I told Ben about that long-ago night when the SS killed Mr. Fineburg. “He was down on his knees with his hands behind his head. A single shot and he fell to his sidewalk grave. His poor family was forced to watch. All because he asked, why? Our darling brother, Lawrence, asked the same question. He, too, was murdered. That goddamn question also cost the lives of my father and my mother! For what? For what?” My stomach lurched again.
Ben rubbed my back. He remained silent.
When nothing more came up from my gut, I went into spasms of dry heaving. Then, I noticed that Ben left my side.
He returned to me with a cold rag for my face. “Here. Take this. It should help. I hope.” With another rag, he cleaned the mess of vomit from the floor.
“Ben,” I sobbed, “do you think they’re all gone?”
“Who?” he asked.
“Uncle Abe and Aunt Minnie, cousins Yesh, Roz, Sarah, Yael, Sadie…” I listed our extended family. “Papa’s and Mamma’s parents—our grandparents.” They had visited us for every important occasion, coming by train across Germany until Hitler seized power. All visiting stopped. “They were gentle, kind people. I don’t want to think about what may have happened to them.” A shiver ran through my body.
Ben looked at me for a moment, his lips parting as if he was about to answer me. Then he sighed, turned away, and continued to mop up the mess I had made.
Neither of us slept well that night. The next day, I couldn’t muster any sunshine clichés. Ben didn’t have any cheerful metaphors. All we did was cry and mope around. Our doldrums lasted until a pounding blizzard hit the farm. Thunder and lighting roared until the snowstorm turned into rain and hail hammering the roof. We thought we were being attacked.
Max didn’t arrive for his regular visit, leaving us short on supplies and news. He probably had to postpone travel until the weather cleared. By the time he finally came, he found Ben and me huddled together, trying to stay warm next to a small fire. The storm outside had passed; the one that had raged inside of us had also calmed. But it was only a temporary lull before a more ferocious tempest would rip my world to smithereens.
Chapter Twenty-One
In the winter of our fourth year of hiding, another stormy night with rumbling, menacing thunder kept me awake. It began subtly—a faint, low, distant growl. As it grew closer and the grumbling intensified, I knew a mighty tempest was on the horizon. I had to see the magnitude of the storm, so I got up and squinted through the peephole. I used to love storms, especially the pounding sound of rain lashing my bedroom window. And the exhilaration I felt when it was over, breathing in fresh, clean air. But this storm scared me. I saw flashes of lightning in the distant sky as the heavens broke open with a drum roll. Crack! Bang! The farmhouse shook. I jumped back from the wall. Another wave of rumbling rolled overhead. A violent, explosion boomed. My body shook with the winter’s salvo. It reminded me of loud gunshots. Between claps of the ominous thunder bullying the countryside, I heard another—more troubling—noise. Tires on gravel. I froze. My body tingled as if being stung by a swarm of bees. I could smell the acrid scent of my fear. Max wouldn’t come out in this weather. He’d specifically told us that he would stay away in dangerous conditions.
Rain dripped over the hole blurring the view outside. I tried to poke something through to clear it; it was useless. If Max’s car was out there—if anyone’s vehicle was out there—I couldn’t see it. Maybe I hadn’t heard tires driving on the gravel road leading to the farmhouse. The last few nights had been fitful for both Ben and me, and I didn’t want to wake him now that he’d finally fallen asleep. Like the pouring water outside, my underarms dripped with sweat. I shivered from the cold and anxiety. Still straining to see a vehicle through the small peephole, I wiped my forehead to remove the perspiration threatening to sting my eyes. Nothing. Minutes passed. No one entered the farmhouse. I didn’t hear another noise resembling tires driving up to our hiding place. Even though the storm continued to rage, I breathed easier.
Three hours later, Max arrived. Pacing agitatedly, in rapid-fire talk, he said, “I think I was followed. I’m not sure if I lost them.” He put down the groceries and a suitcase he had with him.
Ben, now awake, asked, “Them?”
