Silver Rain

         It has been raining a week now. Silver rain, shiny like the metallic goblets filled with ruby red wine that the Knights of the Round Table would drink. A week it has been falling upon my head and my weak shoulders as I worked, impressing upon me the impending doom of all Jews.

         I have given up all hope.

         Hope! The word sounds meaningless, empty, and distant. I could never have believed in it, though I know I have. Before my family and I were sent away to a concentration camp, I hoped that someone would come to rescue us, help us, and take us to safety. They never came.

         It has been a week since the silver rain fell.

         It has been a week since I’ve been here.

***

         Ever since I was a very young child, I have been immensely interested in history, especially the Middle Ages because that’s when King Arthur lived. I knew he wasn’t real, but I pretended he was. There was one time when I was seven that my childhood friend, Peter, caught me pretending to be the king fighting off evil demons. It wasn’t long and he joined me on my imaginary journeys. I remember at night, every night, despite what was happening to the Jews, my father would tell me the story of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.

         “You want to hear about King Arthur again, Davie?” he’d ask, knowing in advance my shrill answer.

         For years it’s what I dwelled on. I thought of becoming a historian and studying everything about the Middle Ages. Or maybe I could be an architect and build castles, just like the one King Arthur lived in. In a way this helped me survive the beginning of the torture. I focused on my imaginary feats instead of paying attention to what was really happening around me.

         Back then I had hopes… I had dreams.

         Dreams that were drastically shattered on Kristallnacht.

         I was an only child. My mother was a strong, healthy woman. She wasn’t easily corrupted when it came to torture and slavery, and she had the willingness to survive. But my father – he was different in a way that an adult shouldn’t be different from another adult. Mother was strict, and she was the person I went to when I was hurt. I went to Father when I was searching for a playmate. He was like an older brother to me, trying to protect both our childhoods. I don’t understand why he tried so desperately to not be a grown-up, but I think it’s because he never got to be a kid.

         But like a child, he was weak, only a kid living in an adult’s body. On Kristallnacht, he was broken; broken in a way that he had become more knowledgeable and his innocence was cracked. He had seen too much, knew too much to pretend otherwise.

         Amidst all the chaos that took our town that day, I managed to keep a level head. Besides, it was only a game, a war game; that’s all it was, all it’s ever been. I lay in bed that night, waiting for him, my father, my playmate.

         He owned a grocer, and I knew that’s where he was. It had been Opa Walter’s, was passed on to my father, and would be mine when I was old enough. Countless hours of my youth had been spent there, and I wondered what would happen to it after the Night of Broken Glass, as Jews would later call it. Mostly I worried about Father. I had a small family. Father made the most income from that prized grocer and Mother worked the till, but I didn’t care about the money – I barely understood it at all – but rather the safe return of my cherished father, my own flesh and blood.

         I don’t know how long I waited for him to come home. All I know is he did at some point of the pitch dark night return. I could hear Mother sobbing, and then slowly footsteps came towards my door.

         I felt a jolt in my stomach. I ached to know what was going on.

         “Father?” I called quietly, my voice cracking, anxious to know he was all right. He came into my room. As soon as my small brown eyes met his large hazel ones, I knew something had changed. His black hair was a mess and he had a few bruises. The one thing I noticed the most were his dark, dark eyes. Fatigue had set in; I could tell by the way his eyes drooped so low that his eyes were thin slits, emitting only the darkness behind. I didn’t dare inquire about a bedtime story. Instead I sat up and hugged him hard, burying my head on his shoulder.

         “David,” he murmured soothingly, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking my hair. The tone of his voice told me that what he had to say was something I wouldn’t enjoy. I was suddenly scared. I didn’t want to listen to him; didn’t want to know what he had to say. In a husky voice, he continued. “You’re ten years old now, David.” He was confusing me. “Ten years old is too old for bedtime stories. Do you understand?” I nodded meekly. He stood up, his face expressionless. On a lighter tone he added, “Good night, David.”

         I managed to reply somehow. “Good night, Father.” That was it. In one day the Germans and “perfect Aryans” had managed to turn my father into a totally different man and force upon me the reality of the whole situation.

         I don’t understand!

         He turned at the doorway. “Go to sleep, little one.” The lights went out and I heard the door close.

         It’s all right, Father, I thought. It’s all right. But I don’t know what I was thinking.

***

         I didn’t understand then. I’m not sure I understand now. Something happened to Father on Kristallnacht, but I never asked what, never had the courage.

