Pieces of the Past Read online

  I kept out of Terry’s way until dinner. And that’s when she spoke to me for the first time. “Would you like the peas?” she said. And I said I would. That was it, but Saul must have said something to her. I don’t know what — maybe that I felt the same way as her — that I don’t want her to be my sister? And Rita seemed relieved as well, so I guess I’ll be here for a while. It certainly could be worse.

  I REMEMBER

  Late fall, 1939

  We are getting dressed to go outside for a walk, Mama and me. The sky is blue. I am hoping we will play in the park. I ask Mama, but she just shakes her head no, and says we cannot. She asks me to put my arm straight in front of me. Over my coat she wraps a ribbon. It is white and has a Jewish star sewn on it. “That’s so pretty!” I exclaim. Mama bursts into tears.

  Saturday, January 10, 1948

  Saul took the whole “family,” which seemed to include me, to the movies this afternoon. We saw such a wonderful actress — her name is Judy Garland — in a musical called Till the Clouds Roll By. It was a wonderful show and for a while I forgot everything and felt so happy! I think Saul noticed because afterwards he said that we would go every Saturday if the family wanted to. I was taken to the movies a few times while in the orphanage in France, but it is still a very special treat to me.

  Terry wasn’t sure about going with the family every Saturday because she has her own friends and she likes to go to the movies with them. No one suggested she should include me in that. What a relief! She would only hate me more! (The two girls I’ve seen at the house are Diane and Betty. Diane is short and plump with blond curls and blue eyes, and Betty is just the opposite — tall, with lanky, straight, black hair and brown eyes. Diane giggles all the time and Betty has a laugh that sounds like carrots being grated.)

  I ate a huge box of popcorn with butter all over it and a chocolate bar and a Coke. And still had plenty of room for the cabbage rolls Rita made for supper. She’s an awfully good cook. And we had white cake with chocolate icing for dessert.

  When we got home Rita and Terry hurried into the library and emerged a few minutes later, their arms full of pictures in frames. They began to place the pictures around the living room. I was sitting there, feeling awkward, reading a book, because Saul had encouraged me to stay downstairs when we got home instead of rushing into my room the way I always do. I put A Tale of Two Cities down and got up to look at the pictures. They were of Paula. Some were baby pictures, some were of her and Terry, some were of the whole family. I felt awful! Saul must have made them put the photos away so that I wouldn’t feel bad. I stood looking at one in particular. Paula and Terry were smiling and bundled up in coats and scarves and mittens and hats. They were standing in front of this house.

  “That was a good day,” Terry said quietly. “She was feeling well enough to go out for a walk and she was so happy to be outdoors.”

  I couldn’t speak. I didn’t have a picture of Sophie. Or of Abe. Or of Mama, or of Papa. Not one picture to remember them by. And my children would never be able to look at any pictures years from now and say, “That was my baba,” or “That was my zaida.” Paula is dead, but she hasn’t been scrubbed away forever.

  I turned and fled up the stairs to my room. For a psychiatrist, Saul doesn’t seem all that smart to me. How could he make Rita and Terry put those photos away?

  Then I panicked. Could I even remember my family’s faces properly? I see them in my dreams every night, but somehow when I wake up in the morning I have trouble picturing their faces.

  I sank down on my bed. I’ve struggled so hard to survive. I wonder if it was worth it.

  I REMEMBER

  January 14, 1940

  My birthday is tomorrow. I am quizzing Papa about what my present will be. He is teasing me, saying it will be five little lemon drops, one for each year! Suddenly there is a loud pounding on the door. Papa tells us all to go into the kitchen and to be quiet and not to say anything, no matter what happens. We hurry into the kitchen. I hear a loud, angry voice but I don’t understand because he is not speaking Polish or Yiddish. Abe whispers, “Germans.” Then there is the sound of crashing and loud noises. Mama does not cry this time. Her face is set and she holds on to me and Sophie tight so we can’t open the kitchen door. A man with a uniform opens the door and peers in. He pushes the door all the way open and looks around. He waves us away from the drawers and checks them and then walks out. He grabs a little figurine of a girl as he leaves. After what seems like hours, the voices stop and the outside door slams and Papa rushes in. He shakes his head as he looks at Mama.

