The lights went out, and the darkness bristled with a nervous thrum of throat clearing, coughing, nose blowing, pillow thumping, blanket smoothing, and sighing. It was an hour before the restlessness settled into the tidal whisper of steady breathing and light snoring, though not everyone slept.
Tedi lay facedown, her nose buried in the pillow as she tried to block the smell of Lotte beside her. Her arms hung over the sides of her cot, her hands pressed flat against the cool concrete floor. Her head buzzed with questions: Where will we be sleeping tomorrow night? What will happen if we’re caught? She was proud that Shayndel had chosen her, but nervous. Would she have to fight? Was her Hebrew good enough?
This was bound to be very different from her escape from the train: to begin with, it wasn’t freezing outside and she wasn’t starving. She was not afraid, either. She had faith in Shayndel’s good sense, in Goldberg’s kindness, in the passion of the Palmachniks, in th
e land itself.
She turned onto her cheek and as she closed her eyes, Tedi saw a letter sitting in a tray on top of the cluttered desk. The window beside it was open to the sound of lapping from the canal and voices from outside, amplified as they traveled over the water. Mr. Loederman examined the address and smiled to know that she was alive and well.
Tedi woke with a start, confused and angry. Why should her thoughts go to her father’s business partner? Why should such a trivial detail from her past rear up just as the future was about to begin?
She clenched every muscle in her body, straining to erase the image of Loederman’s craggy face, the mahogany sideboard, the brass letter opener, the leather pencil case. But it was all too vivid to wish or will away. Her memory was no more under her control than her sense of smell. She was connected to the past by love and grief, and that’s how it would be until she died. I suppose I will have to learn to live with this, she thought. I wonder how long it will be before it stops hurting.
Zorah was keeping watch. After the lights were out, Esther had gotten down on her knees, her head bent over hands pressed together like a steeple. It was, thought Zorah, the most non-Jewish posture on earth. Esther appeared to be saying a rosary or asking for help from the Virgin Mary. Of course, she could just as well have been praying to Sarah, Rebecca, and Rachel or soundlessly reciting part of the Hebrew service, which she had taken to attending with Jacob, morning and evening, every day.
Zorah considered herself an authority on the futility of prayer. In the concentration camp, she had watched people beg for their lives or for an extra ounce of bread, as if God were a wizard or a rich uncle. She had known better from the time she was twelve years old.
As a little girl, she used to show off to the ladies in the synagogue balcony. They smiled and nodded their praise as she demonstrated her mastery of the prayer book, phrase by phrase, gesture by gesture, better than any bar mitzvah boy. That stopped after she had overheard them whispering about her; too bad that she was plain as a carp, with a father who didn’t have two coins to rub together, not to mention the burden of that slow-witted brother. Too bad, they smirked, that piety made such a poor dowry.
After that, her letter-perfect performance of the liturgy was nothing more than a way to prove—to herself, since no one else seemed to care—that she was smarter than the stupid hens who went to shul only to gossip and brag about their sons. Let those who pitied her face and her fortune go to hell; she was determined that her life would never be as small as theirs.
And yet, as Zorah watched Esther pray to some imaginary uncle on high, she silently added an “amen.” She had seen the broken and the doomed find consolation in their devotions, and a kind of peace. She knew that God had nothing to do with it. God was a pretext, or a metaphor, or a strategy. But sometimes that was enough.
Zorah found it easier to forgive Esther her naiveté than her own long habit of arrogance. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, raising a clenched fist over her heart. “For the sins that I have sinned against you,” she repented, once, twice, three times. “For conceit, for pride, for haughty condescension. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Leonie stared up at the ceiling and thought about escape, a beautiful word, especially in French, échapper, which seems to whisper, “shhhh.”
Her last escape had not been beautiful. Accidental and unplanned, she had been alone, half-conscious, and impossibly lucky.
