The Family Behind the Walls

19. Jordanna

NINETEEN

JORDANNA

OCTOBER 7TH, 1943 – ?óD?, POLAND

Two months and eight days’ worth of fingernail markings on the wooden floor track the number of nights since we arrived in this ghetto for juvenile criminals and orphaned children. The Reich don’t want to deal with any loose threads of children, so they locked us all up here like zoo animals. But I still don’t know why we’re here. We’re neither orphans nor criminals. My heart tells me Mama and Papa are alive and doing everything possible to find us.

All the while I lost count of the days we’ve been held here against our will. I forgot to leave a few marks beneath my thin mattress. My memory has always been sharp as a tack , Mama would say. I liked to think of myself as the family’s memory keeper. In truth, I liked to know what was going on all the time so I would peek at Mama’s calendar every day. She had a lot to remember, even with everything written down so I tried to help where I could.

Now, my recent memories feel as though they’re covered in dust, which could be entirely possible with how much dirt I’ve dug in the past two and a half months.

I was desperate to know what month it was, until I received the most beautiful letter in the world.

The words clarified the hours, days, and weeks it’s been since we got here. Two months, three weeks, and two days.

Max found a way to have a letter delivered to us. It was waiting on my mattress for me one night after returning from the farm.

I’d seen other children receive letters. I assume their families must still know where they are.

Not us. We were torn apart at the seams.

I’m still trying to understand how Max was able to find us. Now I reread the letter every morning on the truck ride over to the farm. It makes me feel as if he’s here beside me. His voice is clear in my head.

My Dearest Sisters and Alfie, a brother, nonetheless,

I don’t know when this letter will find you, if it ever does, but I had heard rumors that children without parents are being sent to another area of this ?ód? ghetto I’m in, but it’s not accessible to anyone here. The others call the place, Little Auschwitz, but I’m unsure of what that means.

I miss you all so much and do nothing but worry about you, and Mama and Papa too, of course. The ghetto is lonely despite the overcrowding. I haven’t made too many friends, but know a couple of people who are willing to help each other out. Just after I arrived and went through a bunch of screening tests, a Gestapo assigned me to forced labor while I wait on a ‘pending transfer’—whatever that might mean. I spend my days collecting deceased bodies around the enclosed village of broken-down buildings. Food is hard to come by unless we have something to trade, which is rare and impossible unless I find something shiny on the street. We receive bread and soup, but that’s about it.

What matters is, I’m healthy, on my feet and still here. I’m praying the rest of you are doing as well as possible.

Poor sweet Lilli must be terrified. I imagine there isn’t a glow of light at night when she’s trying to fall asleep. I’m hoping she’s managed to find a way to sleep in the dark. Make sure she knows how proud I am of her bravery and how much I miss her and love her.

And Alfie, I hope his ears are healing and he can hear better now. I hope he’s getting along well too and not starving himself completely to feed the two of you. I know you wouldn’t let him, but the two of you are one of a kind with your vow of generosity and kindness. We all need to survive so we can make it back to one another.

Despite whether this letter finds you or not, I will continue to write and I hope that if you read this, you will try to send a letter to me as well. I’m leaving an address for the post here in the ?ód? Ghetto.

I’m proud of you, Jordie. I know you’re being strong. I can feel it in my heart. I love you so very much. We all have warrior blood. Never forget that.

With all my love,

Max

I sent out a letter the very next morning. I told him all about the cruel labor duties and how many of the other girls have sewing jobs, shoe repairs, nursing the youngest children, or preparing food. But not me. The educators chose to stick me with physical labor, day after day without a break. But at least I’m with Alfie so I know he’s doing the best he can be doing too. I’ve assured Max Lilli is safest, holding a job of sewing and repairing uniforms. She’s falling asleep in the dark just fine, her hand in mine each night. We should all be so proud of her bravery.

I made sure to end my letter confirming that his note has been the happiest gift for the three of us. Since then, I’ve diligently kept track of the time, and know for certain it’s been four weeks and three days since I dropped my return letter into the outgoing post. Nothing has come in for us either. We haven’t heard another word from Max, which is almost worse than never hearing from him at all.

