Dale’s jaw falls and his eyes widen with a clear look of shock. “That’s incredible, Arina! I’m so—so thrilled for you. You deserve this more than anyone I know,” he says. “But why do you seem upset by this?”
I wrap my arms around my chest, finally feeling the icy rain seep into my sweater. “Just like everyone else here, she hates me, too. I ruined her life. It’s a long story.” I drop my gaze from him, unable to look into his eyes as I silently tell myself I’m a monster who doesn’t deserve to be alive.
Dale glances over toward the window along the door, then pulls me toward him. “I can’t imagine what the two of you have been through separately, together, and apart, but I’m sure you both need a bit of time to readjust. I would think that would be quite normal after everything that’s happened.”
“Readjust. That’s what she was trying to say.”
“I don’t understand,” Dale says.
“Never mind.”
He slips his hand beneath my chin, and I watch rain drops drip from his hair and fall onto his coat. “Be patient with her. She’s still your sister inside, and nothing—nothing in this world can break that bond.”
I blink away the rain and tears forming between my lashes, wishing I could see life the way he does. “I’ve ruined her life, Dale.”
“You couldn’t have,” he says.
I clench my eyes and my lips together, suppressing the sob building in my throat.
Dale’s cool lips touch mine, stealing my breath with surprise. He pulls me in against him and wraps his arm around my back. “Give her time.” When I open my eyes, I see the truth in his and I want to believe his every word. “Go back inside and dry off. The rain should end by morning. Meet me on the roof tomorrow night. We’ll talk more then.”
I nod and look up at him once more. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say before turning around and making a run for the front door.
Two Years Earlier
Poland, February 1945
This black woven cot, like all the others I’ve used temporarily over the last few weeks, is sagging in the middle, making it hard to sit up straight. I can’t bear the thought of lying down all day, though, and the cement ground is too cold to sit for long. I believe we’re currently in the basement of a large church, where the soldiers brought us two days ago after leaving the last refugee center that was overfilled. Upon arrival, they immediately led us down a steep set of stone steps into another large open area lined with hundreds of cots, like the last few places I’ve been.
Through one of the many announcements made this morning, I learned that I’m part of a group being sent to a nearby orphanage today. The thought of staying in one place for more than a couple days would be a treat, but we can assume nothing to be permanent now. There is still far too much administrative work to be done to organize all the people who are searching for their families. The frustration runs deep for everyone, not just me. It’s easy to see through all the arched shoulders, dipping heads, arms draped over faces, and some who refuse to sit up and look around. The thought of fleeing the crowds of helpless Jewish people and making a run for it is tempting, despite knowing the world is still at war. We should all be so grateful that the allied countries have gained power on German soil, giving us hope of safety. If I followed some of the others, I would have to beg and likely sleep in the cold, but I can’t help wondering if it might be better than being passed around like the last cigarette between a group of tired soldiers.
None of the others seem up to talking much, making this situation lonelier with endless time to grieve and think. Although I haven’t made much of an effort to talk to anyone either. It seems like more energy than it’s worth when everyone is shuffling around so frequently.
“People related to family members with the surname Goldmann and originated from Southern Transdanubia, Hungary, please approach the family services line to possibly reconnect with displaced family.”
I wish my last name was Goldmann. The number of announcements shouting through bullhorns are hard to keep up with, but I know I have to listen for when they are rounding up children whose last names start with t, u, or v.
Day after day I watch my surroundings, looking for a familiar face, someone smiling for what might be the first time in years, or even someone else finding a reunion of their own. If good things happen to others, there’s a chance it could happen for me too. Those moments are few here.
“Youths with last names that begin with t, u, or v, please approach the youth community line. Bring your belongings.”
I take my linen bag filled with a couple of donated sets of clothes and drag my tired feet down the long row of cots. Very few others move about. I haven’t seen nearly as many children as adults in the last week. I’m not sure what that means either.
As I approach the short line behind a few other children receiving instructions, I glance over at the family services line, which is much longer. It seems some family members have just found each other. They’re in tears, hugging each other. It’s hard to say if they’re distant relatives or close, but any relative is a blessing and I would do anything to switch lines.
“Dear God,” someone shouts. “Mordi!” A man who was approaching the family line peers up from a paper he was reading, and his jaw falls open. He covers his mouth and closes his eyes. “Gerti, my baby sister—you’re alive. God has blessed us. You are alive!” He drops his paper and runs, lifting his sister up and swinging her around.
Despite being happy for them, my heart breaks again. I want that. Just one more blessing beyond surviving hell. It’s all I want, and I’ll never ask God for anything ever again.
TWENTY
NORA
CHICAGO, UNITED STATES, JANUARY 1947
I’ve been staring at the back of the door in our new room since Arina slammed it fifteen minutes ago. The whittled contours along the wooden frame in several shades of chestnut brown are beautiful in contrast to the bronze door handle and keyhole. It’s something new to look at, which I might need if Arina plans to keep herself away from me after all this time.
She’s in shock. As am I. I’m also tired and heartbroken. Neither of us were expecting a reunion of any kind, and nothing about this feels right. We should be holding on to each other, smiling, laughing, thanking God. Yet we’re not. I don’t understand her feelings and she doesn’t understand mine, and what’s worse, neither of us seems to understand our own emotions. We used to be completely in sync with each other.
The wheelchair is likely bothering her and the fact that my ability to speak has clearly gone from poor to awful. Arina has always been a ray of sunlight and could never handle the thought of someone getting hurt or becoming ill. She would shut down and become abnormally quiet. She would hide from those who were suffering, but it wasn’t a malicious trait—it was a weakness. If someone in school vomited, she would be halfway down the hall, covering her ears before the kid even realized what was happening to them. She is sensitive, I guess.
We had talked when she showed me around the building, but our conversation was about the varying temperatures she’s experienced in Chicago and a little about Mrs. Vallentine. Arina became quiet when I mentioned Helena Blum’s name because she was having trouble wrapping her head around the fact that she was with us in Auschwitz and Arina never met her, or if she did, she doesn’t recall. She wouldn’t remember that Helena was the one who helped her when she was suffering from a high fever since she was unconscious. I wonder if Helena remembers that moment with her, too.