Foter.
Maybe I have gone to one of the heavens after all and the SS are the Hell I left.
Idel is my next thought. “Where is Idel in this heaven? I am aching to see him.
Idel. I’ve not thought about you for many years, and the thought of you now breaks my mind apart.
Berl, Ruchel, Sura.
Breathe.
I cannot breathe.
You have no need for breath here.
Hants.
Soft hands almost touching me. Touching the air above what would be my skin if I am alive. Smoothing the air above my hair.
Whispering.
Whispering what? I cannot hear the words, merely the soft whispering around me.
Ahhhhh. Idel’s angel. You finally come. Interesting moment you have picked for my rescue.
I cannot feel my body. Cannot feel the physical. I am experiencing everything in my mind now. Everything that has been stopped, cut, consumed, bottled, bled, stomped, gutted, kicked, pressed upon, slashed.
Foter, you said this slash and burn is important for the survival of the crop. For the good of the inheritors. Slash and burn and there can be new.
I am screaming with the pain without my voice.
Please let me not feel this. It will kill me.
I remember I am already dead.
This is my Hell. To feel again.
The smell. The same smell and the whispers.
And the hants.
This time touching more on my body. I can feel these hands on my body and it cannot be an angel touching me there, on my mi’leh.
I am in Hell and sotn will do what he wants with my privates. Like the boy, Stanoff, with the guards at Majdanek.
No, not that poor boy.
I witnessed the rape of a prisoner and his execution after. I never talked of it to anyone, of course. I had not known men could do this to other men. Would want to do this to another man.
You will not think of this now. You will not think of this again. I am still a virgin. I am thirty-four, but I have never kissed a girl. Simply held a hand.
Eyn hant.
The hant of the girl on the train to Lublin.
To the dark place.
They threw me on the cattle train after dark. I’d been beaten and given nothing to eat or drink for days. The only reason I remained standing is the number of people pressing at my shoulders, keeping me from falling to the ground.
She found my hand in the dark on the awful train, and I grasped hers and realized in the midst of a train ride to a place I knew meant death that I had already begun to die.
Perhaps I would be dead when we arrived. Starved or dead of thirst.
Don’t think of the thirst.
I kept my mind busy by thinking of the softness of her hant.
I stole glances at her face in the moonlight. The curve of her brow, her cheek, her lips. I tried not to stare for fear she might take her hant away.
We exchanged names and not much more.
Rinna.
In the morning we arrived in the city of Lublin.
We are separated, the men and women. The women are put into trucks and taken away while the men are marched about a half-mile in orderly rows.
Then I stepped into Hell.
I have not forgotten her face or her hant—they gave me a reason to reinvent myself again in the midst of that place, they saved me as surely as the Russian soldier whose life I borrowed in the last days.
The soldier Pieter. The defector. The typhoid-carrying Russian whose clothing is stripped from him in the ditch full of sticks. The soldier whose uniform I traded for my tattered clothing.
Why hadn’t I thought to do it sooner? It doesn’t work to think these things now. Now I am here in a Hell that smells like my foter’s hair tonic.
The sounds and smells go away again.
I am losing time.
This is what happens when you die. You lose time.
I learned when you have lost time, your understanding of time, time finds you, and time tells the truth. Time will find you and give you your truth if you want it.
Time found me in the hair tonic hospital with the angels in white dresses who cared for me as my broken limbs healed. Both hands and arms are in casts and slings. My left leg in traction.
The nurse who spoke Russian told me many bones in my body had been shattered by the blast of the torpedo. My lung collapsed. My eardrums punctured.
I had been in a coma for weeks.
Six surviving crew members and five surviving passengers. Five Jews.
Am I counted as a Jew or an officer? In Turkey, who is it safe to be now? I know I will become whoever it is safe to be.
The angels with white dresses call me Pieter, and so I am named. They found his papers in the shreds of my uniform. The Romanian uniform. They also found the address for my parents in America, which I kept folded in the bottom of my boot.
I am called Pieter. So it is.
There are others in the large hospital room. We sometimes talk to one another. We mutter occasional words between suspicious glances.
We are all hiding from death.
I don’t recognize anyone from the Mefkura.
Through the pain medication I receive, the conversation is foreign and fragmented. I hear them say the Russians torpedoed the Mefkura and shot the survivors in the waves with machine guns.
But I know those are German soldiers with machine guns around us in the water, not the Russians. I heard German voices.
The captain gave the order to ignore the warning flare and continue sailing.
Why?
He ordered the crew members in the pilothouse to lower a lifeboat and evacuate. No one argued, although we all knew it meant death for the others.
Pieter is present in the pilothouse because of a shift switch with another officer.
There is no time to notify anyone else.
The captain’s order: “Save yourself.” He said this as we loaded into the lifeboat.
If I am not for myself, who will be for me? Hillel’s teaching.
It is mere minutes before the Mefkura is illuminated again, then torpedoed.
