The Things We Cannot Say(27)

After that, Mama sewed pockets into all of my skirts for my identity paperwork, and I stewed in my anger toward Father. I was certain that he was being unfair, that I was perfectly capable of remembering the rules if he gave me the chance to prove myself. The problem with rage is that it takes a lot of energy to maintain, and the very nature of our situation with the twins gone was that all of my energy had to be reserved for farmwork.

Whether or not I was allowed to leave the farm to visit with people in the township became a moot point because most days, I didn’t even have the energy to walk to the field boundary for a chat with Justyna. And whether or not I had a pocket in my skirt remained equally irrelevant, because most mornings I still forgot to put the identity card inside. We hadn’t yet had any spot checks from soldiers checking our ID cards on the farm, and while Father’s story of the lapanka roundups in town had frightened me a little, I didn’t yet appreciate how close the danger was.

Monday to Saturday I toiled with Mama on the land, sometimes working in the fields from before the sun rose until after it had set again. I’d take the animals to graze before the sun rose, let the chickens out to roam the house yard, and then I’d join my parents in the fields. Almost everything that needed to be done had to be done by hand, an endlessly laborious cycle of plowing and planting and weeding and harvesting, then ploughing again. Mama, Father and my two strapping brothers had struggled to keep up even with my halfhearted help, but now the twins were gone, and with Father’s rheumatism worsening whenever the cold came in, Mama and I had to struggle to maintain the usual workload, effectively on our own. The blisters on my hands grew until they joined and then popped, and the raw skin gradually morphed into a thick, dirt-stained callus that covered each palm. I spent so much of the daytime bending over in the fields that by nighttime, I’d have to lie in a fetal position because my back would spasm if I tried to lie straight.

I fretted for my brothers and for Tomasz, but during the daytime, the mere act of surviving took so much energy that thoughts of those missing were just background noise beneath the constant terror. We had to make the land work harder because our very survival depended on it. I had no capacity during the long days to think about anything other than work and the dread that would leave me frozen every time we saw a Nazi vehicle anywhere near our gate.

It was only when the frantic activity stopped at bedtime that I’d let myself focus on Filipe, Stanislaw and Tomasz. I’d pray for my brothers with whatever energy I had left, and then I’d open my drawer, fumble for Mama’s ring and fix my mind for one pure moment on Tomasz.

Sometimes I relived a memory, sometimes I imagined a reunion, often I thought about our wedding day, planning that victorious moment in irrational detail, right down to the number of ruby-red poppies I’d carry in my bouquet. I could still see him so clearly in my mind—the laughing green eyes, the lopsided smile, the way his hair flopped forward onto his forehead and he’d push it back out of habit, only for it to fall forward again immediately.

The problem was that once thoughts of Tomasz filled my mind, desperate longing was never far behind. In the quiet seconds before sleep overtook me, I was sometimes overcome with despair at my helplessness, and I’d wake with gritty eyes from having sobbed myself to sleep.

I had no power to change my lot. All I had was the breath in my lungs and a tiny fragment of hope that if I kept moving forward, I could survive until someone else changed my world.

The quotas for our produce increased and increased. Eventually Father had to load the cart with all of our produce, and he’d take it all into town to hand over to the soldiers. In return, they would give him our allotment of ration stamps. The first time he returned with food, I thought I’d somehow misunderstood the arrangement.

“You have to go collect the food every day?”

“No, Alina,” Father said impatiently. “This must last us the week.”

The rations were not simply scant, they were untenable. Father had returned with a bag of flour, small blocks of butter and cheese, a half dozen eggs and some tinned meat.

“How will we live off this?” I asked my parents. “We have so much work to do—how can we run the farm with just the three of us when they are only feeding us scraps?”

“There are plenty who have it worse than us,” Mama said.

“Worse?” It seemed unfathomable. Mama’s gaze grew impatient, but this time, it was Father who spoke.

“This is nearly seven hundred calories per day, for each of us. The Jews are only allotted two hundred calories each per day. And, child, you think our farmwork is hard? Come into the town with me next time and see the way the Jewish work crews are being treated.”

“I want to go into the town,” I said, lifting my chin. “You won’t let me.”

“It is not safe for you there, Alina! Do you know what kinds of things those monsters have done to some of the girls in the township? Do you know what might—”

“We will get by,” Mama interrupted him suddenly, and we all fell quiet. It seemed to me that we had a choice: break the rules and survive, or follow the rules and starve, and I was terrified my parents were going to choose the second option. I cleared my throat, and I suggested, “We could just keep some of our food...just a little? We can just take a few eggs or some of the vegetables—”

“The invaders say that our farms belong to the Reich now,” Father said. “Withholding our produce would see us imprisoned, or worse. Do not suggest such a thing again, Alina.”