Pieces of the Past Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Winnipeg, Manitoba, 1948

  January 1948

  February 1948

  March 1948

  April 1948

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Warsaw Ghetto Timeline

  Images and Documents

  Credits

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Winnipeg, Manitoba, 1948

  January 1948

  Saturday, January 3, 1948

  My not-father, Saul, handed me a diary. This diary. “For you,” he said, “so you can write down,” he paused for a moment, as if trying to find the right word, “what happened. Maybe some day you’ll even want to talk about it to me and to Rita.”

  I didn’t laugh out loud when he said that, but frankly, I can never imagine such a time. On the other hand, this little book seems far too small to write down “what happened.” How will I ever fit what is stuffed into my head into these tiny pages, all the wild waking nightmares tamed onto these straight lines …

  Rita, my not-mother, asked what my favourite foods were.

  I didn’t answer. I don’t know. My favourite food is any food.

  “Try to write down one thing every day,” not-father said. “I mean from the war.”

  I stared at him.

  “Sometimes you have to remember,” he said, “before you can move ahead with your life.”

  What would he know?

  “Saul is a psychiatrist,” said not-mother. “He can help, if you’ll let him.”

  My new not-sister, Terry, rolled her eyes. So far she hasn’t spoken a word to me.

  Remembering isn’t the problem, I thought.

  As if he read my mind, he said, “Maybe if you put it on the page it will stay there, instead of,” and he pointed to my head, “there.”

  I think it will always be burned into my brain. I can’t forget, can I? I’ve certainly tried. Maybe he thinks that writing “what happened” could magically make it all go away. But he has no idea.

  No idea.

  And yet, a part of me feels like doing it. I don’t even know why.

  I REMEMBER

  1938

  Mama is crying. Mama never cries. I am sitting on a red rug with gold patterns running through it, playing with my favourite doll, Gita. Mama says, “We need to run.” I jump up, ready, clutching Gita. Papa comes over to me and sweeps me up in the air. He is not a big man, almost the same height as Mama, but he is strong. He swings me around. “Don’t worry, Rozia,” he says, “we aren’t running anywhere now!”

  Sunday, January 4, 1948

  Early this morning as we sat in the kitchen, Saul asked me why I had run away from my foster home when I first arrived in Winnipeg. I asked which time he meant. He kind of smiled and said the first time.

  I told him that the Greenbergs hadn’t wanted me.

  He wanted to know how I could tell. I smiled back and said well, the big hint was when Mrs. Greenberg told me she didn’t want me there. And he said that yes, he could see that might make me feel a little unwelcome.

  I explained that all Mrs. Greenberg cared about was keeping the house clean, and she always behaved as if I were somehow dirty.

  I really didn’t mean to confide in him. The words spilled out despite myself. I told him how she stood over me when I washed my hands, when I hung up my clothes, how she made me strip off everything and wash it all in hot water.

  Then Saul asked me what had happened in house number two.

  I shrugged and wouldn’t say. So he told me that I could confide in him, but I just shrugged again.

  “You can talk to me,” he urged. “About this. About the war.”

  “I can’t talk about the war,” I said. “I don’t want to.” I started to get up from my chair, but he stopped me by asking if I had managed to write in the diary. I told him I had and he seemed really pleased.

  “Of course talking would be better,” he said, “but this will help. I promise it will.”

  I couldn’t tell him about the second house, and how bad it was. They didn’t give me enough to eat. And Mrs. Divinsky discovered I’d hidden food under my bed, and she lectured me on thievery. Thievery. I wasn’t stealing. But you have to keep food on hand just in case. There’s some under my bed right now. But if I tell Saul that, he’ll look. And maybe he won’t trust me. Maybe he’ll call me a thief. Or Rita will. Not that I care if I have to leave here, but Saul seems to. Terry would be happy to see me go. She still hasn’t said one word to me. That’s simply rude, correct?