I am told by the nurses that the Jewish survivors have gone. They are taken up by the other ships traveling with us. The Bulbul and the Morina sailed on. They are home now.
Where are we headed? Palestine. The Promised Land.
Yes. This is where Pieter, now a Romanian crewmember, journeyed.
My intention—killing Pieter when I arrived.
I knew no one in Palestine. I could become anyone. I could become a Jew again.
A survivor.
I thought I could become a person with no past.
But now I don’t know if I have the strength.
Can I be a person with only a future? What is the future?
It is a man who walks out of a ditch and rescues himself.
How can I be this man?
Assemble. Assemble.
Deep in the middle of a dark night, a night spent fighting German murderers who wear Russian uniforms, a new nurse comes to my hospital bed.
I whisper to her, “My name is Szaja Trautman, but he died in the camp.”
Maybe now he is alive again.
“How can a man live without a heart?” I ask.
She whispers back, iberkumen.
“But I don’t remember what I am surviving for.” At first she is silent; then she leans in close.
Survive for your family who pray they will see you again;
survive for all who could not.
Reader’s Guide
1. Discuss the relationship between Jules and her grandfather. Do you think he made the best decisions for Wendy and his grandchildren? Have you experienced or known grandparents and grandchildren who are closer to one another than to their children and parents?
2. Are you the child or grandchild of someone like Samuel/Szaja (Jules’s grandfather)—someone who has lived through horrible violence? How has that affected your re
lationship with them? How does the presence of this history affect generations within a family in relation to their ability to connect with one another and form loving relationships within the family and with others?
3. The Belief in Angels contains vivid scenes of murder, domestic abuse, drug abuse, and alcoholism. Has reading it altered your perspective on any of these issues?
4. What is the impact of keeping secrets for Samuel/Szaja, Wendy, David, and Jules? How could the revelation of these secrets change their lives? Is there good reason to keep some family secrets?
5. The narrative of The Belief in Angels spans a fifty-year time period, from the ’20s through the ’70s. Discuss the cultural changes that happened in those eras. What are the historical and cultural forces at play in Samuel’s refusal to allow Wendy to move back home when she reveals that Howard is abusing her? How about his inability to view art studies as an acceptable college major for Jules?
6. How did you respond to Jules’s struggle to take care of her family? How did that influence the way you responded to Wendy? Did your opinion of Wendy change as you learned more about her? What about the other family members? Who did you relate with most at the beginning? Did your empathy build for another character as the story progressed?
7. Jules has two drug-induced episodes. What happens and what does she take away from each experience?
8. Both Samuel/Szaja and Jules have episodes of dissociative fugues. Describe the way they are triggered and the way it manifests in each of them, keeping in mind the science of mental disorders and the role genetics vs. environment plays in the disorder process.
9. Throughout the story, Jules describes herself as an alien or outsider. In what ways? How does this shift over time? Does her friendship with Leigh and Timothy influence these feelings? What are your experiences of feeling like an outsider?
10. Jules experiences a recurring nightmare. What is the symbolic meaning of the swordfish within the dream? How does the dream shift in relation to Jules’s experiences throughout the book? What do you think the shifts within the dreams symbolize?
11. Both Jules and Samuel/Szaja experience moments of profound sadness and isolation. How do they resolve their personal doubts with their spiritual beliefs?
12. Both Jules and Samuel/Szaja experience many moments of angel-like intervention. Where in the novel did you find evidence of this possibility? Have you had experiences that support your belief in divine intervention?
13. If the character Moses were a metaphor, what do you think he would represent in the context of this book?
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU TO Mr. Viden, whose encouragement meant more to me than he could probably imagine. I’ve kept your words.
Thank you to the late Professor Nadeau for not kicking me out of playwriting class for my bad behavior, for your sage words, and, most of all, for your droll humor.
Thank you to Jane Shepard for telling me not to “give up the sheep” so many years ago. I am passing that encouragement back to you.
Thank you to Delia Taylor, who read the awful beginning things and still loved me.
Thank you to the talented Writers of the Clear Moon: Dan Amato for all his sweetness in the midst of the most gruesome moments of artistic futility and for reminding me about the way a story unfolds; Brian Joyner, who consistently comes to our meetings with structure and purpose, and whose motivation is contagious and inspiring; Stacy Magic, who redirected our intent from finishing to publication; and Phyllis Olins, for your kind support and tenacious notes as a beta reader. You reminded me that I am a storyteller, and you connected me to truth and authenticity, which is the curve I continually crave.
Thank you to Alexis Masters, one of my angels, for choosing me amidst a sea of writers to acknowledge with her scholarship. You inspired me in a terrifically uninspired time and gave me the courage to continue writing.
Thanks to Jan Graham and Robin Wright, who offered me their lovely home to dream and write. Additionally, I would like to express my appreciation for the deliciously unique creations at Eclipse Chocolate Bar and Bistro that I enjoyed during WOTCM meetings and while escaping the heat of our A/C-less bungalow. Many early chapters were also written with the buttery smell of pancakes wafting upwards toward the writer’s loft at Claire De Lune while sipping chai lattes and savoring too many freshly baked pastries.