“I thought the SS was on my tail,” Max’s saucer-like eyes darted around frantically. He shook his head, stopped his frenetic movement, looked to Ben, and then me. “It wouldn’t be good for you.”
“You lost them. We’ll be okay.” I put my hand on his arm. “You have a farm out here so why would it be unusual for you to visit it?”
“In the winter? In a storm?” Max continued pacing. “In the middle of the night!”
Ben’s voiced cracked and was several pitches too high when he commented on what I’d said. “She’s not thinking clearly. She’s…” At what looked like a loss for words, he paused to take a deep breath and continued. “She’s scared.” He ran his hands through his hair, got up, and started pacing along with Max. Ben acted and sounded as frightened as the rest of us.
Ben was right. I was scared. “What now?” I asked.
Max took a slow, deep breath. “We wait and stay calm.” He held his arms out to us. “Come here.” Hugging them, I felt the trembling tension ease from our bodies.
Max went to a bag he’d brought. “Something for you, Helen.”
When he handed a dress to me, I started to cry. He knew I loved my dresses, how they made me feel appealing, special. Boys paid attention to me when I had a nice dress on. This dress was a symbol of normalcy, my femininity, and my past. And I prayed it would also be my future. I hoped to see a day when I would be free to be out in the streets enjoying my life in a lovely new dress.
The two dresses I’d been wearing in the cellar were filthy. Scrubbing the cellar’s grime from them with soap at the sink couldn’t remove the stains that had become part of the threadbare fabric. Grease and years of dirt covered everything in the cellar. Safety was worth the sacrifice in cleanliness—Ben and I had agreed. But both my dear brother and best friend understood how much I missed feeling like a proper young woman, and how much a new dress means to a proper young woman.
“Don’t cry.” Ben’s smooth, honey-like voice flowed to my ears, making me weep all the harder.
The fear I felt about my uncertain future during that night when the heavens erupted was momentarily eased by Max’s simple act of kindness. “Oh Max, you remembered,” I said, referring to the many times I spoke to him about how I adored my dresses, about fabric, style, and how wearing a pretty dress made me feel alive. “This one is so beautiful. I’m going to save it for my first day out of here.”
A furrowed-brow straightened on Ben’s worried face. “Try it on.” I could hear the happiness in his voice.
With a smile starting somewhere deep inside me and radiating out to every corner of the cellar, I nodded. Skipping to a place behind the woodpile, I shrugged off my coat and the dirty dress I’d worn for two weeks. I slipped into my new, clean, beautiful dress: a blue cotton floral print with swirls of designs surrounding flowers. My fingers moved over the fabric, encircling the rose petals and luscious green leaves on the pattern. For a brief moment, it wasn’t a dress, but nature—and I was encircled in it. Soft and flowing, it was a little loose from the weight I’d lost being in the cellar. But it fit comfortably, and I loved Max for doing this wonderful thing that made me feel beautiful. And hopeful.
As a fashion model on a runway, I emerged from behind my “curtain” of stacked wood and sashayed around Ben and Max, making sure they saw every angle of me in my new dress. “It’s the most perfect dress I’ve ever owned.” Hugging Max, I said, “Thank you, my friend. I love you!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ben furtively wiping away tears.
Suddenly, a very piercing howl of wind and throaty growl of thunder ended our gaiety. It was deafening like an airplane flying within feet of us. Unsure and unsettled, I looked to the ceiling, “Thunder?” I squeaked.
“Yes,” smiled M
ax. “It sounds like a big, fancy passenger train whisking lovers away on honeymoons.”
Ben winked at Max and played along to lighten my anxiety. “No,” he smiled, “It’s a lion.”
Ben and Max laughed. So did I. “Oh, you two. Well, if it’s only a man-eating lion or a speeding train heading for us, then we have nothing to fear. Thanks, I feel so much better!”
“There. See? No one’s come. We’re safe,” said Ben.
Running my hand over the gentle folds on the waistline of my new dress, I felt the soft texture of the cotton. “I hope so.”
