio could make out a red-faced, feverish infant boy with bright blue eyes and unmistakable blond curls. Dudio immediately recognized Moshele. The baby’s cries were weak, hardly more than a whisper, and he was choking and gagging on his own tears. It was a cold and raining spring day. God knows how that poor child was suffering or how long he had been there. Poor Dudio. God heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds. God numbers the stars, giving each one their name…
He had volunteered for this mission knowing he would be burying the body of Jew, so that at least a fellow Jew and a friend could say a prayer for his soul. What Dudio hadn’t prepared himself for was to witness this child’s murder, his sister’s son; a child he had held on the day of its birth, his bris and countless other times. The SS soldier swore and cursed as he shot little Moshele. He had enough human feeling to curse his fate that he had to commit such a crime, but not enough to save the innocent child. Who would have known? Dudio and this officer were alone. Nobody would have known.
Great is God and full of power, with wisdom beyond reckoning. God gives courage to the lowly and brings hope to the bereft.
As I sat and thought and prayed about little Moshele’s short life…Shield us from enemies and pestilence, from starvation, sword and sorrow. Remove the evil forces that surround us…
…I expected Mr Beck to knock on our trapdoor with a bottle in his hand, climb down and report upon the last moments of Zygush and Zosia. They were alone and probably starving, in a basement, an attic, a closet. Shelter us in the shadow of Your wings, O God, Who watches over us, and deliver us, O merciful Ruler.
For the past week, Mania and I had been reciting these prayers, which my father had taught us: a prayer for those who suffer a major loss, and a prayer begging God for protection. Over and over, together; we whispered them; we mouthed the words; we said them silently staring at each other; we said them before we went to sleep and when we woke up. We knew we were annoying everyone in the bunker. Those of us who felt guilt at the decision not to allow children in the bunker were especially affronted. They knew who they were. Mama screamed at us (as much as she could scream down here) and begged us to stop our fast, which we started as soon as we heard about the akcja. She begged my father to make us stop. ‘It was a sin to fast if we were in danger of bad health,’ he argued. He told us that the Talmud said we could give to charity after we got out of the bunker instead of fasting and praying. Mania told my mother we might not get out of the bunker, and this was not something my mother needed to hear when she just got the news her sister, her brother and nephew were murdered and nobody knew if Zygush and Zosia were alive or dead. The grief was thick, a fog we couldn’t see through, as heavy as a blanket of wet snow, a fog that attacked limbs and lungs so it took effort to move or breath or speak. My poor mother. I don’t know how she could find the will to keep living, never mind peel potatoes, make tea, clean the crumbs from the dirt floor and wash the dishes.
I was reciting the prayers now, silently.
A knock on the door shattered my thoughts and prayers and brought back the knot in the stomach that arrived at every knock. If the Eskimos could differentiate between hundreds of kinds of snow, it was the same for us and knocks. Mr and Mrs Beck, their sisters and brothers, in-laws, friends, Ala’s boyfriends, Schmidt the German policeman, the SS who came for drinks and cards, the Blue Coats, all had distinct knocks. But even if it was one I recognized, I was still terrified that I might be wrong. Mr Beck’s familiar step crossed the floor. Nobody moved or breathed. My mother had been peeling potatoes and sat frozen, only a potato peel dangled from her peeler. Mania grabbed my hand as the door opened and we heard a voice…a familiar, small voice straining to sound all grown-up and serious. ‘Dudio said our mother was here.’ Oh God, it was Zygush, he was alive!
I could barely hear Beck’s voice as he whispered harshly, ‘Get in here, before anyone sees you.’
Dear, dear Zygush. I could practically see the serious expression on his tiny old-man face, which he had had even as a baby, as he said, ‘If you don’t have room for me that’s all right. I can take care of myself. Please, Mr Beck, please just take care of my little sister, Zosia.’
