Rena's Promise by Heather Dune Macadam, Rena Kornreich Gelissen Read Free Book Online Page B

plaid skirt. Like a wave receding from the shore, the past leaves me lonely and forlorn.

     

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Rena!
I swear I hear Mama's voice calling. Cautiously I drift off once more, only to be startled repeatedly by the obtrusive glare of the searchlights swaying across the compound. It is a sleepless night. My eyes may shut, my breathing may slow, my mind may shimmer like a movie picture, I may drowse, but I do not escape into sweet sleep. I have been snared.

There is something in the chill at dawn that cuts to the bone. It's almost as if all the warmth from the earth is being sucked into a vacuum and dragged from the land. My jaw aches into a yawn. I wonder when Danka will receive my note.
The soldiers rouse those who aren't up yet. I stand alert, shivering in protest to this rude awakening, then smooth my skirt against my legs. I want to look my best today. It is important to make a good first impression.
''Line up! Those of you who need to go back to your residences will be taken to get your things. Line up!'' I rush to the line to retrieve what few belongings I have at the Silbers' house. Like prisoners we walk through town with an officer on each side of our pitiful group. My head is down, hoping to avoid recognition. I do not know why I feel such shame, but I do.
Mrs. Silber is in the kitchen baking challah for the Sabbath meal when the guards pound on her door. "This Jew has turned herself in and has come for her things." They enter her kitchen uninvited; I run upstairs, unable to look in my hostess's eyes. The aroma from the kitchen is so pungent that I stagger under a sudden burst of hunger. In seconds I have my suitcase and am downstairs again.
Mrs. Silber slips a loaf of challah and a few oranges in my bag. "For Sabbath," she whispers. "You'll need it." There is no time for gracious farewells. We barely kiss good-bye.
At the railway station there are hundreds of men, women, and

     

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children standing in line. There are many girls about my age. What is going on? Why are children being sent to work? What am I doing here? I am supposed to be getting married, not going to a labor camp. I have to remind myself that I am doing the right thing, but reality is not a comfort.
Word has spread quickly through the town of Hummene that there are Jews being shipped off to work camps today. Our people shout encouragement while standing by the station gates throwing oranges to those of us being loaded onto the train. I catch a few, sticking them in my handbag. For a moment I scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face; I do not know if I should be sad or happy that there is no one waving to me.
When one thinks of a train ride, one imagines benches, or at least seats, or, if one has a little money, perhaps a berth. It is obvious, however, that the cars they are loading everyone into are for animalscattle cars, to be exact.
"Where are we supposed to sit?" The people around me voice their outrage. "This is not a train for people!" No one is listening as eighty of us are piled into the car. It is standing room only. We step on each others toes, apologize, then step on someone else's.
There's a steady buzz of dismay over our plight. The lady next to me is nursing her baby. She is not a Jew, she is a communist.
"Would you like an orange?" I ask.
"I didn't know I needed to bring food or clothing," she says in Slovakian. I tear off a piece of challah and place a piece of precious chocolate into her hands.
"Bless you, bless you." Her voice breaks from dryness; I wish I had water to quench our thirst. The train starts with a lurch. There is nothing to lean against but the next person.
"Where's the toilet?" someone asks. There is a bucket which is supposed to be a toilet. Hours go by before an embarrassed elder woman has to use "the facilities." Her daughter holds up her coat as a screen while the lady tries to squat on her shaky legs.

     

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"I'm sorry," she apologizes, "I could not hold myself any