Day After Night (25 page)

“What a schmuck,” Shayndel sputtered.

“What do you expect?” said Tirzah. “At least he gets things done.”

Shayndel pulled off her apron, muttering Yiddish curses under her breath. She was
familiar with arrogant men; among her partisan comrades, self-importance had been
a survival skill, as essential as the ability to sleep on the ground. Even so, in
her outfit, the boys knew better than to pretend that they were tougher or smarter
than the girls.

Nathan’s conceit made her want to scream. She was so wound up she didn’t even try
to sit down for lunch but stayed in the kitchen, pacing and sipping a cup of tepid
tea. Every few moments, her hand went to her left shoulder, searching for the strap
of the small machine gun she had carried for nearly two years in the forest. The damned
thing used to slip off a hundred times a day and she was forever pushing it back.

“Some women fuss with their scarves,” Malka would tease, “but for Shayndel, it’s her
darling gun.”

Shayndel assumed that the Palmach would not be handing her a weapon. We will be herded
like prize livestock, she thought; they will take us out through the fence on the
north side of camp, the emptiest, darkest, and least-defended flank. From there they
will hurry us through those fields to trucks or buses, and then …

Thinking about what lay ahead set Shayndel’s heart pounding again, as though she were
already on her way, crawling through a gash in the fence, running after strangers
into a moonless night. She knew something about escapes.

During the war, she had helped Jews through the shadowy forest, always in the worst
kind of weather, it seemed. There was one family with seven-year-old twin boys who
arrived during an ice storm, all of them frightened out of their senses. The only
way to get them to cross a frozen river on their way to the campsite was for the partisans
to drag them across on their coats.

Shayndel remembered talking down to them, as though they were stupid, as though she
were above feeling the kind of fear that rose off them like steam.

Shayndel started scrubbing the stove, moving her arm back and forth, one-
two,
let’s-
go,
ba-
dum,
so focused that she didn’t notice when Goldberg came in.

“This kitchen doesn’t deserve such devotion, I promise you,” he said.

“It’s just something to do,” she replied. “I’m going a little crazy. The waiting is
hard.”

He took the brush out of her hand. “Go outside,” he said. “Get some fresh air. It’s
a nice day.”

She did as she was told, but once she got out into the sunshine, she didn’t know what
to do with herself. She headed back to the barrack to change her shirt, which was
soaked.

She had only one other blouse, an ugly beige cast-off with a stain on the sleeve.
At least I have good shoes, she thought, looking down fondly at the sturdy brown brogans
she’d gotten from the Red Cross. She decided she would wear the short pants for the
escape. They were her favorite item of clothing because of their deep pockets, front
and back, and because they had once belonged to a boy named Marvin Ornish, whose mother
had sewn a tag with his name into the waistband, securing it with a hundred tiny stitches.

She looked around, at the valises stuffed under the beds, the sacks hanging from rafters.
She used to envy the others their rescued treasures, but not anymore. At least I don’t
have to worry about schlepping or leaving anything behind, she thought.

Shayndel had a few useful pieces of clothes and a leather rucksack, but the possessions
that mattered most to her fit into the envelope tucked under her mattress. She withdrew
the photographs, slowly, one at a time. There was Malka, smiling right into the lens,
fully aware of how pretty she was, though the picture didn’t do her justice. Her hair
was much blonder than the black-and-white image suggested, and her brown eyes were
flecked with green. She was curvy under the baggy jacket and wool trousers.

Wolfe never looked at the camera. He turned to gaze into the distance, showing off
his impressive profile. It was an odd vanity in a man who seemed to care so little
about his appearance. From the front, he was a garden-variety Jew, strange-looking,
even, with his left eye a bit higher than the right. But from the side, with his dark
brown hair, straight and heavy and hanging over that long, aquiline nose, he looked
both intellectual and imposing. And he knew it.

Shayndel pulled out the picture of the three of them standing on cobblestones outside
a church. Wolfe was in the middle, of course. I look like their little sister, she
thought, which is why everyone thought that Malka and Wolfe were the couple and I
was the third wheel. She put her finger on Wolfe’s mouth.

Why was I smiling like that? Had he said something funny? Or was it Shmuley behind
the camera who made me laugh?

