What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  “Oh, Helena, you shouldn’t have come,” Jacob moaned. “Your sister was right. What if you’d been caught?”

  “But I wasn’t, Jacob. And then Malka went home, and I came here. I’d hoped you’d be here—I couldn’t bring myself to go home until I saw you.”

  Jacob reached up and cupped Helena’s face. They stared into each other’s eyes for another long moment. There was something so intimate in the gesture that I looked away. Just a few months earlier, I don’t think my parents would have allowed them to touch so affectionately and so openly, especially not before marriage, but now they kept their silence.

  “The worst part was that we couldn’t move,” Isaac said so softly I thought I was the only one who heard him. “Our faces were in the mud. They told us to keep our arms behind our backs. They laughed as we lay there. Sometimes they talked to each other as if we weren’t there, and sometimes they yelled such mean things at us. Sometimes they kicked us. And if we moved even a little, if we put our arms at our sides, or turned our faces, they, they—”

  Isaac swallowed over and over.

  “Don’t, Isaac,” Sam said, reaching across the table for my brother’s hand. “It’s over now. You don’t have to say it.”

  Isaac shook his head. “But after a while I had to move. I had to, to go to the bathroom. I didn’t know what to do.” He looked down now in total humiliation. I blinked back tears, not wanting to hear more.

  “It’s OK,” Sam whispered. “You weren’t the only one.”

  “I was so scared, Sam. I couldn’t breathe lying like that all day.”

  “Me too,” Sam said.

  “And me,” Jacob said.

  My father nodded mutely but didn’t raise his head to look at us.

  “They killed the men who tried to escape,” Sam said, “and they forced the rabbi to pray over their bodies. They beat us ruthlessly with their rifles. You did what you had to do, Isaac, to survive.”

  Isaac began to weep again. My mother rushed to his side and wrapped him in her arms. His tears fell on her shoulder. “It’s all right, meyn eyngl, my sweet boy,” she soothed. “You’re home now. I won’t ever let them hurt you again!”

  Thirteen

  Olkusz, Poland, autumn 1941

  News came in the first few days of September. We had to move.

  The twins played outside in the late summer warmth, oblivious to our situation. My father and mother stood in the kitchen, holding the sheet of paper that detailed the latest order in their hands. My father shook his head over and over, murmuring under his breath, “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”

  “Where will we go, Leibish?” my mother asked. She sat down at the table, dazed. “This is our home. They can’t kick us out.”

  Jacob, Sam, Isaac, and I were sitting at the table with our schoolbooks open before us, but no one was concentrating. Since they had closed the religious school my brothers attended and passed the law prohibiting me from attending the girls’ school, there was nothing left for us to do but study at home. Jacob was now too old for school, and while he should have been working alongside my father, they had been forced to close the bakery. The doors were boarded up. After the Jewish star had been painted across the glass front, an official notice was posted on the door, indicating it was an establishment owned by a Jewish proprietor. Graffiti had appeared on the windows overnight, and more than once my father had arrived to find the glass had been shattered by thrown rocks. My father’s customers stayed loyal to him for as long as they could, but he finally received the order that he had to close the shop for good. He had come home that day and sat in his chair for the longest time, silent and unmoving, looking lost and bewildered.

  The math equations that always came easily to me swam before my eyes as I thought about having to leave our home. It wasn’t big, but it was the only home I’d ever known, and the memories that filled it suddenly overwhelmed me: the Sabbath meals my mother made every Friday, the laughter around our kitchen table, the familiar creak in the floor when the twins jumped into my bed, the summer breeze that lifted the curtains and smelled sweetly of honeysuckle—and Esther.

  Her ghost, her presence, filled every corner of our home. I could still hear the echo of her laughter, could still feel her next to me in bed at night, could still picture her out in the yard, bathing the twins in the tub or hanging laundry to dry. To leave here would be to leave her, to have to part with her, again.

