by Jennifer Roy
not bullied or harassed like they used to be.
Dora pauses, slurps some soup, and surveys
my cellar surroundings.
She eyes the dingy walls and ceiling,
the dirty coal pile,
the children, unwashed except for hands and faces
which have had daily wipe downs by the women.
“It certainly does not seem like summertime
down here,” my sister says.
“I wish I could bring you some sun, Syvia,
but the best I can do is soup.”
The Chef
I still have not spoken to any of the other children.
I am having trouble even remembering who is who.
My brain cannot seem to hold on to names.
Isaac is the only child I feel comfortable with.
We play simple games like,
“Which hand is holding the stone?” and
“What color am I thinking of?”
Although I do not know the others,
I do get to know some things about them.
One little girl is weepy,
one boy is sickly,
another hates to get his face washed.
Then there is the boy who talks out loud
to himself
and his only subject is food.
This is what he sounds like—
Meat, stew, potatoes, peppers, roasted turnips, spices,
flour to thicken.
Cook over low heat.
Potato dumplings, edges browned, not burned.
Ladle thick gravy on roast.
Cabbage galumpkies, noodle kugel,
Carrot cake with dates, finely chopped…
In my head, I call this boy The Chef.
Papa says that thinking about food
all the time is not uncommon
among people in the ghetto,
who are around starving bodies.
The mind can latch onto nourishment in this way.
“People have different ways of surviving the days,”
Papa says.
“We must honor our differences while we
find our own courage and our own strength
the best we know how.”
I think I understand what he means,
but, selfishly, I also wish
The Chef would keep his courage
to himself more often
and give us some peace.
Nervous Hands
Then there is the girl
whose right hand is always moving.
Open fingers, open hand,
close fingers, clench hand into a fist.
Open, clench, open, clench.
She even does this in her sleep.
I wonder why, and
if her hand gets tired.
Once I look at her and think,
It looks sort of like she is
shooting a gun,
but I don’t like this thought.
It reminds me of a memory I have
that I never told anyone about.
When I was littler
I saw a soldier on the street.
I did not want to look at his face,
so I lowered my gaze
to his hand,
which was holding a pistol
straight out in front of him.
He pulled with his finger
and pop,
I think someone was killed
right then,
because I heard a cry and a thud
very close to where Dora and I were walking.
But it was not me or Dora
who got hit.
I never saw who it was.
One minute a person
is alive walking down a street,
then a hand moves a finger
and a person is dead.
Later I quietly tell Papa
about the girl who keeps opening and closing
her hand.
Papa says,
“I think, probably, she is the type of child
who needs to be moving.
Her body doesn’t like to stay still.
It is just nervous energy.”
He might be right,
but I look closer and I think,
She does not look nervous to me.
Her eyes look angry.
I decide to be careful around her,
just in case.
I think of her as Nervous Hands.
Mouse
Sometimes at night I cannot sleep,
and I have dark thoughts.
I feel lonely and scared and trapped
down in the cellar.
Papa says to “find our own courage,”
but I don’t see any signs of
mine.
If I had a nickname,
it would be Mouse.
Brown and timid,
I burrow into the corner in my
nest of blankets.
I even sound squeaky
with my raw throat and lingering cough,
from the dampness of the cellar.
Yes, Mouse is a good name for me.
Hiding down here in my mouse hole,
I wait for yet another day.
Nobody Special
I have always been shy and quiet,
unlike other children with their lively games
and whoops and shouts.
Perhaps this is one reason
I am still here in the ghetto.
I know how to be invisible.
I am certainly no one special or important.
I’m just one plain brown-haired, skinny girl.
But I am alive and still here.
Am I lucky?
Surely not as lucky as children
who are not Jews.
But every day I get to be with
my parents and sister,
and in the ghetto that is
more than luck.
It is a miracle.
LATE FALL–WINTER 1944
Pails of Coal
The grown-ups have asked us children
to carry pails of coal
up the stairs
to help out,
when soldiers are not nearby.
The pails are very, very heavy
when filled with coal.