After a while of light banter to pass the time, Ben’s smile faded. “What’s the latest on the devil’s plan?”
As always, Max hesitated by asking us, “Are you sure you want me to tell you these things after the fright we just had with the thunder? What good can come from you knowing a mouthful of horrible information?”
Max had a good point. I hated hearing about Hitler’s plans and atrocities but knowing might make both Ben and me better prepared for whatever might happen. Having lost control over our freedom, knowledge was power; it was all we had left to help ourselves if we were discovered.
I nodded. “I want to know. How else can we prepare for what’s next?”
“I agree. It’s always better to know,” said Ben.
Max sighed. “All right.” He spoke of one of the camps, Auschwitz—a network of concentration camps in Polish areas annexed by Germany. They were the main camps doing the gas experiments. When prisoners arrived there, they were assigned a camp serial number.
“Like the Star of David armbands that you told us about?” I naively asked.
“No.” Max’s voice lowered with regret when he continued. “These are tattoos.”
Startled, I jerked back. “On their bodies? Like branding cattle?”
“I’m afraid so,” Max replied.
“For everyone who is admitted there?” Ben leaned in closer to Max.
“Only the prisoners selected for work.”
“Oh, so not everyone is branded. Some are…” I oozed disgusted sarcasm, “…untainted? I suppose it wouldn’t be a Jew who was exempt.”
A gray pallor stained Max’s complexion. He averted his eyes from mine to the floor. When he opened his mouth to speak, he took a few seconds to respond. “The ones who aren’t marked are sent directly to the gas chambers to die.”
Blood drained from my brain, and I felt faint. I lost my balance. Max looked up in time to catch my wobbling body before I fell. “Animals!” I yelled. “Who treats human beings like that? What is in the place where their hearts should be!” I heard myself screeching.
Max was still holding my shoulders when he asked, “You okay? You’re turning white, Helen.”
I took my time to regain my footing. “It’s so violent, disgusting, and… I don’t have the words.” I went silent, into a dark place where the seeds of depression grow. The bleak impermanence of everything I knew, held close, and loved was like a gossamer fabric that was falling apart and taking me with it. Faces of my family members ran through my head like a slow-moving motion picture. I saw them trudging in a funeral march into a room, the room of death. Painfully frightened, they stood not knowing their fate as each breath robbed them of oxygen. And once it dawned on them what was happening, a horrible panic ensued. Screaming. Wailing. Praying. People clinging to each other. People pushing and shoving. Mothers crushing their infants to their chests. Bloody hands from clawing at doors that would never open into freedom. Poor people. Sick people. Jewish people. My family’s last moments on earth. If life is a precious gift (as Papa believed with all of his heart), where is the blessing in living only to die in this unimaginably cruel way?
Lost in this heinous vision, I became disoriented, but only briefly. Relief washed over me when I realized that I was in the cellar, and Ben and Max were standing by me. They looked concerned. “You’re dripping wet,” my brother said.
Then, as if pulled under water by a vicious sea monster, the image of my sister engulfed me. Submerged in the delusion, I lost contact with my senses again. I saw her beautiful eyes shining like they always did when she was young and lighthearted. Those beautiful brown eyes morphed into shadowy holes surrounded by black circles. They cried out for help. Spare me! She disappeared into the mass of bodies begging for mercy. Spewing poisonous fumes, the airtight gas chamber was an impassive, efficient executioner. The hallucination faded as the last voice cried out, God save us! “Shana,” I moaned. At that moment, I knew that if I wasn’t captured and killed, that I’d go insane. My new dress was sticking to my quaking body.
“You need to get out of that dress.” Ben motioned to help me remove it.
“No! Leave me alone.” I waved him off and backed away.
“At least put this on.” He moved my arms into my coat as the moist material of the dress clung to my body. I wanted to lie down and die. It was all too much. They moved me to my bed and helped lower me onto it. With them beside me, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke, Max was gone, and Ben was nodding off at my side. Hearing me move, he asked, “Are you all right?”