  “Everything?” she asks.

  “No, not everything,” he says. “We are all still here.”

  We go out into the dining room and I see that all the drawers are open. There isn’t a plate or a piece of silver left. I walk into the drawing room. All our furniture is gone! I hurry into my bedroom. My bed is still there but — no, it can’t be! My Gita is gone! All my toys and dolls are gone! Gone! I scream. Mama picks me up and holds me.

  Sunday, January 11, 1948

  They said it would get cold and has it ever! Minus 20 last night according to this morning’s paper and not that much warmer today. Rita has given me Paula’s old winter coat, which is really almost brand new. I guess she was too ill to go out often. It is bright red wool and has a beautiful little black collar. But it makes me think of my little red jacket with Mama’s jewellery sewn into its lining, and suddenly I’d rather wear a coat of any other colour, but I really can’t refuse it. I need a coat after all.

  I went to the Y today for the first meeting of the Maccabeans — the name of our group of orphans from Poland. There is another group from Hungary called the Hagiboir. When I arrived I was so happy to see all my friends from the boat. These, I feel, are really my family. Oskar and Jakub came up to me right away. Oskar is closer to my age — he is fourteen and Jakub a few years older.

  They are so lucky to have each other. I was anxious to find out if they had been placed together, as Oskar’s one fear was that he would be separated from his brother. Unfortunately they have been separated! Oskar is in a “free” house, which means he doesn’t have to work and can go to school. Jakub was not placed in a free house, so he will need to work and pay for his own upkeep. I guess that’s because he’s the older one.

  Miss Kobrinsky explained that this was the only way for Oskar to go to school, and since Jakub really wants him to do that — Oskar wants to be a doctor — they reluctantly agreed. Jakub says he already has a job as an electrical apprentice and the Jewish community is subsidizing him until he can begin to earn enough to pay for all of his expenses. Oskar says he is already attending special classes in English set up by the Jewish organizations that brought us here.

  Very few of the orphans can speak English as well as I can. Well, to tell the truth, none of them can. Many did start to learn while they were in the Displaced Persons camps or the orphanages, and I tried teaching Oskar and Jakub and Lottie while we were on the boat. Lottie is sixteen and not staying in a free house. She has started work in a knitting factory and is already going to business college at night.

  Everyone was talking about the front-page news in yesterday’s Free Press. Hundreds of Arabs have attacked two towns in northern Palestine and three Jews were killed. The attack was repulsed. We know so many from the DP camps and orphanages who chose Palestine instead of Canada. I almost did. But my English was so good! And Papa had worked so hard. My first choice would have been England, just as Papa had wanted, but since Canada is part of the Dominion, and they decided to allow us into the country, I suppose I thought it was the next best thing. I remember Danielle, one of the volunteers at the orphanage, telling us that no country wanted Jews before and during the war, and that’s one reason why so many died — we had nowhere to go.

  I tried playing ping-pong with Oskar — a game I have never heard of and wasn’t very good at. Then everyone went swimming. I simply paddled about — of course, I have never learn
ed to swim, but I would like to, and Wolf, who seems to have become our spokesman, has asked for lessons for us all. I was given a swimsuit by the benefactors — I suppose Paula was never well enough to swim, so no hand-me-downs there.

  The swimming did certainly tire me out — I had better write my memory now or I will fall asleep, pencil in hand.

  I REMEMBER

  Fall 1940

  The leaves are red. I look up at them as we walk from our house. Sophie holds my hand. Papa cannot because he has a heavy rucksack on his back and he is carrying three big boxes. They are full of books. He and Mama had the first really big fight I have ever witnessed, over those books. She said they needed to take food and he wanted to take his books. “Feeding their minds will be as important as feeding their bodies,” he said.

