If I Should Die Before I Wake (2 page)

Yeah, he'll come get me, all right. We stick together, us Warriors. You'll see.

Bet you he didn't even get hurt. I go flying off that motorcycle and whizzing through the air like a stone from a slingshot, and what'd I hit? Something, I know that, 'cause it felt like my whole body just shattered into a million pieces at once. I remember that, I sure do. And then snap, everything goes blank like at the end of a videotape when the movie's all over. Well, I'm here now, I'm alive—right?

Hey, where you going? Well, good riddance to you. You finally took the hint. Only a Jew would stand here like a dummy and listen to someone insult them and then look at the person like she's the one to be pitied. Only a Jew would do that. Only a dumb Jew. Hey, yeah, dumb Jew, get it. Dumb, a person who can't speak. That's you, all right. Dumb Jew.

Wait a minute. Hey, come back here! What's going on? What's happening? I'm spinning!

I'm spinning backward. All around me is black. I see the old lady. Through this pinhole of light I see her. I see her face just for an instant before falling farther away, before spinning backward again, head over heels—away.

WHEN I STOPPED SPINNING,
I found myself walking through a sunny fall day, on a street I had never seen, in a land where I had never been, with a best friend I had never known. I was wearing a colorless wool jumper over a white blouse and itchy wool tights that sagged at my ankles. Still, I was pleased with what I was wearing. The tights were new and my best friend looked much the same as I. We even wore the same coat, with the same star decorations: canary yellow stars, one on the front and one on the back. We were on our way to school, laughing and talking in a language I did not know, yet I understood.

As we approached the next street, we stopped laughing. I felt my shoulders stiffen and my throat go dry as I took hold of my friend's hand and we timidly set foot down the street. There were other children on the road, laughing and pushing at each other, as we had done earlier. They weren't afraid, and I suddenly knew that it had something to do with our stars. I knew, too, that we were taking a great chance going to school, and as we walked, we scanned the streets left and right. I did not know what we were searching for until they were in front of me, two men in uniforms with guns in their hands. Without thinking, both of us hopped off the sidewalk. That was the rule. When these men in their uniforms were on the sidewalk, we had to get off or they'd shoot us. We expected them to turn us away, saying we were no longer allowed to attend school with the other students. Instead, they led us to a building that on the outside smelled like manure and on the inside like disinfectant. There were several women there like us, with yellow stars stitched to their clothing. They were down on their knees with guards behind them, and the guards were laughing, mocking them while they scrubbed the floors, some with their hands and some with a kind of cloth.

One of the men shouted at us. The shout was so loud and it frightened me so, I didn't hear what he said. He slapped me in the face.

"Tights off!" he repeated in a language that so repulsed me to hear I wanted to scream, but I didn't. I knew he'd only slap me again, or worse.

I kicked off my shoes and tried to scramble out of my tights, but I wasn't fast enough and the guard kicked me in the back. It wasn't hard and it didn't hurt, but my feet were still in the tights. I lost my balance and fell onto the floor and into the disinfectant. The men behind me laughed, but no one scrubbing the floor laughed, or even looked up.

"She's just a young girl," I heard someone say, someone down there on the floor, close to me. I wiped the wet slop off my coat and stood up. The others kept scrubbing.

I was led away from my friend, down the hall to the other end, where a woman was scrubbing the stairs.

"You work with her, clumsy Jew!" The officer spit. "Use those to scrub." He pointed at my tights.

I dropped to my knees and dunked my tights into the bucket beside me. I didn't look up and I didn't speak to the woman who worked on the stairs with me. I just dunked and scrubbed, dunked and scrubbed. It must have been a half hour before I took a chance and looked around. It was then that I noticed that the woman beside me was my neighbor and my mother's best friend, Estera Hurwitz. I wanted to sing with joy when I saw her. I inched over closer to her and as we scrubbed we knocked elbows. I saw her smile, but she didn't look up. Still I knew she knew it was I who was beside her, and the occasional knocking of our elbows gave both of us courage, a reminder that we weren't alone.

I watched the circular movements of her hands and tried to copy the rhythm. Her movements were even and strong, strong like her hands, used to hard labor but not to such humiliation. She dunked her rag into the bucket, wrung it out, and spread it back on the stairs. It was then that I saw for the first time what she had in her hand, what so many of the other women had in their hands—her own underpants. I wanted to cry out, to weep for these women, and I wanted to kill the men, the officers who were doing this to us. I scrubbed harder, faster, trying not to think about it, trying not to cry. I wanted to be strong like Estera Hurwitz, like my own mother, both of them so brave, so strong. Yes, I had to be like my mother—my mother! Was she here? Please, dear God, not my mother. I could not bear it. I inched closer to my mother's best friend and asked in a voice so low that even I could hardly hear it, "My mother? Here?"

Mrs. Hurwitz kept scrubbing and I wasn't sure she heard. I was about to repeat my question when I saw her nod.

A sound slipped through my lips before I could catch myself. Within seconds I had an officer behind me, the barrel of his gun thrust against my shoulder. I kept scrubbing, acting as if it wasn't there. What did I care if I was shot? It would be better than seeing my mother, so beautiful, so proud, at the feet of these men, scrubbing their floors with her underpants. Let them shoot me, I thought.

He stood like that for only a minute and then left, swearing at me, the clumsy Jew, as he walked away. The sound of his voice made me sick. The sound of his shiny black boots, reminding me of the victorious march down the center of our streets not long ago, made me want to spit in his face. Oh, if I could only spit in his face. I felt tears running down my own face, and I let them drop onto the stairs. I rubbed them in—hard, as hard as I could. Then I decided, no, I would not wash these steps with my tears but with my spit—my contempt. And so together, the rest of that morning and into the afternoon, with each clank of our bucket, Estera Hurwitz and I spit at the men with the guns and the shiny black boots.