The sleep had helped and, although I felt as if I was run over by the passenger train Max had joked about, I was fine. “I think so,” was all I said.
Later, Ben told me that Max stayed with us longer than he should have. He refused to leave me, knowing how upset I was. “I told him to go and that I’d take care of you. I was worried he’d draw more suspicion to himself.”
My stomach knotted. “I hope he’s safe.”
How could we have foreseen that nothing would keep any of us safe?
Chapter Twenty-Two
I was still in my coat and new dress when the door to the cellar crashed open. Thick leather boots thudded down the stairs. Five rifle-wielding SS surrounded us. Intimidated by their gray uniforms with skull-like insignias on their green collars, I cowered. A chill ran down my spine. Pointed Gewehrs were aimed at our heads when an overweight, tall man blasted down the stairs carrying a huge whip in one hand and a Lugar pistol in the other. He up-motioned his gun at us.
I stumbled to stand, to get my bearings. Ben didn’t move. “Up!” barked one of the officers.
Ben fumbled to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He wobbled before he fell back down.
“Are you deaf, pig?” The goliath, overbearing officer with the whip spat at Ben. “Get up! Now!”
An officer, who looked no older than Ben (twenty-six), shouted something with such venom that I could barely make out what he said. My heart flew into my throat. The pounding in my ears obliterated all sounds but my internal panic. Fear had robbed me of my voice and ability to hear, but I could still see. I saw my brother trembling as he tenuously stood next to me.
The ominous, obese officer swiped the crop across his thigh in a threatening gesture. “Fie! So, we have found another pigsty,” he smirked and swaggered toward me. His breath upon my face smelled of peppermint schnapps. “You are little for a swine.” He moved the butt end of the whip across my face and down into the opening of my coat. Spreading the lapel, his hand slid lower on the rod, close to my left breast. With his other hand, he put his pistol in the holster on his leather belt. Bringing that hand up more deftly than I imagined such a fat man could, he slapped me across my cheek with such force that he knocked me into Ben. Ben’s body tensed against mine. I could tell that my big brother wanted to protect me. Fearing he would lash out and get himself killed, I quietly squeezed his arm and searched his eyes in a silent plea for him to stay calm. “A smart Jew…” The fat officer turned to his subordinates—their weapons pointed—and continued, “She knows not to open that slovenly mouth of hers.”
The group of sycophants signaled agreement with their laughs. “Yeah, yeah,” came their imbecilic responses.
I wanted to confiscate one of their guns and shoot all of them through their hearts. I wanted warm bullets to find their frigid, calculating, stone-hard souls.
The commander spoke
in a low, even tone when he said, “Today is your lucky day. You are being transferred out of this pigsty.” His words, and the way he spoke them, sounded hopeful, but this ogre didn’t seem capable of anything but malevolence. Then, as if by some dastardly design, he read my mind and replied, “You are going to one of our relocation camps.”
The word camp sent me into a silent panic. Ben’s wide-eyed look made me feel sick to my stomach. I couldn’t get enough air to fill my lungs because my breaths were so shallow. When I started to hyperventilate, one of the SS who looked too much like Max grabbed me under my arms and dragged me up the stairs. The front of my legs hit each riser so that they were aching and bloody when he finally released me outside. After a few steps that felt like moving through quicksand, I fell once again. As the younger SS cursed several foul-sounding words under his breath, he yanked my arms and dragged me. My feet dangled behind like a swimmer trying to stay afloat as I desperately tried to stand on them and walk while being manhandled. With snow and dirt stuck to my legs, he threw me in the back of a bread truck the Nazis had converted to haul prisoners.
Ben was marched out of the farmhouse with rifles held to his back. He was able to walk. Barely. Droplets of sweat froze on his forehead when he reached the cold outside air. His bulging eyes were as wide as oceans. I ached at the sight of his terrified defenselessness. They shoved him into the truck and slammed the door. Helping me to my feet, Ben whispered, “Are you all right?”
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