Mania threw her arms around me in relief and whispered praise God over and over, while there was a communal wringing of hands as to what could be done with four-year-old Zosia in the bunker. Zygush was old enough to be counted on to be quiet. But of course we couldn’t condemn Zosia to her death and take Zygush without his sister. How I hated the Nazis for making us even think such a grotesque thought. Immediately, there were looks being exchanged and hushed words, too shameful to be uttered out loud. Yet. They were gathering their courage. I knew what Mrs Melman was whispering in Mr Melman’s ear; Mrs Melman, who woke up every day and accused us with words or her eyes of stealing her water. And the Steckels, who were as cold as ice in their silence, were even more so now. But I didn’t have time to think, because even as Beck was crossing the bedroom and banging on the hatch, I was looking deep into my sister’s eyes, which were filled with a joy and gratitude I had never witnessed in my entire life. The joy of thanksgiving, creation and answered prayers were in those dark shining brown eyes. Patrontasch opened the hatch. Beck’s face was even more swollen and red than usual. I wondered how he could see us, his eyes were so puffy. He was hungover and angry. I started to say something, but he cut me off. ‘Not a word! Not a word from any of you. Clara, get up here.’ I didn’t know why Beck called for me instead of my mother or father, but Mania looked at me: ‘Make it all right.’ God help me. Whatever would be pleaded, begged or argued on the children’s behalf would be pleaded, argued and begged by me.
I crawled up into the bedroom and he slammed the hatch door down after me. He wouldn’t look at me, perhaps to avoid seeing the pleading look in my eyes. I followed him up the stairs into the attic where Zygush and Zosia stood, dressed in their coats and hats and scarves, so bundled up they could hardly move. They both ran to me and embraced me, happy to be with someone in their family, relieved for one small moment to be safe, even if it was an illusion they weren’t aware of. I had to hold my emotions in. I was afraid I would scare them to death with what I was feeling. Through the layers of clothing, Zosia’s half-starved body was shuddering against me, crying and stunned, not understanding what was going on, looking over my shoulder and all around the small room for her mother.
Zygush said it for her. ‘Where’s Mama? Why can’t she come up here? Dudio told us she was here. Where is she?’ Little Zygush looked at Beck and then at me. Beck didn’t know what to say, but he looked at me to tell them something.
We knew their precious mother was dead, and they didn’t. But I knew Beck didn’t want me to tell them and whatever lie I made up would be the one we had to live with. I had never lied to Zygush or Zosia before, and it would be a lie we would have to keep up every day in the bunker if Beck relented and allowed them to stay.
I don’t know why I said what I did, but I heard my voice as if it were someone else speaking in a reassuring, matter-of-fact tone: ‘Your mother had to go to Lvov…you’ll see her as soon as the Nazis leave Lvov.’ The news hit Zygush like a hammer. His face went from joy to despair. Zosia burst into tears. She was crying that she wanted her mama. I held her as Beck looked on. The more she cried, the angrier Beck looked. I whispered over and over that it was all right and she would see her mother very soon. I told her that she was safe and my mother and father were downstairs. I didn’t know what else to say. Beck’s usually expressive face was now a wall. Zygush put his arms round Zosia and in his stoic little voice also told her it was going to be all right. He’d take care of her until they got to see their mother.
Beck was still silent. Instinctively, he took off their hats, revealing two heads full of lice. His face went from red to purple. His hands were shaking and veins were throbbing on his forehead and his neck. I knew what he was thinking. Lice! Eighteen people living in close and barely sanitary conditions. The typhus epidemic that was doing the Nazi’s work in the ghetto could kill us all. The children could already be infected. Cleaning them up was a matter of survival, even if they had been in the house for only five minutes. He must have realized the impression he was making and somehow found a smile for the children.
‘We need to give them a bath.’ Then in a whisper, as he leaned into my ear, ‘No way in hell they’re staying here and don’t even ask. Not one word! Not one word out of your mouth about this.’ Zygush was dark and very Jewish-looking and no gentile family in their right mind would take in such an obviously Jewish child. There might have been hope to find a Polish friend to take care of Zosia, but how to even think of such a thing after what happened to little Moshele.
As I undressed them, Beck went downstairs. He returned with a washbasin and some bread, which the children devoured. Beck made several more trips up the stairs with buckets of hot water. Zygush took off his coat. He was a little Charlie Chaplin! Underneath were silk nightgowns, slips, stockings, brassieres, corsets and lingerie of all kinds. Even in the best of times, he was a skinny boy and I had wondered why he looked so stout in his coat. He had tied the nightgowns, slips and stockings into knots and struggled to get them untied. He was like one of the clowns at the circus: as soon as Beck and I thought we had all the garments, there were more hidden in pockets and even in his long underwear. I thanked God under my breath that Beck started laughing. Zygush grinned at Beck’s laughter.
‘Mama hid us up in the attic at the Judenrat. Mama and the other women used to dry their underclothes up there. I thought we could sell them. Did I do good?’