  “It’s an order,” my father said. “How can we refuse? We have to go.”

  “Maybe Sam was right,” my mother whispered. “Maybe we should have left before now.”

  “No,” my father asserted. “Think of the Meltzers.”

  We silently remembered the Meltzer family. Like some of our other neighbors, they had packed their cherished belongings and left in the middle of the night. Their home was found vacant the next day, their front door swinging open and shut in the wind. A small group had gathered on their lawn as Mr. Geller went inside, calling, “Joshua? Frayda?” He came back out a few moments later shaking his head. “They’re gone.”

  We all wondered where they had fled. Did they have family elsewhere to take them in? Passports? Would they make it out of the country? A few days later, rumors began to circulate. Someone had seen them picked up on the road outside of town by an official-looking vehicle. The children had been clinging to Frayda’s hands. Had they been shipped off, taken to the new buildings that had been built in the country? Or had they met their fate like others who were caught on the side of the road? There were reports that whole families had been shot near the river, their bodies left to float downstream on the current.

  “No,” my father sighed. “This is best. We’ll be together. If we don’t make trouble, if we go where they tell us, we’ll survive, Brocha.” He gripped her hands in his.

  My mother shook her head and looked around her. “What are we supposed to do with all our belongings?”

  My father looked at the letter again. “It says to pack only the essentials. We are allowed a cartful of belongings. The house will be here for us when we return.”

  “But why, Leibish?” my mother asked. “Why send us away only to have us come back one day?”

  “Do they need a reason?” Sam asked in a low voice.

  My mother’s brow creased in confusion. “When do we have to leave?”

  “In two days.”

  My heart sank. Two days? It was impossible to believe.

  Wiping her hands on her apron and squaring her shoulders, my mother turned to us and said, “No use waiting until the last minute. Go gather what you need, children. Sarah, when you’re done, you can help me with the twins. We should be ready when the time comes.”

  I stepped into the small space that was the only bedroom I’d ever known. I had an old, worn suitcase under my bed that my uncle had once given me. “For when you travel the world, Sarahle,” he’d said. I lifted it onto my bed, then simply stood in place, wondering what to take. What did I need? I had my books, my school awards, my pillow and blanket. My clothes were hung along hooks and folded in the dresser in the corner. I wanted to take my one favorite dress of pink satin that I’d worn on Purim, but I knew Mama would want me to take clothes made of sturdier stuff. I threw my shawls into the case, along with a couple of woolen dresses. I took a couple of books and my doll, Shayna, though I hadn’t played with her in years. I took an extra pair of shoes, the fancier ones I wore for the holidays and Shabbat. And then I looked around again. The walls still held Esther’s posters and poems, and her drawings from when she was little were still tacked next to mine. I glanced at my childish illustrations and immediately dismissed them, but when I looked at Esther’s, I remembered her sitting at the kitchen table, head bent over the pages with her braids brushing the table’s surface, her few colored pencils grasped in her soft hands as she deliberately drew a house, a rainbow, a sun, a family.


  They’re silly pictures, a voice whispered in my ear.

  “No, they’re not,” I said. “I always loved your drawings. I wanted to make my pictures look just like yours.”

  You’re just saying that because I’m gone.

  “I wish you were here with us. I don’t think I’d be as scared if I had you.”

  I turned to the empty space. I had spoken the words aloud, and now they echoed in the silence. Without a second thought, I gathered Esther’s pictures from the walls and placed them lovingly on top of my belongings, closing the suitcase with a soft click.

  At noon the following day, Mr. Geller showed up on our doorstep. He was accompanied by a German officer. Because of their wealth, the Gellers were granted certain privileges that the rest of us weren’t, and Mr. Geller had been appointed head of the Judenrat, the Jewish council that enforced the laws passed by the Nazis.