Shmuley had been the company clown, and he had been in especially good spirits the
day of this picture. He had just recovered from a horrible bout of diarrhea. They
had been pinned down for a week, cut off by the icy roads and the threat of desperate,
starving deserters, and Shmuley had been so sick that Malka had wanted to get a doctor
for him. She had gotten into a big fight with Wolfe about it, but he said it was too
dangerous and put his foot down.

Shmuley got well without a doctor. But he was killed just a month after the picture
was taken. A sniper. Out of the blue. Shayndel had no photograph of him.

What was his last name? “Oh my God,” she whispered, horrified that she could not remember.

She put the snapshots away carefully, placing them inside her scarred backpack. Her
mother had scolded Papa when he
gave it to her. “That is not feminine enough for a girl,” she said. “Give it to Noah.”

“It will keep her powder dry,” said Papa, who loved to plague them with puns.

It was quiet in the barrack. The rhythmic drumming had become a dull throb just below
her navel. Let’s-
go,
let’s-
go,
let’s-
go
.

Shayndel walked to the clearing in front of the dining hall where Uri was holding
his class. The day was perfectly clear, warm but no longer humid, and yet Tedi was
sweating heavily as she stood before him, her face flushed and her fists clenched.

“This is not appropriate for girls,” Uri shouted, at the end of his patience. “It’s
a kind of fighting that is too crude for you. Hand-to-hand. Brutal. When you reach
the kibbutz, they’ll teach you to handle a gun, but not this.”

“Why shouldn’t I know how to defend myself?” Tedi said. “I want to learn to do what
you showed him.” She pointed at one of the boys.

Shayndel slipped in beside Leonie and asked, “What’s going on?”

“He was teaching them how to break away if someone grabs you from behind.”

“There is no need for you to learn this. One of our men will take care of you,” Uri
argued.

“But what if I’m alone?”

“Someone as pretty as you?”

“Show her,” said Shayndel, moving to Tedi’s side.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Uri.

“You’re full of shit,” she said coolly and stepped closer to him. “Why don’t you try
it on me and I’ll show them how easy it is to throw a man to the ground.”

“Why don’t you just go back to the kitchen?” he said.

“I’m finished in there,” she said, “and if you’re not willing to do your job, I’ll
teach Tedi myself. Leonie, come here, would you? I want you to stand directly behind
me and grab me by the arms as tight as you can.

“Now, Tedi, the most important thing is to not think too much. Do not plan or hesitate.
Just watch what I do.”

As Leonie tightened her grip, Shayndel blew all the air out of her lungs and went
limp, as though she had fainted. Her collapse startled Leonie, who let go just enough
for Shayndel to turn quickly and jab her elbow back between Leonie’s legs.

“You don’t have to be big or strong to make this hurt,” said Shayndel. “He will go
down, I promise. Then you run as fast as you can.”

No one said a word.

“Do you want to try?” Shayndel asked Tedi, whose face was white. “No,” she said softly,
“I understand.”

Everyone was staring at Shayndel or trying not to. “Does anyone else want to try?”
she asked. “No? All right,” she said and marched away, one-
two,
one-
two,
one-
two
.

Leonie ran up behind her. “You were wonderful.”

“I probably shouldn’t have embarrassed Uri like that, even though he had it coming.”
Shayndel winced and grabbed at her abdomen.

“Is something wrong?”

“All day I’ve had this bellyache and it’s getting worse.”

“Do you have your period?” Leonie whispered.

“Oh, no! Not today.”

Shayndel had been relieved when her cycle had stopped in the forest. It was miserable
trying to manage that mess while they were moving from hovel to hole, rarely bathing
or washing
their clothes. Besides, it had given her the freedom to make love with Wolfe without
worrying about a baby.

But Malka was afraid that she would never have children. “I want sons,” she had said.
“Girls are too much trouble.”

Shayndel grinned and said, “Well, at least we can enjoy the sex for now. And since
you can’t guarantee boys, maybe it’s better if your period never comes back.”

Malka had flinched at that and refused to talk to her the rest of the day. But she
wasn’t the sort to stay mad, and the next morning it was as though the conversation
had never happened.

Shayndel ran into the latrine and sat on the toilet, her head in her hands.

