The Angel of Death
Norman Danzig
November 1935
The Nord Express flew west through the Polish countryside: a landscape of mud, leafless trees, and blackened thunderheads. In the distance, a grey squall line cut across the sky, and as the late afternoon darkened, the train knifed through the icy air blowing from Germany.
When the conductor announced they would be at the border in ten minutes, Naomi Mittleman, twenty-five, felt her face freeze and her stomach tighten. Her journey to America had begun early that morning from Dotnuva, in a borrowed car, when her family had brought her to the train in Vilna and said goodbye.
Now, she heard her father’s Yiddish voice, “When the train stops at the German border, just give them your papers and say nothing. Look at me, absolutely nothing. Fashtast?”
As the train slowed, Naomi checked her handbag for her exit visa and passport. Not seeing the travel documents right away, she flicked past her steamship ticket, the information she needed once she reached Paris, lists of phone numbers and addresses of her relatives and friends of her parents, airmail stationary, and a booklet in English, “What to see in New York City,” that she had struggled to understand. About to turn her pocketbook over and shake everything out onto the seat, she saw the corner of her passport stuck between two pages, grabbed the documents, and squeezed them as she closed her bag. She took out her compact, and lightly dusted her smooth skin, dabbed her aquiline nose, brushed her charcoal woolen suit, and fixed the collar of her cream-colored blouse.
Across from her sat Ezra Shulevitz, from Vilna, a middle-aged friend of her parents. Out the window, standing on a concrete slab, next to a lamp post, were two border guards waiting for the train. The yellowish light caught the brim of their caps, and made their features disappear in the deep shadows. An SS officer, with his black pants tucked into shiny, calf-high boots, stood near them.
“They’re just as ugly as I imagined they would be,” Naomi said.
“Ugly. I would say menacing,”
“No, not that, their spirit is crooked.”
When the guards came to their compartment, the SS officer stood behind them. Her French and German were passable, but before they asked, Naomi held up her passport and exit visa. She tried to still her shaking hands. After examining and returning her papers, the guard, over his shoulder, said, “Lithuania. Visa to America.”
To Ezra he said, “And you sir, where are you from?”
“Vilna.” He sat there. He didn’t move.
“Your papers,” after a pause, “please.”
Ezra took documents from his inside jacket pocket, and held them in his hand in front of him. Naomi didn’t move. The guard grabbed them. To the SS officer, who had leaned against the side of the seats that faced Naomi, he said, “Visa to France.”
“Your next stop is Berlin,” the SS officer said. She nodded and clasped her trembling hands on her lap. “Enjoy yourself, it is a great city.” With a smirk, he tipped his cap and left.
She exhaled and closed her eyes.
“They just try and scare you,” Ezra said.
“It worked. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. But I liked you just held your papers.”
“I wanted to see what he would do if I made him reach for it.”
“I could never have done that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Ezra was taller than Naomi, with broad shoulders, and a large head that seemed to tilt forward as if he were perpetually analyzing an accounts payable ledger. She had only met Ezra once, when she had seen him in the one room store, with the side entrance, of her parent’s house, in the center of town. He had known her parents for fifteen years, and had supplied everything, from hair tonic to the beer the townspeople liked. In late August, Ezra mentioned to her father that he had go to Paris for a week on business. Her father convinced him to hold off going, and leave on the same day as Naomi to accompany her on the train.
Outside the window, two cats, paws raised, teeth bared, snarled. She sat up straight.
“My grandmother used to tell me stories about dybbuks and spirits that inhabited animals. My father would get very angry with her, and tell her not to frighten me with superstitious stories. Not that I believed her, but ever since she died, when I return home late from Kovno, I think I see things, and I’m not so sure.”
“You believe in ghosts?” Ezra said.
“No, well maybe. I don’t know.”
“Probably just shadows.”
“That’s what you think?” Naomi said.
“You’re an educated young woman, why do you believe in ghosts?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Perhaps I misunderstood.”
Naomi tried to get comfortable and nap. She recalled how, following the afternoon Sabbath meal, her father would sit and rest in his large upholstered armchair that was next to the window in the front room. As a child, she would curl up with him. He would fill her with stories like David and Goliath, or Moses in the bullrushes, or in a light hearted moment tell her tales of the fools of Chelm, or sing Shabbos zemiros that would bring the whole family together to reprise the songs they had sung at the beginning of the Sabbath, each one taking a turn choosing a song like Shalom Aleichem, or Yah Ribbon Olam.
Now, going to her aunt’s house in New York, what would she find? Her mother had told her that her aunt and uncle weren’t very religious. Did they celebrate all the holidays? What about the High Holy days? They must go to the synagogue then. She closed her eyes.
They arrived in Berlin at 21:00, and walked into the main part of the six-story terminal, with its huge oval ceiling and large glass cupola. She looked up and said it was beautiful. He nodded. On the far wall, a man stood on a ladder that leaned against a three-meter-high slate board writing the arrivals and departures for all the trains in large German Gothic letters with white chalk.
Ezra said, “Fifth line down. Our train leaves on time, in two hours.”
At first, trying to read the arrivals and departures, Naomi had not noticed the men with rifles over their shoulders scattered throughout the terminal in twos and threes. Each wore a brown shirt and tie and a red armband with a black swastika in a white circle. Ezra whispered to her. “There’s a lot more of them since the last time I was here.”
A half-whispered Gotenyu flew from her mouth.
On Naomi’s right, she caught a man leaning against a lamppost staring at her. The station’s light shone on the edges of his concave cheeks, and did not illuminate the inner portions of his face. Mesmerized, she watched as his features seemed to sink inwards creating a screaming mask.
Her body jumped as if a jolt of electricity had pierced her skin.
“Everything all right?”
“In Vilna this morning, a tall, rail-thin man, with a red beard, wearing a black cape and bowler that hid part of his face, slid in front of me, got on the train, and disappeared into the car. My mother slammed her hand on her chest, and spit, Malach Ha Mavis, The Angel of Death.”