  “What can I do for you?” my father asked as he fixed a wary gaze onto the Nazi officer. Mr. Geller nodded to the officer, who eyed us for a moment before turning and walking down the path to the street. Mr. Geller stepped into the apartment and leaned the door closed while the officer waited outside. I breathed a sigh of relief that the German soldier didn’t enter our home. We all turned to Mr. Geller as he stood awkwardly in the center of our living room, glancing at each of us. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m here on behalf of the Displacement Commission of the Judenrat to collect a fee for your new flat.”

  “A fee?” my father asked as Sam and Isaac stood up. Mr. Geller nodded. “Whatever you can contribute,” he added. “For your new flat. Assignments for housing are based on what you can pay.”

  “Is that so?” my father asked, scratching his chin.

  “But we have nothing!” my mother exclaimed, coming to stand next to my father.

  Mr. Geller spread his hands helplessly, looking at my father. “It’s out of my hands, Leibish,” he said. “You know that.”

  My father didn’t answer.

  “And how much did you pay, Mr. Geller?” Sam asked bitterly. “I’m sure you paid a pretty penny to be set up in a nice new home?” Mr. Geller looked down at his feet. Sam’s face was red as he spat, “Your money won’t always be there to save you, you know.”

  My father put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I won’t have you speaking to our friend like that, Sam. The Gellers have been nothing but kind to us.” Sam closed his mouth but continued to glower at Mr. Geller. My father nodded and walked to the cabinet, opening a drawer and pulling out a small coin purse hidden in back. He emptied a few złoty into his palm and handed them to Mr. Geller. “I’m afraid that’s all we have to give,” he said.

  Mr. Geller fingered the few coins silently, then nodded. “Thank you, Leibish,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Without meeting our eyes again, Mr. Geller walked out the door, closing it behind him.

  We were up early the following morning. My mother didn’t speak as she opened and closed cupboard doors, wiped the surface of our kitchen table, and checked the belongings she had packed into numerous satchels to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anything. My father stood inside the doorway quietly reading out of his siddur, his personal prayer book. I watched as he kissed the spine of the book and touched it to the mezuzah posted to our doorframe.

  Around noon, troops of Nazi soldiers entered the streets. We heard the commotion from blocks away as they systematically went door to door, evacuating Jewish families from their homes. I waited outside with Gutcha and Daniel. We shivered from an unseasonal chill in the air. The overcast sky was appropriate to the mood of the day. I clutched my shawl closer around me, keeping my eyes on the twins, who ran through the yard kicking a ball, unaware that this was to be their last morning in our home for a long time. I looked up at the windows of the apartment; the shades were drawn, the shutters latched. I wondered how long we would be gone—how long it would be before I looked out those windows again from the inside.

  My reverie was shattered by the sound of a harsh whistle. I jumped as I looked back at the street. Two lines of Nazis were marching in orderly formation on the cobblestones, approaching our small cluster of homes. Gutcha moved closer to my side, reaching for my hand. My heart raced as I realized the finality of the moment. This was it. We were leaving. My mother came to the door to join my father. I was tempted to run back inside, to look one last time at the rooms where I had spent my childhood. The twins rushed to my mother’s side and buried their faces against her skirt. They were suddenly quiet, subdued, eyes downcast. Their fear of the men who marched toward us was painfully evident.

  “Everyone out! On the streets!” the soldier at the head of the line yelled as they came to a halt in the cul-de-sac. Jacob, Sam, and Isaac came around the side of the house with a large cart that was piled high with our belongings. There was commotion as everyone crowded onto the road. Helena and her family moved quickly to join us. Helena ran to stand beside Jacob. Abraham and Leah called for Gutcha and Daniel, and my father’s brother Berish and his wife, Tova, pushed through the throng to be near us. The soldiers closed in around us, yelling at those who lingered too long. Some wept as we began to walk, surrounded on all sides by soldiers and guns.