         I’ve been thinking about that night since I awoke. Two weeks after that night, I gathered the courage to go out and walk past the shop. Of course, I was wearing my coat with the yellow star. I was a Jew and the yellow star marked me as one so the whole world would know.

         It had angered Father when they enforced that rule. He had been the one who said we should leave in case things got bad. It was impossible by the time we finally tried. Sighing, I came to the spot where our business was.

         I stopped dead in my tracks. There was nothing left of it. Our grocer – Father’s grocer – had been burned down. The whole block almost had been demolished in flames. Shakily, I approached the charred scraps of wood. I could only remember that picture in my mind, even though I didn’t want to. I bent down to pick up a piece of burnt wood. Angrily, I threw it at the remains of my heritage and stormed home.

         I knew then what Father had gone through. It was horrible! Watching, staring as slowly the only memory of his father faded away, and not being able to do anything about it.

         I never told my parents where I went that day. Even though I knew some of what he went through, I was still not on the same level as my father. I was still a child. He could no longer understand me. Nevertheless, I was determined to have him learn. I was on a quest to understand him, to see why he is the way he is. I would do anything to learn – anything –

         As I sit here eating my watery soup, I think of what a blow in the face it was to learn it was all war, all real. It was no longer a game played by young and old alike, but the actual thing. The Night of Broken Glass was what had set it all off, I realize. It only sped up the inevitable.

         I was no longer a child.

         Before we came to Chelmno, the concentration camp in which I sit now, we lived at a ghetto called Warsaw in Poland for five years. There were four blocks of living space for thousands of people. We lived in the basement of a bakery where it was cold and damp. The perimeter was closely patrolled so anyone would be shot if they were caught passing. In my opinion, it was the perfect place where they could weaken us; make us ill, all the better to give them reason to kill us like mice caught in a trap. I stuck it out. We had all gone from the pot into the fire.

***

         My father no longer loved me. No, not since that late night three years ago. It was by chance that I stumbled upon an old family album of Father’s. I flipped through the pages one by one until I saw a picture of Opa Walter. I was looking at myself. If father had watched his only memory of his father slip away, then why was he not glad that he had me, an exact image? Maybe it pained him to see me? I didn’t know, but I had to find out.

         This turned out to be a difficult task. Every time the perfect opportunity arose to ask him, I suddenly lost nerve. Then one day I finally got a break. Father’s curiosity got the better of him.

         He pulled me aside and said, “You look like you need to say something, David. Spill the beans.”

         I could only look at his face for a while, wondering what he saw in mine. I told myself this was my last chance, so I went for it. “Why have you been acting so strangely since Kristallnacht? Is it because our store burnt down and I look like Opa Walter?”

         His face turned grey. “You know about the grocer? But how?” he asked, shocked.

         “I walked down there after it happened to see why you were sad,” I admitted. I could see the pain in his eyes, and I was sorry I brought it up.

         He sighed. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” He turned away before I could say anything more. When I’m older? When’s that? Why wouldn’t he tell me?

         Alas, he was broken, completely and utterly broken, but I desperately tried to fix him. Yet how can you fix a man who’s lost all hope and has no willingness to take it back? If he did love me, he never showed it. Nevertheless, I tried proving myself to him. I am your son. David. Da-a-avid. Look at me, you bloody fool! Don’t you remember me? Little Davie? Do you remember my face?

         My hope and faith in God above was slowly dying.

         It’s hopeless!

         Father, it’s hopeless!

         You are hopeless!

***

         At Warsaw, you needed a job to keep from being deported. I worked at the hospital with Father, who was a doctor because he had some skill. I thought if I worked alongside him, he’d see what a good son I was. Yet it seemed he didn’t notice anything I did.

         Mother worked nightshifts at a mechanical factory, so I hardly saw her. One day I decided I needed to speak to her about Father, so that morning I stayed home sick.

         When she woke up, I made us lunch.

         “You don’t seem too sick,” she noted.

         “That’s because I’m not,” I admitted. She raised her eyebrows. “I wanted to talk to you – ” I lowered my voice “ - without Father around.”

         “What is it?” she asked. I realized she had no idea really what had been happening between us. Quietly, I began to explain. I started with Kristallnacht and how he crushed my dreams, then how I saw the grocer was destroyed and the family album. I told her that he was ignorant towards me, and he could no longer understand me at all, and how I was hurting deep down inside.

         I felt loads of relief after telling her, and she hugged me tightly. “I love you, David. You know that.”

         “Yes, but Father doesn’t love me.”

