Pieces of the Past Page 4

  “Uncle Lev is dead?”

  Papa nods. “We didn’t want to tell you and frighten you.”

  But then I do feel deeply afraid. “What did he mean that he would see you, Papa?”

  Papa takes my hand and says, “If I am meant to join him and he is warning me, that is a great mitzvah you have done because now I can prepare. We can all prepare. And I can go to God knowing that you will be safe.”

  I start to cry and Mama looks like she is really, really angry with Papa for saying that. She says, “It was just a dream, Rozia, just a dream. Nothing more!”

  Later

  Did I go to olam haba? And if I did go to the world to come, does that mean there really is a God? I had forgotten all about that incident until now.

  And Uncle Lev was right about Papa. Perhaps, as Papa always said, things are b’shert, meant to be. But who lived and who died during the war — was that b’shert too? Or just dumb luck?

  February 1948

  Sunday, February 1, 1948

  On the bus ride to the Y today, all I could think about was that dream about Uncle Lev. But it wasn’t really a dream. It felt … real. Had I actually visited with Uncle Lev? Was Papa’s fate sealed in God’s book that Yom Kippur? Was everyone’s? Do we have a choice about anything? I think we must. Abe could have chosen a different fate. Or could he? Being Abe, maybe he couldn’t see any other way.

  How can we have both fate and free will? Maybe God just created us and then set us free to make our own choices? Papa would hate that idea — he thought God decided everything. But if that is true, then God created Hitler and murder, and what kind of God would that be?

  I remember the rabbi we lived with in the ghetto saying that God was punishing us for our sins, but that can’t be right either because babies and children don’t have sins to be punished for. I will have to do more studying on this and more reading, because there must be some sort of explanation. There must be! Of course the explanation could be that there is no God at all, but then I think back to meeting Uncle Lev — if there was no world after this one and no God, how on earth could that have happened?

  When I arrived at the Y, I found the group discussing the news from the papers about the partition of Palestine and how furious the Arabs are about it. Although it’s not a happy topic, I was glad to have something to take my mind off the questions that had been buzzing in my head all the time I was on the bus.

  And then something happened that really grabbed all of my attention!! There is going to be a dance at the Y in two weeks, and Oskar has invited me to go with him! He turned bright red when he asked me. I’ll have to ask Saul and Rita.

  It is late now and I feel happy after seeing Oskar and Jakub and the others. I don’t think I can face writing my memory tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

  Later

  I couldn’t sleep. Will write one more memory.

  I REMEMBER

  January 15, 1942

  It is my first day at school today. Mama is too tired to teach me properly, she says. In the fall Papa managed to open a school, one of quite a few that have opened here. Mama didn’t want me to go because she thought I might catch something, being around all those other children, but I have begged and begged, and today on my seventh birthday, for a present, she is giving in and letting me go! I am to go with Papa and come home with him. I am so excited!

  I REMEMBER

  February 1942

  At school today I recognized one of the rabbi’s children — the family we shared with when we first came to the ghetto. Rachel told me that the two youngest children are dead — they starved to death. Normally she wouldn’t be allowed to come to this school because her father would want her at his own school, but he too has fallen ill and her mother wanted her someplace where she could spend the day safely. She looks very thin and pale.

  Tuesday, February 3, 1948

  Today at school Diane took me aside and giggled and then, with this sickly smile on her face, told me that I was embarrassing Terry by the way I hung around her all the time and that I should leave her alone. I asked Diane if Terry had actually said that, and Diane said Terry didn’t need to say anything — she could tell.

  It seems to me that Diane is maybe jealous of me. So stupid, since Terry barely speaks to me, although she is civil now. Diane certainly has nothing to worry about. After school I hurried out of class and came home on my own, and when Terry asked me where I’d been because she had looked for me, I just said we must have missed each other somehow. Right after dinner I came into my room and started to write. Diane made me feel all alone.