Beck agreed with a smile. Poor Beck. Every day, another life or death decision, relentless. And here he was on his knees, a raging argument and rising anger in his drink-ravaged face, which he tried to hide with a smile for frightened children.
Despite all this, he couldn’t stop himself from asking Zygush how they managed to avoid a town full of SS, Gestapo and Blue Coats. Zygush informed us: ‘We hadn’t seen our mama or anyone in days and days and we were really hungry when Uncle Dudio came and explained that Mama was hiding at the Melmans’. Uncle told us it was Sunday morning and all the goyim were in church so it was a good time to go to Mama. He said not to be afraid because there would be Jews hiding all over the place to help us in case the Fascists or the police saw us.
Whoever said the Jews went like sheep should know a story like this! The last 50 Jews out of 5000, armed with only their fear and hunger, risked their lives to save perhaps the last two Jewish children in our town. It was a miracle two Jewish children walked two kilometres in broad daylight and didn’t get arrested. Beck muttered that Dudio was damned clever. ‘The SS, Gestapo and the Blue Coats like their Sunday mornings at church after a week full of murder. And damn the priests that hear their confessions.’ He punctuated his statement with a giddy toast to Dudio’s bravery and a long drink from a glass of vodka.
Beck asked the children if anyone saw them. Zygush shook his head. Beck turned to me. ‘Burning’s too good for these clothes.’ I tried to read Mr Beck’s face as he stared at Zygush and Zosia, all protruding bellies and swollen joints. In my mind, I was saying, Please, please, please… I wanted to beg him, grab his hands and kiss them, but I knew if I asked he would say no. Without one more word, he turned and walked downstairs to get more hot water, yelling for Mrs Beck to make soup for the children. I prayed Julia would say something, but good a person as she was, it was Mr Beck who made the decisions of life and death for all of us. He was God in this house.
When he came back up, I was already cutting their hair and shaving their heads. Zosia had the most beautiful blond, curly hair that everyone, family and friends, fussed over. She wept inconsolably, still asking for her mother. Even in the bath, she held on to me. I kissed her again and again and again, told her that her hair would grow back as beautiful as ever and she would see her mother very soon. I also whispered in her ear that it was very important for her to be quiet, quiet as a mouse, and that we all played a game in the bunker of who could be the quietest mouse. I was sure she would be the best mouse of all. I said this for Beck’s benefit as well as Zosia’s. I knew what the rule was. I knew that a small child in a house of hidden-away Jews risked everyone’s life, especially the lives of our benefactors. I wanted to ask Beck with every fibre of my heart. But I also knew I didn’t have to. I knew he was in as much torment as I was. Maybe even more. We were testing his goodness and generosity and courage at every step of our confinement.
I don’t know where, but he found the children fresh, clean clothes. I helped them get dressed. Beck still gave me no indication what their fate would hold. Beck said he would burn their clothes outside. I could see Zygush’s eyes. I knew he wanted to go outside with Beck and watch. Witnessing an immolation of so hated an enemy would, I knew, be morbidly fascinating and satisfying to Zygush. Zygush! I was screaming in my head, for once in your life could you please restrain this incurable love of mischief! And don’t ask Beck. He looked at Beck and said nothing. Somehow he knew that his life was on the line and he was remarkably silent. Again, Beck looked at the pile of lingerie and underwear at the children’s feet and then at Zygush. I thought I saw a trace of a smile in Beck’s eyes. I tried to read him the way I would read a book or study a painting. Looking for any indication, hidden or otherwise, of what he was thinking. Sometimes his feelings poured out of him like sweat. But in moments like this I knew he didn’t want to betray a thing. In that moment, I had the giddy and absurd thought that the two of them had become a small army. General Beck and Private Zygush. Hatikvah! Hope! But then it was gone. Beck’s eyes were blank and empty. Empty of everything.
Without a word, Beck marched us downstairs and into the bedroom. He moved the bed away and Zygush watched, his big brown eyes wider and wider, as Beck removed the rug and knocked on the hatch. Zosia’s hand kept going to her shaved head and she continued crying even as I whispered that it would grow back prettier than ever.
Patrontasch opened the hatch. My mother, father and Mania were waiting, faces looking up in apprehension. Beck handed the children down to my mother, father and Mania, who embraced them and covered them with kisses. Beck and I hopped down into the bunker.