“I don’t understand—just now, what did you see?” Ezra said.
“I don’t know. Nothing. I’m sure it was nothing. Maybe it was the same man from this morning.”
They passed where the man had stood. Naomi smelled rotten meat. Her body shook. Her legs were wobbly. She grabbed Ezra’s arm to steady herself. He placed his hand over hers.
“We’ll get something to eat,” he said.
They continued towards a long bar, against the side of the station, half filled with travelers. Partially drunk glasses of beer and wine were scattered across the dark semi-polished, dented, and nicked wood. A small stack of flyers, with a spread eagle holding a swastika centered at the top of the page, lay on the bar near them. She sucked in her breath. Ezra picked one up as they went by.
Past the drinkers was a room filled with small tables and as if to make it seem like a country outing, red checked gingham tablecloths covered the tables that were almost all empty.
Once they were seated, the waiter brought them the menu written on a table height slate sandwich board. He placed the board with the choices: Eintopf, Pea soup, and Spaetzle on the side of the table for both to see, and left. In a flat voice, Ezra read the flyer. “Juden, beware. You are not welcome in Germany. You cannot hide from us. We will make sure all the new laws are strictly enforced. Your presence here is not welcome, and while we will let you remain in Berlin, for the time being, you should know we are watching you. The Gestapo.”
“Let’s leave,” she said.
He crumpled up the flyer, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it before he kicked it away. “Six months ago, I was in Berlin; things were bad, but I didn’t see anything like this. We’ll have something to eat and go back to the train.”
“Eintopf?” Naomi raised her eyebrows.
Ezra said, “Stew. It’s cheap and the Nazis are pushing one pot meals.”
The waiter returned.
“I’ll have the pea soup.”
“And I the spaetzle,” Ezra said.
Naomi loved her mother’s soup, as did her sisters. But why was she, and not one of her three sisters, the one forced to go. She hadn’t wanted to leave. Gittel wanted to leave the country. Why hadn’t they sent her? And what about Talia? She loved the book of photographs of New York City that Aharon, her older brother, her favorite, had given her last year. Talia would have loved to live in New York. If it had been Paris, or another European city than maybe…but America, with an ocean between them. She understood there was little likelihood she would be coming home any time soon.
When the food arrived, the aroma of the pea soup made her realize she hadn’t eaten all day. They ate quickly.
Afterwards, they returned to their car at the back of the train. Inside, Naomi walked up and down the car. How odd, there was no one else there. They found their seats and settled in opposite of each other. She took off her beret and placed it on the overhead rack; her pocketbook she put next to her.
The train whistle blew. As the steel wheels gained purchase, she thought of her leaving from the Vilna station this morning. Her mother stood in front of her, held her hands, and wept. Surprised by her mother’s reaction, especially since going to stay with her aunt and uncle was her idea, Naomi thought she should have been the one crying. But sleepless nights anticipating how she would get across the continent and then find the ship to America, coupled with the knowledge that she had no choice stopped all her tears. However, when her youngest sister, Talia, embraced her, tears ran down her face. In a useless attempt to hold off the future, they rocked back and forth and refused to let go. Only when Aharon took her arm did she move towards the train.
Something clattered outside their compartment in the walkway.
“What’s that?” Ezra said and got up. As he slid open the door, his hand swung out and knocked her bag off the seat. The pocket book landed with a thud.
Naomi jumped up, rushed to pick it up, but Ezra got to her handbag first. He laughed,
“My God what do you have in here? This is heavy.”
Trying to grab it from him, she pushed his hand. He dropped the bag. It opened. The barrel of a pistol showed through. She grabbed the pocketbook and held it to her chest.
“You have a gun?” he said, “Why?”
“Ten days before I left, my father gave this to me and told me not to say anything to anyone, especially my mother.”
“You know how to use it?”
“He took me to a deserted field, across from the old Jewish cemetery and taught me how to shoot. I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted. I sewed a false bottom into the bag.”
“Wait, your father, a hard-working religious Jew has a pistol, and taught you to shoot?”
“My father is a very practical man. My mother, on the other hand, gave me this.” From under her blouse, she lifted a piece of red silk cord tied around her neck, and showed him a five-centimeter round silver amulet. “Inscribed are the names of three protective angels: Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof. My mother hung it around the corner of our cribs when we were little to stop Lilith from snatching one of us. The day before I left, my mother called me into her bedroom and placed the amulet in my hand. ‘All my children survived into adulthood; I believe this will protect you on your journey.’” Holding the face of the amulet towards Ezra, Naomi said, “My mother believes in this,” and pointing to the gun, “my father believes in that.
“All I know is that my father gave this to me for my protection. I hope to God I never have to use it.”
She felt the heft of the gun, and placed the weapon in the compartment at the bottom of her bag.
Ezra wrapped his arms around himself and said, “It’s about seven hours to Paris, five to the border.” Both were quiet.
In Paris, she had to find the train to Cherbourg. Once there, she would have plenty of time to find the ship to America. Her brother had given her twenty-five Francs he had bought on the black market, and a card, written in French, to give to the taxi driver saying she wanted to go from the train station to the Cherbourg docks. She kept repeating her ship’s name, “Berengaria, Berengaria, Berengaria.”
From the window, as the train gathered speed, she watched as the residential sections gave way to the industrial area where black clouds of smoke plumed out the stacks.
After an hour, Naomi needed to stretch. Ezra was napping She picked up her pocket book, climbed over his legs, and slid the compartment door open. She moved from her car to the next. As soon as she entered, Naomi smelled meat that had been out in the sun for several days, long enough for flies to buzz around it. The rude, red-bearded man who had brushed past her at the Vilna station stood two meters from her blocking her way. His face contorted into a crooked smile and showed his misshapen, fang-like teeth. Instinct drove her back two steps. She banged into the door. She felt nauseous. The smell was coming from him.
