The Memories We Keep. Walter Zacharius
obeyed without protest. His expression was grave, and I could see he was frightened. I reacted mechanically, though grotesquely, a snatch of the melody accompanying Konstanze and Belmonte’s escape from Osmin’s house in Die Entführung aus dem Serail sprang up in my head.
Papa stood and Mama with him. They held hands. “One,” Papa said. “Two. Three!”
As best we could we walked toward the door, avoiding the others, stepping past those still sleeping—or dead—on the floor.
“Halt!” The soldier had noticed us. I tried not to look, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him raise his gun. “What are you doing?”
Jozef was at the door. With a mighty pull, he slid it open, just a crack, just enough for a person to jump through.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
I felt my father’s hands on my back, heard him grunt as he pushed me as hard as he could. There was the sound of a shot, the sensation of falling a long distance, searing agony—and blackness.
CHAPTER 7
I awoke to a blazing, blinding searchlight. As my panic-stricken eyes moved from left to right, excruciating pain ricocheted through my skull and I feared I’d lose consciousness again. Slowly I realized it was no searchlight. The searing beam was the noontime sun.
Brown leaves darted and swirled above me. When I tried to move my head, pain ripped down my spine. I was drenched in sweat. My cheeks burned, yet my back and legs were numb. I forced myself into a sitting position—at least my back wasn’t broken!—and looked around. To the left, a scraggly field with a few trees. To the right, two brilliant fireballs glowed like the smelting ovens of the Baluty. The sun again. With great concentration I brought the orbs together, as if focusing on an image through one of Nate Kolleck’s cameras. The orbs merged, flew apart, then came together as my ears hummed with a high, insistent buzz. I shook my head to clear the noise. Nausea overwhelmed me.
Lost. Alone. Hurt. I rested on my hands and knees, allowing my head to hang limp until the nausea subsided. My coat was torn. I could see bruises on my arms and legs.
I dragged myself onto an embankment. Railroad tracks. Oh, God! I remembered.
What had happened to Papa? He was directly behind me, shoved me out, then the shot. Was he killed? Had the Germans murdered them all, Papa and Mama and Jozef? Or were they on their way to Treblinka, no escape possible, and there a fate no one could foretell? I began to sob. There was a thicket some fifty feet from where I was lying, and I crawled to it. I would make my way to Treblinka, I decided, to see if I could somehow rescue my family—buy them out, perhaps, with money I made en route, or at least signal them that help was coming so they would not lose hope. Even as I had these thoughts I knew they were fantasies, yet I let them sustain me. I lay in a thicket and closed my eyes, picturing the house on Kowalska Street when I was young.
I fell asleep, and when I awoke, dawn was creeping over the fields. For a moment, I felt refreshed, the long rest having dulled my body’s aches, but then I remembered where I was and what had happened, and anguish returned. I was glad of one thing: I had not taken Nate’s photographs, and so if I was stopped on my travels—to where? In what direction?—I could not be accused of spying. Indeed, no one would know I came from Lodz or, more important, that I was Jewish. It was a strange feeling; I could be whoever I wanted, create my own past, make up any story to explain my circumstances, even—no, I would keep my first name. It was my gift from Mama and Papa.
With great care, I got to my feet and walked back to the embankment, pain shooting through my left hip where the bone had shifted in its socket. There I examined my injuries, as if Marisa Levy were some laboratory animal for study. My feet were swollen, my legs were scratched and cut, the bruises had darkened in the night. My ribs were badly bruised and my coat shredded beyond repair. Beneath my cardigan sweater, my wool dress was ripped, and my underwear showed through. I would have to do something about that, but had no idea what. The dress was stuck to my body in a dozen places where my bloody wounds had dried.
I crossed the tracks, dragging my left leg through fallen stalks of meadow grass. The sun, out fully now, was blessedly warm, and I realized I was ravenous. In the distance, I could make out a farm cottage; on the edge of its harrowed field, the blue-black surface of a pond glittered in the sunshine. I would decide later whether to approach the cottage; what was incontestable was that I needed the pond. I pulled up a handful of winter-spared field grass and chewed the stalks, my parched tongue taking in the moisture.
Soon enough I’d have water. I’d drink from that pond and take a bath in it, too. Clear, clean water. Then I’d find food—at the cottage if I dared, or somewhere along the road. That I had no money, no direction, no plan did not trouble me. I was about to have water.
Tossing aside my useless coat, I took one tentative step, then another, crouching low in the grass and moving with careful precision, fighting to keep my balance, alert for approaching footsteps or the whine of hunting dogs.
At the pond’s edge I dropped to my knees and let the icy water bite into my mouth. Then I thrust my head down and pierced the shimmering reflection of my face. The shock of the cold thrilled me. I was alive!
A moment later, I was naked, washing the dirt, grime, and all the sickness off me. I slid down in the water again and again, gasping at the effects of the cold. Thrashing back to shore, I collapsed onto the brittle, scratchy grass and smiled up at the sun.
“Marta?” A woman’s voice, calling from across the field. Her lumbering figure came closer. She was maybe eighty years old.
I slipped back into my filthy rags. The old woman was nearly at the pond. There was nothing to do but try to make a break for it. I stood up, clutching my shoes, but my left leg gave out, and I crumpled with an involuntary cry of pain.
The old woman came closer, peering at me in confusion. “Marta? Are you all right?” Her dark eyes were sunken and they rested on me, then moved past. Blind!
She held her arms out in front like antennae, spreading her fingers in an effort to grasp something solid. “Who’s there?” she cried in alarm. “Marta, why won’t you answer? Why won’t you tell me who’s there?”
My teeth began to chatter; the old woman stumbled backward. “I know someone’s there,” she moaned. “Please don’t harm me. I’m a defenseless old woman. The Germans have already taken all the wheat and potatoes. Even the milk cow is gone. I swear to you I have nothing. Please just let an old woman—”
Oblivious in her fear, she moved forward, her senses focused on my unseen presence. “I know someone’s there,” she wailed, tottering for a moment. Then, swinging her arms wildly, she toppled into the water.
I plunged in after her, heedless of my own safety or the consequences. She had fallen in headfirst and was sputtering in an effort to keep her head above water. I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the bank.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I won’t harm you. You’re safe. I promise.”
She peered at me from cataractous eyes. “But why didn’t you answer when I—”
“I was afraid,” I answered quickly. “But it’s all right now. It’s the war. It makes us all fearful. Is that your farmhouse on the rise? Come, I’ll take you home.”
She let me hold her arm and walk her back to the cabin. The feel of her comforted me, and I was glad to give her comfort in return. “I thought you were my daughter Marta,” she said. “She hasn’t been here since dawn. She went to Vishna to trade for bread, and she’s been gone all day. Marta never let the fire go out before. It must be dusk.”
“No,” I said quietly, “it’s still morning. Marta will be home soon, I’m sure.” I felt myself starting to black out. I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, and now my legs couldn’t support my own weight, let alone the woman’s. My field of vision narrowed until I saw the cottage as a tiny model at the end of a long tunnel. I fought to keep my feet moving. With