The Seven Year Dress: A Novel

by Paulette Mahurin

  The peephole brought the outside world in: the animals, plants, clouds in the sky, crisp smells after the rain, and the noises that we never used to pay attention to. Now, it was the noise outside that concerned us the most. The sound of tires approaching. Those were the times Ben and I clung to each other like life rafts.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After I’d read my books several times, and tidied up the basement as best I could, I cozied up to that little hole in the wall to survey the natural world that had become so foreign to me. I had been in the cellar so long that I could barely remember the feeling of sunshine heating my face or a warm breeze tousling my hair. Although my view was limited, I found a hubbub of activity to keep me entertained. I counted leaves on tree branches, a challenge on a calm day. Noticing that most woodland creatures appeared to be aware that they are being watched, I noted how many minutes between the time an animal scurried around typically, and then stopped—its eyes darting around and its nose twitching, trying to detect danger. These little creatures were not unlike Ben and me when we heard Max approaching. I wondered if those critters had acid bellies, like us, when their muscles remained rigid and motionless. Once, in my life before the cellar, I saw an opossum playing dead. It was at a neighbor’s house. Their big black dog found the cataleptic animal in a shrub in their side yard. After sniffing the opossum (which never moved), the dog got down on its haunches with the opossum between its front legs. Wagging its tail, it barked until the owner came out and shooed the dog away. Our neighbor then shoveled up the opossum to throw it in the garbage. That’s when the animal got up and ran off. It sure looked dead, I thought to myself. Contemplating a threatening situation, I wondered if I could play dead as convincingly.

  Standing by the cellar wall waiting for another animal or bird to move into view, I inhaled a whiff of fresh air that came through the small hole. The clean smell of a gentle breeze triggered memories from a happier time—a time when life was normal and I had a family. Lying on the grass in the park when we were on a picnic. Playing ball outside with my siblings. Running around the house in a raucous round of hide-and-seek. I had the advantage of being the smallest and thinnest member of my family, allowing me to fit under beds and snuggle behind long coats in the closets. Just for a moment, I was transported back to my home. I was hiding in my wardrobe, the smell of shoe leather at my feet and wool from my clothes making my nose itch. Back then, I resented having to share a closet with Shana. Not anymore. I missed my dresses arranged by color and hung in order according to how much I liked them. One pair of shoes and one pair of boots always placed side by side neatly. We didn’t have many clothes. Our parents felt that we only needed enough to get us through the season. Younger children wore what older children no longer fit into, and I only got a new dress when my old dresses were worn-out. Although they could have afforded more with my father’s salary before he was fired for being a Jew, he, in particular, didn’t want us spoiled. I think that’s partially why I was able to make due with so little to wear in that cellar. I didn’t mind doing the washing, and I liked pressing my hands over material on a flat surface as a substitute for ironing. Any task to keep me busy was a distraction from the reality of my situation. And any distraction helped to keep me from going crazy.

  Thinking back to my room and life before the cellar, I envisioned the books that my parents had bought me for birthdays and holidays. I saw their titles lining my bookshelf, and smiled. No one would ever extinguish my love of reading. The Hebrew Bible, specifically the Book of Proverbs, jumped out at me while I was mentally scanning my book collection. The German word, Schadenfreude, which means the enjoyment derived from another’s misery, always struck me as odd. Until now. Proverbs warns against Schadenfreude, rejoicing in the fallen enemy. I believed we shouldn’t even need a rule about this in our Bible; it’s common decency. Yet this word of God was lost in Hitler’s Germany. Who are these Germans? What kind of people gain pleasure from another’s misfortune?

  My nervous habit of picking at my body continued despite Ben’s disapproval. I also began plucking at my clothing. One of my nails hooked onto a piece of thread on the coat I was wearing. When I pulled at it, a patch of wool just under my left breast puckered. I wished I had my sewing machine to fix it. As I worked the material loose, with my fingers, I felt my left nipple harden. A warm surge of arousal rippled down to my groin. I was amazed that my body could get sensually stimulated in a cold, damp cellar while I constantly feared the present and the future. But I was twenty-one-years-old, and certain parts of my body didn’t seem to care that Hitler had ruined my love life.

