What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  “Leave it to the goyim, Sam,” my father said in an exasperated tone. “We have no place in this war.”

  “Are we going to war, then?” I asked eagerly, but Sam’s voice drowned out my question.

  “How can you say that? Haven’t you heard what the Germans are doing to the Jews? They’ve already taken over Austria. That could happen here!”

  “It’s out of our hands,” my father said. “It does no good to worry about something that hasn’t happened yet.”

  His face red with frustration, Sam raked his fingers through his hair, disheveling his curls. “Papa, how can you turn a blind eye to this? I don’t understand!”

  My mother, who had been talking to the other women nearby, broke away from the group and joined us. I noticed a nervous twitch in the corner of her eye. “Samuel,” she said in a quiet but firm voice, “don’t upset your father.”

  Sam turned to face my mother then. He took a deep breath.

  “Mama,” he said, his voice lower and more controlled, “look at this.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded into quarters. The midsection had been squeezed tightly as though by an angry fist, so the paper resembled a heavily creased hourglass. As he began to unfold it, I leaned forward to get a better look. Staring back at me from the page were four horribly deformed caricatures of men with long beards, eyes narrowed, ugly, and glaring. Their noses were unnaturally long and lumpy, and their faces were framed by a red Star of David. Flames rose in the background, and large letters stood out angrily in the foreground: DER EWIGE JUDE. The Eternal Jew.

  “What does it mean?” I whispered as my mother turned my head away and my father took the paper in his hands. Once again, my question went unanswered.

  “Don’t you see?” Sam pleaded. “This is all over Germany. This is what they think of us.”

  “Where did you get this?” my father asked in a low voice.

  “From Morty.”

  “So, this is how you spend your time?” my father replied, looking up from the page to stare Sam in the eye. “Looking at this mishegoss?”

  “No, Papa, we spend our time debating. Planning.”

  “Planning for what?” my father asked. “You think you can fight the Germans if it comes to it?”

  “Well, we can’t just sit around and do nothing!” Sam stomped his foot angrily. I took a step back. A tone of urgency clung to his words. I could see that he was visibly upset yet strangely excited at the same time. Red blotches stood out on his cheeks, and his eyes were alive with manic energy.

  “There is nothing to do,” my mother said in a decided voice. “Nothing has happened yet. Don’t put your cart before the horse, Samuel. This may all turn out to be nothing.”

  Sam let out an exasperated breath and turned away. I heard him murmur something but couldn’t make out the words. Then he straightened his shoulders and said, “I’m going to find Yosef.”

  “Samuel,” my mother called after him, but my father put his hand on her arm and said gently, “Let him go, Brocha. Give him time.”

  “Is it true, Papa?” I asked again. “Is there going to be a war?”

  He finally looked down at me, and I saw the worry that clouded his eyes fade slightly. He smiled and gently cupped my chin, lifting my gaze to his. “My Sarahle,” he whispered tenderly. “How can there be war when my sweet Sarahle is in this world?” He leaned down and kissed the crown of my head, adding, “Don’t worry, little one.”

  I hugged him tightly, smiling against his apron as his large arms embraced me. War, angry words, and ugly, mocking pictures became a distant thought as my father gently stroked my head and tickled under my chin. Here, in my father’s arms, I was safe.

  A few mornings later, I woke to an argument in our small kitchen. I walked to the table in my nightdress, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Jacob and Isaac were sitting at the table across from my father, who was dressed in his work clothes, his apron folded neatly beside him. Sam was pacing behind them.

  “Samuel, sit down,” my father said. “You promised your mother you wouldn’t say any more on the subject.”

  “But Papa,” Sam fumed, “last night Yosef told me he was going to enlist.”

  I thought back to the night before as I slipped into my chair. Gutcha had rung for me after supper, pulling me eagerly onto the steps outside our building. “What’s gotten into you?” I’d asked, laughing at her flushed face and glancing over her shoulder. I’d spied Sam and his closest friends, Yosef and Morty, huddled together across the street, deep in conversation. Immediately, I’d known why Gutcha was so giddy and shook my head.

