Three Sisters (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #3)(95)

‘So, when can we meet him?’ Livi repeats.

‘Slow down, we haven’t known each other that long,’ Magda says, in no hurry to pander to their intrigue.

‘OK, we’ll slow down, but you’re not getting any younger, Magda.’ Cibi’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

‘We’re going for a walk later. He says he needs to talk to me.’

‘He’s not slowing down, is he? He’s going to ask you to marry him, I just know it!’ Livi is beside herself.

From the living-room window, Cibi and Livi watch their sister walk towards a tall man with dark, wavy hair. He has a green blanket tucked under one arm, and he’s smiling. That smile tells the sisters all they need to know: it’s the look of a man in love. Livi and Cibi sigh in unison as the couple head off on their walk, hand in hand.

*

Yitzchak leads Magda to a small park not far from Cibi’s house. They stand beneath an orange tree, its ripe fruit threatening to drop any second. The sunset mimics the deep tones of the oranges poised above their heads. Yitzchak kicks away the fruit on the ground, creating a space for them to sit before he shakes out the blanket and lays it on the grass. Magda sits down and takes up an orange from the ground. Sliding a nail over the dimpled flesh, she lifts it to her nose, its sharp, sweet scent returning her instantly to the kibbutz.

‘You said you wanted to talk to me,’ Magda prompts. She feels suddenly shy with this man, and can barely meet his eyes.

‘I do, Magda,’ he says. ‘There is something I need to tell you before I ask you a question.’ Yitzchak takes the orange from her and Magda looks him in the eyes. ‘My sister has told me all about you and Cibi and Livi and your time in Auschwitz.’

‘They were in the camps much longer than me,’ says Magda. ‘I was there for less than a year.’

‘And you all survived the death march,’ he continues, and Magda nods. Yitzchak is the one to look away now. ‘I am so sorry that you and your sisters were in that evil place.’

‘Well, we’re here now and that evil place is behind us.’

Yitzchak rolls up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a tattoo of numbers. Magda’s mouth drops open. ‘You were there too? In Auschwitz?’

‘I was there, with my brother, Myer.’

‘And you survived too,’ says Magda, with a grin. But Yitzchak is not smiling; he looks worried. She waits for him to say something, but he has fallen silent, staring at the numbers on his arm. ‘What is it, Yitzchak? Is there more?’

‘It’s difficult to explain. I heard your story from Yeti; it was awful, the worst story I have ever heard. I can barely understand how you are all so sane, given what you had to endure.’

‘We had each other,’ says Magda, simply.

‘It wasn’t like that for me.’ Yitzchak looks away into the distant edges of the parkland.

‘You weren’t in a holiday camp, you were in Auschwitz,’ exclaims Magda. ‘No one had an easy time of it. You mustn’t compare our experiences. Please, Yitzchak, it will drive you mad.’

‘How can I not, Magda? My brother and I survived because we were cooks. We prepared meals for the SS and what they didn’t eat, we did. I don’t remember ever being hungry.’

‘You feel guilty? For not suffering as much as my sisters did?’

‘I do,’ says Yitzchak, fervently. ‘Very much so.’

Magda reaches for his hand. She understands this feeling. ‘I know how you feel; I was living at home with Mumma and my grandfather for two years while my sisters suffered. Can you imagine how I reacted when I saw them again? I was healthy and they looked like they were dying.’

‘But still .?.?.’

‘But nothing! My sisters won’t let me feel guilty; there is nothing I can do to change what happened in the way it happened. I’m learning to live with it, but this is what I truly believe – you and I survived and that’s all that matters. We all survived. How we did it means absolutely nothing. We’re here now, in our promised land.’

‘Are you saying your sisters would forgive me?’

‘For what? Having a full belly? Do you think we wouldn’t have swapped places with you in a heartbeat, Yitzchak? There is no honour in suffering, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.’ Magda’s eyes flash as she speaks and she knows her words are for herself as much as this tall, kind man. ‘Thank you for telling me your story; it makes no difference to how I feel about you.’

Yitzchak squeezes Magda’s hand. ‘There’s more,’ he says.

‘Go on,’ Magda says, warily.

‘I was married before the war,’ he tells her, looking up into the orange tree.

‘A lot of people were married before the war. Mischka was too.’

‘Cibi’s husband? I didn’t know that. Not only was I married, Magda, but I had two little girls.’ His voice breaks and his face crumbles.

‘Oh, no, I am so sorry,’ Magda whispers.

‘I lost them in Auschwitz.’

Magda draws closer to Yitzchak and gently wipes the tears from his cheeks. His eyes meet hers, and there is pain in them, but there is something else too – something she recognises: hope. No more words are needed as Magda understands the ways in which they can share their pain and grief.