  The cellar was large, but not big enough for the kind of privacy two young people in the prime of their sexual lives needed. Ben also had his desires that he needed to handle. On occasions when he thought I was fast asleep, I heard him masturbating. I covered my mouth so he wouldn’t hear me laugh when he tried to make his orgasmic moans sound as if he was snoring. During the few times I was able to reach a peak, I had the same problem; although I pretended to cough. Those were the good times—when the laughter, snores, or sighs would come with the release of pent-up sexual appetites. There were other times when I tried to pleasure myself, and it ended in frustration. Wallowing in self-pity, I worried that I would die without ever being with a man and knowing the pleasure of passionate lovemaking. I dreamed that I would live long enough to regain my freedom, find a man to love me, marry him, and have many children. I wanted what my parents had.

  As we were well into our second year, I tried my best to conjure up happier times in the mirror of my mind. Using only the cellar as my whole world, I paid attention to every detail. My senses became acute to the smallest sound, smell, flicker of light, or change in temperature. I took nothing for granted and wasted nothing. Smells gained texture, like the can of soup I left open for too long. What once offered a pleasant, savory aroma reeked of a pungent, nose-pinching insult. I held my nose while choking it down, but I ate it.

  Ben smirked. “Good thing you’re not wasting any food.”

  “Oh, be quiet.” I gagged, covering my mouth with my hand. When I recovered, I nodded and said, “You’re right.” Then I handed the can of rancid soup to him.

  I spent time focusing on what different parts of my body could offer to help me feel better. My eyes were my allies. I relished how colors changed from something seemingly old and familiar into a delightful kaleidoscope. All I had to do was look with fresh, optimistic eyes, not ones clouded by fear or misery. I was fascinated by the way light transformed a log from brown to dark gray to mossy green, depending on how the light rested. It was down in that cellar that I gained an understanding for, and an appreciation of, how an artist could take an empty canvas and bring it alive with color and shapes.

  I used this new way of viewing the world, the cave we were in, to share stories with Ben. I’d start the story and turn it over to him. He usually turned the tale into something silly or pedantic. That’s when we would argue. But then we’d laugh at how ridiculous it was to fight over storytelling. We tasted the human condition—how we struggle to survive in difficult and trying circumstances. The pain and hurt remained locked inside, but Ben and I seemed to have found a way to cope with our new life…whatever this new life was.

  I heard rain falling outside. The tap, tap, tap of the raindrops made me think about life before the cellar—life when I was free, happy, and only worried about silly things. Giggling, I reminded Ben of an afterschool walk home in the rain.

  Ben responded to my laughter with, “What?”

  “Oh,” my laughter increased. “You don’t remember?” I went into coughing spasms.

  Nonplussed, Ben slapped me on the back. “Helen, get a hold of yourself.”

  I doubled over in glee and simply couldn’t say what I thought was so funny. I’m sure Ben figured I was having a nervous breakdown. I looked and sounded like a lunatic. Trying to keep my noise level at a safe decibel only made me continue to laugh even harder. Finally, I spat o
ut, “I’m fine.”

  The hilarity got to him, and Ben started to laugh. When I looked at him to speak, the little composure I had managed to muster dissolved into fits of laughter. My ribs and cheeks were sore from all the carrying on. Finally, when my bladder protested and leaked urine into my panties, I heaved a big sigh and stopped the hysteria.

  “What was that about?” asked Ben.

  “Wait.” I went to change my wet undies. I cleaned myself at the sink, washed my garment, changed into something clean and went back to my brother. “Do you remember the day we walked home from school in the rain?”

  “Which of the ten million times?” He smirked.

  “The day you threw me in a mud puddle!”

  “Oh, that day.”

  “Mamma didn’t want to let me in the house.” Remembering when I came home caked in mud from head to toe, I started to laugh again. My mother’s eyes were daggers. Once showered and back downstairs, I apologized to her. She forgave me. I loved the way she so easily let go of upsets. Smiling, I realized that I was now able to breathe easier when thinking about Mamma. The mirth between Ben and me was rejuvenating. Were we finally healing?

