The Family Behind the Walls

8. Dalia

EIGHT

DALIA

JULY 28TH, 1943 – BERLIN, GERMANY

I’ve been sitting on a splintered wooden bench in this military truck among fellow Jews after being taken from Hamburg. We’ve been pinned side by side for hours, bouncing around like worn rag dolls. Now, we’re being unloaded as if we’re no more than a pile of rubbish being dumped into a waste pit at a train station in Berlin. A Berlin sign was all I could make out in the little time we had before being shoved into a cattle car, attached to an endless line of others in front and behind.

They want us to step inside faster than our bodies are capable. Therefore, each of us shove forward and are forced to claw our way up and in. More people follow me, burying me deep into the center of the already filled car. I’m too short to see over the heads in front or behind me. There might be hundreds of people in this one wooden car. We’re all shoved backward once more as a long baton waves over our heads to clear the doorway. The crash of the door securing vibrates through my ears and limbs. To think I was struggling with the lack of air just a moment ago gives me little hope of staying upright with how much less there is now.

We’re shoulder to shoulder, tighter than sardines in a tin. Amid the acidic stench of urine, vomit, and body odor, sweat from the person beside me is dripping onto my skin, his breath a heavy fog carrying the odor of sour milk. The people in front of me are banging on the walls, screaming to be let out. I could be screaming too, but I’ve already seen what that does.

The rhythmic sounds of the train rumbling along the tracks is a constant reminder to wonder what our destination will be. The longer we travel, the further away from Leo and the children I am. I’m not whole without them—I’m no one if I’m not a mother and wife. I need them. They need me.

The train leans to one side, forcing me to lean against the person in front of me. Long hair sweeps across my hand, the silky texture similar to Jordanna and Lilli’s. I struggle to lift my arm that’s been pinned between my side and the person next to me, but wonder if I’m leaning against a child. I find the top of her head, gauging her age by height. She’s about Lilli’s height. I hope she’s here with her mother or father, but I haven’t heard any form of a conversation in front of me.

I bend my knees, crouching ever so slightly. The pain is excruciating after keeping my legs locked for so long. I touch the girl’s shoulder and whisper, “Are you alone or with your parents?”

She sniffles and her body shivers. “I—I don’t know. Mama was here when we got to the train, but—but I don’t know where she is now.”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sonia,” she says.

“Is anyone in this car a mother separated from her young girl upon entering the car? Her name is Sonia. She may be eight or nine.”

“I’m eight,” she utters.

“Eight?” I repeat. “Anyone?”

I hear others repeating the question. Based on how far the question circulates, I have a better sense of the size of the space we’re confined in. It’s hard to imagine more than half a dozen people fitting either side of me, but that’s not the case with how we’re standing.

The little girl in front of me whimpers. “Mama’s not here. She’s gone,” she says.

“Oh goodness. It’s all right, sweetheart. You know what? She might be in another car, right? Maybe I could help you find her as soon as we—” We’re released from this moving prison… “As soon as we get outside.”

“How do we know when that will be?” she asks.

I place my hand on her head once more. “I don’t know, sweetie. Try to stay strong.”

The car jolts violently, throwing us against each other as if we’re weightless. Cries echo through the tight space and I reach for the little girl again, unable to find her this time. Panic crashes through me and I reach down, feeling for a head of hair. My fingertips sweep across her head, and I squat down just enough to take a hold of her arm and pull her back up to her feet.

“No, let me stay!” she cries. “I can’t stand up any longer.”

“Sonia, listen to me,” I tell her. “I’m a mama, too. My children have been separated from me. Since I’m a mama, I’m sure yours would tell you how important it is to stay on your feet right now, no matter how hard it is to hold yourself up.”

“But why?” she continues to cry.

“People can’t see very much with so little light when you’re down there and you might get stepped on. It would hurt terribly.” I picture far worse than being terribly hurt from someone stepping on her. Any one of the people around us could fall on her with their dead weight and crush her.

Sonia’s body is leaning against my legs, her head heavy on my stomach. Her breathing slows and I think she’s asleep. I wish I could sleep this experience away too, but I refuse to close an eye, not knowing what’s ahead—not knowing what’s happening to my poor children at this very moment.

I pray Max knows what I would tell them to do. I pray he’s taking care of the others. Jordanna, she’s my fightershe will push through whatever force she’s put up against, and that thought scares me too.

My Lilli, though, I can hear her telling me she’s scared. She’s terrified of thunder, loud rain, howling wind, loud knocks on the door, and pure darkness. I’m always with her when she’s afraid. Maybe it’s my fault she has so many fears. She’s my baby and part of me didn’t want her to grow up so I didn’t force her to face some realities of life. I should have known better.

Without windows, I have no sense of awareness. I don’t think I’d have an inkling of how much farther we’re traveling, but standing upright like this for much longer—I don’t know if any of us will make it. We’re verging on suffocation as it is, and anyone from Hamburg already has a lung full of smoke.

Twenty coughs, six whimpers, two bawling sobs, and an episode of sickness have marked the time since Sonia fell asleep. I may be imagining the change of speed, but I think we’re coming to a stop. Let us out. Please.

Metal against metal, creaking wood, squeals and grinds, confirming a stop. I wrap my arms around Sonia to gently wake her, afraid she’ll get trampled. “We’re stopping, sweetheart. We might have to move.”

Her head shifts around just as we come to a complete stop. The cattle door slides open and the pressure of pushing hands from behind us builds, shoving us forward. The cool night air swooshes in between the crevices of bodies. I could drink in the fresh air.

It shouldn’t be long now until we’re outside.

Except, a storm of heat presses against us, a force physically pushes us backward and I spin Sonia around to shield her face. No sooner than we’ve stopped, the doors close again, locking us back in with another round of people who do not fit inside any more than we did when we first stepped onboard.

With that last thought, the train jerks forward and speed presses us in yet another direction, all of us swaying in one fluid motion.

“Maybe my mama will be waiting for us at the next stop,” Sonia utters. “She might be with your children, and then we’ll all be together again, right?”

“Wouldn’t that be the most wonderful sight to see,” I reply. I close my eyes as tears well. My lashes sweep them down the sides of my cheeks. I can’t cry. I can’t. I must be strong.

A round of gasps and shrieks spiral over our heads as we’re shoved toward a corner. “He’s dead,” someone yells. “There’s no pulse.”

Sonia clutches onto me with a tighter grip as an infant’s crying wail storms through the car. A mother hushes her baby, but the cry isn’t of mere discomfort, it’s a sound of pain. Sonia covers her ears from the noise, and I reach forward to tap the mother on the shoulder. She can’t move. None of us can.

“Your baby’s ears are hurting.” With the flashes of light filtering in through the cracks between the wooden slab walls of the car, I find snippets of surrounding imagery. “He was holding his ear a moment ago. Your hand is likely hotter than a warm compress. Press your palm against his ear. The heat will reduce the inflammation.”

The woman does as I say and within moments the baby’s cry weakens, then comes to a stop.

“Thank you, thank you,” the mother cries out.

It’s a temporary solution. Like this train, keeping us from something much worse.

“Are you a doctor?” Sonia asks me.

“No, but I was a nurse many years ago.”

“How many years ago,” she presses.

“During the Great War, before you were born. Many people were getting injured every day and I was there to help mend their wounds.”

“Why did you stop being a nurse?” Such a simple question full of complex answers.

“I wanted to be a mama,” I tell her. Even if I desired to go back to work after Lilli was born, it was no longer an option. Jewish nurses were turned away from every hospital in Germany after 1933. Regardless of how many lives I tended to in our darkest days, I became worthless to our country.