Mapping the Bones

by Jane Yolen

  Whatever prayers the brothers spoke were in Hebrew, so Chaim had little idea what was being said, but Papa seemed to know the words to all of them.

  The brothers davened, speaking the prayers. As they did so, they swayed forward and back. The brothers’ apartment space was really small, and Chaim was practically touching the men as they swayed, so he fell into the motion with them. It was somehow comforting, even though he didn’t know what they were praying for—peace, long life, mercy, justice? In the ghetto, most people prayed for just one more day.

  As suddenly as the prayers had started, they stopped. But Chaim had gotten so caught up in the mesmerizing swaying, he hadn’t realized he was the only one still moving until Papa put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Now we will tell you why we have come,” Papa told the brothers.

  “Always better to pray before bad news, rather than after,” said the smaller of the two men.

  “I have this sack of my tools,” Papa said, going over to the foyer table and picking up the sack. “Not the good ones I had to leave back at my home. But these I have bartered for since coming to the ghetto. And I thought you two could figure out what was best to do with them.”

  “Ah, you are . . . going away?” said the taller man.

  Suddenly Chaim was alert. Maybe they were spies. “Papa,” he said, a kind of warning.

  “You and the family,” the shorter one said, “have a wedding invitation?”

  Papa nodded.

  “Then we’ll make sure the tools get to the right men who can use them to help our people,” the taller one said. “May you walk with the Lord.”

  “Or ride,” the shorter one added.

  Then they took the prayer shawls from Papa’s and Chaim’s shoulders and led them back to the door. There were no more good-byes. When Chaim heard the door close behind them, he turned, reached up, and touched the mezuzah. If he was hoping for magic, he was mistaken. There was nothing under his hand but a small piece of metal.

  “I feel ready,” Papa said.

  Chaim bobbed his head. Just a little. Just enough. Perhaps, he thought, I feel ready, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  They planned to leave the house at dinnertime, when the streets would be packed with men and a few women hurrying home from work. In those crowds, they could blend in. Even their knapsacks wouldn’t be noticeable.

  There they would walk in separate groups. Mama and the twins together but apart enough so they didn’t look as if they were related, which might make any soldiers suspicious. Papa walked with the Norenberg children, his hand firmly on Mrs. Norenberg’s arm.

  At the beginning, on Dworska Street, they would go in the same direction. But once on smaller streets, each group would take a slightly different route, heading toward their first night’s rendezvous, a safe house at the midway point.

  “It belongs to a friend of Fajner’s,” Papa said. “In case we don’t meet up right away, his name is Samson.”

  They’d spent quite a while with the maps, and Papa had shown them where they were headed, with several options if streets were blocked off or crowded with soldiers. But he hadn’t marked anything on the maps, in case one of them got caught and the map was confiscated.

  “Caught!” Sophie scarcely breathed the word.

  “Yes,” Papa said. “I won’t lie to you. What we are about to do is dangerous. Not a picnic. Not a . . .” And here he coughed a bit. “Not a game.”

  “Not grouse on vacation . . .” Chaim ventured.

  Gittel smiled at him.

  But Papa ignored what Chaim said and continued on. “If one of us is caught or taken out of the line, the others must just keep on walking. No heroics, because that would mean every one of us would be compromised. You must promise me that.”

  Chaim and Gittel exchanged quick looks, and for the first time in his life, Chaim had no idea what she was thinking. But he knew he would never leave her in Nasty hands.

  “Remember,” Mama added, “it’s more dangerous for us to stay here at home now that we’re on the wedding invitation list.”

  “You’re on the list,” Bruno said, belligerently. “But we don’t know if we—”

  Sophie turned to stare at him. “Our father has been arrested, possibly . . . possibly . . .” She drew a deep breath. “And you think we aren’t on that list now?”

  Bruno shrugged. “We haven’t got any proof.”

  “Then you can stay here by yourself,” Sophie said. “I’m going with Mama and Papa and Mutti.”

  He practically growled at her. “They’re not your Mama and Papa.”

  Mama stood up, rather dramatically, Chaim thought, and said in a voice that offered no room for discussion or compromise, “We’re going with or without you, Bruno. But I can tell you for a fact that a boy on his own in a ghetto he doesn’t know—with no work skills or family to help him—will die rapidly on the street. Or starve here at home. At least with us you have a chance.”

  “I can . . .” Bruno began, and then since he clearly didn’t know what he could do by himself, he shut up and just looked bulldoggish again.

  Mama went to the kitchen and took out the last of the food that had not already been packed or given away. There were three precious apples. She cut them in two, giving a half to each child and a half to Papa, and setting a half aside for Mrs. Norenberg, who was resting in her room.

  “Take this to your mother, Sophie,” she said, “and afterward give her the night pill. We need her calm out there, even if she has to walk in her sleep.”

  “But, Mama,” Gittel said, “what will you eat?”

  “Silly girl, a cook is never hungry. We nibble where we can. Oh, and I have a bit of flour left and one egg.”

  “There’s an egg?” Chaim was astonished.