  When I applied to come to Canada I thought everything would be perfect. But I suppose I never imagined what perfect would look like. And how could anything actually be perfect? What was I thinking? How can you make a new family?

  All I hope for now is a clean pillow and some clean sheets and enough food so I never have to feel hungry again. And a bath every night. And books. Lots of books.

  I REMEMBER

  January 15, 1939

  “Four years old!” Mama says, and she claps her hands.

  “Still a baby!” says Abe.

  “But such a cute one,” says Sophie. She pinches my cheek. I hate it when she does that! She is only two years older than me, but she always acts like my mother.

  “I have a mother!” I tell her. “Where is Papa?” I ask Mama.

  She shakes her head and lights the candles on my cake. “He has work to do.”

  I start to cry. It’s my birthday. What could be more important than that?

  Later, when I’m in bed, Papa comes in and sits on my bed. He kisses my forehead. “Please forgive me, little one,” he says. “I would not have missed such an important occasion if I had had a choice.”

  I throw my arms around his neck. “I forgive you, Papa. Did someone die?” I can feel his beard against my cheek, and smell the peppermint on his breath from the candies Mama makes him chew to help his tummy.

  “No funeral today,” he says, but I see he has tears in his eyes. I don’t ask him anything else because now I am afraid, but I don’t know why.

  Monday, January 5, 1948

  First day of school. Everyone is saying how mild it is out, but Rita said to expect it to get much colder.

  I was anxious to get to school. It is called Robert H. Smith Junior High School and it is in a lovely brick building surrounded by tall trees, elms, and all around are large stately homes. The teacher, Mrs. Simms, greeted me warmly. She commented right away on my excellent English and asked if I had moved here from England!

  My classmates seemed friendly enough. I kept to myself, though. Who knows which of them hates Jews? All? Some? Most? I don’t intend to give any of them the opportunity to pretend to be my friend, only to turn around and call me a dirty Jew. Since I am about to turn thirteen in just over a week, I’ve been put in Grade Eight. My reading is well above that, but my Math and Science are non-existent.

  At dinner tonight Saul asked me what I had read over the last couple of years while I was in the orphanage, if anything. When I told him Hillel and Kierkegaard I think he was a bit surprised. Terry asked who they were and Saul told her they were very famous philosophers — Hillel, Jewish from the first century, and Kierkegaard, Danish from the nineteenth century. Terry started to roll her eyes but Rita gave her a look, so she stopped.

  Saul also asked about the diary again. I told him I was writing in it. He reminded me — again! — that I could always talk to him about those days if I wanted to.

  I REMEMBER

  High Holidays, Fall 1939

  I am screaming. I can’t stop. Mama is ho
lding me tight. Boom! Boom! The house shakes. Abe is trying not to cry and Sophie is also screaming. Papa, as usual, is at the synagogue. Mama is praying. “Shema Yisrael Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.” Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.

  I start to say the prayer too. So does Abe. Then Sophie. Mama starts to sing. She has a beautiful voice, like an angel, Papa says. And we all sing along with her. “Hinei ma tov u’manayim, Shevet achim gam yachad,” and again, “Hinei ma tov u’manayim, Shevet achim gam yachad.”

  Tuesday, January 6, 1948

  On the boat over here I was sick the whole way. And when we got to Customs and the officials talked to me, there was this man with beady eyes and he saw the ring Mama had given me that day and he told me to give it to him. He said I wasn’t allowed to bring it into the country.

  I knew he was stealing it from me, but what could I do? I gave it to him. And that’s when he wrote my name down as Rose instead of Rozia. Rose Rabinowitz. I was thankful that he left me my family name, since I have so little else left. But I wasn’t sorry he changed Rozia to Rose. I like the idea of having a new name.

  And then we were taken to a home, where we were fed and put onto a train to be supervised by a woman who was quite nice.

