Crossing the River

7. Spring

7 Spring Sunday It was an ordinary Sunday in spring between Purim and Passover. Many things awaited Mother’s attention on the weekly day of rest. But Sunday was also the only day we could see one another a little, so I had taken to staying in our room rather than going outside with my friends. The day began with our lying in bed awhile, talking. We had so much to tell one another—impressions of what was happening in the work brigades and outside the gates, conversations with Lithuanians, and chance remarks overheard from Germans. We were examining the crumbs of information that came our way from every angle, about the war front—so slow in coming—about what might await us in our ghetto in light of fragmentary news from other ghettos, always in the complete absence of any reliable measure to determine exactly what was happening around us. Locked railroad cars had been seen standing on a side rail; black-lapeled officers had been seen surrounding the fence as though they were planning something; a high official had let slip a remark that swept through us like fire through a dry field. How were we to deal with these waves of information—and to remain sane and not abandon hope? On this particular morning, Mother was filling in the details of her last visit to my little sister and the results of her latest inquiries about a possible hiding place for me. But there was no point in stalling; it was time to get up.There was cooking to be done for the coming week, as well as laundry, sewing, and attending to many other matters. It was a pleasant day that Sunday. Mother finished her housework early, put off going out until later, and sat down with me for the only meal in the week that we ate together. At that hour, my sister was probably coming home from church with her Lithuanian family. Mother was at ease that day, although you could never be sure you really understood the meaning of her wise and silent looks. We were talking away about this and that, and had come around to a subject she was very fond of—opera. Mother must have been in an exceptionally good mood, 118 Chapter 7 perhaps because her migraine wasn’t bothering her that day. She may also, after four months, have begun learning how to deal better with the pain of having turned her daughter over to strangers. At any rate, she began humming parts of her favorite arias, just as she used to do a long time ago—perhaps the aria from La Traviata, or from Halevi’s The Jewess, or the one from Carmen, which we had seen during the last year before the war. Mother had wanted to be a singer. That same Sunday she told me—for the first time, which is why I remember it—that she had taken voice lessons, a field of study that I hadn’t known existed. Not content merely to know that there was such a thing, I begged Mother to show me what kind of exercises she did with her voice. So she sang several scales for me—the door of the room was closed—some rising, some falling, the way singers do when they are warming up, and I even pitched in, mimicking her and doing my best to follow. At a certain point I had to go to the bathroom. I opened the door to go out, and there in the adjoining kitchen were our neighbors, Rayah’s parents, just finishing their meal. On their faces were looks of wonder, ridicule, and amusement all mixed together—the idea of letting oneself go in the middle of the day like that, and in the ghetto, too! Later that day, Mother finished her errands and attended the meetings about which it was best to keep quiet. When we met again after the curfew had locked everyone in their houses, she was still relaxed. She told me the latest news she had picked up from her underground cell, about the preparations for a large exodus to the forest in the near future. We went to bed early that night, with our clothes laid out, as usual, for quick dressing. In the light of the oil wick I watched from the shadows the fatigued body of my mother as she arranged her clothing for the next day. Her extreme thinness was...