  Over the summer, my cousin had developed a tremendous crush on Yosef, Sam’s tall, blond companion. There was no denying Sam and his friends were young and handsome—so unlike the ugly images of the men from the poster that kept materializing in my mind. Gutcha often made a habit of stopping over to watch them play soccer in the streets outside our home until long after the sun had set. We sat on the steps to cheer them on or pretended to ignore them when they showed off, competing against one another to see who could score the most goals. But lately, they had been doing more standing and whispering than shouting and chasing after the ball. And last night, when they looked up and saw us watching them, they didn’t smile and wave but immediately turned and walked away.

  Now I understood why they had looked so serious.

  “What Yosef does or doesn’t do is none of our business,” my father was saying. “You and your friends spend too much time debating the affairs of the greater world when you should be focusing on your studies and your futures here, in Olkusz. All this nonsense about fighting? Hmph.” His voice was calm, but I could tell from the way he clutched his mug in his hand, knuckles white, that anger was boiling beneath the surface.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, looking around at them. “Where’s Mama?”

  My father and brothers didn’t answer at first. Sam turned his back on us while Jacob and Isaac sat silently eating their breakfast, heads lowered. My father sighed and said, “She left with the twins to visit your great aunt Isador.”

  “What?” I asked, surprised. My mother was always home in the morning. She was always the first one up, preparing breakfast, dusting, hemming and mending our clothes, sweeping, washing and hanging laundry to dry, and beginning the evening meal before we were even out the door. The kitchen counters were bare, and the stove, which usually had several pots and pans boiling and simmering by this time, was cold. My father and brothers had plates with cold slices of bread, butter, and jam before them.

  “Your mother needed some air to settle her nerves,” my father explained. “But there will be no more disruptions to upset her.” He cast a meaningful look at Sam, who sighed and pulled out a chair, slumping in it as though defeated, and sullenly reached for a slice of bread. After a few moments of tense silence, my father wiped his mouth and set aside his napkin. “Jacob and I are headed to the bakery,” he said. “Sam and Isaac, I want you both there this afternoon as well. I’m expecting a large shipment of flour and will need help stocking the storeroom.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Isaac replied, while Sam just nodded.

  “Can I come too, Papa?” I asked. I often liked to visit my father at the bakery during the summer, helping him roll out the dough or prepare the sweet icings, glazes, and fruit marmalades he spread on the pastries. I would sit on a high stool behind the counter and greet customers as they entered or wipe the display cases with a clean rag until not a smudge was seen. As a reward, my father always let me lick the spoons he used to stir melted chocolate or sugary, unbaked batter. “Not today, Sarah,” my father said. “I imagine your mother will need help around here when she returns.” I wanted to protest, but I knew my father was not in a mood to argue. We ate without speaking, until my father pushed his empty plate to the side and rose from the table. Jacob stood to join him.


  As my father was reaching for his hat, the front door opened and my mother walked in, David and Majer at her side. She paused on the threshold. Sam kept his head lowered, refusing to meet her eyes. The twins pushed past her and ran to the table, eagerly grabbing the remaining slices of bread and thickly spreading on butter and strawberry jam, licking their sticky fingers. After a moment, my mother untied her kerchief from her head and reached for her apron.

  “I’m making a pot of soup for supper tonight,” she said in a business-like tone. “And the twins need to be bathed. Sarah, later you and I will go into town. I must visit the butcher, and I need to buy some more thread and needles. I’ll have to patch your red dress for the holidays, Sarah. Honestly, I don’t know how you ripped it. And I need to let out your pants, Jacob.”

  My father silently passed my mother on his way to the door, but I noticed how his hand lightly brushed the back of hers, his fingers gently caressing her skin. It was a small gesture, almost imperceptible, but she paused in listing off her chores and glanced at him. Their eyes met and held for a brief moment. A tender look softened her face, and her shoulders fell as she let out a held breath. As she turned to the stove, she started humming, the faintest of smiles on her lips.

