Grandfather holds up his arm and flexes, pointing to his thin biceps. “I will be just fine. You see that?” He squeezes his other hand around his flexed arm.
“Oy,” Grandmother says. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I hold my palms up, silently asking everyone to stop. “This is absurd. There must be a mistake, or an oversight.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not going,” Grandfather states with a hard stare. “Kapeesh?”
I nod, but I don’t mean it. It’s not right. “For how long? I mean, how long will you be gone?”
“The letter didn’t say. We can hope it’s temporary, right?” Father asks, smoothing his fingers through his thin, graying hair that he neatly slicks back every morning. He stares at mother and adjusts his round rimmed black glasses as if sending her a secret sign, but it’s a nervous habit. His eyes say one thing—worry—and his words say another, and I’m at a loss for what I should be thinking.
I’m not sure how either of them will be able to work in a factory line all day. We’ve been living off scraps of food for nearly a year, and it shows in all of us.
Father moves over to the coffee table and lifts my hat, jingling the coins. “I’m baffled by how you’re managing to get as much as you are when no one has anything left, but you must keep doing what you’re doing. Whatever you can do to put food on this table for your mother and grandmother, I need you?—”
“Abram, please—stop this nonsense. I don’t want our son putting himself at risk every day. We will survive off ourrations,” Mama says, her words unsure, lacking confidence. The rations aren’t enough—we’re all well aware.
“He’s the man of the house now, Chana, and he’s capable of taking care of you,” Father tells her, keeping his voice strong and dominant. He never speaks to her that way.
I choke back a hitched breath, understanding the responsibilities that have just been handed over to me. What if I’m not cut out to be the provider like Father has always been? Maybe Mother is thinking the same way I am, and that I’m not capable. She’s the one who has said singing and busking will only take me so far in life, but right now, it’s all I have and all I can do. Jews aren’t allowed common jobs here. It’s been that way for quite a while.
Father places the hat back on the table and returns to Mother’s side, stopping her mid-pace. He takes her hand and presses her knuckles to his lips. “I love you and we’ll make it through this.” He releases her in exchange for my shoulder, squeezing firmly. “You’ve become a fine young man, Luka. I’m proud of you, always. And I’m confident you can handle whatever comes our family’s way.”
“They’ll probably be eating better than we will be,” Grandfather utters. “Don’t be afraid of the black market, my boy.”
“Foter!” Mother hollers at him again. “No, absolutely not. No black market. Don’t even utter those words in our home.”
The room falls quiet, except for a faint swoosh from the floral drapes as a draft sneaks in through the cracked seals of the window. Then a sharp, urgent knock against the door shatters the silence.
FIVE
LUKA
Jak’s mother was the person knocking on our door the other night, wanting to thank us for finding her son’s stuffed bear. But these days, every knock we hear, letter we receive, and shout echoing from outside the window is a deadly threat. We can deny our fear, but it’s been laced into our lives for so long that it’s tainted the blood running through our veins. We had been sure there was a soldier waiting at our door with a rifle…
Now, the walls are closing in as we prepare to say goodbye to Father and Grandfather. I’ve been in something of a trance for the last few days, suffering with the turmoil of guilt and worry over them leaving us rather than me going with them. The letter says they’re being sent to forced labor but in truth, that could mean anything.
My name was left off that letter, for a reason I still can’t understand. Despite the number of times I’ve asked Mother if she has any other ideas as to why I was left off the list, she will not bat an eyelid, reciting the same excuse about factory experience. The soldiers don’t care about former work experience when it comes to forced labor. They want working bodies, and my body works just fine. If I could go in place of one or both, I would without a second thought. I’m supposed toprotect Mother and Grandmother here at home, but what about Father and Grandfather? Instead, I’m standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching them gather their belongings, shoving what they can into battered brown suitcases with lock clasps that need repair and handles covered in torn leather and loose seams.
Mother stands between the kitchen and dining table, squeezing her hands together atop her apron with a handkerchief dangling from her pinched fingers. She hasn’t said much in the last couple of days, but her quiet is a sign of grief and one that pains us all.
Grandmother is pacing back and forth from the bedroom she shares with Grandfather, bringing out additional belongings with each return. “You must take this—you need it more than me.” She places her balled-up fist into his, concealing whatever it is she’s giving him. But he isn’t questioning a thing. The tears in his eyes say so.
“It’s time,” Father says, tapping his palm against his suitcase. He gives Mother a kiss and a tight embrace as I step toward them. I must be strong, for him, for Mother and Grandmother and Grandfather. It’s up to me to be that person for them now.
“Father, I promise to watch over everything here. You have nothing to worry about while you’re away,” I say, my voice stern and deep to conceal the pain splintering through my heart.
He places his hand behind the back of my head and squeezes, staring me in the eyes with resolve and trust. “I know, son. I know.” He kisses me on the forehead and pulls me in for a hug. “I’ll miss you, my boy.”
I swallow my response; afraid it won’t come out in just words. I shake my head instead, knowing it’s not a proper response. There’s more to say. But I can’t.
The goodbyes carry on, the distress growing as Mother and Grandmother pull away and stand back by the dining table, both with their hands pressed to their hearts.
I follow Father and Grandfather out the door as they make their way down the stairs. I pause at the window in the corridor, waiting as they walk towards a truck surrounded by soldiers. One of the men tears the suitcases out of Father and Grandfather’s hands. “Geh jetzt!” a soldier shouts, telling them to move faster. They duck their heads while climbing into the vehicle and the door closes. Their luggage is tossed into the back and—that’s it. I can’t move or do anything—I can only stare. My heart sinks, falling heavily into the pit of my stomach.We’re still breathing,I remind myself.We have no choice but to be strong—stronger now than before.
The gathering of people in the square is larger than usual but more people are hesitating to stick around. I’m used to people coming and going, fear of our surroundings getting the best of them. We’re all doing what we must to get by, and for me…this is surviving. “You don’t want to be doing this—making a scene,” says a man with two coiled curls hanging down the sides of his eyes. “They’re everywhere. Get yourself home and be safe, young man.”
I give him a nod out of respect and wait for him to leave the area before making it clear I’m choosing to continue. The real dread is noticing how few men I see walking around. They’re all being taken. Any of these women might have had their husbands, brothers, or sons taken from them this morning, too. There are still some men here in the crowd but, like me, I’m sure their time will come when they disappear, too.