“Who are you?” Naomi said. “What do you want?
From the back of his throat, his voice low and harsh, “Good day, Fraulein. It is rather simple; I’ve come to offer you a choice. Either you come with me or you will destroy all that you left behind.”
“That’s crazy.”
Unblinking, unbending, he stared at her. “You have five minutes to decide. Either you come with me, or your family will be killed. Just as you say in your Rosh Hashanah services, ‘Who will live and who will die.’ Except this time, you, not God, will be the one to decide.”
As if the door could absorb her, she pushed her back against the flat metal in the hope of dissolving and reemerging into the safety of the connecting passageway.
“You are an evil thing. Get away.” She waved her hand in front of her trying to banish him.
“The minutes are ticking and you still believe you can stop what is ordained.”
“You don’t know my parents.”
“Your parents, Hirsh and Malka Mittleman, live a kilometer from St. Stevens Church in Dotnuva. Your brother, Aharon, is an agronomist. Your sister, Gittel, wants to follow Rina to Palestine. Need I go on?”
Naomi screamed.
She tried to find the door handle behind her. Frantic, unable to focus, wanting to escape, she turned back, and the space, where he had stood, was empty.
“Go back,” a voice in her head called.
She rushed into her car, and entered their compartment; her mind encased in ice, and pushed the door closed. Ezra jumped up, “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She hissed, “Malach Ha Mavis. The Angel of Death. He’s here, in the next car. He’s come for me.”
“Naomi,” his voice quavered. “You’ve had a couple of difficult days. I assure you there is no Angel of Death or any personification of death.”
“He’ll be back in less than five minutes and expects my decision.”
“Decision? About what? What the hell is going on?”
Trembling, she shrieked, “I have to go with him, or my family will be destroyed. If I don’t go with him, my family will die.” She reached for her pocketbook and took out the gun checking it was loaded. Placing it on the seat, she put her handbag over it.
In the next instant, the tall black-suited nightmare stood in front of their compartment. Naomi jumped. He slid the door open. She cried, “What do you want? Why are you scaring me? I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The compartment filled with the smell of dank rot. He moved one step closer—his face impassive.
Naomi gagged. She picked up the weapon and pointed it at him.
“Stop bothering her,” Ezra said, “you’re some kind of crazy person. Are you a demon? Are we supposed to believe you’re supernatural? Nonsense. I’ll tell you one thing, her gun is real.”
“Do you think you can kill me with a gun? Not possible. Your time is up, what say you—you or your family?” He leaned forward. “Come with me. Come with me, and save your family.”
She pulled the amulet out and shoved it towards him. He laughed. From the core of her soul she screamed, “No!” Yet, for a moment, she saw herself going off with him. He would lead her through the car. The train would make an unscheduled stop. He’d step off the train and hold her hand as she came down the stairs. Was he fooling her? What did he mean your family would be killed? All will be lost. I should go with him. I must save my family.
Ezra lunged at him, pushed him into the aisle, and threw him to the floor.
On top of him, Ezra tried to wrestle his arms down, Naomi, in a low staccato voice, said, “Move away Ezra.” He rolled off him. With the hammer cocked, she held the pistol in her shaking hand. The bearded man laughed, and snapped his fingers, and in an instant, was on his feet as if a moment in time were skipped.
He took a step towards her. She fired the gun. Even over the noise of the speeding train, the sound was an explosion. The shot knocked him down, but he got up with outstretched arms, took a step towards her. She cocked and fired the gun a second time and then a third. He fell backwards and hit his head on the floor; his feet lay centimeters from her. Ezra got up shaking, “Oh my God. What have you done?”
She stood without moving. She said nothing. She heard nothing. She leaned forward about to fall. Ezra caught her. He sat her down and together they stared at the thing on the floor covered in the black cape.
“We can’t be caught with a dead body. We’re almost at the border crossing. Maybe we can dump him off the train.” He bent down to examine the body.
“There’s no blood!”
He held the wrist. “I can’t find a pulse.” He took the gun from her hand and put it in his jacket pocket.
She sat in the corner shaking. Crammed in, she felt like a little girl. Ezra kicked the body. The rank smell got worse.
“Naomi are you alright? Say something, I’m frightened.”
She felt a buzz saw cutting across her head through her eyes. She pressed herself deeper into the corner. “I should have gone with him.”
Ezra shook his head. “Stop it. We need to get rid of this person, this creature, this thing!” Ezra crossed to the end of the car, opened the door, and grabbed the wind curtain that connected the cars. He tore at the material until he broke it in two. The cold air rushed in. He went back to her. “I’ll shove whoever, or whatever this is through the opening.” He threw his jacket into the compartment. He pulled the dead weight towards the car opening. By the time he reached the door, sweat had soaked his shirt. Naomi went to see if she could help Ezra without touching the body. The noise was like thunder that stretched for miles and cracked open the sky. Petrified, she watched Ezra pull it through the door tearing his shirt. He straddled the body, grabbed the arms, and lifted it up, so they appeared to be embracing. The stench was overwhelming. Ezra gagged. Naomi held the door open. He positioned himself near the split in the curtain. In this dance of death, Ezra braced himself. For a moment, he let it lean into him and then shoved it out the opening. He held onto the side of the car. He brushed his hands on his shirt, while the wind dried his sweat. He took her hand, closed the car door, and pushed her back into their compartment. The smell remained.
She stared off and said, “What are we to do?”
“We have to clean up.”
“But the floor is dry. No blood. I shot him, but he didn’t bleed?”
“Blood or no blood, we got rid of the body. It’s over. We will continue our journey. You to America and a new life, and me to Paris and business.”
“How can I go to America now; I’m going to be arrested for shooting that man. Who was he? What did he want?” Raising her voice, “What kind of thing was he? My family will be killed? Gut zol mir uphtin, God in heaven.”