The laboring children surrounding me unload from the truck, spilling onto the field like cloudy marbles. It’s another cold, dry morning, my scalp itching from exposure to the sun and the odd length mimicking a rugged leafy root like the ones I pull from the ground. My wrists are extra sore today and blue veins draw lines between my knuckles and elbows, which I always seem to notice more than the effects over the rest of my body. Sometimes, I watch the mechanics of my bones twist and turn as I maneuver the shovel, wondering how the human body became so intricate and fascinating, complicated and still undiscovered by even the most brilliant doctors. I don’t think our bodies are intended to sustain the type of work and deprivation we endure everyday though. And I’m glad it’s rare to see a true reflection of what I look like now. Although, I see Lilli and Alfie, both skin and bones, sunken cheeks, and sallow eyes. Their heads appear too large for their neck and shoulders, and I feel that weight on mine.

I hit another rock with the tip of my shovel and the vibration rumbles through me, shaking my brain within my skull. My muscles are stiff from the cold wind and falling temperatures even though I continue to sweat through the work. My body must be confused.

A pinch on my side grabs my attention and I whip my head around, finding Alfie staring at me with his big eyeballs popping out of their sockets.

I mouth the words, “What’s wrong?”

He begins to tap the ground through code, and I miss the first few letters. He’s lost his ability to control the volume of his voice without the ability to hear himself, so he taps out his thoughts to me more than he says them out loud now.

I pick up on the following letters and form them into words, pushing my brain to work harder than I sometimes think I’m capable.

“—you just see that?”

He continues shoveling but holds his stare toward the trees just beyond the field rows. I peer over to the trees too, but I don’t see anything aside from swaying branches and leaves falling to the ground in colorful piles.

Delusions are common when starvation strikes us worse than usual. If one of us happens to do something as little as blink the wrong way at the wrong time, the educators will withhold our evening bread. It happens frequently.

Moments pass after Alfie’s frantic taps, and I keep peering out to the trees, wondering what he could have seen.

After a minute of nothing, I drop my shovel, sweep my arm across my forehead to stop sweat from falling into my eyes and begin to yank on the stubborn potato root.

Alfie grabs my wrist and rapidly taps the letters: L-O-O-K on the base of my palm.

After the very first tap, I was already looking and this time I see something. A figure. A man. A grown man, one not in uniform. Scrawny but tall, in factory clothes. He looks to be staring right at us but from the distance he’s at, he could be looking at a dozen of us clumped in the same area. I’ve never seen anyone between the trees. It’s blocked off and enclosed, or so we’ve been told.

My sack of potatoes is full to the brim, so I stand and pull the slack over my shoulder, bringing it toward the truck we load the bags onto. It’s situated closer to the tree line than where we’re digging. I swing the bag with all my might, hoping it clears the rim of the truck bed walls. It does, just barely, following a tumbling disturbance of bouncing potatoes.

With another glance toward the tree line, I see the person has moved, bringing themselves closer to the truck. A kapo guard stands between me and a closer view.

“What are you looking at?” she shouts to me.

I point to her feet, making my way closer to her. “I just saw a large mouse. I know you don’t care for—” the guard shrieks. Her fear of mice and working in the fields doesn’t make much sense to me but I assume they don’t have much more say than the rest of us.

She’s dancing in circles, searching for the rodent. As I’m within a close radius of her, I act to search around to help her, pointing every second or two and shouting, “There…” or “over there!”

She’s in tears before running for the truck to sweep her legs down.

I take a moment to graze the area by the trees, just close enough to make out details of this figure if he decides to show himself again.

And he does.

“Papa?” The word leaves my mouth as a silent gust of wind.

He presses his finger to his mouth and shakes his head. I want to run to him. My heart flutters in my stomach and tears burn the back of my eyes as I take another step toward him. But he waves at me to stop, fear brightly illuminating in his wide eyes.

“Where’s Lilli?” he asks by holding his hand at her head’s height compared to his chest.

How can I tell him without making a sound? I point in the direction of the ghetto and mouth the words, “She’s fine,” unsure if he can see my mouth clearly enough.

“Bring her tomorrow,” he whispers through the passing breeze.

I clutch my chest, wanting to go with him right now, take my chances and run, but I know the risks and I won’t leave the other two behind.

Tears fall from my eyes as I continue to stare at what very likely could be nothing more than a hungry delusion.