Authors: Anita Diamant
Shayndel smiled. “You could sleep through an earthquake.”
“No, really, I cannot breathe. I am afraid of this … smell,” Tedi said, knowing she
was sounding a little crazy. “Please,” she begged, “change beds with me.”
“I’m sorry. But I need you to stay where you are,” Shayndel said. “You know a little
German, don’t you?”
“Hardly. I had a year in school.”
“That’s more than me. I want you to find out where she comes from and how she got
here.”
“I don’t know enough of the language for that,” Tedi pleaded.
“I’m sorry, but this is important,” Shayndel said firmly. “They think she might have
been in one of the camps—Ravens-brück. It is also possible that Lotte isn’t her real
name.”
When Tedi started to object, Shayndel touched her hand
and turned the order into a request that no one in Atlit could deny. “But there is
also a family here, in Jerusalem, who thinks she may be a … cousin.”
Leonie, on the cot beside them, had been listening and knew Shayndel was lying. No
one was looking for Lotte except possibly Tirzah, which meant that the German girl
was suspected of spying or collaborating, even if she was as crazy as everyone seemed
to think.
Leonie was not convinced that what other people called insanity was a disease, like
tuberculosis. But unlike Aliza, who thought “crazy” was a moral failure if not a dodge,
Leonie believed that “madness” was a symptom of an overwhelming, untamed secret.
Everyone in Atlit had secrets. Sometimes, Leonie caught glimpses of darkness in the
faces of the otherwise cheerful Zionists, revealed by a strange pause or a stuttered
answer. There were hints of untold details in terse stories of escape, heroics, and
of course, in the whispered confessions of concentration camp suffering; but then
a groaned sigh would ward off questions of how or why. Most people managed to keep
their secrets under control, concealed behind a mask of optimism or piety or anger.
But there were an unfortunate few without a strategy or system for managing the past:
somnambulists and mutes, overwhelmed by disgrace over the random accidents that chose
them for life; hysterics and screamers, unable to forgive or forget a moment of cowardice
or betrayal—no matter how small—that had kept them from dying.
Leonie was certain that the people everyone else called insane really needed nothing
but time, rest, and patience so that their private poisons could settle and dilute.
The result might not be
happiness or contentment, she knew. But after a while, rage might mellow to surliness,
and catatonia settle into mere stiffness, no more threatening than a limp. Eventually,
eccentricity would be forgiven as a sad souvenir from a terrible time, perfectly understandable,
even normal, given the circumstances.
Leonie had discovered the trick to managing her own secret when she got off the boat
in Palestine. In front of her, a young boy with a concentration camp tattoo on his
arm walked down the gangplank carrying a bulky suitcase on top of his head. That had
reminded her of a photograph she’d seen in a book, of African women bearing enormous
bundles of firewood. The caption had explained that what made it possible for them
to transport such heavy loads was “exquisite balance.”
Leonie decided that is what she would do with the twenty-three months she had spent
on her back and on her knees, learning German. She held her secret aloft and apart
from herself. She imagined walking across a vast, empty plain among those silent,
dignified black women. Exquisite balance.
The next morning, Leonie wolfed down her breakfast and ran back to the barrack to
talk to the German girl.
“Fraulein?” Leonie said. “Excuse me? I work in the …” She stopped, trying to remember
the German word. “Sick house. Yah?”
Two suspicious, close-set brown eyes appeared from beneath the blanket and stared.
Her hair was so greasy that Leonie couldn’t tell if she was blonde or brunette. The
woman lowered the blanket a bit more, revealing a mouselike face with sharp features
and thin lips.
“Claudette Colbert?” she whispered.
Leonie smiled. “People used to tell me I looked like her, before I got so thin.”
“You are German, Claudette Colbert?”
“No. I am French. I am called Leonie.”
Lotte pulled the blanket back over her head.
“I wish to help you,” said Leonie. “I know what you are suffering. I know that you
have a secret, but here everyone has secrets. No one is without guilt. But if you
do not bathe and mingle a little with the others, they will take you away and put
you in the insane asylum, where they will force you to reveal what it is you wish
to keep to yourself.”