“Shh,” Ezra whispered, “we must be careful. I don’t know what he was, but he’s gone and now we will go on.”
“But my family.” She looked at him as if snapping out of a dream. “I must go back; I must go back and save them. There must be a way to stop this.”
Ezra lowered his voice to a barely audible breath, “He’s dead.”
She saw her family in front of their house when they were all still together, posed in the formal photograph that hung on the dining room wall. She wanted to melt into the image, reunited, never to be apart.
Ezra said, “We need to fix ourselves up. We’re going to be at the border crossing soon.
Then Paris is two more hours. Will you be alright?”
“No.”
September 1943
On a cold Sabbath morning, in a small wooden synagogue, sandwiched in between six-story apartment buildings on East 183rd street in the Bronx, Naomi, nine months pregnant, didn’t feel the draft that surrounded her when she and her cousin, Bayla Sharfstein, rose to join the congregation in silent prayer. She leaned into Bayla and recited the memorized two-year-old letter that had left her paralyzed for weeks, unable to speak.
“November 1941, Dear Cousin Naomi, at the end of August, the Gestapo came to our town. We were taken to Krakes where they cordoned off the streets next to the old monastery. Hundreds of Jews from other towns arrived. Someone said there were over a thousand people. There was little water or food. Your sister, Talia, who I thought had escaped, was taken screaming, from the clinic, where she had the baby, and brought into the ghetto with her newborn.
“In early September, on a foggy, wet morning the trucks arrived, four or five at a time. We were brought to the site where they lined us up facing the pit that Jews had been forced to dig and shot everyone. I lay covered with blood from the bodies that oozed from a stomach, a chest, a head. The bodies kept falling on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. Finally, the shooting stopped. I lay there for, I don’t know how long. It was dark. A quarter moon rose. I clawed my way up and shoved aside bodies. I turned someone over and, my dear cousin, I am sorry to say, but it was your brother’s face, frozen, contorted, his mouth open, eyes half shut, holding a baby. I pushed them both away and dragged myself out of this death stew of body parts, blood, and mud. Somehow, I have survived all this. I appear to be the only one. I don’t know why. I am somewhere in Poland, out of hospital, safe with a group of partisans who help me and care for me.
“Please forgive me for writing this to you. I saw no other way. Your cousin, Yitzchak.”
She sat down. She could not see her husband on the other side of the separation curtain, but she knew Avraham Mordechai sat with his head between his hands weeping.
“Bayla, five months went by without a letter. I missed their handwriting. I missed reading about what each one had done. They wrote on every surface of the paper. When they ran out of room at the bottom of the page, they wrote on the sides trying to tell me more. It didn’t matter to me what they wrote, even if it was only about the weather.”
“Did you know they all wrote to me in Hebrew, except my mother. She wrote in Yiddish.
Bayla sat, but didn’t say anything.
“No letter from my family. Week after week. From the time I woke up in the morning until late at night, I walked in circles around the apartment, then outside, around the block. Avraham said goodbye to me each morning before he went to work, and said, ‘Maybe today?’
“Finally, I got the letter. I opened it; shadows flew from the envelope. I thought I caught a glimpse of my brother in the distance of what might have been; white haired, a finely trimmed mustache, with wire rimmed glasses lecturing a class on the fundamentals of hydrology. Aviva, his wife, sat outside the classroom waiting with their daughter Ruth, and her son Solomon.
“Avraham wants to name the baby after my parents. But how can I do that. I’d call the baby’s name and all that had happened to them would strangle me.”
“You’ll tell him. He’ll understand.”
They stood with the congregation while the Rabbi took the Torah from the Ark for the reading of the weekly portion. Her grandson, Solomon, standing in front of her, asked her to play.
She said, “You must be quiet, it's krias hatorah,” and shushed him.
“Naomi, please there’s no one here.”
Bayla held her hand. She helped her stand to listen to the singing as the Rabbi gathered children behind him, and walked, and danced around the synagogue, holding the torah, leaning it towards those on the aisle, so the assembled could touch and kiss the torah.
Naomi said to Bayla, “The doctor says it’s time to move on. Bayla, do you think two years is long enough?”
“Shh, shh, don’t upset yourself, you’re very far along. You don’t want to do anything that could hurt the baby.”
“I should have gone with that evil man.”
“What man?” Bayla said.
The Rabbi brought the scrolls to the front of the synagogue, placed them on a table facing the assembled, and prepared to read the portion of the week. Naomi, saw her family together. Papa would say the blessings on the wine and the challah. Her mother would direct her and her sisters when to bring out the matzah ball soup, the broiled chicken, the roast with potatoes and root vegetables. The aromas filled the house with joy. She saw her brother, her sisters, and their spouses and children come in from the cool night air and join the table. She motioned to Talia to move closer.
She said to Bayla, “Would you like to meet my sister?”
“Please Naomi you need to take it easy.”
She turned to her left. “Talia, say hello to my cousin.”
Bayla took her arm. “Let me take you home. You need rest.”
“When I left, how could I have known I would never see them again?”
“Shh, do you want to stay for Kaddish?”
Naomi nodded. She sat, her mind quieted by the familiar notes of the torah reading rising and falling. After the portion of the week was read, and that part of the service concluded, Naomi waited for the Rabbi to invite those who needed to say the prayer for the dead to stand.
“Yiskadal viyskadash shmay rabah…May His name be praised and made holy…” She finished the Kaddish. Once again, her demons, surrounded her. They grew out of the shadows, took hold of her, and controlled her life. In the back of each vision, stood a tall rail-thin man with a bowler hat. Some spoke to her; some she understood; others not, but always the same, “You’re to blame. You did it. You could have saved them.”
Frozen in her blood-red-vision of the death pit, she could not breathe; she could not move. Bayla tugged at her arm to no avail.
