Elizabeth

Danny | Maureen Mitchell | Drawing

Elizabeth by Julia Butler

The clumpy oatmeal slides down my throat with incredible slowness. The spoon clinks against the side of the bowl as I go in for another bite, causing me to flinch.

I hear the thumps of footsteps as they descend the staircase.

“Good morning, my beautiful Elizabeth,” Ike says, kissing the top of my head and tucking a loose strand of wispy, graying hair behind my ear.

I smile, comforted by his warm touch.

“Hello, sleepy love. You will be ready to go to synagogue soon?” I reply.

“Of course. I’m just going to eat something first.”

About half an hour later, we begin our walk. The narrow sidewalk is crowded with bodies, all rushing to get to the Shabbat service; for such a small town in West Virginia, we have a strong Jewish community. My teeth chatter as the icy wind hits my face. Ike pulls me in closer, rubbing his hands on the sides of my arms. 

Once we arrive inside, we take our usual seats, and the service begins. Just like every Saturday, I sit back and allow the rabbi’s voice to wash over me. 

“We will end today’s service with the Mourner’s Kaddish1. As you all know, this year marks the 50th anniversary of the end of World War II. If you would like, you may focus your prayers on those we lost in the Holocaust.”

As we begin the prayer, my hands begin to tremble and I sense myself spiraling into the deep depths of my mind. I shut my eyes even tighter, hoping the darkness will block out the hundreds of memories I’ve tried so hard to forget.

It’s completely silent. No one dares to speak. I open my eyes and look to my left at the eleven other naked girls lined up. We are all shaking --  from the cold or from the fear, I don’t know. Ella, Frida, Molly, Abigail, and I hold hands, gripping each other tight as we’ve done every day since we left Czechoslovakia. 

Click, clack, click.

We immediately straighten up at the sound of Mengele’s boots. As he enters the cold, damp barracks, he turns towards us and grins. He walks down the line as he does every morning, evaluating each one of us, occasionally caressing a girl’s cheek or twirling a strand of her hair. Today he stops at Molly, the oldest of us five, with frizzy brown hair and a distinguishably hooked nose.

No, I think to myself. Please, please keep going.

“Her! Look how Jewish!” he yells to his guard in German. 

Molly makes what sounds like a small yelp. 

“Shut it!” Mengele cries, slapping her across the face. 

We all watch silently as he chains Molly and drags her out of the barracks, straight to the crematorium. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to prevent any tears from leaking out. At the beginning, we all promised never to let the Nazis make us cry. As soon as they leave, we all drop to our knees, silently adding Molly’s name to our prayers, along with the other eight girls already taken from our bunk.

“Amen,” I hear, and my eyes flutter open.

Ike squeezes my hand.

“And before you all go,” the rabbi announces, “one of our synagogue members, Maya, is soon to be a Bat Mitzvah and is doing her Mitzvah project on World War II. She is conducting interviews with Holocaust survivors or others with memories of World War II if anyone is interested.”

I can feel the attention shift towards me, each pair of eyes a bullet piercing through my skin. Although I don’t talk about it, the people in this town know who I am and where I come from. They can tell. Even without seeing the faded six-digit code tattooed on my arm, they can tell. All it takes is one glimpse into my eyes, and they can tell. 

After the service, I pull Ike aside and tell him I’m feeling ill.

“I don’t think I can stay for the Kiddush2,” I say.

“You don’t have to, you know. You don’t have to do the interview with Maya,” Ike says knowingly. 

“I know,” I reply. “Still, we can go home?”

“Of course. Let me just say goodbye to everyone.”

As soon as we get back, I collapse into my recliner and sigh deeply. 

“Elizabeth, you’ve got to talk to me. Is this still about Maya?”

“Yes.”

“I told you, sweetheart, it’s your choice. People will understand if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just I don’t want to think about it anymore. And I don’t want Maya to either. She’s only twelve. And so happy. When I was twelve I was taken away. Her generation should not worry about that.”

“You don’t have to justify it to me. I understand. You went through a lot,” he says.

 In hopes of distracting myself, I grab the remote and turn on the TV.

“Let’s turn it over to Michael Brooks for a news update,” the thick, black box chirps. “Thank you, Christine. A synagogue in Washington, D.C. has reported disturbing vandalism. Pictured now are the three red swastikas found on the side of the building yesterday...”

My heart begins to pound and blood rushes to my head. Before I’m even aware of it, I grab the remote and forcefully shut off the TV. But it does nothing to help. I close my eyes and I still see that awful symbol emblazoned in my mind, the one that I’ve tried to block out for the past fifty years.

I wince as the dull razor scratches my head. My long blonde hair lays in a heap beside my naked body. I look over at Frida, who’s being forced to undress as she waits to be shaved.

“Go,” the guard says. 

I stand, losing my balance slightly without the weight of my hair. I continue down the line, where I’m thrown a steel grey shift dress. I pick it up off of the ground and examine the fabric. My fingertips brush against a thicker patch of the dress. I turn and face the patch in my direction. Staring back at me is a bright red embroidered symbol. A swastika.

I force my eyes open. I don’t understand.

How can someone still use that symbol? Do they know how much it hurts? 

“Ike!” I call out.

He rushes in, concern plastered onto his face.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I think I have to tell my story,” I say. “To Maya.”

“Why? I thought it gives you nightmares.”

“It does. But you did see that story on the news? I wanted to forget. I wanted everyone else to forget. But it would be selfish of me to keep the memories to myself. I have to tell my story so that it never happens again. So the world never forgets.”

Ike beams at me. But soon, his brow begins to furrow.

“It’s going to be really hard,” he replies.

“I know,” I say. “But I am ready.”

Untitled | Katie Teshome | Photography