After the first time I carried some pails up,
my hands felt sore
from where the metal handles
bit into my palms,
but my hands are getting used to it.
It feels good to be able to
help the grown-ups.
It feels good to be strong enough
to climb the stairs.
Blue Sky
So, over the past few days,
while the grown-ups have been out in the ghetto
working,
some of the children have gone upstairs
and outside.
So far nobody has been caught.
The soldiers don’t come around
to the workers’ houses
so much anymore.
I think it is very bold
of the children
to take such a chance,
but I can’t help but notice how happy
their faces look when they come back.
I have a small scrap of fabric
that Dora found
and gave me.
It is pale blue.
It looks like the sky.
When the others return
from their adventures outdoors,
I take out my blue scrap
and look at
my sky.
But deep in my heart,
I know that it cannot replace the
real thing.
Up and Out
I am tired.
Tired of being inside this cellar.
Tired of being afraid.
Tired of being me.
I shove my blue scrap of fabric
into my shirt
pocket
and put on my shoes.
They are too tight,
but I can still walk in them.
I get up and start walking.
Are these my feet climbing up to the top of the stairs?
Can this be my hand pushing the door open?
I go through the door,
out of the cellar,
into a little hallway.
There is another door.
I open it.
One hard push,
and I am outside.
I am outside!
The air smells so good, crisp like autumn,
not stale like cellar air.
For a minute I am blinded by the
sun.
My eyes adjust.
My heart goes boomboomboomboom.
I look around.
Nobody this way,
nobody that way.
There is a chill in the air.
The wind feels cold,
but the sun peeks out from behind clouds
and invites me out
into the yard.
I walk further outside,
feeling grass under my feet,
sunshine on my face.
There are trees in the yard.
Most of the leaves have dropped to the ground,
but not all have fallen.
And then I see it.
Hanging from a tree branch—
a large yellow pear.
Dora says that the workers are not
supposed to eat from the trees.
They are supposed to save the fruit
for the Germans,
while the workers get by on the food
the soldiers don’t want.
My head is worrying, but
my feet are still walking.
The Pear
What if the Germans come into the yard?
What if they are looking out the window
of one of the buildings?
What if someone sees me?
I am drawn to the tree
like a bee to honey.
Closer.
Closer.
I can touch the tree branches now.
I reach up and grasp the pear.
Its skin is yellow green,
ripe.
I twist it a bit, and the pear
pops off its branch
into my hand.
It is solid, smooth,
real.
There is no stopping now.
At this moment there are no Germans,
no worries.
There is only me and this pear.
I take a bite.
Cool, juicy, sweet.
Perfect.
Delicious!
I eat some more.
My hand gets a little sticky,
but I don’t care.
I am out in the sunshine
eating a pear,
just like any normal girl
who isn’t Jewish in Poland,
on a regular day.
Suddenly I realize where I am,
what I am doing.
I had better get inside.
I am about to run back,
when I spot another pear on the tree,
a little smaller than my pear,
a little greener.
I think of Dora, and I grab it,
then turn and run
back to the building
with a pear in each hand.
Through the door,
down the hallway,
down the stairs,
into the cellar.
A Gift for Dora
I did it.
I made it.
Sitting cross-legged on my blanket,
I eat the rest of the pear,
nibbling around the seeds
and stem
until all that is left is the core.
The juice dries on my hand,
but I do not wipe it off,
saving the scent to sniff for a little while longer.
I put my hand up to my face.
Inhale.
Mmmm…perfume of pear.
Dora told me that rich and famous people
wear perfumes of
fruit and flowers.
Now, so do I.
Later, when Dora comes down to visit me,
I present her with
the small green pear,
wrapped in a piece of blue cloth
the color of sky.
Dora looks at me.
“You got this from Papa?”
I shake my head no.
“Mother?”
Again, no.
“I picked it for you myself,” I say proudly.
Dora’s face looks worried,
but only for a moment.
Then a smile breaks out.
“You went outside? By yourself?”
Dora laughs in delight,
and I laugh, too.