Before my mother could ask the question, ‘Do they know about their mother?’ I said, as if I was giving away a small piece of gossip, ‘I told them how Uchka was in Lvov with Rosa, and Zygush and Zosia can’t wait to see her!’ This was the lie that would be their reality until the end of the war. Until they found out the truth. What would they feel when they found out that their mother was shot one step outside their doorway as she was trying to bring them food? Would they hate us for the lie? Hate me?
Mr Beck found out from Dudio that poor Uchka had been going crazy knowing that her children were starving, frightened and alone two houses down the street where she had hidden them in the attic of the Judenrat. She knew it was risky to try to see them, but Dudio said she felt she had to take the risk. He and Josek tried physically to stop her and she fought them until Dudio realized he had to let her go. Josek said he would go with her. He wouldn’t let her go alone. As soon as Dudio heard them go out the front door downstairs, he heard two shots. By the time Dudio got downstairs, they were dead. He took off their coats. They were both shot in the head and he knew that their coats would keep one of the few remaining Jews warm. Beck also found out that as soon as Sluka heard that Josek and Uchka were murdered he threw away the child. That’s how Moshele had ended up in the common grave. For almost six months Sluka’s wife held this boy, fed him, changed him! How could she have allowed her husband to commit such a crime, a child who without doubt looked upon her as his own mother? The coward waited until the baby’s father was dead before he murdered the son. I had never heard my father speak of revenge before, but he prayed he would survive to see Sluka shot.
The Melmans and Steckels were looking at Beck to sentence the children to death, although I knew Mr Beck would never be cruel or callous enough to condemn the children to their fate in front of them. But the Steckels were shelling out good money to the Becks for their safety. Their zloty, deutschmarks and dollars were payment in full to get the children out of the bunker before a solitary cry gave us away. There was not a milligram of pity in their eyes. I didn’t want to say it was hatred. I wanted to find fear and anxiety in their eyes, some kind of human emotion, but their eyes were cold. Beck looked right at the Steckels. ‘The children are staying.’ I don’t know how he made up his mind. Perhaps it was the hatred in their eyes that set Beck off or perhaps it was Zygush and his underwear that allowed him to leap once more into the abyss for us. Who even knew if Beck understood what he was saying when he said it. I thanked God for these words, because I knew once given, Beck would never take them back. With these four words he bound all our fates together as much as blood. For this one act, God should save and protect them.
Professor Steckel couldn’t get a single word out before Beck cut him off. ‘Throw the children out? If God brought them here, who is Beck to turn them away? Whatever will be will be.’ It was Beck who brought God into the conversation and it was through the miracle of Beck that God had answered our prayers. The children were with us. Part of Uchka was now alive and in my sight and arms, and even if we perished we would perish together. My prayer was answered.
I saw Mrs Melman holding her tongue. Steckel couldn’t help himself. ‘I don’t think it’s wise—’
But Beck was quicker. ‘You don’t like it, you know where the door is…and don’t you dare insult me with money.’
Thank God the children didn’t hear the exchange. They were too busy getting kissed and hugged by my mother and Mania. My mother was immediately moving the pallets around so the children could sleep between us.
In a few minutes Julia brought down their soup and for once the Steckels could watch while someone else enjoyed a meal. Zygush, alert, looked around, taking in his surroundings. Zosia was exhausted, more concerned with holding on to Mania.
Zygush stared at Klarunia Patrontasch across the bunker. I knew he didn’t care for the girl, who was a year older than him, and took every opportunity to torment her in some way. I knew he would do the same in the bunker. The same brave boy who marched down the middle of a town full of Nazis and told Mr Beck that he could take care of himself was thinking he was going to make Klarunia’s life a living hell. I whispered to him, ‘It’s very important we all get along down here. No being mean. No teasing her. Understand?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Understand?’ He finally nodded. But that wasn’t good enough for me. I made him promise. We were now 13 in this tiny corner of the bunker.
As Zosia’s eyes were closing from exhaustion, a full stomach and relief, she noticed Mrs Steckel on the other side of the bunker and called out, ‘Aunt Giza!’
I explained: ‘That’s not Giza. That’s Mrs Steckel, the pharmacist’s wife. He makes the medicine that makes you better when you’re sick.’
Zosia was insistent. ‘It’s Aunt Giza.’
The pharmacist’s wife was annoyed already.
‘It’s not Aunt Giza, Zosia,’ I said.
‘Well, Clarutchka, the other name is way too long and too hard for me to say. I’ll just call her Aunt Giza.’
Mrs Steckel was about to say something, but even she knew to keep her mouth shut, at least for a little while.