  Mama threw her hands in the air and said, “They won’t have minds if they starve to death!” “Hush!” he said. “No,” she said, “I will not hush!” But he got that stubborn look on his face, the one Mama says I get. “You look just like your father when you turn your mouth down like that,” she sometimes tells me. And when she noticed that look she turned around and walked into the kitchen to pack. In the end she and Abe carry all the food they can manage, and Papa carries his books.

  We are all wearing white arm bands tied around our sleeves, with a blue Star of David sewn on, and as we walk down our street the neighbours jeer at us. They laugh and call us names. And they especially holler after Papa. One fellow in particular — I’ve seen him every day of my life, coming home from work in his neat suit and tie. Papa told me he is an accountant, although I’m not sure what that means. “Hey, Rabbi,” he shouts. “Where is your precious God now?” And Abe says, “Yes, Papa, where is He?”

  And Papa says, “He is with us now, never forget that. He is not with them. In fact it is they who have deserted God, not the other way around. It is not God doing these deeds. It is man. Never, ever forget that, children.” And then he adds, “And I will try to remember that too.”

  Thursday, January 15, 1948

  My 13th birthday.

  I lay in bed this morning and imagined that Papa and Mama and Sophie and Abe were downstairs and that when I walked into the kitchen they would all be there to wish me good health and happiness for the rest of my year, because that’s what Mama always said on our birthdays. And then Papa would say that happiness will follow on good deeds, but to remember that happiness is never something to strive for, and Sophie would roll her eyes because even on a birthday morning, Papa had to be sure to teach us what it means to be a mensch. And then I would eat chocolate for breakfast. I remember that. And I remember the first birthday that there was no chocolate in the morning. I was six.

  I tried to shake off such thoughts and dragged myself out of bed and downstairs. Rita was in the kitchen. She wished me a happy birthday and said she’d like to cook me a special birthday breakfast. Of course I agreed. I never turn down food. Soon Terry and Saul and me and Rita were eating pancakes and maple syrup and scrambled eggs and bacon. Bacon! Well, I didn’t mind. I’d got used to eating treif, especially after we left the ghetto. But I was surprised that a Jewish family who could choose to eat anything was choosing to eat pig. Rita laughed when she saw me looking at the bacon and said, “Didn’t you know? It’s the only kosher part of the pig?” I guessed that was some kind of Canadian joke so I smiled.

  Then Saul told me to look outside. I did and was shocked to see the wind blowing the snow so hard you could barely see past the door, and snowdrifts almost up to the window!

  “Your first real Winnipeg blizzard,” Saul said. “I’m sorry,” he added.

  “You didn’t cause it, did you?” I asked.

  He said he was sorry because he had a surprise planned for tonight — to take us all downtown to hear the university choir sing songs from Oklahoma. But he suspected it would be cancelled, and even if it wasn’t, it would be too hard to get there.

  “The radio says the ploughs aren’t even out yet because the winds are too severe,” he said. “And the temperature is going to drop all day until it’ll be minus twenty-eight.”

  Terry asked if we could stay home from school, but Rita said that we were so close, we should try to go. We struggled through the drifts, but when we got to school there were so few of us that everyone was sent home. We had to slog through the howling wind again.

  I spent most of the day lying on my bed reading A Tale of Two Cities. It is such a good story that it is hard to put down and I can’t wait to see how it ends. Rita made a chocolate cake for dessert and they all sang me “Happy Birthday.” They told me to blow out the candles and to make a wish. What could I wish for? I couldn’t think of anything, so I just pretended and then I blew out the candles. The cake really was delicious though!

  I REMEMBER

  Late fall, 1940

  I am sitting in the one bedroom that Mama and I and Papa and Abe and Sophie have as our own private space, with my hands over my ears. We are sharing a two-bedroom apartment with a Hasidic rabbi and his family — his wife and their seven children. They have a new baby and another child of about eighteen months and both of them are screaming at the top of their lungs, as usual. The others run about the house like savages, even Rachel, a girl of my age who should know better. The rabbi’s wife is so small she reminds me of a little mouse. And skinny too. The rabbi is tall and thin and pale as a ghost. When I saw him once at night with his hat on and black coat, I thought he was a ghost and I screamed and screamed.