Leonie waited for an answer until she heard voices at the door. “I believe that it
is better to let our mistakes rest in peace. How can we live if the past is hung around
our necks?
“Think about what I said,” she whispered. “We will talk again later.”
Zorah had spent a sleepless night listening to the women around her toss and moan.
Even the ones who usually slept like babies had twisted their sheets into knots. As
dawn began to seep into the barrack, Zorah turned onto her back and for a moment felt
as though she were drifting on still water, surprised and pleased by the buoyancy
of her cot. Then someone brushed past, and she was back on dry land, with Shayndel
crouched in the narrow space beside her, whispering into Esther’s ear.
Zorah waited until everyone was awake, pulling on clothes and shoes, before she got
up and sat beside Esther. “What did she want?”
“She says she has to ask me some questions,” said Esther, fighting back frightened
tears. “She says I must talk to her honestly and tell her the truth, but I know, I
just know that they are
going to take Jacob away from me. They will send me back to Poland and put him in
an orphanage. Why don’t they just kill me here?”
“Leave it to me.”
Zorah had not meant to say that. She did not want to be involved in Esther’s life.
She did not want to be counted on. She wanted to fall asleep in silence and wake up
in silence. But Esther had no one else, and there was no taking it back.
“Leave it to me,” were Bracha’s words. Bracha had slept beside Zorah in Auschwitz,
on the wooden bench closest to the floor. They held each other as girls around them
disappeared. No matter how hopeless the situation, Bracha would say, “Leave it to
me,” as though she were telling a three-year-old not to fret about a misplaced doll,
as though she had the power to change anything on the night when lice, cold, and hunger
had driven Zorah to whisper, “I’ve had enough.”
Only a few years older than Zorah, Bracha had been her protector, her big sister,
her mother. She picked her up when she fainted, and taught her the awful skills of
survival, like using her own urine to treat the cuts and cracks on her hands. “Do
it,” Bracha ordered. “If you don’t they can get infected. Do it.”
For six months, Bracha had helped her fall asleep by running her fingers across Zorah’s
itching scalp. One night, Zorah had dreamed that she was a dog, napping on her owner’s
lap in a sunny parlor, and she had burst into tears upon waking.
Bracha got sick with dysentery four months before liberation. First she grew feverish,
then she couldn’t leave the latrine, then they took her to the infirmary. And then
the last person on earth who cared about Zorah Weitz was dead.
Zorah was convinced that Bracha might have lived had she concentrated on her own survival.
Her death had sealed Zorah’s
belief in the futility of kindness; but her sacrifice also made Zorah feel obliged
to stay alive—if only out of spite. She turned her grief and anger into the service
of getting out of the concentration camp on her own feet.
For the sixteen weeks (112 days, 2,688 hours) between Bracha’s death and the liberation
of the camp, Zorah did not lift a finger or say a word if it did not serve the needs
of her body. She expended as little energy as possible, hoarding her strength and
sharpening her senses so that she could be the first to pounce on any stray crumb
of food or scrap of paper or cloth to stuff into the lining of her coat. When the
Russians arrived, the other girls cringed in shame as the strong young men stared
at their starved, sexless nakedness, but Zorah thrust out her hand and pointed to
her mouth, and she ate first.
After Bracha died, Zorah believed that her purpose on earth was to spit in God’s eye.
And that was how she managed, until she met Jacob and Esther.
“Leave it to me,” Zorah said.
“You will talk to Shayndel?”
She nodded.
“You are an angel.”
Zorah pulled away as Esther tried to kiss her hands. “Don’t be foolish.”
“You must permit me to make your bed for you.”
“If you do that, I will never speak to you again.”
Shayndel had walked with her head down and her hands in her pockets as she headed
for the kitchen, rehearsing the tirade she wanted to deliver to Tirzah. She felt awful
about scaring Esther
before the poor woman was even awake. As Shayndel rounded the corner, she nearly collided
with a driver unloading boxes from the back of an unfamiliar bakery truck.
“What did the guards say about all of the extra stuff?” said Tirzah, as she held the
door open for them both.
“I told them it was a Jewish holiday.” The driver grinned. “That always does the trick.”
Tirzah turned the lock and started taking sweets out of the boxes. A large, round
coffee cake filled the room with the smell of cinnamon. “They didn’t have to send
so much,” she grumbled.
