She had seen other survivors standing like statues right in the middle of the dining hall or on the parade ground, suddenly overwhelmed and paralyzed by memory. But Zorah considered herself the master of her past, immune to such displays. She had even started writing lists to keep her memories clear and orderly: names from the concentration camp, the deaths she had witnessed inside her barrack and on the parade ground, ingredients in the “soups” they had been starved with, the mind-numbing work they had been forced to do. Her register of misery, humiliation, and loss covered five pieces of paper, front and back, a hedge against forgetting and also a fence to keep the past in its place. She kept it folded within the pages of her Hebrew grammar, and ran her eyes over the columns every time she studied.
But she had no way of accounting for—or fencing off—the sensation of her own hair brushing against the back of her neck, which had, that morning, summoned the memory of her mother. She used to call Zorah’s hair her “best feature” in a voice so heavy with consolation, it always made her wince.
Zorah shook herself and started for the dining hall. She would ask Leonie to take a scissors to her mop after breakfast. It would be cooler and lighter that way, and she would need all of her wits tonight.
As Zorah entered the noisy mess, Esther and Jacob waved for her to join them. “I got this for you,” said the boy, pushing a plate in front of her.
Zorah bit into a roll and was stunned by the texture between her teeth, and the aroma of yeast. The soft cheese on her tongue was a tender revelation, a salty gift. The tea, which Jacob had mixed with too much milk and sugar, answered some long-denied craving. She bit into a slice of tomato and groaned.
“What’s wrong?” asked Esther.
“Nothing,” said Zorah, bewildered by the strange, over-whelming testimony of her mouth. “It’s just that this food is … this tomato, I mean. It’s all delicious today, isn’t it?”
“Try the red pepper,” Esther urged, passing another plate. “These are the best we’ve had. Let me cut one for you.”
But Zorah was on her way out the door.
“Where are you going?” Esther called.
What is happening to me? Zorah wondered, hurrying toward the northern edge of the camp, where she could be alone. Why should I go mad now, after everything?
The answer came to her in a man’s voice. Life will not be denied.
“Hah,” Zorah roared and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. She would not turn into one of the screamers or mutterers who caused people to turn away in pity or disgust. She started pacing, walking faster and faster, as she silently argued with herself.
Life most certainly can be denied, she thought. Life is unforgivably weak. Death is stronger than everything that breathes. I am an expert on the rottenness and hollowness of this world. Death is what cannot be denied. No one is going to tell me that life is a beautiful poem, filled with meaning, a God-given blessing.
And yet you nearly burst into tears over the miracle of a tomato.
Zorah recognized the voice. It was Meyer, who knew to woo her with cigarettes and who remained in her thoughts, no matter how often she tried to dismiss him.
I must have been hungrier than I realized. That’s all.
You are sleeping better. You have gained a little weight.
Nothing but the fruits of boredom, she countered, wondering why she had turned Meyer into the straw man inside her head. She barely knew him. The only reason he is such a worthy opponent, she decided, is because he speaks with my words.
Worthy opponent or suitor?
Zorah blushed.
Your body is returning to life and so is your heart.
A small hand slipped into hers and stilled the voices in her head. “Are you ill?” Jacob asked. “Do you want me to fetch Mama? Or the nurse? Mama says we must take care of you because you are sick in the heart. I told her the doctors should give you medicine for your heart, and she started crying. Mama cries a lot. I have never seen you cry.”
Zorah tried to smile away the worry that made him look even more like a little old man than usual. Jacob was far too small for his age, his face still thin and pinched despite a healthy appetite. Even so, Zorah was struck by the change in him; this was not the listless, silent child who had arrived in Atlit a few weeks ago.
As they walked back toward the mess hall, Jacob skipped beside her, a dervish of words and ideas. “Are you really going to be my teacher?” he asked. “That’s what Mama says. She says that you are smarter than Mr. Rostenberger. I told her that your breath is much nicer than his and that you probably wouldn’t pinch my hand if I make a mistake. When will we start, Miss Zorah? Will we continue with the page of Talmud about what time you’re supposed to say the Sh’ma in the morning? That’s where he started. Where is your book?”
“I have no Talmud,” said Zorah. “We will begin with grammar. Hebrew is very dense, you know. Compact. Full of mysteries.”
“What does that mean?”
She tried again. “Hebrew is a bit like hard candy.”
He nodded seriously. “Does Hebrew melt when it’s hot, too?”
It took Zorah a moment to realize that Jacob had made a joke. “That was very funny,” she said, again on the verge of tears. After tonight, he would become someone else’s student, someone else’s charge.