  I REMEMBER

  April 1942

  Tonight is Shabbos. The air is getting warmer and we finally are able to spend the nights without our teeth chattering and our bodies shaking. Mama says spring took a long time to arrive. She has managed to get hold of some candles — that is, Sophie has. She is the one who sneaks out of the ghetto every few days and brings us back food now, not Abe. I told Mama that since I am seven she should send me. Also I pointed out that unlike me and Abe, Sophie, with her dark hair and brown eyes, could be stopped or caught more easily than either me or Abe. Mama just shook her head and didn’t even answer. This time Sophie brought two short candles and a loaf of bread that is not too stale.

  Papa brought me home early from school so he could check in on the shelter he is running for orphans. He does that and runs the school too! He told Mama that some bigwigs from the Jewish leadership asked him to leave the children and to go work with them, but he said no.

  Uncle Morris has to go on a truck every day and work for the Germans and he is getting very weak because there isn’t enough food — especially, as Auntie Sarah says, if you are doing hard labour all day.

  Mama lights the candles and we say the prayers. Papa, who hurried in just a few minutes ago, adds that God is always with us even in these times. Abe rolls his eyes and says he’d rather have a machine gun with him. Papa is not happy with that remark and starts lecturing Abe, and it is then that we hear it, the dreaded sound of German trucks roaring into the ghetto, honking their horns and then screeching to a halt. Why are they here? I start to shake. Papa lifts me up and hugs me. I bury my face in his neck. And then we hear boots on the stairs. Are they coming here?

  Papa carries me into the bedroom and Mama rushes everyone else in there too and then Papa starts to go out into the living room and Mama grabs his hand and he says, “Don’t be afraid. I am not afraid.” And he shuts the door.

  Mama makes me and Sophie go under the bed and Abe behind the door. She and Auntie Sarah and Uncle Morris stand still until suddenly Uncle Morris lunges for the door and goes through it, shutting it behind him. Cousin Moshe is not home yet — we don’t actually know where he is.

  But maybe the German soldiers are not coming here. This is a large building with many apartments. Why would they be coming here?

  We hear the apartment door crash open.

  “Rabbi Rabinowitz?” a voice booms.

  “Yes.”

  Then they say something in German. I’ve learned enough that I’m pretty sure it is, “Come with us.” Then they say something else and I hear Uncle Morris mutter something.

  And then the sound of the boots retreating. No one breathes. And then shots from the street. And then the sound of the truck screeching away.

  From under the bed I see Mama run out of the room. I scramble out from underneath, as does Sophie. We run into the living room to see that Papa and Uncle Morris are gone and so are Auntie Sarah and Mama. Abe is there. He grabs on to me and Sophie and won’t let us out of the apartment. “It’s not safe out there,” he says.

  But soon they are all back and they are carrying Papa. There is blood everywhere. He is bleeding from his chest. I can see he has been shot. They lay him on the floor. Mama says to Abe, “Run and get a doctor. Run! Now!” Abe runs.

  She puts a pillow under Papa’s head and then grabs a towel from the kitchen and places it over his wound. He looks up at us, as we are all
gathered around him. Sophie is crying.

  “Hush,” he says. “I see Uncle Lev. He is … waiting for me. It’s not God’s fault. Don’t … blame Him. Blame the men who did it.” He looks at me and Sophie. “Do good.” He looks at Mama. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” she says.

  And then his eyes close and he stops breathing and I can see the life drain away from him and I know he is gone forever.

  Abe bursts into the room with a doctor, but it is too late. Abe curses, but I can also see tears rolling down his face.

  I REMEMBER

  April 1942

  It’s maybe two weeks after Papa’s death. I feel like my heart has broken in two. Papa wasn’t the only one killed that night. Everyone started to call it the “bloody night,” because so many leaders were taken and shot in the streets. Abe swore there and then he would have revenge.

  We sat Shiva for a week and I didn’t know I had so many tears in me. I simply couldn’t stop crying as the people crowded into our apartment and said the prayers.