         She abruptly denied this. “He does, Davie. He’s just really confused right now. He’ll come back to his senses. And don’t worry. I’ve noticed the change in him, too. Nobody’s going to be the same after this war is over.”

         If they survive, I thought.

***

         Over the next two years of living at Warsaw and working at the hospital with Father and his cold, uncaring, hopeless, God-forbid eyes, it came upon me that Mother was sick. From my own experiences of working at the hospital, I knew that if she was registered on the lists and didn’t get better, she would be killed. I did the best thing I could and stole from work, knowing full well the consequences of my actions if I were caught. I diagnosed it as vitamin-deficiency. Father and I took turns staying home to take care of her and we gave her portions of our meals.

         About a week into her illness, she ordered me to go up to the bakery and purchase some goods for supper. I grabbed our ration card and went. While I was up there, I saw this boy, roughly about my age. With closer inspection, I realized he was my childhood friend, Peter, who had pretend-played with me.

         It seemed he recognized me, too. We walked towards each other. “Peter,” I said happily.

         “David.”

         We clasped hands and shook for a long time, until his father came suddenly.

         “Peter!” he yelled hoarsely. “What have I told you about talking to other people here? Come with me. Now!”

         “But, Papa – ”

         “Now!”

         Before I could even say or do anything, Peter’s father picked him up over his shoulder and ran out the bakery, leaving behind his bread. I was flabbergasted. I had never seen anything like that happen before – not to that extreme anyway – and I realized what fear we were all living in.

         Slowly, I turned towards the person at the till. He peered at me with somber eyes, then shook his head in pity for my friend. “You want these?” he asked, gesturing towards the bread.

         “Why don’t you take it?” I asked, expecting him to take it first chance he got, but instead he surprised me.

         “I have only myself to feed. You have three.” I only stared at the bread in disbelief. “Go on. Take it.”

         I purchased my bread and took Peter’s with no guilty feelings. I told myself that Peter wanted me to take it, so I did – no hard feelings.

         I walked down the stairs to the basement. Mother saw my load and gasped.

         “David! Wha – why - ?” she stammered.

         “Mother, it’s a gift,” I told her, smiling. Suddenly a joyous feeling washed over me and a chuckle left my lips. “It’s a gift!”

***

         Mother never went back to her healthy self. She stayed sick and became ill more often during our last year at Warsaw. Father had no hope, and Mother was slowly losing hers. “I don’t think I’m going to make it through this war, David,” she told me over and over again. I wanted to yell at my parents for losing their will to live. This is your only life. Do you really want to watch it slip away? Was I really the only one who wanted to make it through the war and live to be an old man?

         My family was falling apart in front of my eyes. Father was too afraid to live, or too afraid what he might see if he did live. Mother was ill, and too weak to go on. I did not want to be alone… all alone. I figured this out one month before we were to be sent to Chelmno, the concentration camp. I knew it because Mother deciphered that Jews had absolutely no hope left. Something changed in me after that. Even Father noticed after profoundly ignoring me for the past two years or so. Perhaps I was less eager, less motivated, or maybe it was the pain in my brown eyes. Whatever it was, it caused Father to be an adult for once.

         As we were walking to work one day, he turned serious. His frown was somewhat upturned, as if he found something amusing. He rubbed his hands through his grey-speckled hair. This was a sign he was nervous, but I took no notice.

         “David,” he said. It wasn’t a command or a means of catching my attention, but rather just comprehension that it was my name, like he had forgotten all about me.

         I didn’t respond.

         “You don’t seem like yourself.” This caught my attention. It was merely a statement, but it meant so much more to me. There was a flicker of hope somewhere inside my heart.

         He breathed a sigh before continuing, a little uncertain if he should go on. “Son, you mustn’t give up hope. You need to be strong and stay strong. You need to survive this war.”

         For awhile I didn’t speak. I was stunned. This was my father? Finally I managed to stutter a response. “But how?”

         “You are 15. Two years ago would have been your bar mitzvah.” I realized he was right. “You are a man. You must figure it out yourself.”

         Bar mitzvah – I had completely forgotten. I’m glad I had. Because of my religion I was forced to live in poor conditions. Because of my religion I was forced to leave all of my possessions behind. Because of my religion my family and those around me were dying!

         The spark of hope that had briefly subsided inside me was abruptly put out and replaced by anger. I’m a Jew – and I’m being punished for it!

         I was angry at my father.

         “Because I am a Jew I have nothing,” I told him in the silence that followed his last statement. I didn’t expect him to understand what I was talking about. It didn’t matter anymore. I was finished. “This is not a war game. I have nothing. You are nothing.”