  “Well, it’s probably a very old egg. A dinosaur. The Liebowitz family on the second floor gave it to me a few days ago. If that egg had hatched, it would be an aging chicken by now.” She did an imitation of an old chicken, hobbling about with a broken wing. Soon they were all laughing, even Papa, though it made him cough again.

  Mama continued, “I’m going to mix the dinosaur egg with the ancient flour and make us the thinnest pancakes you’ve ever seen—alas, with water and not milk. But they will do. Oh, and Papa gave me three of his cough candies to boil down into a thin syrup so you can put that on top.”

  “Actually, she arm wrestled me for them,” Papa said. “That woman is powerful!” They all broke into laughter again.

  Nervous laughter, Chaim thought, but as he looked around, he realized it had helped settle them all down. And with what may lie ahead, it might be the last time any of us get to laugh.

  “A feast,” whispered Gittel, as if amazed at what Mama could make up out of nothing on a stove that cooked by a wood fire. And precious little fire at that.

  “Some feast,” groused Bruno, but no one paid him any attention at all.

  “And then we go?” Gittel asked.

  “And then we go,” Papa said.

  Gittel Remembers

  There are two kinds of night. One is a comfort, Mama’s arms around you till you fall asleep. Soft bird sounds through the open window. The smell of a light midnight rain. Or the drift of early snow outside while a fire glows in the hearth. These are the lullaby times, when there is nothing to fear. The house breathes quietly. The fire hisses out a soft punctuation. There is a hush.

  The other kind of night is one filled with terror, the sound of a gunshot, a scream, the gleam of knives, the creak of a door that should have been locked, the nightmare darkness that closes its cold hand around your throat.

  The house stutters, mutters, fills your mind with fear. And when there is a final hush, that is the moment before the dreaded end.

  13

  It was early evening when they left the apartment, goi
ng down the four flights of stairs as quietly as they could manage. Mrs. Norenberg kept wanting to talk, and Mama kept her finger on her lips, shushing Mrs. Norenberg as best she could.

  They were all dressed conservatively, in dark shirts and trousers and dark coats.

  The women and girls wore head scarves—modest, unassuming, and forgettable. Mama’s a dark blue with a curving design in a slightly lighter blue, Gittel’s a dark green. Sophie’s scarf was a deep purple with barely perceptible lavender flowers. Mrs. Norenberg’s was black. She’d worn it, she told them all as they were preparing to leave, “Because I’m in mourning.”

  Since it was one of the only normal things she’d said in days, Chaim had hopes that she was returning to her old self. Good pills, he thought.

  Papa, Chaim, and Bruno all wore hats and long coats. Where Papa had gotten the other two coats, Chaim didn’t know, and he didn’t waste his words asking.

  They’d considered all sorts of possibilities when choosing the clothes—temperature and invisibility were given the highest priority.

  However, Chaim thought, looking down, if anything is going to give us away, it will be our boots. Those kind of boots were not for factory work, but for hiking long distances in forests.

  And the backpacks.

  But without the backpacks, they wouldn’t last a week where they were going.

  “Sometimes,” Papa said, “you have to take that leap of faith.”

  It was something Chaim had never heard him say before. It made him understand how desperate things were now. He prepared himself for that leap.

  Mama was the only one truly disguised. She wore her backpack in front with the coat buttoned over and looked pregnant. It made Papa smile, though Chaim thought it very embarrassing.

  He said as much to Gittel, and she scolded him. “It’s a disguise. Don’t be silly. It will make the soldiers less interested in her.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As they reached each of the landings in the apartment house, Chaim could hear the sound of doors opening and then quickly closing again. One on the fourth floor, two on the third, one on the second. When they got to the first floor—a perilous place to live, as the soldiers came there first when searching the building—not one door opened. If those inside were curious, they kept it to themselves, a hard-earned habit.

  Finally, in the basement, Papa held up his hand. “Wait here,” he whispered. “Chaim and I will go ahead to make sure it’s safe.”

  “What about me?” Bruno asked, but in a very subdued manner.

  At least, Chaim thought, he whispered.

  Papa shook his head. “There’ll be plenty of time for heroics later.”

  “Heroes!” Mrs. Norenberg said, her voice way too loud. “We can all be heroes. Like my husband.”

  Looking exasperated this time, Mama raised a finger to her, making a shushing sound. Mrs. Norenberg looked away but didn’t say anything back.

  Papa ignored both women and spoke straight at Bruno, saying quietly, but with a great deal of assurance, “I know you’ll be splendid when it’s needed. But Chaim and I know this part. We’ve both done it before. Better to let the ones with particular knowledge go ahead.”

  Bruno thought about this a moment, then nodded.

  Evidently Papa’s promise of future heroism is enough, Chaim thought.

  He and Papa had just gotten to the side door as quietly as they could, when once again Mrs. Norenberg’s voice rose behind them, speaking wildly of heroics. It was quickly followed by Mama’s desperate shushing.

  “Papa . . .” Chaim whispered.

  His father shook his head. “We do what we must. What we can. If we challenge her, she may get louder, get worse.”

