Day After Night

  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.”

  October 7, Sunday

  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.” r />
  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.”

  “How do you know my last name?”

  “Darling,” Nathan drawled, “I know everything.”

  “Weitz? Is this the great beauty that Meyer told us about?” Uri asked, and winked at her.

  Zorah took a sip from her mug, hiding her reaction to Meyer’s name. It had been three weeks since she had last seen him, on Yom Kippur. It had been eight days since his second letter arrived. Both of them had come to her in official-looking envelopes, handed over discreetly by Goldberg, the Jewish guard.

  Meyer’s first letter had been utterly formal and so bland, it might have been written by a dutiful nephew to a maiden aunt, inquiring about her health and the weather. But in the second, he had described a sunset over the Mediterranean, sprinkled tobacco crumbs into the folds of the paper, and signed it M.—which had seemed wildly romantic to her.

  “Miss Weitz is blushing,” boomed Nathan.

  “Leave her alone,” shouted Jacob, who jumped up and punched at Nathan’s arm.

  “Meyer has a competitor.” He laughed, picking the boy up and holding him over his head.

  “Put him down,” said Esther.

  Zorah glared at Shayndel, who chimed in, “Enough, Nathan. Put the boy down.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky one,” he said, sitting Jacob on the table, “to have so many lovely women in your corner.”

  Jacob frowned at him, his hands still clenched into fists.

  Francek appeared at the front door and shouted, “They’re here.”

  Everyone ran outside and toward the front gate, where two dun-colored buses were parked, their blacked-out windows shut tight, as a dozen British soldiers were climbing down from a flatbed truck behind them.

  Nathan cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Let them out of there, you pigs.”

  As the troops surrounded the buses, Francek cried, “English Nazis.”

  The other men took up the phrase, chanting, “English Nazis, English Nazis.”

  Bryce surveyed the scene from the doorway of his office: the shouting inmates, the nervous soldiers, and his own men standing at attention. He walked across the road and stood with his back toward the gate, watching as a British staff car sped toward them.

  The two officers seemed surprised by the jeers and catcalls that greeted them as they got out of the car. They returned Bryce’s salute without enthusiasm and followed him to his office.

  The crowd quieted, waiting to see what would happen next. The Jewish guards—Goldberg and Applebaum—were summoned into Bryce’s office, fueling another round of angry speculation about their role in a place like Atlit. But as time passed and the sun grew hotter, the insults and chanting resumed.

  A stone sailed over the fence with enough force to hit one of the soldiers, who slapped at the back of his neck and cried, “Shit.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” echoed a delighted chorus of little boys, who were hushed only when Applebaum and Goldberg reappeared and hurried across the road and through the gate.

  “Comrades,” Applebaum called as he waved for people to gather. “The colonel has ordered that all male internees must return to their barracks before the men can be unloaded.”

  “Screw them,” Francek exploded. “Why should we agree to that? We’ve never been locked in during the day.”

  “My friends,” said Goldberg, “think of the poor men inside those buses. They are exhausted and hungry and I don’t have to tell you how hot it must be with the windows closed.”

  Francek put his finger on Goldberg’s chest. “Shame on you,” he said, poking hard. “You are a collaborator, a lackey, a stooge. The both of you.”

  “Stop it,” said Shayndel, worried that Francek’s antics would somehow jeopardize the escape plans. “Our brothers are suffering and we have to do whatever we can for them. Even you, Frankie,” she said, pinching his cheek as if he were a child.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and started walking back toward the barracks.

  Leonie took her arm. Tedi and Zorah followed, and the rest of the women fell in. Finally the men started to move, too, until only Francek was left, yelling and poking at Goldberg. Nathan and Uri grabbed him under the arms and carried him off, kicking and sputtering.

  It took nearly thirty minutes before the last of the Atlit men disappeared. Meanwhile, the women stood in small, quiet groups within sight of the buses, watching until a soldier walked out of Bryce’s office and gave the order.

  The men staggered out, their faces dripping with sweat, their shirts soaked through. They blinked into the bright light, trying to get their bearings as British soldiers surrounded them and waved their rifles toward the front gate, where Goldberg and Applebaum offered greetings and encour
agement in Hebrew and Arabic.

  Shayndel counted thirty-nine prisoners. They were all young men, black-haired and olive-skinned. None of them had seen a razor for days and their faces bristled.

  The soldiers herded the new inmates back toward the barracks. “Doesn’t everyone have to go through Delousing?” asked Leonie. “Why aren’t they taking them for a shower?”

  “I don’t know,” Shayndel said, “but I don’t like it.”

  It was a strangely quiet parade. No one shouted family names or hometowns; it was clear that none of these dark-skinned men was from Poland or Lithuania or any place these girls once called home. The men seemed to wilt before their eyes; their shoulders sank, their heads dropped.

  “This is terrible,” Shayndel said and called, “Be strong.”

  “I don’t think they speak Yiddish,” said Zorah.

  Shayndel changed to Hebrew, shouting, “Welcome, friends. Shalom! Shalom!”

  A dozen heads turned toward her. White teeth flashed against brown skin. Fingers were raised in a V for victory.

  Tedi smelled cumin and onions. “Shalom aleichem,” she cried.

  “Aleichem Hashalom,” several voices replied.

  The girls clapped and waved, and started to follow along on their side of the fences that separated the women’s and men’s quarters.

  Tedi started the singing.

  As long as the Jewish spirit is yearning deep in the heart,

  With eyes turned toward the East, looking toward Zion,

  The dark-eyed men threw back their shoulders and joined in.

  Then our hope—the two-thousand-year-old hope—will not be lost.

  Voices rose from inside the men’s barracks, where faces were crowded close to the windows.

  To be a free people in our land,

  The land of Zion and Jerusalem.

  As soon as they reached the end of the song, they started over, but louder and much faster. By the third repetition of “Ha Tikvah,” the melancholy anthem had become a marching song, a hoarse demand for action. The last man to enter the barrack turned and raised his fist before a guard shoved him inside.