Zosia looked at Mrs Steckel for another few seconds, ‘If she’s not Aunt Giza, but looks like Aunt Giza, then I know Aunt Giza is still alive.’ I was stunned that a four-year-old child could look for signs that her loved ones were still alive. Zosia lay down on a pallet and fell asleep almost immediately. Nobody told her that Aunt Giza had died.
As much as we mourned our lost family, the survival of these two children brought all of us such joy and relief.
The next morning, everyone except Zygush was still asleep as a faint light came in through the tiny opening that Patrontasch would fill with brick as soon as he awoke. The light was mine to enjoy for a few more moments as I was writing in my diary, trying to put into words my gratitude for Mr Beck, because I knew this might be the only chance I had. In the few moments we had upstairs, cleaning, it was an adventure. Upstairs, there was never the quiet moment just to talk without the fear of a knock on the door or a strange face in the window.
Zygush was staring at my sleeping sister. He pulled a feather from his pocket–where he got a feather, only God knows–and started to tickle Mania under the chin. She brushed at her chin with her hand and rolled over. Zygush waited a moment and tickled her under the chin again. Mania again brushed her chin.
I knew I should put a stop to Zygush’s game, and he was now very excited, but quietly so, for the moment. He moved his hand out ever so slowly above her chest, barely breathing, and tickled her again with the feather. This time, Mania’s hand darted out like a snake and grabbed Zygush’s hand.
The commotion woke up Mama. She looked at Mania and Zygush and the first words out of her mouth were: ‘Clarutchka, I think it will be your job to be the schoolmistress.’
‘Me?’
My father opened his eyes and said, ‘We were talking about it after you fell asleep last night. The children need to learn to read. You know what the rebbe says: “When we had to choose between building a sanctuary and a school…All you need to pray is ten men…If you have to build one thing, build a school.”’
A school? That’s why I loved my father. We were scared to death, hiding in a four-foot-high bunker with dirt walls and slowly starving to death, mourning our relatives, and the way my father phrased the task is that we were going to build a ‘school’. It was a task in the coming months that I would take very seriously, as much necessitated by Zygush’s low tolerance of boredom and the need to keep the children occupied and quiet as their need to learn. Such was my father’s wisdom. Teaching the children would benefit all of us in the bunker. People who had normal lives had schools; therefore we would share this normality with them. And if a school implied normality, the everyday preparations of lessons implied that children needed to learn for a future, and if they had a future, then we all had a future. And who could not watch with joy the face of a child as he learned to read?
Left to himself Zygush would find the one thing to do to drive every grown-up meshuggehdik. The only toy he had was a small penknife which he repeatedly threw into the dirt, hundreds of times already and he’d only been up a couple of hours. Zosia held on to a small piece of bread, wanting to eat it, but not knowing when the next piece of bread would be on the enamel plate my mother gave her…Mrs Melman and the Steckels looked at poor little bald, skinny Zosia as though she were a bomb, ready to go off and kill us all. Keeping the children busy would keep us all busy.
The school would start tomorrow. We still had to worry about what to do with the children that day. I don’t remember if it was me, Mania or Lola who came up with the idea of our doll factory.
We supervised the children as they cut people and animals out of our old newspapers filled with news of German exploits. They coloured the newspaper dolls with my blue pencil and pens that the men allowed us to use, which was no small gift because ink was precious. We scoured the bunker for candle drippings, scraping the wax from the wooden pallets, shelves and our enamel dishes. We kneaded the scavenged wax in our hands. Once the wax was soft, we showed the children how to make a base for their paper dolls that allowed them to stand.
Zygush had made a soldier, Zosia a milkmaid, Klarunia a mother and Igo a dog.
We worked for hours, and now we had the satisfaction of watching the children playing quietly with their new toys. Nobody said anything, but as we watched, we thought that perhaps having the children here wouldn’t be our death sentence.
I didn’t know what or who started it.
Little Klarunia was yelling at Zygush, ‘I’m the mummy. You all have to listen to me!’
Zygush pointed his soldier’s paper rifle in Klarunia’s face. ‘If you boss me around, I’ll shoot you.’