Norman Danzig
November 1935
The Nord Express flew west through the Polish countryside: a landscape of mud, leafless trees, and blackened thunderheads. In the distance, a grey squall line cut across the sky, and as the late afternoon darkened, the train knifed through the icy air blowing from Germany.
When the conductor announced they would be at the border in ten minutes, Naomi Mittleman, twenty-five, felt her face freeze and her stomach tighten. Her journey to America had begun early that morning from Dotnuva, in a borrowed car, when her family had brought her to the train in Vilna and said goodbye.
Now, she heard her father’s Yiddish voice, “When the train stops at the German border, just give them your papers and say nothing. Look at me, absolutely nothing. Fashtast?”
As the train slowed, Naomi checked her handbag for her exit visa and passport. Not seeing the travel documents right away, she flicked past her steamship ticket, the information she needed once she reached Paris, lists of phone numbers and addresses of her relatives and friends of her parents, airmail stationary, and a booklet in English, “What to see in New York City,” that she had struggled to understand. About to turn her pocketbook over and shake everything out onto the seat, she saw the corner of her passport stuck between two pages, grabbed the documents, and squeezed them as she closed her bag. She took out her compact, and lightly dusted her smooth skin, dabbed her aquiline nose, brushed her charcoal woolen suit, and fixed the collar of her cream-colored blouse.
Across from her sat Ezra Shulevitz, from Vilna, a middle-aged friend of her parents. Out the window, standing on a concrete slab, next to a lamp post, were two border guards waiting for the train. The yellowish light caught the brim of their caps, and made their features disappear in the deep shadows. An SS officer, with his black pants tucked into shiny, calf-high boots, stood near them.
“They’re just as ugly as I imagined they would be,” Naomi said.
“Ugly. I would say menacing,”
“No, not that, their spirit is crooked.”
When the guards came to their compartment, the SS officer stood behind them. Her French and German were passable, but before they asked, Naomi held up her passport and exit visa. She tried to still her shaking hands. After examining and returning her papers, the guard, over his shoulder, said, “Lithuania. Visa to America.”
To Ezra he said, “And you sir, where are you from?”
“Vilna.” He sat there. He didn’t move.
“Your papers,” after a pause, “please.”
Ezra took documents from his inside jacket pocket, and held them in his hand in front of him. Naomi didn’t move. The guard grabbed them. To the SS officer, who had leaned against the side of the seats that faced Naomi, he said, “Visa to France.”
“Your next stop is Berlin,” the SS officer said. She nodded and clasped her trembling hands on her lap. “Enjoy yourself, it is a great city.” With a smirk, he tipped his cap and left.
She exhaled and closed her eyes.
“They just try and scare you,” Ezra said.
“It worked. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. But I liked you just held your papers.”
“I wanted to see what he would do if I made him reach for it.”
“I could never have done that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Ezra was taller than Naomi, with broad shoulders, and a large head that seemed to tilt forward as if he were perpetually analyzing an accounts payable ledger. She had only met Ezra once, when she had seen him in the one room store, with the side entrance, of her parent’s house, in the center of town. He had known her parents for fifteen years, and had supplied everything, from hair tonic to the beer the townspeople liked. In late August, Ezra mentioned to her father that he had go to Paris for a week on business. Her father convinced him to hold off going, and leave on the same day as Naomi to accompany her on the train.
Outside the window, two cats, paws raised, teeth bared, snarled. She sat up straight.
“My grandmother used to tell me stories about dybbuks and spirits that inhabited animals. My father would get very angry with her, and tell her not to frighten me with superstitious stories. Not that I believed her, but ever since she died, when I return home late from Kovno, I think I see things, and I’m not so sure.”
“You believe in ghosts?” Ezra said.
“No, well maybe. I don’t know.”
“Probably just shadows.”
“That’s what you think?” Naomi said.
“You’re an educated young woman, why do you believe in ghosts?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Perhaps I misunderstood.”
Naomi tried to get comfortable and nap. She recalled how, following the afternoon Sabbath meal, her father would sit and rest in his large upholstered armchair that was next to the window in the front room. As a child, she would curl up with him. He would fill her with stories like David and Goliath, or Moses in the bullrushes, or in a light hearted moment tell her tales of the fools of Chelm, or sing Shabbos zemiros that would bring the whole family together to reprise the songs they had sung at the beginning of the Sabbath, each one taking a turn choosing a song like Shalom Aleichem, or Yah Ribbon Olam.
Now, going to her aunt’s house in New York, what would she find? Her mother had told her that her aunt and uncle weren’t very religious. Did they celebrate all the holidays? What about the High Holy days? They must go to the synagogue then. She closed her eyes.
They arrived in Berlin at 21:00, and walked into the main part of the six-story terminal, with its huge oval ceiling and large glass cupola. She looked up and said it was beautiful. He nodded. On the far wall, a man stood on a ladder that leaned against a three-meter-high slate board writing the arrivals and departures for all the trains in large German Gothic letters with white chalk.
Ezra said, “Fifth line down. Our train leaves on time, in two hours.”
At first, trying to read the arrivals and departures, Naomi had not noticed the men with rifles over their shoulders scattered throughout the terminal in twos and threes. Each wore a brown shirt and tie and a red armband with a black swastika in a white circle. Ezra whispered to her. “There’s a lot more of them since the last time I was here.”
A half-whispered Gotenyu flew from her mouth.
On Naomi’s right, she caught a man leaning against a lamppost staring at her. The station’s light shone on the edges of his concave cheeks, and did not illuminate the inner portions of his face. Mesmerized, she watched as his features seemed to sink inwards creating a screaming mask.
Her body jumped as if a jolt of electricity had pierced her skin.
“Everything all right?”
“In Vilna this morning, a tall, rail-thin man, with a red beard, wearing a black cape and bowler that hid part of his face, slid in front of me, got on the train, and disappeared into the car. My mother slammed her hand on her chest, and spit, Malach Ha Mavis, The Angel of Death.”
