Beyond the Shadow of Night(43)

While Asher and Papa worked for worthless money, Mama and the girls went out begging for food. But they only ever seemed to meet more beggars.

“Why do you still work?” Mama would ask Papa. “Nobody has anything to sell you.”

At first he would reply that he was buying food. Not much, but some. And some was more than none. He would also complain about the influx of people, about how still more people were arriving and were somehow being squeezed into that small area of Warsaw. “One dead body is carried out, two living ones arrive,” he would say. “Net result: one more mouth to feed.”

One evening, while Papa was resting on the bed, there was a knock at the door. Asher answered it, and a man asked for Papa. His papa groaned but he went out to the man, shutting the door behind him.

Asher listened. The two men argued for a few minutes, then Papa came back in, slamming the door behind him. He sighed and hesitated before speaking.

“Everyone, stop what you’re doing and sit down.” He waited until he had their attention before trying to continue. “They say . . . that is, the authorities say . . .”

“What?” Mama said. “What is it?”

“Well, they talk of a shortage of housing.”

She glanced around the room, at the sink at one end, the table in the middle, the bed and mattresses on the floor at the other. “And that’s supposed to be news?”

Papa looked down toward his feet. “We’ll be sharing this room with a young Polish couple.”

Mama laughed, but Asher could see it was an empty, desperate laugh.

“We can’t do that,” she said. “Tell them no. We won’t accept it.”

Papa held a hand up. “No. Look. It’s happening.”

“You mean, eating, sleeping, and washing with strangers? I don’t think so.”

“Please!” Papa roared.

Mama’s face trembled. She shook her head in dismay.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for shouting, Golda. But . . . this is not a choice.”

She nodded slowly. Papa put an arm around her and beckoned their three children toward him.

“We don’t have a choice,” he continued. “And neither do our new guests. We must welcome them.”

“Well, yes,” Mama said, huffing. “I guess you’re right. We can’t complain to them or blame them.”

“And we won’t,” Rina replied. “We all know whose fault this is.”



Oskar and Sala Slominski arrived late one evening. They were clearly weak and very frightened. They apologized for the inconvenience, speaking in short, nervous breaths, nodding hellos to everyone, and glancing furtively around the room.

Asher thought they were probably not much older than him, perhaps early twenties. Sala was a petite woman, Oskar was tall and thin, towering over the Kogans, almost threatening to fall over like an unstable building. The fact that he had a red birthmark on his face, covering one cheek and the side of his neck, made him look even more fragile, and at first Asher found it hard not to look at the mark.

“Sit down,” Papa said to them. “Relax. And you don’t need to apologize.”

They still seemed uncertain, clinging on to their suitcases.

“I’ll get you some sweet milk,” Mama said. “I’m afraid it won’t be hot; heating is in short supply.”

The Slominskis thanked her, settled their suitcases in a corner of the room as if they contained fragile ornaments, and sat at the table with the Kogans.

It turned out they only spoke Polish, but the Kogans had learned the language to varying degrees, so they found common ground to converse well enough.

“How far have you come?” Papa asked them.

“I’m not sure,” Oskar said, still a little disoriented.

Sala continued. “We’ve come from a small town in the north, not too far from Danzig. We were only told early this morning. We had to pack everything into two suitcases each.”

“At gunpoint, I suppose,” Mama said from the kitchen end of the room.

Sala nodded, her face pained.

Oskar held her hand. “It was more like the middle of the night when they came for us. Sala was very frightened.” He paused for a moment. “Me too. I don’t like guns.”

“We weren’t told anything about where we were going,” Sala said. “We’d all heard the stories of camps where the living conditions are unbearable.” She looked up at Oskar and squeezed his hand. “But I feel better now. This is a nice apartment. You’re good people.”

Papa raised his eyebrows at his children. “You’ve caught us on a good day.”

Mama brought over the two cups of milk. “I’m sorry, we have little food. We can only offer you a small piece of challah each.”

Oskar looked to Sala, and she gave her head a little shake.

“Thank you,” Oskar said. “But right now we need rest more than food.” He looked behind him. “Will we have a separate room?”

Mama and Papa exchanged glances. “What you see,” Papa said. “The one room. This is it.”

It took a few moments for the arrangement to sink in, then Oskar and Sala looked down at their cups of milk. Oskar took a sip and let out a gasp. “Delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”