“I’ll have some before I go,” said the driver.
“Shayndel will get you a cup of tea,” Tirzah said. She reached deep into one of the
cartons and pulled out a pair of wire cutters. The other boxes held cookies, strudel,
and tightly wound coils of rope, flashlights, and daggers.
“Careful with that,” said the driver as Tirzah unwrapped a dish towel from a glass
bottle full of a clear liquid. “Where do you want me to put all this?”
Tirzah moved the slop pail and pulled up a trapdoor in the floor. As they began loading
the contraband into the hiding place, she looked at Shayndel and said, “Take the sweets
out to the dining room and make sure no one comes in here for a while. Understand?”
Shayndel felt like singing. There was going to be an escape. Escape! Her mind raced.
Who would be in command? Would they ask her to help with the other girls who had no
experience in such an action? Or would they leave the women behind? What if the rescue
was meant for the men only? Or perhaps only for the men who were going into the barrack
they’d just turned into a prison?
She could not tolerate being left behind. She would insist that they take her. She
knew about the plan, after all. She would—
“Shayndel,” Tirzah barked, “why are you standing there? Bring the food out already.”
She carried the coffee cake into the hall, and instantly created a noisy diversion.
By the time Shayndel returned to the kitchen, the driver was gone and everything was
back in place. Before she could open her mouth, Tirzah warned, “Don’t ask. You’ll
be told what you need to know when it’s time.”
Shayndel could keep quiet but she could not keep still. Her mind hummed: escape, escape,
escape. She worked feverishly, cleaning the kitchen in no time, and decided she would
try to sneak into Delousing again, hoping that a cold shower would help her calm down.
But when she walked out of the kitchen, she found Zorah waiting for her.
“I have to talk to you,” she said. “Now.”
“What’s the emergency?”
“I want you to leave Esther alone.”
“Don’t get so excited.”
“You’re after her,” Zorah said. “I saw you this morning. Whatever it is you suspect,
leave her alone.”
“I was asked to find out something about her background, her origins,” said Shayndel.
“Why? Are they going to enforce race laws in Eretz Yisrael?”
“I am only doing what I was asked to do.”
Zorah sneered. “And if they told you to take the little boy away from her, would you
do that, too?”
Shayndel did not know how to answer that.
“Ha!” Zorah pounced. “I didn’t think so. And I am going to be watching out for her,
for both of them—Esther and Jacob—to make sure nothing happens to them. And that means
I will be keeping an eye on you.”
“A real guardian angel. What happened to our angry cynic?”
Zorah opened her mouth but before she could argue, Shayndel said, “Don’t worry. I
won’t tell anyone about your secret heart of gold.”
At lunch, Tedi was the last to join the rest of the girls from her barrack. “You look
terrible,” Leonie said, as Tedi sat down. “Are you ill?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, glaring at Shayndel.
“Come to the infirmary later and have a nap,” Leonie offered. “The beds are much softer
and I can set up a curtain.”
“Sounds like a delightful invitation,” said Nathan, putting his hands on Leonie’s
shoulders as he walked up behind her. “Don’t fight it,” he cooed as she slapped him
away, then gestured at two new men who had followed him. “Allow me to present my friends,
Bob and Uri.”
Shayndel shook hands with them first, sizing up what she recognized as the Palmach’s
reconnaissance team for the escape. The first man was a very tall, muscular blond
who made his way around the table, ending with Esther and Jacob, who stared up at
him open-mouthed. “I know you are wondering what kind of Jewish name is Bob. My family
moved here from Australia.” He grinned. “And I like to be different.”
“Bob and Uri are here to help me teach physical education,” said Nathan.
“Of course,” muttered Zorah. “And I am here for the rest cure.”
“Rest cure, eh?” said Uri, who was compact and swarthy like Nathan. “You have quite
a vocabulary for a new immigrant.”
“Zorah is tall smart,” Jacob piped up.
“You mean
very
smart,” corrected Nathan, patting his head. “And yes, these fellows are here to help
me get everyone strong and fit for life in Eretz Yisrael, even you, Mistress Weitz
of the sharp tongue.”