  “Get noticed?”

  “Exactly.”

  Papa pushed the door slightly ajar, and Chaim crawled out and then over to the fence.

  For several minutes he listened intently to the sounds in the alley, hearing nothing but the trudging feet on the street beyond. As before, he counted out a minute, listened even more intently, then another minute before signaling to his father.

  Leaving the door open a crack, Papa went back for the others. Then, with a finger firmly on his lips, he sent them crawling out one at a time toward Chaim.

  Chaim greeted them the same way.

  When it was Mrs. Norenberg’s turn, she seemed so stunned by being outside—though it was just the alley—that she said nothing.

  Good, Chaim thought. Then he removed the slats as quietly as he could and set them aside. Taking the hand mirror, he checked the entire alley, not surprised to find it was empty. There were puddles from last evening’s rain, but otherwise it looked just like the last time he’d been through. He shrugged off his knapsack, afraid that it might get caught on the fence as he went through the slats, then pushed the pack ahead before crawling after it.

  Gittel was next, then Sophie, both following his lead by taking off their knapsacks first.

  Chaim helped them up, showed them how to stand with their backs against the apartment house wall.

  Next was Bruno. Because he decided not to take off his knapsack, he predictably got caught between the fence slats, and Papa had to pull him back before helping him off with it.

  Chaim could see as Papa hefted the pack that it was extra heavy, and he realized Bruno probably had snuck more comics into it.

  Idiot! Chaim thought grimly. He’ll be looking for places to dump them along the way, endangering us all. But he didn’t say anything aloud.

  At last Bruno was out and standing silent at the wall, though he insisted on brushing off his trousers, which made more noise than a whisper.

  Mama was next, and then Mrs. Norenberg, who hardly protested at all. Chaim thought that perhaps Papa had talked to her sternly, mentioning heroics.

  Lucky she’s a slim woman, and not Mrs. Horowitz, who is as round as she is tall. And then he saw that Mrs. Norenberg was not heading to the wall but was leaning forward and about to shout something, her face twisted in loathing.

  Mama was ready, and whispered to her, loud enough that Chaim could hear, “Not a word, not a scream or shout, or they will shoot us all, even your children.”

  That stopped Mrs. Norenberg, for when she looked up and saw her children at the wall, she started to weep, but silently.

  After Papa was through, he replaced the slats, and the entire group moved carefully forward to the alley opening.

  “You and the twins first,” he whispered to Mama.

  At the first small opening in the line of trudging workers, Mama went through, waddling a bit as if she were heavily pregnant. She was quickly followed by Gittel and then Chaim. They were swallowed up by the workers, who did not—even by a twitch—acknowledge they were there.

  Chaim was desperate to look back to see if Papa and the rest had made it safely into the crowd, but he didn’t dare. He kept his eyes on Gittel’s green head scarf, and ahead of her, Mama’s dark blue babushka, trusting that Papa would get the rest safely into a group of walkers. If there was danger, Chaim didn’t know whether it lay ahead of them or behind, but at least they were on the way.

  The one thing Chaim knew thoroughly was that it would be twelve very long blocks before they reached their first turnoff. He counted them in his head. Every once in a while, some man in the silent group would peel off to one side street or another, probably heading for home. Sometimes three or four left at the same time. But Chaim always kept his eyes straight ahead as if Dworska Street were the only thing that concerned him.

  As they approached the eleventh side street, Mama suddenly looked to the right, then ahead again. Chaim didn’t know what he would have done if she’d taken the wrong turn, but evidently she was just checking.

  Please, please, please, he thought, let no one have noticed that.

  And then, before he was
ready for it, his nerves all a-jangle and a sick feeling in his stomach, there was the twelfth street. Mama’s babushka moved right, and immediately after, Gittel’s green head scarf.

  Chaim walked to the far side of the street before making his own turn, so they were walking two on one side, one on the other side, as if—to any watching eyes—they weren’t acquainted at all.

  His stomach felt a little better, but he wasn’t happy that the three of them were the only people on the street. It made them stand out, should any soldiers appear. Two women, too vulnerable. One noticeably pregnant, unless you asked her to take off her coat and then her disguise would be revealed.

  Standing out was the last thing they should be doing. And the backpacks and boots! he thought. We should never have brought those.

  But it was too late now to turn back.

  He reminded himself again to put his head down and keep trudging along. Tired worker, he told himself. Tired worker going home. Though he felt more like a wary deer ready to startle and run at the slightest hint of danger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Mama and Gittel seemed unconcerned.

  At least there were no soldiers on patrol. Perhaps because there are so few people to harass here, he thought.

  He reminded himself of the map: There were seven more blocks along this road before another turn. And then another few blocks and—the safe house! He counted each of the streets in his head, multiplying them by the number of steps between. A little mathematics problem to keep his mind occupied while he trudged along.

  * * *

  • • •

  Even trudging, Chaim was soon well ahead of Mama and Gittel, so he was the first to make the turn onto the street where the safe house was—and then he began to look for house number 13. His favorite number. He hadn’t needed the map to remember that.