My grateful thanks to San Diego Writers, Ink, which is the ultimate place to create. Thanks to my SDWI teachers, Tammy Greenwood, Drucilla Campbell, and especially Judy Reeves, whose magical muse inspirations are woven into passages of this novel. Judy’s book, A Writer’s Book of Days, has inspired a legion of artists I am proud to join.
Thanks to the incredibly well-connected Liz Morrison, who got me tuned to the Writers, Ink station at the beginning of this book’s journey to completion.
My gratitude and thanks to Laurel Corona, whose captivating writing and generous mentoring inspired me to finish … and finish … and finish again!
Thanks to my fellow writer and superb editorial consultant, Ellen Orleans, for sharing your talents, time, wise suggestions, and encouragement.
Thank you to Holli Berman, Cantorial Soloist in Boulder, Colorado’s Congregation Har HaShem, for her kind “rabbinical” help, and for sharing the manuscript with Nanette Mannheimer, whose wisdom and suggestions as a Holocaust survivor and Yiddish speaker were invaluable.
Thank you to my initial editor, Lesley Kellas Payne, who whipped the novel into shape in record time.
Deepest thanks to the She Writes Press team of talented women. Special thanks to Krissa Lagos, my editor, whose kind enthusiasm buoyed me and whose sharp eyes pulled this novel to polished. Thanks to Brooke Warner, my publisher, for her continued, generous, masterful guidance and for being the best coach and cheering squad a writer could ask for. Also, thanks to the Ingram team for your fortunate timing in partnership and support.
Thank you to Kara, my dear friend, who continues to get me there and bring me back, like a soldier.
Thank you to my talented son, Jaime, and my dear family and amazing friends, old and new. Your support has been my reason. I love you.
Most of all, thank you to Jo-El, the sweet love of my life and my chief patron.
About the Author
RAISED ON A tiny, New England peninsula, J. Dylan Yates pursued her BA from the University of Colorado at Boulder.
The Belief in Angels, Dylan’s debut novel, was written over the course of many years while she attempted a number of BA-related jobs, including: teaching, corporate training, real estate, nursing, interior design, parenting, and reluctant housewifery.
Dylan’s next novel, Szaja’s Story, focused on the character created in The Belief in Angels, invites the reader back to the Ukranian orchards of Szaja Trautman’s tragic childhood, tracing his ultimate journey to America via the desperate Ukranian refugee work camps of the ‘20s, his amazing survival of both the Majdanek death camp and the torpedoing of refugees aboard the Mefkura, and his fascinating experiences in the post-war Parisian couture houses.
Prior to publication, The Belief in Angels won the Alexis Masters Scholarship Award at the February 2012 San Francisco Writers Conference.
Dylan worked with Boulder County’s Voices for Children program as a CASA volunteer for 15 years and now volunteers with the Big Sister program in San Diego. She lives in San Diego with her partner and a talking cat. Her son, Jaime, is a professional musician.
To arrange a speaking engagement for J. Dylan Yates, please contact [email protected]
Stay in touch: www.jdylanyates.com.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Letting Go into Perfect Love: Discovering the Extraordinary After Abuseby Gwendolyn M. Plano. $16.95, 978-1-938314-74-2. After staying in an abusive marriage for twenty-five years, Gwen Plano finally broke free—and started down the
long road toward healing.
Seeing Red: A Woman’s Quest for Truth, Power, and the Sacredby Lone Morch. $16.95, 978-1-938314-12-4. One woman’s journey over inner and outer mountains—a quest that takes her to the holy Mt. Kailas in Tibet, through a seven-year marriage, and into the arms of the fierce goddess Kali, where she discovers her powerful, feminine self.
Splitting the Difference: A Heart-Shaped Memoir by Tré Miller-Rodríguez. $19.95, 978-1-938314-20-9. When 34-year-old Tré Miller-Rodriguez’s husband dies suddenly from a heart attack, her grief sends her on an unexpected journey that culminates in a reunion with the biological daughter she gave up at 18.
Don’t Call Me Mother: A Daughter’s Journey from Abandonment to Forgiveness by Linda Joy Myers. $16.95, 978-1-938314-02 -5. Linda Joy Myers’s story of how she transcended the prisons of her childhood by seeking—and offering—forgiveness for her family’s sins.
Americashire: A Field Guide to a Marriage by Jennifer Richardson. $15.95, 9781-938314-30-8. A couple’s decision about whether or not to have a child plays out against the backdrop of their new home in the English countryside.
Warrior Mother: A Memoir of Fierce Love, Unbearable Loss, and Rituals that Heal by Sheila K. Collins, PhD. $16.95, 978-1-938314-46-9. The story of the lengths one mother goes to when two of her three adult children are diagnosed with potentially terminal diseases.
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