The Night of the Burning by Linda Press Wulf Read Free Book Online

the only shelter Mr. Ochberg had been able to rent, a battered old schoolhouse at 28 Sliska Street.
    There Nechama and I were assigned iron cots next to each other, with old mattresses leaking straw.
    “I’m cold. The wind is coming right through those broken windows,” Nechama complained.
    “Well, at least we don’t have to lie on the ground,” I said, pointing at some mattresses that were placed on the floor.
    Over the next few weeks, the rooms became more and more crowded as children arrived in small groups. Wegathered around each time to see the arrivals. I scanned the faces for someone from the past, even though I knew there was no one left. Nechama hoped to find new friends.
    “Welcome, welcome.” Mr. Ochberg beamed. He sounded relieved, even though he looked exhausted. “Here you will be safe until the entire group of two hundred children has gathered, and then we can all travel on to South Africa.”
    There wasn’t much more than this simple welcome to offer the newcomers. There was very little food, hardly any coal to heat the rooms, and no clothing. Medicine for Laya’s and Pesha’s eyes had to be bought on the black market. After years of war, famine, and sickness, the city of Warsaw was depleted.
    On one of our daily walks through the city streets, Mr. Bobrow stopped to commiserate with a man wearing a yarmulke on his head who was boarding up his small bakery.
    “No flour means no bread for my customers,” the baker said sadly. “We’re going to live with my wife’s family until my brother sends money from America for us to move to the New World. Who can survive in Poland these days?”
    I peered into the bakery as I listened to the men talk. In a huge basket on the floor were stacks of empty flour bags made out of strong, white cloth. Neatly folded, they reminded me of something. Yes, they looked almost likethe linen Papa used to sell. Could we use them?
    I tugged at Mr. Bobrow’s sleeve. “What is it, sad one?” he asked. I couldn’t talk aloud in front of the stranger, so I reached up to whisper into Mr. Bobrow’s ear. His face brightened as he listened and he gave me a soft pat on my cheek before turning back to the baker.
    When we returned to the schoolhouse a little while later, the bigger boys were carrying large bundles tied with string. Their faces and arms were ghostly, coated with white powder.
    “What do you have there?” asked Mr. Ochberg when they dropped their load to the ground and clouds of white swirled around us. Suddenly I pictured the drifts of white feathers on the Night of the Burning. Feathers expelled and scattered, drifting and lost. I shuddered.
    “Flour sacks!” Mr. Bobrow answered triumphantly. “There is so little flour that the bakery nearby no longer needs its flour sacks. The owner gave them to us for free.” He pushed up his spectacles and left a white smudge on the glass.
    “And how will empty flour sacks help us?” asked Mr. Ochberg. “We need the flour that should be inside them.”
    With a dramatic gesture, Mr. Bobrow flourished one of the sacks in the air and then wrapped it around his middle like a skirt. “Voilà!” he cried. “An apron!”
    “We’re going to make clothes!” a big boy called Zeidel said, snatching up a bag and pressing it against his body.“Shirts! Skirts! Blouses!”
    Another boy took mincing steps in an imaginary skirt, flicking a bag flirtatiously. Little Yankel was slotted into a bag by Zeidel and Shlayma and swung high as he squealed in excitement. Mr. Ochberg needed two big sacks to stretch all the way around his middle. Flour flew in the air, coating us all in a layer of white.
    Something twitched at the corners of my lips, the memory of a smile.
    “Enough, enough! Children, we have work to do,” Mr. Bobrow called finally. He divided us into work groups: to shake out the flour sacks, sweep the floor, and find strong needles and thick thread.
    As I hurried past the two men, Mr. Bobrow pulled me over for a moment