A Ghost with a Name

I don't sleep anymore. 

You'd think that it was because of the obvious. 

"Ghosts don't sleep, Masha," I'm sure you're thinking, "You're just trying to be dramatic." 

But that's not the case. 

I used to sleep. I would find a nice quiet place to settle in to rest my eyes, and when I'd close them, time would pass differently. 

I guess you're right, in a way. 

Sleeping is different. I don't need to sleep, I don't need to rest. But it's nice to close your eyes and just exist as the world passes around you. 

I would listen to the noise around me as my mind wandered, and I fell into a sort of trance. 

But it's been days since I slept. 

I don’t know exactly how long it’s been. After all, the calendar in the kitchen isn't being marked anymore, there's no one to cross off the days.

The house is empty.

—

Living after you die is extremely strange. 

No one teaches you about it because, obviously, no one knows about it. 

Honestly, I don't know if I'm unique and alone, or if I simply can't see the others and they can't see me - just like the living can't see me. 

—

It was really early on that I discovered that I didn't have an actual need for sleep. 

I lingered around where I died, watching my father endure the tortures they assaulted him with day in and day out. My mother and brother had died with me in the showers, but my father was an able-bodied man, and so he was put to manual labor. 

I watched over him as he worked, I watched over him as he slept. 

I didn't feel the need for sleep, so why would I? If my people were in pain, how could I close my eyes and let myself rest? 

I tried to interact with things, to tell my father that I was there, possibly to even get vengeance for my death on one or two of my murderers. It was pointless, though. Nothing I did ever affected my surroundings, and no matter how loud I shouted, my father had no reaction. 

So I watched. 

I watched him as he continued to live in spite of the hatred and malice of his wardens and torturers. 

And I watched him after the allies freed the camp, when he settled in America and met his second wife. 

I know that my mother would have approved of the match, and I celebrated the birth of their daughter as though she was my sister. 

It was only then, watching the little one sleep peacefully in our father's arms, that I finally allowed myself to sleep. 

I settled down and listened to her small inhales and exhales. 

A new life. 

I stayed where I was when I heard my father stirring, and I didn't move when I heard the little one cry. 

Nothing was wrong. 

There was peace. 

—

I discovered that I didn't age fairly early on. 

After all, the little one was growing up, and my faux-physical form was staying the same. 

But it didn't bother me. I was watching my sister grow from a child to a teen to an adult, and I watched her create her own beautiful family. 

I stayed with my family as it extended, even though some of them moved around. 

When my father's great-grandson decided that he was moving to Israel with his bride, I knew I had to go with them. 

—

I never got tired of newborns, and I never slept better than when listening to a little baby's snore. 

When they had their first child, I watched as my great-grandnephew held his daughter to his chest, murmuring to his sweet little princess about the wonderful things that were in store for her as she grew up. 

But little Masha'la, the first in the family to be named after me, didn't make it past the age of three. 

—

I don’t sleep anymore. 

Because there is no one in the house to cross out the days on the calendar, I don’t know how many have passed since those monsters killed my family. 

I didn’t follow them onto the street when they dragged them out of the house. 

I stayed inside, even though I knew that there was no danger to me. 

I’d seen enough horrors to know what was happening, I didn’t need to see it again. 

—

I don’t sleep anymore. 

I used to. I used to listen to the little babies and close my eyes to sleep next to them, sleeping in my dreamless sleep. 

But now when I close my eyes I can hear their screams. 

My family, their neighbors, their friends, all being dragged out of their homes or being killed within them. 

I wonder if this is everywhere. 

I wonder if my family in the States were okay. 

I wonder if anything will ever be sane and safe again. 

—

When the soldiers came, I just watched. 

A young man, at most twenty-three years old, walked through the house with a flashlight in his hand and his gun at his side.

He walked through the house slowly, calling to see if there were any survivors. Even though he and I both knew that there would be no answer. 

I watched him as he paused in front of the family photo hung on the wall in the dining room, and my heart broke as I watched him start shaking. 

He was just a boy. 

Older than I was when I died, sure. But he was still so young. 

I heard his sobs, and someone else must have too, because someone else walked into the house then. 

The other soldier walked him out of the house, and I went with them. 

—

I don’t sleep anymore. 

I am following the soldier and watching out for him. I know that I can’t help him, I know that I can’t effect the living world.

But I have to believe that this will pass. I have to believe that we will persist. 

Am Yisroel chai. 

Mir velin zein iberleibin.