A shrill scream pricks my ears and thins out into a pitched ringing. The field becomes static and snow.
“Everything will be all right, son. I promise. All you must do is breathe,” Father says, his promise that I’ll get through another seizure.
“Breathe in and out, slowly, like a gentle breeze. You’re safe, sweetheart. We’re here,” Mama coos. Her hand touches my cheek.
They aren’t here. Mama and Father. They aren’t here. This is all in my head.
Breathe. The word cries in panic through my mind.
A full-blown seizure is simmering, one bigger than I’ve had here, and it will take me down, leaving me defenseless in the crosshairs of the SS.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
FOURTEEN
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
May 16, 1941
Father pauses in front of the shuttle loom, the machine groaning to a quick stop. “Mister Silberg, good morning,” the operator says, standing to grab Father’s hand.
“Good morning, Lou. How is your wife feeling today?” Father asks, never allowing a detail about an employee to slip his mind.
Lou presses his hand to his heart. “Oh, much better. Much. Please, please extend my deepest gratitude to your lovely wife for the chicken broth.”
“Of course. I’m relieved to hear she’s better. Take care of yourself too, my good man.”
Lou smiles and bows his head before stepping back into position behind the machine. The wheels spin again as the threads weave into a tight, concise pattern. The sound of the hiss and pluck of the loom is nearly lost beneath the ensemble of sewing machines and presses all operating in production inside Silberg Textiles—the factory my grandfather built from the ground up in the heart of Sanok’s Jewish community.
Another glance at his watch.He’s been checking the time between every inspection as if counting down to something he won’t mention.
“I’m sure the delivery is just delayed. It will be here. It always is,” I reassure Father. We’re missing our weekly shipment of fabric, and some machinists didn’t show up today.
My brow twitches. Father’s quiet concern, the steam in the air, the smell of oil and grease—it’s all familiar. Yet, something shifts inside me, vague but clear. Something is wrong.
“I heard it too,” a worker whispers.
“How long before they come for us?” the other worker says.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Papa addresses the two middle-aged men, both red-cheeked with some stains of grease streaked along their flesh. Both wear matching cuffed trousers with yellowing linen shirts tucked in at their waists. They stand on opposite sides of the press, one maneuvering the lever and the other setting the fabric. “I couldn’t help but overhear the last part of your conversation.”
“We shouldn’t have been chatting at all, Mister Silberg. Apologies,” the one maneuvering the lever says.
“I don’t mind if you talk. So long as no one gets a hand caught between the metal plates,” Papa says, dropping his hands into his pocket. He’s not the strictest factory owner. He says that’s why he has devoted specialists.
“Of course, Mister Silberg. Neither of us would want that to happen,” the fabric setter follows, his voice pinched with nerves.
“Now, what is it you were talking about?” Papa asks again, forcing a quiet laugh to ease their obvious discomfort.
The two men stare at each other for a long moment. Too long of a moment.
Mrs. Fischer, Papa’s lead receptionist, rushes up the nearest stairwell with urgency. “Mister Silberg,” she says, halting the conversation with the two men.
