Chasing Away the Darkess

I've never been good at waiting. Maybe that's why my parents named my little sister Patience- because I have none.

Cramped into a three-by-five-meter loft with eight other people is one of the worst places for a fidgety, easily put-out thirteen-year-old, but if I think about it it's better than starving in a work camp or being shipped hundreds of miles cross-country, only to be thrown into a gas chamber upon arrival. "The Kolsekis are risking their lives to help us," Mama reminds me on a near-daily basis. "We need to be grateful for what we have." So I stuff down my complaints and console myself by catching what looks I can of the outside world through the tiny ventilation openings cut in the hard stone of our host's house.

Taunting hints of the newly-sprung flowers and grass waft into the small space, and in a moment that seems like a miracle, the breeze brings a perfect apple blossom impossibly through the opening to rest on my dirt-smudged skirt.

"How lovely," Patience whispers as I cup the delicate bloom in my palm. She leans over the flower, brushing a finger over the petals. "May I have it?"

"Why?"

"I want to remember today." The pleading in her eyes is more than I can bear, so faking a disinterested shrug I dump it into her hand. I watch, biting back a gruff comment about what's so special about today, as she pulls her diary from underneath the scrappy blanket covering the floor, tucks the apple blossom between the pages,  and wedges it underneath a brick beside her. 

I go back to staring out the tiny, rough-hewn window, the weight of my sister's head coming to rest on my shoulder, her small frame tucked up against me.  I don't need to turn to know that she's dozing off again, one of the few options of daytime activities since we aren't allowed downstairs until after dark. I feel my own eyelids start to get heavy, lulled by the sound of the bird song and the soft whisper of wind across my skin. A scraping noise across the small space of our hideaway jerks me from the precipice of sleep and draws the attention of the others in the space, my father, uncle, and their doctor friend from our hometown grabbing what they can for a weapon. I feel my mother’s arms around our shoulders, feel my heart pounding against my ribs like I haven’t felt in years, our eyes riveted on the shadows as a portion of the false wall hiding our room from the rest of the attic slides to one side. The fears come like a wave on the ocean I am powerless to stop. Is this the end for us? Did the Germans finally find us? Has the family harboring us already been killed, or will they be taken away and never heard from again?

A blonde head with threads of silver appears in the gap between the slats, followed by two arms and a torso garbed in a faded floral dress- converted from an old feed sack and out of style by at least five years- the hands wrapped around a loaf of bread and something else wrapped in a cloth napkin. A collective sigh whooshes from nine sets of lungs and the men lower their makeshift weapons: it is only Mrs. Kolseki, bringing us a midday meal. 

The weak sunlight emphasizes the pallor of her skin at the sight of the men ready to attack an enemy for only a second before her lined features soften into an understanding smile. “My apologies for startling you. A neighbor brought by some fresh cheese, and I wanted to share it with you all. I know it’s been quite a while since you’ve had anything quite so good.” She lays the cloth-wrapped bundle on the floor, the loaf of bread on top then moves to exit the space.

"Is there any news on the war?" The question comes from Dr. Zimmermann, halting the farmer's wife from sliding the fake wall back into place. 

"Not much," she confesses after a moment of hesitation. "There are rumors about town that the Russians may be advancing into Poland, but no one knows for sure. There isn't much news coming from the east right now, and the German planes fly overhead no matter what."  Another look- somewhere between a grimace and a sad smile- flashes across her face and no one moves until she disappears and the wall slides back into place. Footsteps fade away across the attic as Papa picks up the food, tearing the bread into pieces for everyone and unwrapping the small block of soft cheese to distribute it. He says a brief prayer and we eat in silence. I force myself to take tiny bites and make each morsel last as long as possible when all I want to do is scarf it down then look for more to satisfy the persistent grumbling in my belly. The creamy goat cheese reminds me of our Passover celebrations, of home, and of the family we left behind. I tuck the thoughts away with my complaints and finish my food, wishing for my own diary to pour out my thoughts and frustrations. Instead I return to my tiny portal to the outside world and try to keep my mind from wandering to painful destinations.

*

Thunder all sounds the same from a distance. Only as it gets closer do you discover if it's from the sky or from man. The rumble of man, the thunder of war, wakes me from a fitful slumber. Two weeks ago the farmer's wife brought us the treat of fresh cheese and the rumors of Russian advance, and now the cacophony of machinery breaks the still evening air, every second coming closer to the farmstead and the town half a mile beyond. I've never seen or heard the German war machine first-hand, but Dr. Zimmermann's son confirms the arrival of the Nazis- meaning they are either in retreat from the Russians or they are sending more men to push further into the territory of our Eastern neighbors.

The air in the attic grows stagnant, the breeze that normally finds its way through the windows ceasing, as if the world itself is holding its breath, waiting to see if the Germans are arriving in victory or defeat. Mama is huddled in the corner with a sleeping Patience, rocking her gently, her lips moving in silent prayers, while Papa, Uncle Izaak, and Dr. Zimmermann whisper among themselves. Nervous sweat slides between my shoulder blades as I peer through the opening looking for the source of the rumblings outside. My breath hitches in my throat at what I see: a cloud of dust, stretching as far as the eye can see along the road that runs in front of the farmhouse, the first of the convoy of motorcars cresting the small hill to the east-coming toward us.

