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II
Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone…
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.
“A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto” by Czeslaw Milosz
18
15thJanuary 1983
Melbourne, Australia
Ioften wonder whether my husband has a gift for slumber that I missed out on.He sits still where we drank our tea on the porch outside.His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly ajar, and there is a soft snoring sound emanating through the screen door to where I stand at the kitchen sink, washing our cups.
I love that he can fall asleep anywhere.It’s probably a skill he learned when we were in hiding, the bombs dropping overhead, as the war neared its end.If you can sleep through a Russian invasion, you can sleep anywhere.
He’s nervous about the ceremony.I am too, a little.But I’m more concerned about his mother and how she’ll cope with all the attention.She’s getting older now and is not always fond of large crowds.Who can blame her, after all she’s been through?
All this talk of the past has me remembering things I’d pushed out of my thoughts so long ago.Memories rise to the surface unbidden, catching me by surprise when I’m doing the crossword or playing with my grandchildren.
I think about that apartment where we were prisoners for so long.Prisoners and yet free all at the same time.It’s a difficult thing to comprehend, especially for a teenaged girl.And yet it saved us, that apartment.The bird on the windowsill had more freedom than I did.Yet I lived, and that is what matters most in the end.
I walk to my bedroom and pick up the pillow with the embroidered flower on one side.It’s old and faded—the white pillow slip is yellow.The embroidery is no longer rough, but smooth to the touch and coming apart in places.
I still sleep with it sometimes, my cheek against the soft cotton slip as I feel the flower beneath my fingertips.It’s the only thing I have left from my mother.Everything else is gone.Even my memories of her have faded until I can barely make them out.
Tears wet my cheeks and since I am alone, I let them fall unhindered.The pain and anguish of a teenager still resides deep in my heart.I never really dealt with the trauma.It wasn’t something people did at the time.Life had enough problems of its own without borrowing past troubles.
We moved on—it was healing enough.I had so much to do.Migrating to Australia, raising my boys, helping with the businesses.No time for dwelling on the past or dredging up memories to sift through and cry over.
But there is time now, and I suppose it is better to face the past eventually than not at all.And I’m grateful, of course, for a long life filled with so much joy that sometimes it makes my heart feel as though it could burst.
So many we knew didn’t live another day, let alone the many decades given to me and my family.The memories bring pain, but also relief.I face them square on as I dry my hands on a tea towel embroidered with a kingfisher and sprigs of wattle.
There’s a knock at the front door, and I amble down the hall to answer it with a smile.I know who it will be.The children are here for Babcia to babysit.
It’s the thing I enjoy most and of course I’ll sneak in some Polish words—I want them to understand their heritage and to learn a little of their own language.But I know it will come with a strong Aussie accent and a disinterest only the young can perfect.It is the way things always are.The way I was as well when Tata tried to instil an understanding of our Jewish heritage throughout my childhood years—in the before time.
I regret so much, especially my indifference.But indifference is the privilege of youth, and so I pay no mind.My grandchildren rush through the door and embrace me before tearing towards the kitchen chattering aboutszarlotkaandpaczkis.
I love to bake, and they know without asking that the pastry tin will be full of treats.As I embrace my son and kiss both his cheeks, gazing into his hazel eyes with love, I picture also their cheeky faces garnished with powdered sugar and their lips gleaming with grease.
“Come in, come in,” I say, ushering my son inside, and then embracing his wife, who carries bags of food and homework as if she’s a pack mule.
“My goodness, you must share the load,” I admonish my son.“Look at your poor wife.”
He grins.“Sorry.Let me have one of those.”
They follow me into the kitchen, telling me all about their day.My husband is awake on the porch now, with one grandchild in his lap and another standing nearby telling him a story in a loud voice while munching on a freshpaczki.
The house is full of love and laughter, and for a moment I let my eyes drift shut and simply absorb every wisp of it.There’s no fear or anxiety, no pain or anguish.
The memories that I’d run through had brought those feelings back like the darkness that comes when storm clouds rush across the sky and cover the sun.But the clouds are pushed back by the sound of my grandchildren laughing at their grandfather’s antics.The sky is clear again, and the sun warms my face as I watch life unfold with a smile.
It was in that apartment my life was saved.But it was there I thought it would end.I was sure of it.We wouldn’t make it.There was no chance of salvation.But I was wrong.