  Jacob and Sam pushed the cart ahead of us, while Isaac walked alongside my father. I fell into step beside my mother. We reached the corner that led to the town market, and as we turned, I glanced back over the heads of my neighbors to catch one final glimpse of the gabled roof of our home. I wanted to delay the moment, to watch the trees brush against the windowpanes in the gentle breeze, to memorize the image of our front door, our red shutters, the chimney that rose against the gray sky, the ivy that climbed to the eaves of the roof. But I was jostled by the crowd, my hand pulled by my mother. “Don’t look back,” she whispered, and I turned again to face forward, closing my eyes briefly, hoping to imprint the memory of our home on my mind forever.

  Fourteen

  Once we reached the center of town, I noticed that the sidewalks outside the stores were filling with people, other citizens of Olkusz. They stood back and watched as we were paraded through the square. Some of the townspeople looked on with ugly sneers, their eyes glinting with an almost hungry look. Still others looked appalled and turned away. I saw a few faces I recognized, loyal customers of my father’s bakery who looked on unhappily, but no one said anything. No one did anything.

  One face stood out from the rest. He was tall and thin, long blond bangs falling across his forehead. He followed our progress, ducking behind the crowd only to reappear again a little farther down the street. His eyes were so light I couldn’t make out their color as he watched us. They reflected the sun that broke through the clouds overhead like pools of clear water. My eyes were drawn to his, but whenever we met each other’s gaze, his eyes bore into mine until I grew hot and had to look down. I felt like crying. Why was he staring at me like that? Why were they all staring?

  The crowd undulated like a wave as we marched along the street, some people jostling for a closer look while others fell away. I squeezed my mother’s hand tighter. “How much longer do we have to walk?” I murmured after an hour had passed. I wasn’t tired. I simply hated the feeling that I was on display. We were nearing the edge of town, drawing closer to the countryside, to the suburbs of Pareze, Slowiki, and Sikorka. The foliage around us turned from green to shades of orange and rust. As the road changed from cobblestone to dirt, the crowd of onlookers thinned, and I finally began to relax. I lifted my head, taking in my surroundings. We were walking along a road surrounded by farmland, the gentle hills of the countryside rising to become the mountains on the horizon. A few farmhouses peppered the landscape. Finally, we came to a cluster of dilapidated buildings, a small, poor, rural community on the outskirts of Olkusz that now looked deserted. We were told to find our new living quarters as detailed on our latest orders.

  There was confusion as the soldiers stood b
ack and the crowd dispersed. “Where do we go, Leibish?” my mother asked. My father consulted the paper and peered around. “This way, I think,” he said. “Sikorka Street.”

  I followed my family down a dirt path to a dwelling no bigger than a shack. My mother took one look at our new home and her face fell. Inside the small flat was a bare floor and a single window that looked out on a back alley, one of its panes broken and boarded up so only a small draft of light entered the dilapidated room. An old, rusty stove stood in one corner, a table took up the center of the room, and a flimsy mattress lay on the floor. The room was half the size of our living room at home.

  My Uncle Berish and Aunt Tova had been assigned to live with us since they had no children. “What do you see, Berish?” I heard my aunt ask as she and my uncle pushed into the already overcrowded space behind us.

  “This is it?” my mother asked in despair. She turned to my father, who stood with his hands at his sides. My aunt stepped around my mother and looked as well, her eyes mirroring my mother’s hopelessness.

  “No, no, no,” my aunt said. “There has to be some mistake.”

  My father looked at the sheet of paper in his hands. “There’s no mistake,” he murmured.

  My uncle walked to the end of the room. A door stood slightly ajar next to the stove. He pushed it open and peered inside. “There’s a small room here,” he said.

  “Two rooms?” my mother asked incredulously, an edge of hysteria rising in her voice. She looked at all of us. “Two rooms for ten of us? How are we all supposed to live in just two rooms?”

  “And what about our belongings?” my aunt asked. “And the furniture? Where will we put it all?”