  I was grateful for whatever enabled us to laugh that day. Ben and I were alive and surviving surprisingly well while those we loved were dead…or worse. If the guilt I had felt in the face of all that had happened wasn’t gone, at least it had lessened. How was that possible? I could barely understand myself, let alone the mysteries of human experience in this vast universe. The more I tried to make sense of something the more I’d see the faultiness in my thinking. I wanted to believe I was intelligent and capable of sorting things out, but, in honesty—in the darkness of the cave I was living in—I discovered that, aside from a few practicalities I had learned, there was so little I could say was “truth.”

  Feeling humbled, I hoped that the future wouldn’t be overwhelmingly painful. I prayed that my life would unfold in a way I could deal with. If I couldn’t embrace what awaited me, I hoped I would be able to tolerate it. My father told me, “God gives us only what we can handle.” I hoped he knew that as truth.

  Chapter Twenty

  After the episode of laughter passed, Ben and I continued to grow closer. We talked more and our conversations were more personal. During wistful moments, we would share our dreams for the future. We would debate “the best” strategy to stop Hitler. Sometimes, we would simply discuss lessons we remembered from school. Conjuring up visual images, I thought of a lesson about a hummingbird, evoking all kinds of visions and sounds in my imagination.

  “I wish I could see one of them in person,” I said, referring to a hummingbird. The only time I’d seen one was during a classroom film. Ben had seen the same tutorial. Those tiny little creatures were adorned with the most vibrant, beautiful colors. I could hear the thrumming sound they made with their wings beating impossibly fast. The space between my ears became a gramophone, making a low, steady thrum. As I listened in my head to the sound of a hummingbird, I moved my feet and hands in a dancing motion. “Oh, how I’d love to see one,” I repeated. “They look like little fairy angels.”

  Ben nodded agreement. “They are amazing little birds.” My brilliant brother, who liked to use big words, interjected one of his infamous esoteric comments. “They’re dimorphic.”

  “You had to go and spoil the mood, didn’t you?” I joked. “You know what I’m going to say next, so why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” he smiled. “I read somewhere that, in small-scale species, the males are smaller than the females. In normal-sized species, the males are larger. In lay terms, it’s called sexual size.”

  I whacked his arm. “Oh, you!”

  The hummingbird brought rhythm into my bones all day. As I remembered the conversation with Ben about “sexual size” that night, my sexuality stirred. Touching my fleshy parts and becoming aroused had become enjoyable. I relaxed on my blankets feeling contented that I had been able to satisfy my carnal urge for pleasure. And feeling liberated, unencumbered by social convention and having to negotiate with a man—I was able to make my release happen. For a brief few moments, I flew free.

  Although never far from my mind or heart, the pain, depression, and anger over the loss of my family lessened as time passed. Maybe I had matured and learned to cope with life’s disappointments better. Perhaps time had helped with the healing process. I cultivated the thrumming sound of the hummingbird into a psalm. Over and over it played in my head until it morphed into Papa’s voice. Life, above all else, is what is important. And in communion with my father, I whispered back, yes Papa, as I wiped the tears flowing from my eyes.

  I pray I make it out of Hitler’s hell alive. In the fiery pit Germany had become, I learned a valuable lesson. I couldn’t change what life throws at me, but I could determine how I receive it. Positive thinking felt good. Negative thoughts were painful. If I could do anything to help myself for the rest of my life, it would be to monitor my thoughts. And not let my worries drag me down into a dark grave of my creation. Ben said to me a while ago, “You choose sunlight.” I must remember his words. I couldn’t help wondering, however, would my new philosophy be strong enough if the nightmare turned deadly vicious?

  Stubborn and persistently curious about the forbidden “upstairs,” I moved toward the steps. Boredom had consumed me. I ached for something new. I desperately wanted out of that cellar. I longed to find a large window to gaze through, to see more of the world than that tiny hole allowed. If I could just open an outside door and breath in more than a few ounces of fresh air and feel a breeze upon my cheeks… I looked up at the door at the top of the stairs. Placing a foot on the first step, I said, “I think it’s safe for us to go up there.” With my attention on Ben, I moved up two more steps. “This is an isolated farm, kilometers from anyone seeing us.” I advanced another step. “I want to see sunlight come through a window. Come with me.”

  “No!” he snapped. “Don’t do it!”