  Papa peers around the door and tells me to come out, classes are starting. I go into the living room. Around thirty students are crowded in there as well as the ten children we already have living here. Everyone sits on the floor, legs crossed. Papa told Mama that this would be his full-time job here in the ghetto, where all the Jews have been rounded up and deposited. The big shots wanted him to help run the ghetto, but he said no, that he is a rabbi and a teacher and will stay a rabbi and a teacher. So we do some Math and some Science and then the older children help the younger children with reading, and then we study English for an entire hour.

  After that Papa reads us all a story from the Torah and we discuss it. He starts off with Genesis and the creation of the world. He calls it a story and Rabbi Levi looks like he is about to faint and interrupts and says that the Torah is the word of the Almighty and not a “story” and they get into a huge fight in front of us all. Rabbi Levi says that his children cannot learn in mixed company and that he will not have them learning lies. Papa replies that Rabbi Levi has every right to keep to his room with his family while Papa is teaching, but that Papa will continue to teach. Rabbi Levi says it is his house too. Papa agrees with that. Rabbi Levi says he wants to use the room to teach. Finally they agree that Papa will have it four days a week and Rabbi Levi three days because he also has other duties he needs to attend to.

  Papa tells me later that the girls from Rabbi Levi’s family will need to stay in their room on Papa’s teaching days and we will have to stay in our room on Rabbi Levi’s teaching days. Sophie and Mama and I say no to that right away, so then there is another fight later that night between the grown-ups.

  Saturday, January 17, 1948

  We went to a movie today, downtown this time. The popcorn was even better than at the Park — this was at the Met — but the movie was much worse. Bob Hope. I found it to be very silly. Terry didn’t like it either and she started whispering sarcastic remarks to me as it played. Some of her comments were quite funny and when I laughed I could tell she was pleased. Maybe the ice is breaking a little bit.

  I REMEMBER

  Late fall, 1940

  They have built a very high wall around where all the Jews are living now and there is barbed wire on top of the wall. We are fenced in like the animals we would see when we visited the countryside. When Sophie first saw it she cried. Abe didn’t cry but I could see he was mad. Really mad.

  Sunday, January 18, 1948

  It was still very cold and snowy today
but I caught the bus to my meeting with the other orphans at the Y anyway. I wanted to talk to Jakub about the ghetto. Now that I am writing my memories, I realize that there is a lot I don’t understand or remember. Jakub is eighteen now and is bound to remember much better than I can, or even Oskar.

  When I arrived at the Y there were the activities — swimming, and then soccer in the gym. After that we went to one of the meeting rooms for snacks and just to visit, and that’s when I asked Jakub. Oskar actually remembered quite a lot too. And then Lottie came over and she started to chime in and soon everyone had gathered round and they filled in some of the memory gaps that I had. Once they started to talk about it they couldn’t stop and suddenly it was dark and after five when someone from the front desk came in and reminded us what the time was.

  Basically what Jakub and the others told me was that at first it didn’t seem much harder for Jews than non-Jews after Warsaw surrendered. But slowly it got worse and worse. A new decree would be declared, affecting only the Jewish population. Then some time would pass and people would get used to the new law and think that the worst was over, but then another law would come — for instance, when the entire city was put under curfew, the Jewish curfew was a couple of hours earlier than everyone else’s. And then Jews had to register all their property and bank accounts. Oh, but that was after we had to wear the white ribbons with a Jewish star on them, and people had to identify their stores as Jewish.

  And then Jakub said, “I’ll never forget the day we weren’t allowed to go into restaurants or bars or even the parks.”

  And then I remembered begging Mama to take me to the park, and crying and crying because she simply wouldn’t. She never explained why.