Helena follows me and kneels, helping Arina into a better position by rolling her onto her back. My heart hiccups, like the drunken villager we used to see stumbling down the road on a Saturday night. The pain in my stomach hasn’t subsided, even with falling sick outside. I’m nothing of concern compared to Arina. Helena has pretty hazel eyes, but they are bulging over her defined cheekbones. Her light-colored hair is short, cut unevenly, as if someone wearing a blindfold took a pair of scissors to her. Her lips are as chapped and dry as mine, and her collarbone sinks so deeply it compares to a fruit bowl.
“I have something that will bring her fever down,” she says.
“My sister, too,” the other girl from across the room says.
Helena takes a quick moment to check the others before fleeing out the door. When I realize we are all alone once again, the stench of vomit hits me like a cloud of smoke. I pull myself down to my side, cradling my arm over Arina’s body as I rest my head in the crook of her shoulder. Please God, help us. Please.
NINE
ARINA
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA, SEPTEMBER 1946
The mirror holds too much truth, forcing me to see a stranger’s reflection every day. Using my fingers, I pull my hair back into a twist and secure it with the one pin I’ve been using all week. Mrs. Vallentine brought me a week’s worth of clothes and a few hygienic essentials because, as she said, “Hair pins are not vital.” But to me, they are vital to offset the puffiness of my eyelids and the slight bags beneath my bottom lashes. I constantly look tired. Some of the body weight I’ve regained seems to sit at the bottom of my cheeks, causing a sullen appearance. I’ve never felt disproportionate before but maybe that’s because Mama always told Nora and I that we have beautiful aesthetics, and we would never have to try hard to look good each morning. But life took a physical toll on me and I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.
I part ways with the mirror and snag my navy-blue sweater off the edge of my bed and pause before opening the door.
I have yet to wish for a Monday to come sooner because I don’t mind my therapy appointments with Miss Blum as much as I did last month, but it’s never the highlight of my week. I don’t think the other kids who are here because of past trauma enjoy their therapy sessions much either, but most of us don’t have a say in the matter. Mrs. Vallentine will not allow me back into my proper room until there has been a discussion between her and Miss Blum. Since my nightmare occurred on a Monday night, it’s been a long week of sitting in this windowless room with little to do except travel back and forth to the mess hall, washroom, and toilets, then back here to stare at the small, brown-framed clock hanging above the door of these milky white bleak walls. I don’t mind the silence or being alone, but with nothing to do, there’s too much time for my mind to wander. Nora might appreciate such simplicity since I’m sure she could find something appealing about this boring room that she could replicate into a drawing, which would ultimately look better than the physical object. She had so much talent but I can’t even draw a stick figure person without messing it up somehow. I hate to wonder if Nora is watching over me from heaven or if she’s somewhere far away wishing to be with me just as much as I need to be with her. Worse, I hate wondering if I’ll ever find an answer about her status or whereabouts. Same for Mama and Papa.
My appointment with Miss Blum is in ten minutes and I’ll need to prove I’m not the misbehaved teenager my paperwork likely describes me as.
With each step down the hallway, I do my best to ignore the stares and not-so-subtle glances from the others who are coming and going. School begins in just a week, and it seems everyone is preparing for the change in routine. Or maybe they’re trying to steal the last few minutes of summer by congregating at the boy’s kickball field. Even before this past week, I made little effort to create friendships. I’ve been amiable to whoever approaches me, but I leave the effort there. The Arina I used to be would collect friends as if they were trading cards, but I wouldn’t trade any of them. Yet they traded me in when Europe was told how terrible Jewish people were and made us sound like we were contagious. I was lucky enough to always have Nora, a built-in best friend who I never had to worry about impressing or leaving me behind. Though, she didn’t see socializing in the same light as me. Hives would sometimes form on her neck if I dragged her to an outing with the other girls our age. No matter how many times she told me she didn’t want to attend a gathering, I always pleaded with her to come. When she did, my friends were her friends and there was no difference between us, but Nora preferred quieter activities, so we had to part ways sometimes.
Miss Blum’s door is open, but I tap my knuckles against the yellow oak door. She lifts her head from the paperwork she was focusing on and greets me with a smile. I hadn’t noticed before now that she’s missing teeth on both sides of the back of her mouth. It was common in Auschwitz. Without dental care or proper means of hygiene, many adults suffered with rotting teeth.
“Arina, it’s so nice to see you this morning. Come in and take a seat,” she says, welcoming me.
I close the door on the way into her office. The sheer blue curtains against the view of the back garden and the ivory walls covered with floral paintings give this space a warm feel. Her office is pristine and cozy—a stark difference from the room I’ve been living in all week. If sunlight is supposed to make people happier, why put me in a room without a window? Maybe Mrs. Vallentine is looking for a way to get rid of me. I’m just another mouth to feed and I’ll be eighteen within the year. Adoption is not on the cards for me.
In her sharp steel-gray pencil skirt and matching short-sleeve coat, Miss Blum moves from her desk to the plush chair across from the matching navy-blue sofa where I’m sitting.
“I received the report just this morning about your nightmare and,” she peers down at a small note in her hand, “the following outburst and explanation you gave.” Miss Blum locks her knees together, and leans forward, pressing her elbows into her thighs. “Do you agree with the decision Mrs. Vallentine made when she sent you to stay in a solitary room for the week?”
I swallow against the tightening in my throat and stare down at the missing stitches along the hem of my dress. I’ve been trying to avoid pulling at the loose thread, but it’s inevitably going to happen. “If the room had a window, furniture rather than a couple of milk crates they gave me to store my clothes, and perhaps a radio or a couple of books, I wouldn’t have been too upset. However, Mrs. Vallentine made it clear I was being punished for making up a story about my nightmare. For that reason, I disagree with her reaction. Her intolerance for the truth is maddening. With a week to think and understand her reasoning, or lack thereof, it has become clearer to me why so many people turned a blind eye to what was happening in Europe.”
Miss Blum straightens her posture and folds her hands over her lap. “The life that many Europeans lived is one many people, especially here in the United States, could never imagine, nor would they want to think life could be so cruel.”
I pinch the thread from the hem between my fingers, pulling gently. “So, we are supposed to act as if life was like a dream for us while facing the depths of hell?”