  Today Sophie has gone on her bartering trip. Mama didn’t want to send her, but finally realized there was no choice; we are out of food completely.

  But Sophie hasn’t come back. Mama is frantic. We sit up and wait for her all night, although I doze off at some point. In the morning there is still no sign of her, so Abe, who knows the route she takes and trained her, decides to go after her. Mama, of course, is torn. She wants to send help after Sophie but she doesn’t want to lose Abe as well. In the end she realizes that Abe is right — we can’t leave Sophie alone out there.

  Abe leaves near daybreak and returns around noon. Sophie is not with him. He did meet up with the young woman who gives him the food in exchange for Mama’s jewellery. She told Abe that she and Sophie made the exchange and that Sophie left, and that was all she knew. Mama had long ago run out of jewellery, but Auntie Sarah still had quite a stash, and we have been living off hers for the last while. Even that is coming to the end. This was to be one of the last trips Sophie would make.

  “Maybe she needed to hide somewhere, Mama,” I say. “Maybe she’ll be back soon.”

  “If she has found somewhere safe to hide, that would be best,” Mama says. “Perhaps she’s found somewhere — a convent — or a friend she recognized who could help her.”

  Abe looks grim. I can see he doesn’t believe that — but it could be true. I say a prayer for her. But there are no tears. I’m not sure I have any left.

  Wednesday, February 4, 1948

  I had trouble concentrating in class today, so much so that Mrs. Simms chided me for daydreaming. Daydreaming sounds like such a lovely thing to do. I suppose it might mean dreaming of wonderful things you could do or wonderful things that have just happened to you, not remembering your father’s murder, your sister’s disappearance.

  Later

  In the paper today there was a front-page headline about the partition of Palestine into a Jewish state and how the entire Arab world is against it. Seventy million Arabs against one million Jews was the way the paper put it, and the seventy million will fight. Abe would be there now, fighting for a safe place for us all. I wonder if I would have been better off trying to get into Palestine. Perhaps there, I could have a true home.

  Saturday, February 7, 1948

  Instead of taking us to a movie today, Saul treated us to an afternoon at the theatre. We went downtown to The Playhouse, a beautiful old theatre with gilded design around the ceilings and plush velvet seats, and we watched Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. The company is from England and the actor starring in the play — Donald Wolfit — is very famous, apparently.

  I sat beside Terry and the play was so funny at times that she occasionally poked me in the side to share the laugh. I liked that. But even as I was laughing I was thinking about Abe and Sophie, and I wondered if Terry was thinking about Paula, because the play is all about lost siblings. But of course they are found in the end and everyone ends up happy — except for maybe poor Malvolio, whom I felt quite sorry for.

  We went out for dinner afterwards at a restaurant called The White House and had one of the best meals I’ve ever had — something called barbequed ribs. It’s messy and they give you white cloths that are moistened to clean yourself with as you eat, as well as bibs! I’m pretty sure it was treif but I didn’t even ask. What do I care? Papa kept kosher as long as was possible, but God still let Papa die, so I don’t think keeping kosher means you will get any special treatment from God.

  When we got home, Terry and I found ourselves alone in the living room while Saul and Rita talked in the kitchen about the week coming up, and Terry asked me about my brothers or sisters. At first I didn’t want to say anything, but then I thought, well, I know about hers … so I told her that Sophie was two years older than me and about how she went missing that day and I’ve never seen her since. And then I told her about Abe. Just that he was dead. And she said that she was very, very sorry. She didn’t ask about Papa or Mama. Just as well. I’m sure I couldn’t have gotten the words out of my mouth.

  I REMEMBER

  July 1942

  It is hot. So hot and so many people crammed together that the streets themselves seem to reek. I am standing with Mama, holding tight to her hand as she reads a poster that has just been put up on the wall right across from our apartment block. She finishes reading it and pulls me into the apartment.