  I made friends with Oskar and Jakub on the boat. It didn’t take us long to decide that once in Canada we would stick together, settle down in the same city. They didn’t really care where they went, so they let me decide. I chose Winnipeg because it has a funny name and also because it is in the middle of the country. I studied Canada on a map very carefully. If you are in the centre of the country and something bad happens, then you can run in either direction — or even north or south. But if you are on the coast, you might be trapped, correct?

  The paper yesterday morning had a big headline. Mother of Three Found Slain.

  Of course I feel bad for her and terrible for her children. I doubt, though, that every morning during the war the papers printed Thousands of Jewish Mothers Found Slain! Or Thousands of Jewish Children Found Slain! Or that after the war they ran headlines, Millions Murdered!! Millions Murdered!! By my count, in my family alone there were over sixty aunties and uncles and cousins.

  I REMEMBER

  High Holidays, Fall 1939

  We are in a dark place under the ground with many of our friends and family. It is Yom Kippur and we have been here all day. Papa has been conducting the service as the bombs fall, but half the time people talk together instead of praying. Auntie Sarah says to Mama, “Moshe just came in and told me the bombing is worse here in the Jewish quarter. Hitler wants to bomb us today — especially today, on our holiest day. He wants to kill all Poles, yes, but especially Jewish ones!”

  Mama hushes her and looks over at me, but I pretend not to hear so Auntie Sarah will keep talking. I want to know what is happening. I don’t understand that much except that a man called Hitler wants to hurt our country and especially Jewish people, but I wonder if he has just made a very bad mistake. Sometimes I make mistakes and Papa tells me that it’s all right, everyone does it.

  Abe told me that a bomb is a big thing filled with dangerous stuff and it can destroy a whole building or a whole street when it falls, and I know that is true because I saw it when we walked here this morning. Like a giant stepped on a house or even a whole building and crushed it into little bits. And sometimes the giant will take a whole street and scoop it up out of the ground, leaving a big gaping hole. That’s why we’re here — so the bombs won’t hurt us. But will our house still be there when the day is over? Abe says he wishes he were old enough to fight. But eleven is not old enough, Papa says.

  As the day goes on, the women start to weep. Then the men start to weep. I’ve never seen grown-ups cry. But everyone is crying and they don’t seem to be able to stop. At one point Papa says, “Please, think of the children,” but that makes them all cry even harder.

  Boom, boom, boom, and the sound of crying. Boom, boom, boom, and weeping and wailing.

  Wednesday, January 7, 1948

  Terry has been “asked” — rather I would say ordered — to walk me to school every day. It’s funny really. They are worried about me walking a few short blocks to school. If they only knew what I have done to survive, what I have seen. I think I can take care of myself! I don’t need a nanny, and Terry certainly doesn’t want to be one. She still hasn’t said one word to me.

  This morning when I came down for breakfast I found Rita standing over the sink, her shoulders heaving. She had her back to me. At first I didn’t know what she was doing. Then I realized she was crying. Silently crying. Saul came down the stairs, calling to her, and as soon as she heard his voice she wiped her eyes and turned around with a bright smile and that’s when she saw me standing there. I could see she was surprised, but she greeted me warmly and asked me to sit at the table and then made me eggs on toast.

  Saul read the paper and pointed to an article about Poland, thinking it would interest me, but I have no interest in Poland. As Uncle Morris used to say, “It is dead to me.” Well, he used to say it about people he was angry at — “He is dead to me!” But I think it works quite as well for a country. I wonder whether a country can have a personality, just like a person can. I think so. At the orphanage, many of the children who survived told me their stories and I was often struck by how differently each country behaved toward its Jews during the war.

  At any rate, after breakfast — Terry only ate a piece of toast — off we went to school. She is one grade below me; she is turning twelve in March. I decided I would make her talk, so I started to ask her questions. “Do you like school?” Silence. “Who are your friends?” Silence. Finally, “Can you speak?” Of course I know she can — she does talk to her parents. More silence. She obviously wants me gone from her house and I don’t blame her. I’ve run away from two other homes already, but I suppose three times won’t make any difference. Tomorrow morning I’ll run away again. I hope Saul won’t mind me taking this diary. I’m getting used to writing in it.