“I don’t understand—just now, what did you see?” Ezra said.
“I don’t know. Nothing. I’m sure it was nothing. Maybe it was the same man from this morning.”
They passed where the man had stood. Naomi smelled rotten meat. Her body shook. Her legs were wobbly. She grabbed Ezra’s arm to steady herself. He placed his hand over hers.
“We’ll get something to eat,” he said.
They continued towards a long bar, against the side of the station, half filled with travelers. Partially drunk glasses of beer and wine were scattered across the dark semi-polished, dented, and nicked wood. A small stack of flyers, with a spread eagle holding a swastika centered at the top of the page, lay on the bar near them. She sucked in her breath. Ezra picked one up as they went by.
Past the drinkers was a room filled with small tables and as if to make it seem like a country outing, red checked gingham tablecloths covered the tables that were almost all empty.
Once they were seated, the waiter brought them the menu written on a table height slate sandwich board. He placed the board with the choices: Eintopf, Pea soup, and Spaetzle on the side of the table for both to see, and left. In a flat voice, Ezra read the flyer. “Juden, beware. You are not welcome in Germany. You cannot hide from us. We will make sure all the new laws are strictly enforced. Your presence here is not welcome, and while we will let you remain in Berlin, for the time being, you should know we are watching you. The Gestapo.”
“Let’s leave,” she said.
He crumpled up the flyer, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it before he kicked it away. “Six months ago, I was in Berlin; things were bad, but I didn’t see anything like this. We’ll have something to eat and go back to the train.”
“Eintopf?” Naomi raised her eyebrows.
Ezra said, “Stew. It’s cheap and the Nazis are pushing one pot meals.”
The waiter returned.
“I’ll have the pea soup.”
“And I the spaetzle,” Ezra said.
Naomi loved her mother’s soup, as did her sisters. But why was she, and not one of her three sisters, the one forced to go. She hadn’t wanted to leave. Gittel wanted to leave the country. Why hadn’t they sent her? And what about Talia? She loved the book of photographs of New York City that Aharon, her older brother, her favorite, had given her last year. Talia would have loved to live in New York. If it had been Paris, or another European city than maybe…but America, with an ocean between them. She understood there was little likelihood she would be coming home any time soon.
When the food arrived, the aroma of the pea soup made her realize she hadn’t eaten all day. They ate quickly.
Afterwards, they returned to their car at the back of the train. Inside, Naomi walked up and down the car. How odd, there was no one else there. They found their seats and settled in opposite of each other. She took off her beret and placed it on the overhead rack; her pocketbook she put next to her.
The train whistle blew. As the steel wheels gained purchase, she thought of her leaving from the Vilna station this morning. Her mother stood in front of her, held her hands, and wept. Surprised by her mother’s reaction, especially since going to stay with her aunt and uncle was her idea, Naomi thought she should have been the one crying. But sleepless nights anticipating how she would get across the continent and then find the ship to America, coupled with the knowledge that she had no choice stopped all her tears. However, when her youngest sister, Talia, embraced her, tears ran down her face. In a useless attempt to hold off the future, they rocked back and forth and refused to let go. Only when Aharon took her arm did she move towards the train.
Something clattered outside their compartment in the walkway.
“What’s that?” Ezra said and got up. As he slid open the door, his hand swung out and knocked her bag off the seat. The pocket book landed with a thud.
Naomi jumped up, rushed to pick it up, but Ezra got to her handbag first. He laughed,
“My God what do you have in here? This is heavy.”
Trying to grab it from him, she pushed his hand. He dropped the bag. It opened. The barrel of a pistol showed through. She grabbed the pocketbook and held it to her chest.
“You have a gun?” he said, “Why?”
“Ten days before I left, my father gave this to me and told me not to say anything to anyone, especially my mother.”
“You know how to use it?”
“He took me to a deserted field, across from the old Jewish cemetery and taught me how to shoot. I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted. I sewed a false bottom into the bag.”
“Wait, your father, a hard-working religious Jew has a pistol, and taught you to shoot?”
“My father is a very practical man. My mother, on the other hand, gave me this.” From under her blouse, she lifted a piece of red silk cord tied around her neck, and showed him a five-centimeter round silver amulet. “Inscribed are the names of three protective angels: Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangelof. My mother hung it around the corner of our cribs when we were little to stop Lilith from snatching one of us. The day before I left, my mother called me into her bedroom and placed the amulet in my hand. ‘All my children survived into adulthood; I believe this will protect you on your journey.’” Holding the face of the amulet towards Ezra, Naomi said, “My mother believes in this,” and pointing to the gun, “my father believes in that.
“All I know is that my father gave this to me for my protection. I hope to God I never have to use it.”
She felt the heft of the gun, and placed the weapon in the compartment at the bottom of her bag.
Ezra wrapped his arms around himself and said, “It’s about seven hours to Paris, five to the border.” Both were quiet.
In Paris, she had to find the train to Cherbourg. Once there, she would have plenty of time to find the ship to America. Her brother had given her twenty-five Francs he had bought on the black market, and a card, written in French, to give to the taxi driver saying she wanted to go from the train station to the Cherbourg docks. She kept repeating her ship’s name, “Berengaria, Berengaria, Berengaria.”
From the window, as the train gathered speed, she watched as the residential sections gave way to the industrial area where black clouds of smoke plumed out the stacks.
After an hour, Naomi needed to stretch. Ezra was napping She picked up her pocket book, climbed over his legs, and slid the compartment door open. She moved from her car to the next. As soon as she entered, Naomi smelled meat that had been out in the sun for several days, long enough for flies to buzz around it. The rude, red-bearded man who had brushed past her at the Vilna station stood two meters from her blocking her way. His face contorted into a crooked smile and showed his misshapen, fang-like teeth. Instinct drove her back two steps. She banged into the door. She felt nauseous. The smell was coming from him.