“Oh, Syvia,” my sister says,
“what a clever and brave girl you are.”
Clever and brave?
Me?
I guess I might be, after all.
“But, Syvia.” Dora suddenly turns serious.
Oh no.
Is she going to scold me
for leaving the cellar?
For stealing?
What?
“You should get to eat the pear!”
She tries to give me the fruit.
“No, that is yours,”
I tell her.
I point to the leftover core
from my golden pear.
“I already ate mine.”
This makes Dora laugh again.
Then she makes me share her pear.
Delicious,
we agree.
Heavy Boots
I want to tell baby Isaac
about my trip outside,
but he is napping.
I feel bad that I didn’t save
some pear for him,
but I was so hungry,
I forgot.
Anyway, the grown-ups bring him special treats
because he is the youngest.
Still, I decide to give him the seeds.
We can make up a game
with them.
While I am thinking about seeds and pears,
I start to doze off.
I am awakened abruptly
by the sounds of heavy footsteps,
many of them
overhead.
Suddenly the door swings open.
Down the stairs come giant boots,
pant legs,
uniforms with swastikas!
The Nazis!
The Nazis are in the cellar!
Caught
All the children are awake now.
I am frozen.
The soldiers bark at each other,
but I don’t know what they are saying.
Then one soldier grabs my arm
and yanks me up.
I feel like time slows down.
I can see my pear cores
lying on my blanket
like small skeletons.
I see scared faces,
my cousin Isaac’s wide eyes
I am being dragged up the stairs.
Other soldiers
are pulling children,
following closely behind me.
Boys and girls are screaming,
“Help!” “Mommy!” “No!”
I’m too scared to scream.
Too scared to do anything
but be dragged like a sack of potatoes.
The Nazi pulls me by my arm,
kicks open the door,
and shoves me through it.
I fall and land on hard ground.
We are all outside now
in the hands of the Nazis.
Hands that are big and rough
and…ow …
pulling me up by my hair
so I am standing.
This is it.
This is the end.
I know what happens to people who
trick the Nazis,
who try to hide,
who refuse to give in.
I know what happens to Jews.
I am one little girl!
I want to yell at the soldiers.
You are big men with guns!
What could I possibly do to you?
Why can’t you just leave us alone?
Papa!
Mother!
Dora!
The soldier grabs my arm and drags me forward.
I whimper
and shut my eyes.
If the Nazis are going to kill me,
I don’t want to see them do it.
The Circle
The Nazi pulling on my arm suddenly stops
and mutters something.
I stop moving and wait, eyes closed,
for more pulling,
for death.
Nothing happens.
Little ovals of light
dance around the insides of my eyelids.
I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach.
The waiting becomes too much to bear.
I open my eyes,
slowly
adjusting to sunlight.
We are just a few steps from the building.
The soldier is still holding on to me
but…
I cannot believe what I am seeing.
There before us,
in a half circle surrounding the doorway,
are the grown-ups.
So many grown-ups.
It could be all 800.
All of the Jews in the ghetto.
The soldier grips my arm and marches me
toward the crowd,
but no one steps back.
No one moves out of his way.
The soldier turns his head and barks
something at the other Nazis
behind us.
The crowd stands as one,
looking at me
and the Nazi soldier.
I see a few women crying quietly.
Then the crowd of Jews starts moving,
forming a circle
around soldiers and children.
The Nazis seem unsure of what to do.
Certainly they have guns,
but they are outnumbered by hundreds
of people.
The soldier holding me
says something
angrily.
Then he
kicks me,
kicks me,
kicks me again.
He pushes me, and
I stumble into the crowd,
into the arms of grown-ups.
The other soldiers release their grips
on the children,
and then all of the Nazis
shove their way
through the circle,
away from the Jews.
I stand, shaking and crying.
My parents are running to me,
and here comes Dora, too.
My family embraces me.
In the distance I hear
the roar of motorcycles.
The Nazis
are gone.
In This Moment
Later I am told
that someone had tipped off the Nazis,
informing them that there were children
in the cellar.