Klarunia burst into tears. I told Zygush to be nice to her for a change. Zygush complained that Klarunia was always bossing him around. Klarunia said that Zygush needed someone to boss him around because he was a troublemaker and everybody said so and besides she was older. The bunker was suddenly very small. The Steckels couldn’t find anything better to do than stare at us and the children as if we didn’t exist at all. As many years as I’ve lived, I’ve never seen such coldness towards other human beings. I’m sure if the Steckels weren’t there, we could have just distracted the children or they would have got bored or Klarunia would have retreated to the arms of her mother. But that look from the Steckels that went from my parents to the children to the Melmans and the Patrontasches was a lit match.
As Zygush informed Klarunia that at least he wasn’t a crybaby, she threw down her doll and informed Zygush that she wasn’t going to be the mummy any more. She took Zosia’s milkmaid doll and little Zosia started crying. Eight-year-old Igo picked up his dog, shoving it in their faces. Mania and I tried to intervene without raising our voices and alerting Mr Beck upstairs to this commotion that could be our ticket to a camp. But the children paid no attention. Patrontasch grabbed his daughter and slapped her across the face. I felt the imprint of his hand on my own face it was so hard. Poor Patrontasch wore the face of a murderer. He was not a man ever to hit a child. He loved poor Klarunia, whom he had always spoiled. She was an only child and had never quite learned how to be happy or get along with other kids. In Klarunia’s world, Zygush’s arrival was another blow. The war, the Nazis, life in a bunker, starvation and now Zygush. His arrival made her beloved father raise his hand to her. She was inconsolable. Zygush was stunned. He didn’t live in a world where parents struck children and I could see the knot of guilt in his throat. Can you imagine? With all he’s been through, to have this final remnant of his innocence ripped away.
Mr Patrontasch apologized and put his arms around his daughter. He said, more to himself than anyone else, ‘After the war, I’ll spoil her again. Just like I used to.’
In the middle of the night, I felt a hand shaking my shoulder. I knew it was Mania’s. I opened my eyes and I knew she was staring at me, eyes bright and wide awake, even though I couldn’t see her in the utter darkness of the bunker at night. I could feel the soft breath of her words on my face. Everyone else was asleep. She talked about the fight for a few minutes, but there was something else on her mind. There was always something on my sister’s mind. That night it was: ‘I’m so happy the children are here.’ I was too, I said.
And then the question and conversation that still haunts me. She whispered, ‘Do you think God answered our prayers?’ I wish I had a better answer, but all I could say was: ‘He must have. The children are here. Why?’
Mania was not a child given to introspection or philosophy, so I knew she must have been thinking about this since Zygush and Zosia climbed down into the bunker. This was what she said: ‘I don’t want God to think I’m being greedy.’ Dear, dear Mania. My poor sister, so grateful for the children that she was wondering if she even had the right to pray for her life, for our life, for food, for safety, for a new dress and clean clothes.
Ninety-nine remarks out of a hundred you can and do reply to without even thinking. But how could I even begin to respond to this that came from the depth of my sister’s heart? All I had to offer was what I thought my father might say: ‘If you’re not being selfish, I don’t think God minds at all. I think He likes it when you pray for the good of the people you love.’
Mania agreed. ‘Papa says that the best prayers are good deeds.’ She snuggled closer to me, putting her head on my shoulder and letting it rest there a moment. We could hear the quiet breathing of Zygush and Zosia, between us. Mania’s voice was now in my ear. ‘We were never so close before the war.’
My sister, who without a care sped through life on a bicycle with a skipping rope wrapped round her neck, was now cutting my heart open with every word. All the famous and learned rabbis in the history of our town could not stand up to the razor’s edge of such words. Truth demands truth, but how could I possibly agree to the idea that we had ever not been close? I knew my sister. From Mania it was simply a statement of fact. I didn’t say anything. Although she wasn’t saying there was anything lacking in me, I knew what was lacking in my bookish, shy self. When did my wild little sister become so wise? She then told me, ‘You don’t like to talk about your feelings.’
Again, I could not find a single word. In every statement, in every way, especially this last one, she was telling me how much she loved me. We were hiding for our lives, in danger of imminent death from so many different sources you couldn’t even think about it without going crazy or wanting to end your own life, and here she was confiding her secrets.
After a prolonged silence she said, ‘I’m glad we didn’t go to the nuns.’
I finally had something to say. ‘Me too,’ I said. Her love simply filled me up. Her last words that night were: ‘I’ll be quiet now. Good night.’ She closed her eyes and in a moment I could hear her steady breathing. I was happy too. Such happiness as perhaps I have ever felt. What is this creature that God has made, that even as our families were slaughtered and each moment might be our last, we could still feel such love? Perhaps this was the greatest miracle of all.