There in a small medical office, your father and I seated side by side, the doctor asked about our religious affiliations. Of course, with great pride, I told him that I am Jewish.
Your father stood as if he’d been struck with a mallet. He hadn’t known. I hadn’t been to a temple in some time, not since your bubbie and grandpa passed. But when I learned that I was to become a mother, I promised I would return to the temple, reconnect with tradition to do right by our faith, for you—for us.
Your father changed in an instant. His silence was deafening. Like too many men who returned from the war, he carried grief and blame within his heart. He believed the lies and whispers that trickled down our city streets that our people, the Jews, were to blame for the nation’s loss.
From that day on, he turned against me. I became his enemy. He demanded I rid myself of you. I would not. Could not. I already loved you with everything I had. You were already a part of me, and I would do anything to protect you.
He grew violent. First with words. Then with hands. He tried to force my decision through fear, bruises, and threats. I’ve begged him to leave and told him I would raise you alone. We would be fine. But he told me…no Jewish child, would live to carry his name.
I’ve been hiding at night, slipping from place to place, watching over my shoulder for him. I’ve saved what little money I could for a train ticket to get away from here. But I fear I’m running out of time. He’s much faster than a weary, swollen woman.
This is the part I’ve been dreading: If he finds me again, I don’t know what he’ll do. He may try to rid us both before you’re given the chance to draw your first breath. But if bya miracle, you enter this world and survive without me, you must find someone kind and show them this letter.
Even if your father puts on a gentler face, I don’t trust he will remain that way. He’s hurt me far too many times. Men like him do not change. Ever.
You are Jewish. And that means you come from a line of people who were born in bondage before being led to freedom. We were taught to show compassion and kindness, to offer bread to the hungry, and never let cruelty slip into our hearts. That is who we are—that is what runs through your veins. It is sacred, and unbreakable. Be proud of it.
As I write this, I picture you with my smile, dimples, your small hand curled around my finger. I pray with all that I have that I will live to see you laugh, to braid your hair, and teach you the Shema prayer. But if I cannot…let these words be my voice when you need it.
I pray this letter remains tucked inside your folktale book, never needing to be read. But if you are holding this letter in your hands, you must know…
You were a dream I prayed would come true.
I protected you with everything I had.
You were always and will always be loved by me.
With all my love to you,
Your mama
(Nora Belle Wojic)
The Third day of May, Nineteen-Twenty-One
I brush my finger across the date beneath her signature. I was born just one week later according to the paper pinned to my baby blanket. My body trembles with fury. Tears burn behind my eyelids—tears I’ve refused to let fall since I was little.
Yesterday, I was an invisible nobody. An orphan. A mishap. Today—today, I’m the daughter of a woman who fought toprotect me. And I’m still here. Alive and breathing. That must mean something, mustn’t it?
My hands shake so violently the bed frame rattles against the wall. I squeeze my hands together to stop myself, but the tremor moves into my legs. I can’t stop shaking.
I carefully slide off the side of the bed, onto the floor so I won’t wake Flora. I fold myself into my knees, the pressure against my chest not doing enough to suppress this ache. It hurts too much. I’ve never felt this type of pain. I’m not sure what it is—if other people feel like this when…their lives were ruined before they could form a memory.
Who is this man—my father?
What did he do to her?
She didn’t say his name in the letter.
This letter has been with me my entire life. Hidden and out of sight. The truth was tucked in beside me every night.
She loved me. My mother loved me.
She loved me.
And my father hated me.
Because I’m Jewish.
