of flour is hurled above the fence, landing on the shoulder of a young boy, who quickly carries it to our lodgings. Mrs. Kálmán’s arms draw me into an awkward embrace from behind the bars. “God be with you, Miss Friedmann. God be with you!”
Márta cries unabashedly.
The goose in my arms feels warm, and brings on a rush of memories. Bittersweet memories of fluffy white geese in our yard. Lovely goslings I had held in my lap. Memories of another era.
Choked with emotion and chagrin, I manage to whisperthanks to the young guard. As I carry my precious cargo to our lodgings, a large admiring crowd of men, women, and children accompany me. They all join in the celebration of the miracle they witnessed at the gate.
Thank you, God, for this miracle. For your providence.
Thank you, God, for the miracle of human kindness.
D ADDY , H OW C OULD Y OU L EAVE M E?
NAGYMAGYAR, MAY 14, 1944
We never got to use any of the food supplies the Kálmáns brought after all. The end approached sooner than we expected.
After midnight there is a loud knock on the door of the small apartment.
“Mr. Friedmann Markus is to appear at the gate immediately.”
Daddy is fully awake. He dresses in haste, and hurries to the gate of the ghetto. He identifies himself, and the guard hands him a telegram. It is a summons for him to go to a forced labor camp in Komárom some fifty kilometers away. He is to report at the gate at 5 A.M. tomorrow morning.
Every man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five received a similar summons during the night.
News of the summonses sends a shock wave throughout the ghetto. Rumors are turning into reality. Military trucks roar into the square and helmeted police pour out of the vehicles, quickly surrounding the ghetto with guns drawn, ready for action. What action? What’s going to happen? Is this the beginning of “liquidation?”
Grim and tight lipped, Mother is packing Daddy’s knapsack. Mommy was looking forward to labor camp, but didnot think Daddy would be taken away from us. The suddenness of it all, the military police with guns drawn ... it does not bode well.
I hear Mommy moving about in the darkened room, packing wordlessly. Daddy is in the kitchen, talking to my brother in a low murmur. As I huddle in bed, my stomach is twisted in knots like a rubber hose.
“Mommy, if I fall asleep, will you wake me at four thirty? Do you promise? Please, Mommy ...”
“Okay, okay. I’ll wake you. Just go to sleep.”
My head, the only part of me free of stomachache, is whizzing with a million thoughts. Daddy had called me into the kitchen and told me to take care of Mommy.
“Don’t be frightened, Elli,” he said. “The Almighty is going to be with you all. He will take care of my family. You’re a strong girl, Elli. Remember to help Mommy in every way.” He took my face in his two gentle yet muscular hands and drew it slowly to his own. Time stood still, and I thought my heart would break. I wanted to speak, but my words drowned in a morass of pain and helplessness. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him that I knew he loved me. I wanted to tell him that I knew he thought I had nice legs and that it made me happy and proud. I wanted to tell him that our long walks, our long silent walks together, were the happiest times of my life. And our swimming together in the Danube on the long, hot summer afternoons, were the happiest afternoons of my life. I wanted to tell him how I loved him for his fast walk and powerful swimming, for his silences, for his athletic figure, for his youthful, quick movements. But I did not speak. I could not bridge that distance with words. I held him very tight, my hands gripping his slimtorso, my face buried in his neck. I did not cry. I was numb with the horrible foreknowledge of finality.
Gently, he loosened my grip. “Go to sleep now, Ellike. It is very late.”
“Daddy, I want to speak to you in the morning. I want to tell you