The false wall scrapes to the side again, but this time it's the farmer who is crouching in the opening, drawing all of our attention to him. For the first time in days, Aunt Irena speaks.

"Is it the Germans?"

He gives a solemn nod. “Yes. They have finally come.”

Uncle Izaak speaks up. “You must run. It is better that you and your family escape than be killed with the rest of us.”

“No. We will stay here.” The fire in the Gentile man’s eyes conveys his commitment to us. “I will not allow these intruders in our land to lay a finger on you. I will die before I let them find you.” The pounding of a fist on solid wood filters up the stairs, and we watch, helpless, as our host’s face blanches a second before he disappears and the wall is sealed once again. Karina, Uncle Izaak, and Aunt Irena’s daughter-who at seven is even younger than Patience- begins to weep, and Irena gathers her into her arms, rocking her and whispering comforting words as she strokes her hair. Strange voices drift up through the floorboards, the low gentle voice of the farmer juxtaposed with the sharp words of the German- probably an officer. The minutes creep by until finally the front door slams shut, but there is no sigh of relief from any of us: the most dangerous game of hide and seek we have ever played is now afoot, and losing means death.

*

Every day for the following weeks the farmer or his wife brings us brief snippets of news: the occupation of the nearby town, families being forced to lodge Nazi officers and medical staff, the takeover of the town school as a hospital for their wounded. Rumors of Russian advance are bolstered by the steady stream of ambulances carrying men into town from the northeast. The notion that the Red Army is near at hand is a tremulous thread of hope that none of us dare cling to for fear that it may snap like the silk of a spider's web.

"Staring out the window won't make the Russians arrive any sooner." Mama's voice breaks through my thoughts as I gaze out the opening, scanning the horizon. I turn and flash her a self-conscious smile.

"I know. I just can't help but wish for the day when we can run outside in the sun again."

"I know you do. There is nothing I wish for more than to see you children happy again." She strokes my hair and rubs a smudge from my cheek with her thumb. The touch is the most affection we've shared in weeks, and I cling to the feeling as she scoots back over to where Papa is poring over a stack of papers. For the first time since we’ve come to this house, I really see my mother: the paleness of her complexion, the way her clothes hang on her frame- evidence of the sacrifices she makes for us every day. I consider crawling across the floor to her, just to feel the warmth and safety of her embrace once again, but just as I shift from where I am sitting, a thunderous roar like I have never heard before echoes across the low hills between us and the town, rattling the frame of the house. In an instant everyone crowds at the openings along the southwest wall, searching for the source of the noise. A tall pillar of dust and smoke billows into the sky as the chatter of gunfire replaces the brief moment of silence following the explosion. A series of smaller explosions follow, interspersed with weapons fire, and slowly everyone eases away from the makeshift windows. 

“And so the battle begins,” Dr. Zimmermann mutters. Karina begins to weep quietly and Aunt Irena draws her close as Papa takes Mama’s hand, bows his head, and begins to pray.

*

I awaken to absolute silence. For a moment I wonder if I’m dreaming, expecting to wake up to the thunder of battle and death. I rub the sleep from my eyes and pull myself into a sitting position, wincing at the ache in my joints from sleeping so long on a hard floor. Everyone else is still stretched out throughout the space, fast asleep. I crawl to the window and look out: the sun is halfway to its peak, the blue sky only marred by the remaining wisps of smoke coming from town. The fighting has scared all the birds away, only leaving an unnerving quiet in the air. Several minutes lapse before the steady crunch of boots on the dirt road reaches my ears. My hand is inches away from shaking Patience awake when a sharp rap on the door downstairs does the work for me. All eight of the others stir at the noise, wiping the sleep from their eyes and looking about the attic in confusion.

“It’s so quiet,” Mama whispers. Papa quickly shushes her and crawls to the false wall where he pressed his ear against a crack between the slats of wood. Voices once again drift up through the floorboards, this time in a strange tongue I’ve never heard before. My heart hammers against my ribs at the sound of footsteps on the stair, and a second later the opening in the false wall appears, and the farmer’s wife fills the space, a jubilant smile lighting her features- the first I have seen from her in the three years we’ve been with the couple. 

“The Germans have been defeated. Please, come downstairs and stretch your legs. You’ve been hiding up here for long enough.” She disappears from the opening and we sit, dumbfounded, for several moments before Patience and Karina lunge for the gap in the wall, me close on their heels, their childish giggles infectious as I follow them down the steps to the first floor. Heedless of their filthy clothes, the girls race toward the open door, squealing and laughing as they run out into the spring sunshine. I stop just short of the threshold, suddenly and inexplicably anxious about stepping into the open again.

“Go, join them.” I turn to see Mama behind me, a small smile turning up the corners of her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with having a bit of fun.” I nod and turn back to the door, stepping through the doorway. The dirt beyond is cool between my toes, the sun shadowed by the house. Suddenly I’m sprinting into the sunlight, throwing myself into the grass of the field beyond the house, rolling onto my back to feel the rays of the sun on my face. Even through my closed eyelids the light burns bright, chasing away the shadows and darkness that lurked on the edges of our world for far too long.