  “But Ben, it—”

  “Don’t ‘but Ben’ me. It’s too dangerous. Get back down here and go look through your peephole if you need a dose of sunlight.”

  “Ben,” I whined, advancing up another step.

  Jumping up and rushing to me, he tripped over the edge of a blanket and crashed down on his knees. Writhing in pain, he cradled his legs up to his chest. His agony didn’t stop him from bossing me around. “Get down here, now! You’re a spoiled brat, Helen Stein! You’ll get us both killed.”

  “Oh no! Ben…are…”

  “Ouch!” He pressed his leg.

  Feeling a jumble of emotions, I rushed back to him. I was fearful that he might have fractured a limb. But I was also frustrated that, in a society of two, I had no control. Ultimately, and because I caused him harm with my selfishness, guilt won out, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, please don’t be hurt.”

  “I am hurt!” He stretched out his legs, moving them gingerly, to assess the extent of his injuries. When he decided his legs weren’t broken, he undid his pants to look at the damage. “Scrapes. This time. I’m lucky. But you…I could hit you, Helen! This isn’t some game we’re playing. Our parents were murdered! So was Lawrence and God knows where Shana is, if she’s even alive. You want to kill us too?”

  He made his point. Feeling awful, I burst into tears. “I don’t want to think about that! I don’t need to be reminded of what happened. I know what happened! But sometimes I feel like I’m going to go insane if I don’t get out of this place. Ben, please understand…”

  “You don’t think I feel the same way? I do. Oh my God, I do.” He pulled me to him and held me. I don’t know where my crying ended and his started in that dance of pain. Would remembering always have such sharp edges? When his breathing calmed and the angry redness left his face, he wiped tears from mine. “You’re all I have left,” he said.

  Every thought, every reaction I’d had in the last several minutes, disappeared into an intense tremblin
g. My body felt like I was grabbed by the shoulders and literally shaken to bring me back to my senses. My heart, beating out of control, sent a wave of heat coursing through my body. I felt as if I was heating the damp air around me with the warmth radiating off my body.

  Ben’s words, “You’re a spoiled brat!” ricocheted in my brain. He was right. I was being selfish. Ben and I had the same fear: losing each other. We also had the same motives for harping on each other. Love. Preservation of the only family we knew we had left.

  I found my voice and spoke softly, the warmth still radiating from my body. “You’ve been a pain because you love me. You don’t want me to die.” I tenderly brushed back a few locks of his hair that had fallen over his moist, gentle eyes. “I love you too, Ben. With all my heart.” We hugged for a long time. Our embrace was sweet and tender and filled me with a satisfaction that no amount of fresh air could have provided. I was breathing in my brother’s love.

  That moment moved us to confess our innermost thoughts and worries—those dreadful, private ruminations that kept us awake at night and that we hadn’t dared speak aloud. Our own deaths. My fanciful thinking about feeling a breeze of air upon my cheek dissipating into the harsh reality that my entire family and extended family may all be dead, annihilated because of Hitler’s Final Solution to the Jewish Question! How quickly an innocent gesture or word could set off an ugly domino effect ending in misery, whether in the cellar or outside. Exterminating Jews and others as if they were vermin.

  Conversations with my brother melded with what Max had alluded to in the memos he’d seen, but they hadn’t gelled into a stark reality until Ben’s words, “We could be killed with the rest of Jewish population,” shot into me. Ben and I talked about Hitler’s plan, the one Max said was going to be implemented. Not sure if that would ever impact Ben and me, undulating nausea waved through me as I recalled Max’s description of the global plan to exterminate all Jews. Genocide. I worried that Ben and I would be put to death like dirty bugs. We were not guilty of any crime or any misdemeanor. We had not spoken out against them with slanderous or libelous speech. What had we done, besides being born Jewish, to deserve such a fate? Like an overpopulated kennel for dogs, we would be euthanized if we were caught. The disgust in my body tightened into knotted muscles, and my stomach seized into fits of vomiting. My lunch of soup came up. When there was nothing left, green bile spewed from my gut. I grabbed myself to stop the relentless spasms gripping my belly to no avail. I couldn’t release the images in my head of human beings being killed by gas. Hordes of them!