“
Chèrie?
” Leonie peeked around the partition and handed her a folded cotton napkin. “It’s
from the clinic; I took some extra ones, too.”

“Thank you,” said Shayndel.

“Does it hurt?” Leonie asked, as they walked back to the barrack, arm in arm.

“Not really. I just forgot what it felt like. There isn’t much bleeding, thank goodness.”

“But you seem upset.”

“It’s just, well, inconvenient,” said Shayndel.

“I am still waiting,” Leonie said. “I never had mine.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“How old are you?” Shayndel asked.

“I am seventeen. No, it’s October, so I am eighteen. I think perhaps it will never
happen to me.”

“Don’t worry. I was nearly sixteen when I got mine. Someone told me that it goes away
when you don’t eat right. With enough good food, we’ll all get back to normal and
have all
the babies we want—I know you said you don’t want any, but still …”

Leonie shrugged and smiled, as though it didn’t matter. She could never tell Shayndel
about the abortion that might have left her barren—or the doctor’s disdain, or the
way she could practically taste the steel of his probes and scalpel as they entered
her, or the blood pooling on the floor beneath the kitchen table. If she confessed
to even one detail of her disgrace, all the hard work of restraint and containment
might come crashing down and she would never be able to regain her balance. Worse
still, Shayndel would hate her.

“But I have to ask you about something,” Shayndel said, in a hushed, urgent tone.

“Anything,” Leonie said, pushing her hair off her forehead and resuming control of
herself and her secrets.

“Tedi says that you think Lotte, the German girl, is SS. But why didn’t you tell me
yourself?”

“I’m sorry,” said Leonie, “I wasn’t sure and then I was afraid you’d think I was crazy.
When she was in the shower, I saw what I thought was an SS tattoo on the inside of
her upper arm. It might have been a bruise or a birthmark and the whole thing seems
so impossible.”

“You’re perfectly sane, but that woman is a raving lunatic,” said Shayndel, who knew
that whatever Lotte’s story might be, she posed a threat to the success of their escape.
“We have to get her out of the barrack.”

“No one will argue with you about that,” said Leonie.

“I wanted to tell you how proud I was of you, standing up to Uri like that. And now
I find out that you weren’t feeling well, yet you were so strong, so powerful. I suppose
you had to learn that sort of thing in the war.” She looked
over at her shyly. “It must have been terrible what you went through.”

“Some days were worse than others,” said Shayndel, remembering the worst day of all.
They had underestimated the band of German deserters who had taken refuge in their
forest. Wolfe and Malka had been cut off from the rest of their unit and were outflanked,
outrun, and shot down like deer in a hunting party.

Leonie kept still as pain and loss played across her friend’s face.

“You don’t think ‘terrible’ when you’re in the middle of it,” Shayndel continued.
“You don’t think much at all. We tried to kill Nazis and collaborators. We blew up
some bridges. We helped some people escape. We tried to stay alive.”

“Staying alive is no small thing when you consider how many died.”

“You think surviving is a victory?” said Shayndel. “Merely surviving?”

“I don’t know,” Leonie said, her eyes growing large with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, forgive me.” Leonie wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “But maybe it’s
better not to think about it too much.”

“Maybe not,” said Shayndel. But just then, Shmuley’s surname floated into her mind,
like a kind of peace offering from the past. It was Besser. Shmuley Besser. She would
not forget it again.

It was nearly an hour after the end of dinner, but the dining hall was still full.
People lingered as if they were sitting at a café, leaning on their elbows, passing
cigarettes back and forth. Someone pulled out a deck of cards, adding a quiet shuffle
and slap to the steady drone of conversation. Maybe it’s the coffee keeping them here,
Shayndel thought. It’s rare that we have coffee in the evening.

In the whole room, only Nathan was on the move, going from table to table, making
a big show of turning chairs backward, kicking a leg over them, and sitting like a
cowboy in an American western. He made it look casual, but Shayndel knew that he was
checking in with the men he’d chosen as leaders, who sat up, stiff and tall, while
he leaned in to deliver last-minute instructions. She noticed that the two other female
barrack captains were not in the room, and bit her lips to keep from
ordering everyone else to clear out and get ready for bed. Her arms and legs felt
itchy and tight, as though she were about to burst out of her skin.