  “Well,” says Auntie Sarah, “what does it say?”

  “All Jews are to be resettled. They are going to empty the ghetto.”

  Abe rushes in then.

  “Have you heard?”

  Mama nods.

  “You must take Rozia and escape,” Abe says. “I’ve heard from my comrades what resettlement means.”

  “We will talk about this later,” she says to Abe.

  “What does it mean?” I ask, now curious because I can see Mama doesn’t want to talk about it in front of me.

  “It means we will have to go and live somewhere else,” Mama says.

  I see Abe bite his lip, and Auntie Sarah has gone pale. Uncle Morris is in hospital because he is so weak and he is coughing and has something called pneumonia.

  “They will take the weak first,” says Abe, “because they can’t work. I’ll try to get papers saying you work in a factory. Or maybe I can get you a job in a factory,” he says. “If you won’t try to escape.”

  “Let me think,” says Mama.

  I REMEMBER

  July 1942

  Auntie Sarah rushes into the apartment and collapses on the sofa. Mama hurries over to her. Auntie Sarah looks up and says, “Morris is gone. I saw them take him. They emptied out the entire hospital and the orphanage. They’ve scooped up all the stragglers lying on the street. I wanted to go with him, but this soldier just threw me back and laughed and said that my time will come soon enough.”

  I REMEMBER

  Early August, 1942

  The police have surrounded our street. Everyone must come out of the apartments. Abe has fixed me a hiding place. He’s pulled up the floorboards and built a box under them just big enough for me to be in if I scrunch up.

  Mama hugs me and puts me in the box and then puts the floorboards back. I can breathe and even see through the slats a little. I lie on my side, hugging my knees in. I hear Mama and Auntie Sarah leave. The wait goes on and on. I hear boots. Someone comes into the apartment and walks right over me. I hold my breath. He leaves. A long time goes by. It gets dark. Finally Mama comes back.

  She pulls me out of the box. But she is alone. Auntie Sarah is not there. “I saw them catch Abe,” she says. “I saw them catch Abe. They let me stay because of the papers Abe got me that say I am working at the factory. I don’t know where Auntie Sarah is.” Then, “Dear God, what are You doing?” she cries out.

  I REMEMBER

  Late August, 1942

  Abe walks in the door!!

  Mama shrieks and throws her arms around him.

  “What happe
ned?” she cries. “I saw them take you!”

  “I escaped, that’s what happened,” he says. He comes over and gives me a big hug. He smells bad, very bad.

  “Ugh,” I say, “you smell like a bear!”

  Abe ruffles my hair. “How would you know what a bear smells like?”

  Mama feeds him some bread she has managed to find, and some potato. He whispers something to her and she says, “When Rozia is not here.”

  I am not going to miss what he has to say. I pretend to go to the bedroom to play and I take out an old doll Mama found for me and start to talk aloud to it. It is so hot today. Even the floor feels hot. When Abe starts to talk I stop and listen, peeping through the slightly open door.

  “They put us all on a train, in a cattle car,” Abe says. “I managed to stay close to Auntie Sarah and make sure we were near a window opening and some air, so we didn’t suffocate. We stopped at the Malkinia station first, then around twenty train cars were detached and shunted to the Treblinka station, where we were forced out onto a platform. There was an announcement — that we were in a transit camp and would be sent on to labour camps. Everyone was crammed together on the platform and there was so much noise and dust. Auntie Sarah held tight to my hand. They herded us all into a large square and then they started to separate the men and women. Auntie Sarah hugged me and told me she loved me and then she was pulled away and I lost sight of her. We had to hand over any valuables like watches or anything like that, and then they separated us again. This time a few of us young men were sent to work in a warehouse ‘helping’ people take off their clothes and taking their possessions before they were sent into the chambers. Then we had to sort through everything, keeping the valuables and throwing out identification papers. The next day I saw her papers, Mama – Auntie Sarah’s.”