  For the moment, everything was normal once more.

  True to his word, Sam said no more on the subject. His presence was silent and grim, but he didn’t argue. He kept mostly to himself behind his closed bedroom door.

  It was impossible to go anywhere without hearing talk of war. Rumors began to spread with ever increasing urgency. Poland was mobilizing its army. Hitler’s army was advancing. War was imminent.

  But in our home, we didn’t speak of it. We went about our daily lives, each of us doing his or her best to ignore the feeling of anticipation that had settled over the whole of Olkusz, like the town was collectively holding its breath. Then one evening late in July, as we were sitting down to dinner, the relative peace of our home was shattered by a loud knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Isaac said, jumping out of his seat.

  “Who could that be?” my mother asked with a small frown as she brought a bowl of potatoes to the table.

  I turned in my chair as Isaac opened the door. The early evening light outlined the tall figure of a man who was otherwise hidden in shadow. The man extended an arm, holding out a thick envelope, and said, “I have a postal delivery for Mr. Jacob Waldman.”

  We all looked at Jacob. He rose from his seat. “I’m Jacob Waldman,” he said, starting toward the door.

  I stood and came around the table to get a better view of the stranger standing on our threshold. I recognized the man who rode his bicycle through our streets, delivering the daily mail. He was wearing his postal uniform, his bag slung over his shoulder, and his face looked red and weary, as though he had been out all day in the heat. He smiled at Jacob sympathetically, and I thought I heard him whisper “good luck” as he handed the envelope to my brother. We watched in silence as he walked back down the path to his bicycle.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Some instinct told me this couldn’t be good news. I watched my parents’ faces. My father looked confused as he laid down his fork and knife and stood up, but my mother had gone pale. “What is it?” she whispered. “What did he give you?”

  Jacob walked back to the table and set the thick envelope down next to the plate of vegetables and broiled chicken. For a moment, nobody moved. We stared at the letter, afraid to move it, afraid to touch it, as though it were a ticking bomb about to explode. A number of official-looking stamps were pasted to the upper corner, and written across the top of the envelope were the words

  Office of the Polish Armed Forces

  Krakow, Poland

  My mother looked faint. She reached for her chair and sat down heavily. Sam’s face, however, had come alive. His eyes glinted with excitement, and he moved around the table to Jacob’s side. “Open it, Jacob,” he urged, reaching for the letter and handing it back to my brother. Jacob hesitantly took the envelope and tore open the seal, pulling out the crisp white sheet inside. In a quiet voice, he began to read: “To Mr. Jacob Waldman, 42 Slawkowska Street. You are hereby ordered to report for induction into the armed forces of the Polish military on August 1, 1939.”

  I heard a cry and looked up. My mother had pushed her chair back and was standing with her hands to her mouth, shaking her head. “I don’t understand,” my father whispered, reaching out and taking the paper from Jacob’s hand.

  “He’s been drafted, Papa,” Sam said. “Don’t you see? I told you! I told you we were going to fight the Germans, and now Jacob has the chance to defend our homeland. If I can’t fight in this war, then Jacob will. It’s an order!”

  Jacob’s face had grown as pale as my mother’s, but he didn’t say a word. My eyes shifted back and forth between them, seeing the triumphant look on Sam’s face, the shocked look on Jacob’s, the confused look on my father’s, and the horrified look on my mother’s. The feeling of dread I had managed to keep at bay for the past few weeks suddenly rose up through my body, and I had to swallow down a feeling of panic. The dinner before us was forgotten.

  “No!” my mother yelled suddenly, loudly, and we all looked at her. “No! They can’t do this! They can’t take my son! I can’t lose another child!”

  “Mama,” Jacob whispered, blinking back his fear. “Mama, it’s all right.”

  “No!” my mother cried again, and turning, she rushed out the door, slamming it behind her.

  Eight

  The morning Jacob reported for duty, I sat on the floor with the twins while my mother sobbed into a handkerchief and my father paced behind her. I knew they hadn’t slept, because I had overheard them arguing the night before. I had tried unsuccessfully to block the sound of their voices with my pillow, tossing and turning in my own bed. Finally, I gave up and stared at the ceiling, letting their words wash over me.

