My Mother's Ring: A Holocaust Historical Novel
Page 24
I stood up when she walked by me, admiring her black curly hair as it tousled in the wind, and I began following her. When I caught up to her she glanced over at me and I blurted out the words “Mendel’s brother” and “Auschwitz.” She nearly fainted upon hearing those three words. She smiled so big that I swore she could have swallowed me whole. Her shrieks of joy ended with tears of happiness from both of us. It was Mendel’s Dorothy.
She sank onto the bench next to me, both of us looking at each other with disbelief. After the initial shock faded, I handed her the cardboard box, holding my breath as I watched her open it. Very carefully she removed her white gloves, placing them onto her thighs as she gently lifted the top off of the box. She looked at me inquisitively as she pulled out a crumpled piece of tattered, yellowed paper. I sat motionless as she unfolded the paper, smoothing out the wrinkles with her hands. It took her less than a minute to read the letter Mendel had written to her more than ten years prior, but her reaction lasted quite longer.
“He’s…gone?” she asked me. I slowly nodded my head. She leaned into me, shaking from a range of emotions, urging me to hold her.
Though I never read the letter myself, wanting to keep my brother’s expressions to his lover private, I always wondered what powerful words he so desperately wanted to tell her. I was relieved to finally give the note to its intended recipient.
In that moment, a chapter of my life closed while another one opened. I finally felt as though Mendel could rest peacefully knowing that his last wish had been honored.
CHAPTER 52
Dorothy and I bonded instantly due to our backgrounds and our experiences during the war. After liberation, she had bounced around from one DP camp to another, just like so many other survivors, before she found comfort in the Schwandorf camp in Germany. As fate would have it, she had arrived to the United States in 1948 at which point she began her studies to become an elementary school teacher. Although I felt that it was a little inappropriate to court the very woman my brother had loved, I knew that he would have wanted me to make sure Dorothy was taken care of.
And so began a lasting love affair that led to a wonderful marriage. Our wedding was small and simple, for there were only a handful of people to invite. During it, I gave Dorothy my mother’s special ring. Sliding it onto her finger, she and I became one. When she presented me with the ring she had chosen for me, it was a replicate of hers; she had hired a local jeweler to make a copy of the original. When I looked at it pressed against my skin, I understood for the first time how mother must have felt when she looked at hers. Wearing it around my neck, keeping it safe for so long, it represented my hope and my family. Wearing it around my finger, it represented our commitment and our partnership. While all of Dorothy’s friends wore expensive diamond rings, she was never jealous of her simple gold band. She treasured her ring because she valued the history behind it. Mother would have adored her.
As husband and wife, we started our married life in a modest one bedroom apartment. Although we lugged our old mattresses, couches, and other ratty items into our new place, Dorothy was insistent that we buy a new kitchen table. Later that week, I surprised her with one from a secondhand store—it was mahogany. In a miniscule way it made me feel as though my life had come full circle. The craftsmanship was nothing compared to the table we had in Warsaw, but it reminded me of my childhood and Dorothy was thrilled to own it.
In the transition, I came across a barely recognizable object in one of Dorothy’s dresser drawers: a ragged bracelet—the very one Mendel was punished for giving to his lover in Auschwitz-Birkenau. She had kept it for all of those years through transfers and selections. I wondered if my brother knew just how much Dorothy had cared for him. I wondered if he had known how much he had meant to me. My eyes pooled with tears as I kissed it and blew a kiss up to my brother. Not wanting to break it, I gently tucked it away without mentioning it to Dorothy.
Life reminded me of that threaded bracelet; it is fragile and can fall apart at any time.
With Dorothy’s encouragement, I found joy in life. I began to attend synagogue and to join Jewish associations. Slowly, I replaced my awful experiences from the war with positive ones. In the process, my daily nightmares became more infrequent as my past slipped further away from the present.
Life progressed.
Had I not continually chosen to keep fighting every day to stay alive, I would have missed out on a fulfilling life. I became grateful for everything, for every moment I had and every personal connection I made.
Dorothy and I went on to have three healthy children (twin girls and one boy). Together we raised them in a traditional Jewish household, teaching them about the faith but sparing them, or quite possibly ourselves, from the painful details about the Holocaust.
As our children grew up and studied World War II in school, they began to inquire about our tattoos, but Dorothy and I regrettably always breezily brushed aside their questions. We wanted to protect them from everything evil in the world, but perhaps we should have been more open with them. In many ways, I suppose I am very much like my father.
I rarely wore shirts without long sleeves because I loathed the comments and questions I received from strangers. Even in the summer, I covered my arms in fabric. It wasn’t until I reached my seventies that I embraced my past and exposed my tattoos to the world; but I was still never able to talk about my experiences with anyone.
Thank you for allowing me to tell them to you.
But now I’m weak and I can’t fight it anymore. Here I am lying in my hospital bed with my faithful wife seated by my side. I’m rubbing my ring and clutching my tin camp bowl while taking one last look at my wrinkled reflection before I put down my pen and paper for good.
Would my family who had perished during the war have been proud of the life that I had lived? As the sole survivor, did I make the most of the precious gift that I was given? Looking into my wife’s green eyes and then over at the pictures of my children and grandchildren, I know the answer.
All I have left to say before I join my mother is: I survived. I loved. I lived.
Table of Contents
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share