The Light in Hidden Places

by Sharon Cameron

“Di velt iz sheyn nor di mentshn makhn zi mies,” he said. “The world is beautiful, but people make it ugly.”

If we had known it, this was the time we should have cried.

And that night, for the first time, I understood what I was facing. Before, it had been easy to imagine that all these terrible things were some kind of mistake. The misguided ideas of a misguided leader who in turn was misguiding his army and his people. Hadn’t there always been people who were poor and hungry? People who were hated and despised? Hadn’t there always been wars where the young men fought and the innocent died? It was horrible, and it was the world. But that was not what I saw in that officer’s face. What I saw was the joy of hate. The happiness of causing another person’s death and pain. What I saw was evil. And every part of me defied it.

I wanted to say that Germany would be defeated, that the war would end and everything would go back to the way it was. But I wasn’t sure that was true. I knew it wasn’t. Even then. Nothing would ever be the same.

I learned three things from Emilika that day: First, walk as if you have important business, and most people will assume you do. Second, always have your hair curled. And third, help can come when it’s least expected, and that’s good to remember, because it means you’re never really alone. Even when it feels like it.

It was wrong to paint all men the same color. Whether they be Jewish or Polish. Or even German.

“Look at our skin, Hela,” I whispered. “Yours is a little browner than mine, but it’s still skin, isn’t it? It’s skin over blood over bones, just like any person. A Jew is a person with blood and skin and a family, some of them good, some of them bad, just like everyone. Only they choose Moses as their leader instead of Jesus. But remember, Jesus was a Jew, too. One God for both, Hela. Our mama said that.”

I didn’t know how she could understand. I didn’t understand anything.

Why did any of this have to happen?

Fear comes with the dark when you’re lying still, waiting for the knock on the door. And fear is not always reasonable. I sat up in the blackness. Przemyśl had given me an education since that cart ride when I was twelve. It had taught me that people like to divvy up one another with names. Jew. Catholic. German. Pole. But these were the wrong names. They were the wrong dividing lines. Kindness. Cruelty. Love and hate. These were the borders that mattered. Przemyśl had shown me my place on the map. And the road ran straight and dark before me.

Being alive is no comfort when your family is dead.

Helena laughs, and in a world where death is a shadow at the edge of every light, I discover that I have to smile.

This fear, I think, is Hitler’s best weapon.

Because what he said is wrong. So wrong. He chose life. And that makes him nothing like them at all.

“When you watch little children being murdered while you hide in a hole in the ground, too afraid to come out, you know that you are nothing. When whole countries want you dead, when thousands cheer for speeches about your destruction, when the dogs of the guards are treated better than you are, then it’s not a question, Stefania. You know you are nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Fusia. But I’m looking death in the face, and I don’t like what I see.”

I don’t know how to do what he’s asked of me. I don’t know how not to do it, either.

Not her responsibility, and not mine. Whose responsibility is it then, Emilika?

Death really isn’t so terrible, I think. It’s losing the chance to live that’s sad. Like I did with Izio. Izio died because I didn’t come in time to save him. But what if I had never tried to come? If I live through this war, can I live with having done nothing, or will my life be poisoned with regret? How will I tell Helena when we find out Max is dead? How will I tell my mother that my choices have killed Helena? I’d never have the chance. Because I would be dead, too. But who else is there to save them but me?

I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. I tell myself that if the Gestapo knows, then they would know the names of the Jews already. They’d take them from the ghetto, not look for them among the people in the streets. That the SS have never been worried about little things like evidence and proof, so why wait to get it? If they knew, I tell myself, they would have been here already. It’s easier to tell yourself things like this than to actually believe them. I can’t always expect to be arrested and let go.

It’s a horrible way to ask someone to risk their life for you. Low. Selfish. Disgusting. The whole situation makes me angry. And certain. We are not going to live through this. Not all of us. I remember when Izio said that to me, the last night before he went to the camp. And yet, if I were a mother in the ghetto, if I had lost a husband, parents, siblings to the trains—and that’s what Siunek said happened to Mrs. Bessermann—what would I do to get my children out? To save them from that same fate? What would I do for Helena? Anything. That’s what I’d do. I’d cheat and lie and be as low and selfish as I had to.

“Sadness can become cruelty,”

I feel silly. And tired. And jumpy with adrenaline. It’s an unpleasant combination. Then I imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t had a bag of coal and decide this might not be such a waste of time after all. It might actually feel good to hit something. I raise my fists.

When I lie down on the sofa beside Helena, and the house is finally quiet, the old fear comes back. It’s never gone away. Just stewed and simmered, lurking beneath the lid of false security I’d dropped on top of it. But my security is gone now. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, and there’s such a sharp pain behind my eyes it makes me see lights. I want to grab Helena and run. Like they told me to. I was such a fool not to run. I’ve only delayed the day. Made them all suffer. And then I remember my certainty. There has to be a reason. There has to be a chance that we will survive this. I cling to that thought like my belief in God. There are four Nazis sleeping in the bedroom. There are thirteen Jews in the attic above their heads. Helena and I are standing in between. I think we are all about to reinvent our notions of hell.

I know what fear feels like. Now I know what it looks like.

I think some of them blame me. I think some of them blame Max. I think they need someone to blame. It feels like this might go on forever.

And I want to tell him to hold up his head. He said once that I was the best person he’d ever known. But it’s not true. He is the best person I have ever known. I am nothing compared to him. Not the other way around. I want to tell him not to be ashamed. Because he is a survivor. But I don’t know how to tell him that. So I look at the forged prescription. Getting this is going to be dangerous. I will be questioned. And I’ve never even told Max about the man with one eyebrow. Sometimes I am so ready for the idea that I might die, I barely notice the feeling.

I know Max loves me. I love him. We’ve been like brother and sister. We have lost the same people and cried for the same grief. We’ve been through the best and the very worst times of our lives together. He’s my best friend. But that is different from what Mrs. Bessermann meant. In love with me is different.

I prop my head on an elbow. “What did Henek say?” “That Max should let it go, because you were never going to forget the other one, Izio, and that Max can’t fight a ghost.” Helena looks up. “I don’t know what that part means. About fighting a ghost. How would you fight a ghost?” “I don’t know, Hela,” I whisper. I think of that kiss on the forehead. The one that wasn’t fatherly. Or brotherly. And didn’t make me think of Izio. I told myself I wouldn’t love anyone. Not again. Not during a war. It’s too hard. But maybe there’s no way to help it.

Quiet does not mean emptiness. Not always. Not for me.

“You gave me my life,” he says. “Now let me give it back to you.”