“Who are you?” Naomi said. “What do you want?
From the back of his throat, his voice low and harsh, “Good day, Fraulein. It is rather simple; I’ve come to offer you a choice. Either you come with me or you will destroy all that you left behind.”
“That’s crazy.”
Unblinking, unbending, he stared at her. “You have five minutes to decide. Either you come with me, or your family will be killed. Just as you say in your Rosh Hashanah services, ‘Who will live and who will die.’ Except this time, you, not God, will be the one to decide.”
As if the door could absorb her, she pushed her back against the flat metal in the hope of dissolving and reemerging into the safety of the connecting passageway.
“You are an evil thing. Get away.” She waved her hand in front of her trying to banish him.
“The minutes are ticking and you still believe you can stop what is ordained.”
“You don’t know my parents.”
“Your parents, Hirsh and Malka Mittleman, live a kilometer from St. Stevens Church in Dotnuva. Your brother, Aharon, is an agronomist. Your sister, Gittel, wants to follow Rina to Palestine. Need I go on?”
Naomi screamed.
She tried to find the door handle behind her. Frantic, unable to focus, wanting to escape, she turned back, and the space, where he had stood, was empty.
“Go back,” a voice in her head called.
She rushed into her car, and entered their compartment; her mind encased in ice, and pushed the door closed. Ezra jumped up, “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She hissed, “Malach Ha Mavis. The Angel of Death. He’s here, in the next car. He’s come for me.”
“Naomi,” his voice quavered. “You’ve had a couple of difficult days. I assure you there is no Angel of Death or any personification of death.”
“He’ll be back in less than five minutes and expects my decision.”
“Decision? About what? What the hell is going on?”
Trembling, she shrieked, “I have to go with him, or my family will be destroyed. If I don’t go with him, my family will die.” She reached for her pocketbook and took out the gun checking it was loaded. Placing it on the seat, she put her handbag over it.
In the next instant, the tall black-suited nightmare stood in front of their compartment. Naomi jumped. He slid the door open. She cried, “What do you want? Why are you scaring me? I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The compartment filled with the smell of dank rot. He moved one step closer—his face impassive.
Naomi gagged. She picked up the weapon and pointed it at him.
“Stop bothering her,” Ezra said, “you’re some kind of crazy person. Are you a demon? Are we supposed to believe you’re supernatural? Nonsense. I’ll tell you one thing, her gun is real.”
“Do you think you can kill me with a gun? Not possible. Your time is up, what say you—you or your family?” He leaned forward. “Come with me. Come with me, and save your family.”
She pulled the amulet out and shoved it towards him. He laughed. From the core of her soul she screamed, “No!” Yet, for a moment, she saw herself going off with him. He would lead her through the car. The train would make an unscheduled stop. He’d step off the train and hold her hand as she came down the stairs. Was he fooling her? What did he mean your family would be killed? All will be lost. I should go with him. I must save my family.
Ezra lunged at him, pushed him into the aisle, and threw him to the floor.
On top of him, Ezra tried to wrestle his arms down, Naomi, in a low staccato voice, said, “Move away Ezra.” He rolled off him. With the hammer cocked, she held the pistol in her shaking hand. The bearded man laughed, and snapped his fingers, and in an instant, was on his feet as if a moment in time were skipped.
He took a step towards her. She fired the gun. Even over the noise of the speeding train, the sound was an explosion. The shot knocked him down, but he got up with outstretched arms, took a step towards her. She cocked and fired the gun a second time and then a third. He fell backwards and hit his head on the floor; his feet lay centimeters from her. Ezra got up shaking, “Oh my God. What have you done?”
She stood without moving. She said nothing. She heard nothing. She leaned forward about to fall. Ezra caught her. He sat her down and together they stared at the thing on the floor covered in the black cape.
“We can’t be caught with a dead body. We’re almost at the border crossing. Maybe we can dump him off the train.” He bent down to examine the body.
“There’s no blood!”
He held the wrist. “I can’t find a pulse.” He took the gun from her hand and put it in his jacket pocket.
She sat in the corner shaking. Crammed in, she felt like a little girl. Ezra kicked the body. The rank smell got worse.
“Naomi are you alright? Say something, I’m frightened.”
She felt a buzz saw cutting across her head through her eyes. She pressed herself deeper into the corner. “I should have gone with him.”
Ezra shook his head. “Stop it. We need to get rid of this person, this creature, this thing!” Ezra crossed to the end of the car, opened the door, and grabbed the wind curtain that connected the cars. He tore at the material until he broke it in two. The cold air rushed in. He went back to her. “I’ll shove whoever, or whatever this is through the opening.” He threw his jacket into the compartment. He pulled the dead weight towards the car opening. By the time he reached the door, sweat had soaked his shirt. Naomi went to see if she could help Ezra without touching the body. The noise was like thunder that stretched for miles and cracked open the sky. Petrified, she watched Ezra pull it through the door tearing his shirt. He straddled the body, grabbed the arms, and lifted it up, so they appeared to be embracing. The stench was overwhelming. Ezra gagged. Naomi held the door open. He positioned himself near the split in the curtain. In this dance of death, Ezra braced himself. For a moment, he let it lean into him and then shoved it out the opening. He held onto the side of the car. He brushed his hands on his shirt, while the wind dried his sweat. He took her hand, closed the car door, and pushed her back into their compartment. The smell remained.
She stared off and said, “What are we to do?”
“We have to clean up.”
“But the floor is dry. No blood. I shot him, but he didn’t bleed?”
“Blood or no blood, we got rid of the body. It’s over. We will continue our journey. You to America and a new life, and me to Paris and business.”
“How can I go to America now; I’m going to be arrested for shooting that man. Who was he? What did he want?” Raising her voice, “What kind of thing was he? My family will be killed? Gut zol mir uphtin, God in heaven.”
