The crowd of people move in one direction carrying us along with them. Suitcases crash into my side, and I try to keep my arm around Mother, so she isn’t knocked down. “I’m all right, son. I’m all right. Thank you for taking care of me,” she says.
“I’ve been worrying about you.”
“No need. We’re here. We’re together.”
Her eyes gloss, as if she doesn’t realize what’s happening here. She has so many moments of confusion and then she speaks clearer than ever before. She’s been through so much. We both have, but she’s fragile now.
“Move! Keep moving!” I’m jabbed again with something else sharp, sent forward into the person in front of me.
We walk past dogs growling and barking, white foam spilling out of the sides of their mouths as if we’re their next meal. An officer ahead is asking people questions I can’t hear, then sending them away in different directions.
“Can you hear what they’re asking?” I ask Mother.
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”
When we make our way closer to the shouting officer, the question becomes clearer. “Occupation?”
When it’s our turn for questioning, the SS officer looks pointedly at Mother, stares for a long second and says, “No, off to the left you go.” He points to our left. “And you, your occupation?”
“Where are you sending her?” I ask, terror racing through me.
“I asked you a question. What is your occupation?” He then shoves mother to the side with all his strength, throwing her right down to the ground. I lunge for her.
“Are you all right, Mother? All you?—”
“Let her go!” the guard shouts before thrusting his boot into my back, forcing me face first to the ground. I ignore the thrash of throbbing pain and push myself back up. “My mother is a seamstress. She has useful skills.”
The officer laughs at me with cynicism. “Oh, does she now? Fine, then. You go to the left. She can work.”
“I need to stay with her,” I argue.
“Don’t take my son away,” Mother follows, her voice deep and loud.
“Enough,” the officer hollers. He grabs Mother by the arm and flings her off to the right and holds his arm up, blocking me from moving toward her. “You want to work, in your condition? You want to do that instead of having your son work? You think that will save his life?”
“We can both work,” Mother cries out.
“Nein,” the officer says, shooing his hand at me. “You, old lady… You think you can work in place of your son?”
“No, no,” I argue. “We can both work. Please, let us stay together. We’ll work hard.” Mother can barely stand, but we must stay together and work…it seems to be the only option.
“You…” the officer shouts in my face, the tip of his finger nearly touching my nose. “Go to the left!” He points toward a line of mothers and young children. “And you…” The soldier points his finger at Mother now. “Go to the right.” He nudges his head toward a line of men. “You will work in place of your son. Then you will learn not to question authorities.” He’s punishing us, sending us into two directions—neither of us going in a direction it seems we belong.
“I’ll find you. Don’t worry. I promise. I’ll find you,” I shout to Mother as I follow the line to the left, praying she will be able to care for herself with her skills. She holds her arms around her body as she keeps her eye on me until she’s forced around a corner. “I’ll find you.” My last promise comes out in just a whisper.
When I arrive at the end of another line, I find myself behind mostly women and young children, wondering why I was sent this way and Mother, the other. With no direction or instruction other than to remain in line, and for hours on end, none of us can predict what lies ahead. The mothers are cradling their children within their arms, old and young. Many are sitting on their suitcases or in the dirt. I’ve searched in every angle, trying to understand what it is we’re waiting for here, but the SS walk by us as if we’re nothing more than tree stumps. Yet an orchestra perched on a short hill off to the right, has been performing since we arrived. Some melodies I recognize, others I don’t. The music has distracted me, making me believe there’s something better at the end of this line we’re waiting in, but that wouldn’t make much sense after what we’ve already endured.
The mother ahead of me has two young children, both crying their hearts out. The mother has tried everything to calm them, but without luck. One of her little girls with chin-length hair and eyes bigger than coins stares at me as tears trickle down hercheeks. She couldn’t be older than four or five, but she’s looking as if she’s waiting for something.
I kneel, bringing myself down to her height, and begin to sing. I try to keep my voice quiet, not to disturb anyone.
The sky is dark and gray
but behind the clouds, it’s blue.
Lovely days will come
soon for me and you.