  I REMEMBER

  Fall 1939

  Mama is sewing all her jewellery into the lining of my red jacket. She says it is our little secret and I must never tell anyone. Sophie laughs and says I can’t keep a secret and Abe says I’m too young. I start to cry. Mama tells me not to cry. I have to be a big girl now.

  Mama has never spoken to me in such a way before. I wipe my eyes and tell her I can keep a secret. After all, I am almost five. Papa quizzes us all on our English and is particularly proud of me. He says I am a prodigy. Sophie doesn’t know what that means. Abe does. He explains it to me. I smile and pull Sophie’s braid. It means I’m smarter than she is!! She can’t pull my braid because I made Mama cut my hair short. I couldn’t stand all that fussing in the morning.

  Thursday, January 8, 1948

  I spent the morning at the YMHA, meeting with Miss Kobrinsky. She is the social worker in charge of all the orphans. I just turned up and they got hold of her — she was there working anyway. The Y is downtown and Saul’s family lives in the south part of Winnipeg, but all of us orphans who arrived here together learned the bus system in a day and were travelling around alone, much to everyone’s surprise. Taking a bus in a city is like a child eating candy — so, so easy! Especially for us!

  I told Miss Kobrinsky that I couldn’t stay at the Boxers’ anymore because Terry despises me and I just spent the last seven years surrounded by people who hated me and I won’t do it anymore. She seemed to understand, but asked if she could call Saul and if he was willing to meet with me and talk about it, would I be willing? I grudgingly agreed. It didn’t take long for Saul to show up — out of breath, as if he had been running.

  He sat down in Miss Kobrinsky’s office on a chair beside mine. She was behind her desk, but suggested going to the lunch counter to get some food. Well, that’s always a good idea as far as I’m concerned. By this time it was around eleven and I was hungry enough for lunch, so I ordered a tuna salad on rye with a pickle a
nd French fries. And a Coke. So delicious!

  Anyway, as I devoured my food they made some sort of small talk and then Miss Kobrinsky told Saul what the problem was. He sighed and nodded his head and then seemed to come to some sort of decision.

  “Rose,” he said, “I — that is, we — haven’t really been honest with you. It’s not Terry’s fault. She wanted to tell you. But I felt that if you knew, you might think you were merely a substitute child, and you are not that. Not that at all!”

  Substitute child? What on earth was he talking about? Then suddenly I remembered Rita sobbing and before he spoke I knew what he was going to say.

  “We had another child,” he said as his eyes filled with tears. For a moment he couldn’t speak. “She died two years ago. She had a heart defect and we knew that she would die at some point, but that didn’t make it any easier when it happened. Terry loved her dearly. Paula was two years older than Terry and they were very close.”

  So Paula was very close to my age.

  He cleared his throat and then said that it had been his decision not to tell me — Rita and Terry had wanted to. He would have told me eventually, but he didn’t want me to feel that I was some kind of strange substitute for his daughter. Then he said, “No one could ever —” He stopped and shook his head. “That didn’t sound right,” he muttered.

  “No one could ever replace her,” I stated. “But I feel the same. No one can ever replace my mother or my father or my sister or my brother.” And none of you ever will, I thought.

  He nodded and told me that we were on the same page in a way, and asked me if I would consider coming back to live with them. If he could square it with Terry.

  I thought for a moment. I had to admit to myself that I liked him and I even trusted him in a strange way, more now than before. He made a mistake, but he was honest enough to admit it, and the family never actually lied about Paula, they just didn’t tell me.

  I nodded.

  He smiled with relief and Miss Kobrinsky seemed pretty pleased as well. She asked if I would like some dessert. Naturally I said yes and had a big piece of cherry pie. Then I said goodbye and took the bus back to school, arriving just in time for afternoon classes.