CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA, NOVEMBER 1946
Each day is supposed to be easier than the last, or so say the books written about the human psyche. I found an entire shelf dedicated to psychology books in the school library. I’d rather lose myself in a fictional story, but I’m not sure I can allow my mind to drift that far away from reality when I spend my time sitting around, wondering about the whys of the universe. The looping questions in my head will only continue to torture me if I don’t search for answers. I’m not sure I’ll find an answer in any of the books, but maybe some understanding of how I can forgive, forget, and move on. One book I read suggested this theory for internal growth. I’d like to ask the author if they would forgive Hitler, those who supported him, the Nazis, and especially Dr. Mengele for what they did. To forget would mean putting aside the memories of my sister and parents, as well as the atrocious sights I witnessed.
I shift my stack of books into my right arm and knock on Miss Blum’s door, which is open just enough that I can see she’s focusing on paperwork. But I believe I’m right on time for our appointment. We switched times once school began so now we meet on Tuesdays at three.
“Arina,” she says, greeting me with a smile. I’ve become more curious about Miss Blum as our sessions have continued. She listens to me talk a lot, and she says I’ve become quite the chatterbox compared to when we first began meeting, which shows progress. Before life in Auschwitz, no one ever had to prompt me to talk. I was quite the opposite. I realize now, maybe I wasn’t very good at giving others a chance to speak in my presence. One of the psychology books says: People are more likable and trustworthy if they listen more than they talk.
I close the door and take a seat on the sofa beneath the window, resting my books down by my ankle. “How was your day?” I ask Miss Blum.
She tilts her head to the side and smiles. “How kind of you to ask. I’ve had a productive day.” I wasn’t inquiring about her work.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask her, knowing my question is inappropriate, but I’ve noticed none of the other staff members approach her too often. They seem to have close connections with one another, but not with Miss Blum. I wonder if she’s lonely, especially since she hasn’t been living here in the US for very long either.
A rosy blush flourishes through her pale cheeks. “Goodness, I wasn’t expecting such a question like that from you today,” she says. “What makes you so curious about my personal life?”
I shrug but notice the flicker in her eyes as she contemplates what I’ve asked. If I ever go too far off topic during our discussions, she will jot down some notes to return to the subject later, but not this time.
“When I look in the mirror while brushing my hair in the mornings, I notice frown lines along the edges of my lips. If I’m not mistaken, I’m too young to have age marks, yet I see them clearer than day. If I had to guess, I wouldn’t think you were more than ten years older than I am, but you also have the same frown lines.” After the words come tumbling out, I know right away how I sound—offensive, but she doesn’t react.
Miss Blum never reacts with shock to anything I say. How can anyone be so understanding of the horrors I describe? The book I’m halfway through says: Sometimes a person who has experienced trauma will describe the situation with simplistic details unless prompted to say more, but conversely, a person who offers up too much all at once about a terrible experience might exaggerate for the sake of needing validation. It’s another fact I could prove incorrect, but only because there is no simple way to explain what I’ve been through. Without details, the facts wouldn’t be believable.
“Life during a war will age a person,” she says. “I don’t think those lines, which are too faint for me to see from here, should mark the proof of age rather than strength.”
“You must be strong too then,” I reply.
“Not as strong as you,” she says. “What is it you’re reading? That’s quite a stack of books.”
I lift the top one from the pile and study the cover for a moment. “Behind the Eyes,” I say, “written by Adam Alto, PhD. It’s a book about psychology. These all are. I’ve been curious about what makes certain people act the way they do, and I thought I might find some insight in these.”
Lines etch across Miss Blum’s forehead as she stares at the pile of books on the ground. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of that one. May I look?”
I pass the book over to her. Just before releasing my grip, I notice the sleeve of her blouse has skated up her arm. The burn she has been nursing for so long is no longer concealed by a bandage. I’m frozen in place, still holding on to the book. “You have a number.” It isn’t a question. I can see the digits branded into her skin.
Miss Blum straightens her posture, giving up on taking the book from my hand. She pulls the cuff of her sleeve back down to her wrist and rests her hands on her lap. Her gaze follows. “Have you given any more thought to sending a few letters to the Red Cross in search of any information on your family members?”
I might change the subject if I were her, too. “Have you?” I ask, knowing she isn’t much different from me at all.
“Arina,” she says, clearing her throat. Discomfort is something I’m very familiar with and hers is much more obvious now.
“I have written two letters in the last month but haven’t received a response,” I say.
“It can take a while, I’m sure. I can’t imagine how many letters they must receive daily.”
It’s not an excuse—not to those whose lives have been torn apart at the seams and destroyed in every inhumane way. The very least anyone could do is give us closure, or hope, if we’re lucky.
“Were you a prisoner in Auschwitz?” There’s no point in hiding my question. She will probably dodge anything I ask, but I’m certain the answer is yes. “You are from Poland, right?” I realize there are many more prison camps than anyone originally knew, and it didn’t matter what country someone originated from.
“Arina, I cannot discuss my personal life or history with you. Do you understand this?”
“No,” I tell her. “This world is a horrible place and I have never known loneliness could feel worse than being a prisoner some days. To find someone else who might understand an ounce of the same pain seems impossible, especially here on a different continent—one I didn’t choose to move to. If I was still in Europe, I would have others to talk to who have been through what I have, but not here. The chances of finding another living being who survived Auschwitz in Chicago, Illinois, at one of the several orphanages around this city, is so unlikely.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you feel less alone,” she says.
The rules set to protect doctors and therapists and patients were determined before the war. The psychology books are a decade old, maybe longer than that for some. The rules don’t all apply now. Life has changed, and people have had to adapt. The only thing I have learned from these books and this session with Miss Blum is that there is no hope. There is no possibility of forgiveness or ways to forget.