After the brutal night with Lucas and his comrades and the early morning hallucination of an angel amid the birds, she had gone back to sleep and woken up on clean sheets. She was sore everywhere, torn and aching, but smelling of soap and antiseptic ointments. There was a soft, clean pad between her legs.
She reached up to the throbbing cut on her lip, but Madame Clos stopped her. “Don’t touch,” she whispered. “It’s not so bad and there won’t be a scar. You’ll be fine in a few days; young flesh heals fast.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “We’re lucky this sort of thing hasn’t happened more, given what animals the Germans are.”
Leonie was allowed to sleep for what seemed like a week. The pills erased the hours along with the pain so she had no idea what day it was when she felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her hard.
“Wake up.” Madame Clos was angry. She was breathing heavily and her kohl was streaked all the way down her cheeks. “Get up. Enough slacking off,” she said and stripped off the blankets. “I want you to go over to Freddy’s bar and get me a bottle.” She pulled Leonie to her feet and shoved her arms into the sleeves of a man’s trench coat. At the front door, she put a gold coin into her hand. “If you aren’t back in fifteen minutes, I’ll get Simone’s captain out of bed and send him after you.”
Leonie clutched at the railing as she crept downstairs on unsteady legs. Out on the street, she was dizzy and lost. It had been months since she’d been outside; after one of the girls ran away, Madame had hidden everyone’s clothes and shoes and done all the marketing herself.
She looked up and down the street and tried to get her bearings. She remembered that the bar was around the block and headed to the left. She was entirely alone. All of the windows were dark, the storefront shutters down and padlocked. Fred-dy’s was locked up tight.
The taste of bile rose from the back of Leonie’s throat into her mouth. The cobblestones were cold and slick under her naked feet and she was fully awake, facing the first real choice she’d had in nearly two years.
She could turn down the alley and go to the back door, where Freddy would certainly sell her the bottle, though she knew he would demand more than Madame’s money. Leonie clenched her fist around the coin in the deep pocket of the coat. The wool reeked of cigar smoke. She turned and crossed the street, deciding that she would never get down on her knees like that again.
Stepping carefully to avoid the broken glass glittering on the pavement, she kept close to the buildings. She could not risk being caught as she was—barefoot, bareheaded, and wearing nothing but a cotton shift under a German officer’s coat.
She moved quickly, without knowing where to go. Leonie had no family. She had not seen any of her friends or acquaintances for so long, she had no idea what they might say or do if she showed up as she was. When she rounded the corner and found herself in front of the bar again, a wave of fear erased the last bit of fog behind Leonie’s eyes.
She started running. Nearly all of the streetlights were out and she had no idea where she was going as she sprinted, block after block, as fast as she could, over a bridge and past a long row of German trucks parked for the night. Leonie did not slow down until she had no choice but to stop and catch her breath. Hiding in the shadows of a deep doorway, she looked out over an unfamiliar little square with wooden benches, some empty flower beds, a dry fountain in the center. On the far side of the plaza stood a tall gray lady with her head tilted to one side, as though she were listening to a distant song from beneath her granite veil.
Leonie stared at the statue for a long time, shivering like a rabbit, until an engine backfired and sent her racing past the fountain and down the alley beside the convent. She tapped on the ancient kitchen door, quietly but steadily, until she heard a bolt click and slide open. A nun in a white habit caught her by the arm as she fell to the floor and begged for her life.
Shayndel’s attention was fixed on the battered watch beside her ear. She held it up to a pale yellow patch of light, astonished that it had been only five minutes since she had last looked.
Leonie stirred on the cot beside her. Shayndel saw that her eyes were open and lifted the blanket, signaling her to come and join her. They held each other close, and the next time Shayndel held the watch to the light it was time.
She slipped her shoes on as she reached under the bed for the bundle Nathan had given her. Leonie helped her untie the twine, unwrap the bottle of chloroform, and fold the cotton batting into a compress. Tedi and Zorah watched from either end of the barrack, waiting for Shayndel to move.