“After I told my father about what was happening in your district, he broke into today’s inventory before the Germans showed up at the front door this morning. He’s going to do what he can to help here. We all are.”
“Ella,” I say through an exhale. “You’ve done more than enough.”
“Well, I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast. I should return to the store,” she says.
I walk her to the door and step out of the apartment with her. “The words, thank you, aren’t sufficient,” I tell her.
“It’s not necessary. I’d do anything for you.”
I kiss her forehead then her button nose. “Someday, I’ll be able to do something for you, I’ll be able to give you the world. Someday, you’ll see.”
She reaches up to kiss me then takes my hand and presses it to her heart. “As long as I have you.”
A feast of sliced warm bread with margarine on the side makes my mouth water before I’ve even taken a bite. Grandmother is reciting a brachot over the meal, thanking God for the nutrients.
I’m thanking God for Ella.
Before Grandmother says herAmen, a scream pierces through the windows, followed by several others. Shots are fired from weapons, and fists pound against doors, more screams commencing. Mama, Grandmother and I study each other in silent shock, wondering what’s happening outside. None of us move to the covered window or from our seat. Papa would. He would want to know what’s happening before it happens to protect us.
That’s my job now. I push my chair away from the table, away from the warm bread my stomach is clawing for, and step in toward the window to peek outside.
“More people are leaving with suitcases in hand. They’re in lines, being shoved,” I say. “Grab your belongings. I’ll retrieve the money and papers. They’re already in the building. They’re coming for us.”
I look at the bread, passing by the table to get to the loose floorboard where we keep our valuables. I have a suitcaseprepared. We all do, just in case. With my belongings in hand and on my back, I wrap all the food back up and shove it into my knapsack, carefully placing the bread on top. Mama rushes into the kitchen, stares at her plants for a long second then moves to the stove where she chooses a few tins to drop into her purse.
Please spare us. Just a little longer. God, please.
The pounding on doors is relentless, two or three at a time and we’re holding our breath, staring at our door, the door that welcomed so much happiness just minutes ago.
My throat tightens, constricting my breath. Grandmother has a scowl drawn across her lips and Mama’s eyes are filled with tears. She’s shaking her head, silently praying they leave us be. It doesn’t sound as if they’re skipping any doors beneath us.
Despite expecting the clobbering against our door, I choke on a breath when it happens. “Aufgehen!”
I swallow hard and walk to the door, my last steps before I come to face to face with the German soldier who will tell us to join the others. I peer back at Mama and Grandmother, both squeezing their eyes shut. It all happens in slow motion: the spit flying from the soldier’s mouth as he shouts at us to take our belongings, in no more than one suitcase, and leave.
“This is the Aryan side of Warsaw. No Jews!”
The wall. The one we’ve all been watching rise higher and higher in the center of Warsaw without knowing its purpose.
I walk first, hoping it’s the right thing to do to protect Mother and Grandmother. Behind me, I hear Mother’s sob catch in her throat as the soldier orders us to leave our home—the last place where Father and Grandfather were with us. This is the moment we lose more of our identity regardless of where we go. Ella won’t find me.
We follow others down the stairs of our building and out into a bright sunny day, a cruel mirage above us when we’re walking eastward toward the wall. The streets I’ve known my entire lifeare nearly unrecognizable, filled with lines of disheveled fellow Jews shuffling forward with emptiness in their eyes as they leave their lives behind.
Our line merges with others, forming a stream of despair winding around the streets as we head east. I turn back to look over my shoulder at our apartment, needing one last glance. I find the front stoop where I kissed Ella just yesterday—in a different lifetime.
I can almost still see her standing in the same place.
Wait, no.
Sheisthere.
Watching.
Holding her hand over her mouth, shaking her head.
She darts to the next building corner, toward me, and I cast a doubtful glance, knowing we can’t control what’s happening. She can’t follow me where I’m going. She’s crying, reaching her hand out to me. Her cheeks are so red, the color is sharp and clear from too many footsteps away. “I’m sorry,” I mouth to her. “I love you.”
My throat burns as I fight to take in air. Everything hurts.
