becomes Ęesh again. Somehow she makes me understand: She has
crossed the burning bridge to return to me.
“You idiot,” I say, “you could have run.”
* * *It’s April now. Grass bursts green on the hills. Light stretches each day.
Children spit at us as we pass through the outskirts of a town. How
sad, I think, that these children have been brainwashed to hate me.
“You know how I’m going to get revenge?” Magda says. “I’m going
to kill a German mother. A German kills my mother; I’m going to kill a
German mother.”
I have a different wish. I wish for the boy who spits at us to one day
see that he doesn’t have to hate. In my revenge fantasy, the boy who
yells at us now—“Dirty Jew! Vermin!”—holds out a bouquet of roses.
“Now I know,” he says, “there’s no reason to hate you. No reason at
all.” We embrace in mutual absolution. I don’t tell Magda my fantasy.
* * *One day as dusk comes, the SS shove us into a community hall where
we’ll sleep for the night. There’s no food again.
“Anyone who leaves the premises will be shot immediately,” the
guard warns.
“Dicuka,” Magda moans as we sink onto the wooden boards that
will be our bed, “soon it’s going to be the end for me.”
“Shut up,” I say. She is scaring me. Her despondence is more
terrifying to me than a raised gun. She doesn’t talk like this. She
doesn’t give up. Maybe I’ve been a burden to her. Maybe keeping me
strong through my illness has depleted her. “You’re not going to die,” I
tell her. “We’re going to eat tonight.”
“Oh, Dicuka,” she says, and rolls toward the wall.
I’ll show her. I’ll show her there’s hope. I’ll get a little food. I’ll