“Shh,” Ezra whispered, “we must be careful. I don’t know what he was, but he’s gone and now we will go on.”
“But my family.” She looked at him as if snapping out of a dream. “I must go back; I must go back and save them. There must be a way to stop this.”
Ezra lowered his voice to a barely audible breath, “He’s dead.”
She saw her family in front of their house when they were all still together, posed in the formal photograph that hung on the dining room wall. She wanted to melt into the image, reunited, never to be apart.
Ezra said, “We need to fix ourselves up. We’re going to be at the border crossing soon.
Then Paris is two more hours. Will you be alright?”
“No.”
September 1943
On a cold Sabbath morning, in a small wooden synagogue, sandwiched in between six-story apartment buildings on East 183rd street in the Bronx, Naomi, nine months pregnant, didn’t feel the draft that surrounded her when she and her cousin, Bayla Sharfstein, rose to join the congregation in silent prayer. She leaned into Bayla and recited the memorized two-year-old letter that had left her paralyzed for weeks, unable to speak.
“November 1941, Dear Cousin Naomi, at the end of August, the Gestapo came to our town. We were taken to Krakes where they cordoned off the streets next to the old monastery. Hundreds of Jews from other towns arrived. Someone said there were over a thousand people. There was little water or food. Your sister, Talia, who I thought had escaped, was taken screaming, from the clinic, where she had the baby, and brought into the ghetto with her newborn.
“In early September, on a foggy, wet morning the trucks arrived, four or five at a time. We were brought to the site where they lined us up facing the pit that Jews had been forced to dig and shot everyone. I lay covered with blood from the bodies that oozed from a stomach, a chest, a head. The bodies kept falling on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. Finally, the shooting stopped. I lay there for, I don’t know how long. It was dark. A quarter moon rose. I clawed my way up and shoved aside bodies. I turned someone over and, my dear cousin, I am sorry to say, but it was your brother’s face, frozen, contorted, his mouth open, eyes half shut, holding a baby. I pushed them both away and dragged myself out of this death stew of body parts, blood, and mud. Somehow, I have survived all this. I appear to be the only one. I don’t know why. I am somewhere in Poland, out of hospital, safe with a group of partisans who help me and care for me.
“Please forgive me for writing this to you. I saw no other way. Your cousin, Yitzchak.”
She sat down. She could not see her husband on the other side of the separation curtain, but she knew Avraham Mordechai sat with his head between his hands weeping.
“Bayla, five months went by without a letter. I missed their handwriting. I missed reading about what each one had done. They wrote on every surface of the paper. When they ran out of room at the bottom of the page, they wrote on the sides trying to tell me more. It didn’t matter to me what they wrote, even if it was only about the weather.”
“Did you know they all wrote to me in Hebrew, except my mother. She wrote in Yiddish.
Bayla sat, but didn’t say anything.
“No letter from my family. Week after week. From the time I woke up in the morning until late at night, I walked in circles around the apartment, then outside, around the block. Avraham said goodbye to me each morning before he went to work, and said, ‘Maybe today?’
“Finally, I got the letter. I opened it; shadows flew from the envelope. I thought I caught a glimpse of my brother in the distance of what might have been; white haired, a finely trimmed mustache, with wire rimmed glasses lecturing a class on the fundamentals of hydrology. Aviva, his wife, sat outside the classroom waiting with their daughter Ruth, and her son Solomon.
“Avraham wants to name the baby after my parents. But how can I do that. I’d call the baby’s name and all that had happened to them would strangle me.”
“You’ll tell him. He’ll understand.”
They stood with the congregation while the Rabbi took the Torah from the Ark for the reading of the weekly portion. Her grandson, Solomon, standing in front of her, asked her to play.
She said, “You must be quiet, it's krias hatorah,” and shushed him.
“Naomi, please there’s no one here.”
Bayla held her hand. She helped her stand to listen to the singing as the Rabbi gathered children behind him, and walked, and danced around the synagogue, holding the torah, leaning it towards those on the aisle, so the assembled could touch and kiss the torah.
Naomi said to Bayla, “The doctor says it’s time to move on. Bayla, do you think two years is long enough?”
“Shh, shh, don’t upset yourself, you’re very far along. You don’t want to do anything that could hurt the baby.”
“I should have gone with that evil man.”
“What man?” Bayla said.
The Rabbi brought the scrolls to the front of the synagogue, placed them on a table facing the assembled, and prepared to read the portion of the week. Naomi, saw her family together. Papa would say the blessings on the wine and the challah. Her mother would direct her and her sisters when to bring out the matzah ball soup, the broiled chicken, the roast with potatoes and root vegetables. The aromas filled the house with joy. She saw her brother, her sisters, and their spouses and children come in from the cool night air and join the table. She motioned to Talia to move closer.
She said to Bayla, “Would you like to meet my sister?”
“Please Naomi you need to take it easy.”
She turned to her left. “Talia, say hello to my cousin.”
Bayla took her arm. “Let me take you home. You need rest.”
“When I left, how could I have known I would never see them again?”
“Shh, do you want to stay for Kaddish?”
Naomi nodded. She sat, her mind quieted by the familiar notes of the torah reading rising and falling. After the portion of the week was read, and that part of the service concluded, Naomi waited for the Rabbi to invite those who needed to say the prayer for the dead to stand.
“Yiskadal viyskadash shmay rabah…May His name be praised and made holy…” She finished the Kaddish. Once again, her demons, surrounded her. They grew out of the shadows, took hold of her, and controlled her life. In the back of each vision, stood a tall rail-thin man with a bowler hat. Some spoke to her; some she understood; others not, but always the same, “You’re to blame. You did it. You could have saved them.”
Frozen in her blood-red-vision of the death pit, she could not breathe; she could not move. Bayla tugged at her arm to no avail.
