Only a few years older than Zorah, Bracha had been her protector, her big sister, her mother. She picked her up when she fainted, and taught her the awful skills of survival, like using her own urine to treat the cuts and cracks on her hands. “Do it,” Bracha ordered. “If you don’t they can get infected. Do it.”
For six months, Bracha had helped her fall asleep by running her fingers across Zorah’s itching scalp. One night, Zorah had dreamed that she was a dog, napping on her owner’s lap in a sunny parlor, and she had burst into tears upon waking.
Bracha got sick with dysentery four months before liberation. First she grew feverish, then she couldn’t leave the latrine, then they took her to the infirmary. And then the last person on earth who cared about Zorah Weitz was dead.
Zorah was convinced that Bracha might have lived had she concentrated on her own survival. Her death had sealed Zorah’s belief in the futility of kindness; but her sacrifice also made Zorah feel obliged to stay alive—if only out of spite. She turned her grief and anger into the service of getting out of the concentration camp on her own feet.
For the sixteen weeks (112 days, 2,688 hours) between Bracha’s death and the liberation of the camp, Zorah did not lift a finger or say a word if it did not serve the needs of her body. She expended as little energy as possible, hoarding her strength and sharpening her senses so that she could be the first to pounce on any stray crumb of food or scrap of paper or cloth to stuff into the lining of her coat. When the Russians arrived, the other girls cringed in shame as the strong young men stared at their starved, sexless nakedness, but Zorah thrust out her hand and pointed to her mouth, and she ate first.
After Bracha died, Zorah believed that her purpose on earth was to spit in God’s eye. And that was how she managed, until she met Jacob and Esther.
“Leave it to me,” Zorah said.
“You will talk to Shayndel?”
She nodded.
“You are an angel.”
Zorah pulled away as Esther tried to kiss her hands. “Don’t be foolish.”
“You must permit me to make your bed for you.”
“If you do that, I will never speak to you again.”
Shayndel had walked with her head down and her hands in her pockets as she headed for the kitchen, rehearsing the tirade she wanted to deliver to Tirzah. She felt awful about scaring Esther before the poor woman was even awake. As Shayndel rounded the corner, she nearly collided with a driver unloading boxes from the back of an unfamiliar bakery truck.
“What did the guards say about all of the extra stuff?” said Tirzah, as she held the door open for them both.
“I told them it was a Jewish holiday.” The driver grinned. “That always does the trick.”
Tirzah turned the lock and started taking sweets out of the boxes. A large, round coffee cake filled the room with the smell of cinnamon. “They didn’t have to send so much,” she grumbled.
“I’ll have some before I go,” said the driver.
“Shayndel will get you a cup of tea,” Tirzah said. She reached deep into one of the cartons and pulled out a pair of wire cutters. The other boxes held cookies, strudel, and tightly wound coils of rope, flashlights, and daggers.
“Careful with that,” said the driver as Tirzah unwrapped a dish towel from a glass bottle full of a clear liquid. “Where do you want me to put all this?”
Tirzah moved the slop pail and pulled up a trapdoor in the floor. As they began loading the contraband into the hiding place, she looked at Shayndel and said, “Take the sweets out to the dining room and make sure no one comes in here for a while. Understand?”
Shayndel felt like singing. There was going to be an escape. Escape! Her mind raced. Who would be in command? Would they ask her to help with the other girls who had no experience in such an action? Or would they leave the women behind? What if the rescue was meant for the men only? Or perhaps only for the men who were going into the barrack they’d just turned into a prison?
She could not tolerate being left behind. She would insist that they take her. She knew about the plan, after all. She would—
“Shayndel,” Tirzah barked, “why are you standing there? Bring the food out already.”
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She carried the coffee cake into the hall, and instantly created a noisy diversion. By the time Shayndel returned to the kitchen, the driver was gone and everything was back in place. Before she could open her mouth, Tirzah warned, “Don’t ask. You’ll be told what you need to know when it’s time.”
Shayndel could keep quiet but she could not keep still. Her mind hummed: escape, escape, escape. She worked feverishly, cleaning the kitchen in no time, and decided she would try to sneak into Delousing again, hoping that a cold shower would help her calm down. But when she walked out of the kitchen, she found Zorah waiting for her.
“I have to talk to you,” she said. “Now.”
“What’s the emergency?”
“I want you to leave Esther alone.”