“That’s more than me. I want you to find out where she comes from and how she got here.”
“I don’t know enough of the language for tha
t,” Tedi pleaded.
“I’m sorry, but this is important,” Shayndel said firmly. “They think she might have been in one of the camps—Ravens-brück. It is also possible that Lotte isn’t her real name.”
When Tedi started to object, Shayndel touched her hand and turned the order into a request that no one in Atlit could deny. “But there is also a family here, in Jerusalem, who thinks she may be a … cousin.”
Leonie, on the cot beside them, had been listening and knew Shayndel was lying. No one was looking for Lotte except possibly Tirzah, which meant that the German girl was suspected of spying or collaborating, even if she was as crazy as everyone seemed to think.
Leonie was not convinced that what other people called insanity was a disease, like tuberculosis. But unlike Aliza, who thought “crazy” was a moral failure if not a dodge, Leonie believed that “madness” was a symptom of an overwhelming, untamed secret.
Everyone in Atlit had secrets. Sometimes, Leonie caught glimpses of darkness in the faces of the otherwise cheerful Zionists, revealed by a strange pause or a stuttered answer. There were hints of untold details in terse stories of escape, heroics, and of course, in the whispered confessions of concentration camp suffering; but then a groaned sigh would ward off questions of how or why. Most people managed to keep their secrets under control, concealed behind a mask of optimism or piety or anger.
But there were an unfortunate few without a strategy or system for managing the past: somnambulists and mutes, overwhelmed by disgrace over the random accidents that chose them for life; hysterics and screamers, unable to forgive or forget a moment of cowardice or betrayal—no matter how small—that had kept them from dying.
Leonie was certain that the people everyone else called insane really needed nothing but time, rest, and patience so that their private poisons could settle and dilute. The result might not be happiness or contentment, she knew. But after a while, rage might mellow to surliness, and catatonia settle into mere stiffness, no more threatening than a limp. Eventually, eccentricity would be forgiven as a sad souvenir from a terrible time, perfectly understandable, even normal, given the circumstances.
Leonie had discovered the trick to managing her own secret when she got off the boat in Palestine. In front of her, a young boy with a concentration camp tattoo on his arm walked down the gangplank carrying a bulky suitcase on top of his head. That had reminded her of a photograph she’d seen in a book, of African women bearing enormous bundles of firewood. The caption had explained that what made it possible for them to transport such heavy loads was “exquisite balance.”
Leonie decided that is what she would do with the twenty-three months she had spent on her back and on her knees, learning German. She held her secret aloft and apart from herself. She imagined walking across a vast, empty plain among those silent, dignified black women. Exquisite balance.
The next morning, Leonie wolfed down her breakfast and ran back to the barrack to talk to the German girl.
“Fraulein?” Leonie said. “Excuse me? I work in the …” She stopped, trying to remember the German word. “Sick house. Yah?”
Two suspicious, close-set brown eyes appeared from beneath the blanket and stared. Her hair was so greasy that Leonie couldn’t tell if she was blonde or brunette. The woman lowered the blanket a bit more, revealing a mouselike face with sharp features and thin lips.
“Claudette Colbert?” she whispered.
Leonie smiled. “People used to tell me I looked like her, before I got so thin.”
“You are German, Claudette Colbert?”
“No. I am French. I am called Leonie.”
Lotte pulled the blanket back over her head.
“I wish to help you,” said Leonie. “I know what you are suffering. I know that you have a secret, but here everyone has secrets. No one is without guilt. But if you do not bathe and mingle a little with the others, they will take you away and put you in the insane asylum, where they will force you to reveal what it is you wish to keep to yourself.”
Leonie waited for an answer until she heard voices at the door. “I believe that it is better to let our mistakes rest in peace. How can we live if the past is hung around our necks?
“Think about what I said,” she whispered. “We will talk again later.”
October 7, Sunday
Zorah had spent a sleepless night listening to the women around her toss and moan. Even the ones who usually slept like babies had twisted their sheets into knots. As dawn began to seep into the barrack, Zorah turned onto her back and for a moment felt as though she were drifting on still water, surprised and pleased by the buoyancy of her cot. Then someone brushed past, and she was back on dry land, with Shayndel crouched in the narrow space beside her, whispering into Esther’s ear.
Zorah waited until everyone was awake, pulling on clothes and shoes, before she got up and sat beside Esther. “What did she want?”
“She says she has to ask me some questions,” said Esther, fighting back frightened tears. “She says I must talk to her honestly and tell her the truth, but I know, I just know that they are going to take Jacob away from me. They will send me back to Poland and put him in an orphanage. Why don’t they just kill me here?”
“Leave it to me.”
Zorah had not meant to say that. She did not want to be involved in Esther’s life. She did not want to be counted on. She wanted to fall asleep in silence and wake up in silence. But Esther had no one else, and there was no taking it back.
“Leave it to me,” were Bracha’s words. Bracha had slept beside Zorah in Auschwitz, on the wooden bench closest to the floor. They held each other as girls around them disappeared. No matter how hopeless the situation, Bracha would say, “Leave it to me,” as though she were telling a three-year-old not to fret about a misplaced doll, as though she had the power to change anything on the night when lice, cold, and hunger had driven Zorah to whisper, “I’ve had enough.”