  “You have to stop this, Leibish,” my mother pleaded. “He cannot go.”

  “I’ve tried, Brocha. You know I’ve tried. I appealed to the local government. I wrote away to the national military headquarters. The reply is always the same. He has to go. There’s nothing we can do,” my father whispered.

  “How can you say that?” my mother cried. “He just won’t go. He’ll stay here. That’s it.”

  “Then he’ll be arrested. You’re being unreasonable.”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “Yes, they can.”

  There was a pause, and I imagined my parents staring at each other in anger and defeat. I knew the helplessness my mother felt, because I felt it as well. It hovered like a ghost over my bed. It ensnared me, pressing with a suffocating fist on my chest. Even as my eyelids grew heavy, I blinked back sleep, powerless as the hours ticked away, bringing the dawn and the moment my brother would have to say good-bye.

  The door to my brothers’ room opened and Jacob walked out, followed by Sam and Isaac. He carried his one small suitcase in hand. His hair was neatly trimmed, his face clean-shaven. He looked so different to me without his beard and long payot. He appeared a stranger in his uniform, the collar rigid against his exposed Adam’s apple, the shape of his muscular arms, so used to lifting sacks of flour, discernable beneath the muted brown sleeves of his army jacket, the polished toes of his black boots peeking from below the cuffs of his pants. My mother had spent the day before ironing the many pieces that made up his uniform, so now the pleats were crisp and the collar stiff. Her silent tears had fallen on the fabric as she’d worked. Jacob’s dark hair curled against his forehead beneath the rim of his rogatywka field cap. His large brown eyes, ringed with thick black lashes, stared back at us with a resigned expression. It struck me that Jacob, standing there so stoically, seemed more like a man than I’d ever seen him.

  A truck was scheduled to take all the young men who had been recruited from our to
wn to Krakow, where they would go through basic training. Jacob had received the details of his orders a week earlier and had shared the information with us in his quiet voice. Up until that moment, my mother had refused to believe the summons. “They can’t make him,” she kept repeating.

  The only one who seemed happy was Sam. He followed my brother into the room with a proud grin. “I wish I were going too, Jacob,” he said as he put an arm around Jacob’s shoulders. “I wish we were fighting the Germans side by side.”

  My mother gave a small cry. My father glared at Sam, but he didn’t notice. Jacob turned to Sam and said, “You have to stay here and keep everyone safe. Watch over Mama and Papa.” Sam nodded and extended his hand. Jacob grasped it, but then pulled Sam into a long hug. Isaac, who was standing at the window, turned around and announced to the quiet room, “The truck is here.”

  “No,” my mother moaned into her handkerchief. She was crumpled in her chair at the table.

  “Mama,” Jacob implored, releasing Sam and turning to her, “please don’t be sad. I will be all right.”

  My father came to my mother’s side and helped her to stand.

  “Come, Brocha. It’s time to say good-bye.”

  “No,” my mother whispered again, shaking her head and leaning heavily against my father. I ran to Jacob’s side and threw my arms around him. He put his hand under my chin and tilted my face up to his. I saw the glazed expression in his brown eyes. “Be good, Sarah,” he said. “Help Mama with everything, OK?”

  “I will,” I promised, nodding. The twins were hugging him around his legs. He bent down and lifted them into his arms, tickling them until they giggled, then set them down to hug Isaac, who had come to stand at my side. My parents waited at the door. Jacob picked up his suitcase and walked with a tentative gait toward them.

  “Be safe, son,” my father whispered, pulling Jacob to him. It was rare for my father to show physical affection to my brothers, but now he held Jacob tightly to his chest, his strong hands on Jacob’s back. “Come back home soon,” he whispered in his ear. Jacob nodded. When my father finally let go, Jacob turned to my mother. Her face was lowered, hidden by her handkerchief. She was unable to look him in the eye.