         I turned and ran as he called after me.

         I’m sorry, Father. You were too late.

***

         I hid at a trashed factory within the perimeter, hating everything, everyone. I was mad at Father, at Mother – but her I could forgive. She still loved me with all her heart. I hated Hitler – Germany – everything. All the things I had ever cared for were gone, dead. God had abandoned me, and I ached to know why.

         When my anger subsided, I wept. I wept for the Jews who were killed or dying, for unfairness, for treachery and madness, for Peter, for Mother and her illness, but mostly I wept for Father and my inability to forgive him.

         Eventually I returned home because I was afraid of being shot by a Gestapo – Germany’s secret state police. Father had resumed pretending I didn’t exist, and I ignored him. I never did return to work again. I knew he was there and I didn’t want to be near him. At home all day, alone with my thoughts, just brooding and thinking, nearly drove me crazy. I was spared insanity when we received the eviction notice. We were being sent to a concentration camp.

         This was it – the moment had been decided by a letter. As I read the notice over for the third time, I knew we would never make it.

         I read it to my parents when they came home. Mother cried. She was too sick to make it through. Father didn’t say anything – or do anything for that matter. I suppose he had seen it coming.

         I remember that day so vividly, despite the fact it was only a week ago. Oh God! Only a week!

         We packed only what we deemed necessary and went to the station to wait for our inevitable demise. While I stood there, I could only think of Father. Somehow he had known this would happen. Then again, it was kind of obvious. Mother didn’t suspect there was anything between Father and I. Our ignorance and coldness could be blamed on anxiety. Besides, Mother was too stressed by the current situation to realize a fight had been happening right beneath her nose. There was a lot of tension between families. Husbands, wives, children – some were crying, others staring around in disbelief. One family I noticed quite easily. A mother was screaming. I didn’t know why until I saw her children being forced from out of her arms.

         She wanted to go with them. The Gestapo wasn’t too impressed. He raised his gun, producing screams from all around. The father came to the rescue, hitting the policeman. The Gestapo still shot, his aim out of place. I had no clue what was happening until I felt my body against the ground and heard a grunt from my father.

         He had saved my life, but risked his own.

         Father did love me.

         It’s still raining. Large, silver droplets falling from the sky, now more like how blood drips from a wound. I’m waiting for the doctor to inspect me. The way it happens is the doctor will look you over. If you look fit to live another week, you’ve passed. If you don’t, you’re sent to the inferno where they burn bodies live. This is my first week in Chelmno.

         I suspect I won’t pass inspection. I’ve already lost both of my parents. Father died saving me. For a second I will myself to believe he saved me so I can go on living. My thoughts are quickly taken over by a stronger force of grief. Mother could have gone on living, too. She died simply because the Germans think women are no good so they killed them all. All the women who experienced the same train ride I did perished. I lived, but it’s just me left and I believe I won’t make the first inspection. I’ve given up. My shoulders slump as the doctor comes to me next. I have nothing left to live for.

         The doctor looks at me with speculative eyes, uncaring that I am human because he doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to. With a quick word in German, he moves on to the next man beside me. I feel my heart beat faster. I knew the word, knew it well. I had failed.

         All of us men who didn’t pass inspection are sent to the gas chamber. We’re standing along with thousands of women and old people from a new shipment. Grimly, I face the fact that we are all here to face the same horror, the same death. In deceitful tones, we’re told we’re taking a shower. I’m not stupid – I know the truth behind the lies.

         One by one, we enter the tiny chamber. I choose a spot on the wall and fade. Death makes no difference to me as being alive. In death, I can see Mother and Father, forgive and be forgiven, love and be loved.

         I am a Jew.

         A Jew who is being persecuted because of my beliefs. In the end there is no difference between me and any other German. I know this now.

         Before the room is even full, I am gone. I leave in peace – peace with myself, my parents, the Germans, with God, even Hitler. For me, there is no longer such a word as hate.

         Alone I enter a stone room, and in the center lay a round table. There are silver goblets filled with wine – for a celebration? There are no knights around the table, instead my family and friends who had ceased to be due to the war. Mother is there, Peter, and Father –

         He sits at the throne. He is, after all, my King. Chuckling, I walk up to the empty chair beside him and sit. Perhaps I haven’t given up all hope after all.

         Slowly, the room fills with gas and people start coughing. I don’t notice; I’m away at my place.

         Outside, the silver rain falls.