Finally, late in the afternoon, they allowed us to leave. My legs could hardly straighten as I pulled myself up, using the banister for support. My knees looked like two red doorknobs, round and swollen. Mrs. Hurwitz was even worse, and I had to help her as she hobbled down the stairs. I led her out into the wonderful fresh air, and the two of us just stood and inhaled. Even manure smelled good after breathing cleaning fumes all day.

The other women had already left, and so together, Mrs. Hurwitz and I set off, eager to rejoin our families.

We had been walking for a quarter of an hour when we saw a bit of commotion farther down the street.

"Come on"—Mrs. Hurwitz tugged at my coat sleeve—"I know another way."

I was just about to follow her when two officers shifted their position and I glimpsed between them, dangling from a tree by his coat, my father.

"No!" I shouted, and I ran down the sidewalk, forgetting the sidewalk rule.

Three officers turned and aimed their guns at me.

I heard my father shout, "Go home, Chana!"

I ignored him. How dare these beasts do this to him! Didn't they know who he was?

"That's my father, let him go!" I pointed at him and demanded again, "Let him go!"

The men began to laugh. It was such a big joke. Then they turned and aimed their guns at my father.

"No!" I shouted again, speaking to them in their own language. "Why are you doing this?"

One man spoke, without looking at me, without taking his eyes off of my father—my dear, dear tata.

"Your lazy, filthy father refuses to work. He's too tired, he says. He needs to rest, he says, and so he leans against this tree. Ha! He needs this tree to hold him up. You see, we've helped him. Now he can rest."

The blood was rushing to my head so fast I thought it might explode. How dare they treat my father like this, and how dare all these people—for I had suddenly noticed there were many neighbors of ours—how dare they stand there watching and laughing, no one bothering to help.

I moved closer, ignoring my father as he tried to shoo me away with his hands. "My father is ill," I said. "He has a heart condition. Please let him down. I'll do his work for him. What is it you want him to do?"

This, too, was funny to these men, but one of them led me behind a long building to another street. There were many men already there, all friends of my father's, shoveling dirt and heaping it up into a pile against the building. The officer pointed his gun at my father's shovel. "You work," he said, "and don't rest, or you, too, will hang in the tree."

I grabbed the shovel and began my work with gusto, following behind a young boy about my age. I scooped up the dirt and pitched it against the building. I tried to ignore the jeering on the other side. I would work until the job was done. Then Tata and I could leave, and he and I would never speak of this day to anyone, ever.

My pile of dirt was rising clear up to the level of the first window and yet I wasn't tired. Tata, he would be proud of me. I smiled to myself and then caught a glimpse of someone, a girl, staring back at me through the window. She had a face like mine, only older, wiser looking, especially the eyes. They were dark and deep set and looked at me as if they knew everything about me, about the world. I could see pain in those eyes. They were trying to tell me something. I stopped shoveling, only for a second, only to understand. Then I heard two shots explode on the other side of the building.

"Tata!" I cried. I dropped the shovel and fell into the dirt pile screaming, knowing somehow that from that day forward, I would be screaming forever.

I CAN HEAR MYSELF
screaming but it doesn't sound like me. It's not my voice. I stop. It scares me to be screaming with someone else's voice.

Old Grandmaw's staring at me again, like we've been here all the time, just looking at one another. I want to roll away from her or close my eyes, anything to get away from her, but I can't move. She floats toward me, like some kind of spirit, with a wet cloth in her hand. She wipes my face and then I hear her dunking the cloth. I hear the water running off it as she lifts it up again, and I think of me and Estera Hurwitz, dunking our undergarments into our bucket.

I don't feel so good. Hey, Grandmaw, get me that Dr. Hamburgerstein, or a nurse or something.

Don't look at me. And don't think I'm crying over you, Jew lady. What's wrong with you anyway? Your hair's all mashed flat in the back. Why do you always look as if you just got out of bed?

Well, I don't feel sorry for you, whatever your problem is, and I'll tell you something else just so you know, no freakin' dream's going to change my thinking. That's all it was. Stupid dream.

Do you know about it? You look as if you do. You look as if you know everything. Jews always think they know everything.

My father died. They hung him in a tree and shot him. I mean I dreamed my father died. I mean, this other father died, not
my
father. Not my
real
father. My real father died when I was five. Roy Burke was his name. Just so you know. Just so you know I'm not crying 'cause of some frickin' frackin' dream. And cool it with the cloth already. Wipe your own face. What do you care about me anyway?

Making me scrub floors with a pair of tights. I can tell you that'd never happen in real life. No one controls me like that. No one.

What's that? Hear that? That's my mother. I can pick her tippy-tappy footsteps out anytime.

Yeah, hear that? Those are her bracelets. She must have a hundred of those cheap pieces of tin clanking around her arms. Oh, and she's got this big old zircon ring. If she touches you with that thing on, watch out. Her rings are always too big for her fingers, so they slip around to the palm of her hand, and then she like taps you on the shoulder or something and you're freakin' bruised for life.

"Hilary? Baby?"

Hey, Grandmaw, get her out of here. I mean it. I don't want to speak to her. You know she'll blame this whole accident on Brad.

"It's so quiet in here, just you and that other patient there, both of you barely breathing. And all those bandages and tubes. Just look at you. Baby, can you hear me?"

Grandmaw? Why can't I see her? Why do I see only you?

"Your face, your beautiful face. Will those bruises go away? You always had the most beautiful complexion. No acne, rosy cheeks, ruby lips, silky blond hair—before you shaved it all off, that is. You were just like Alice in Wonderland, remember?

"Couldn't they wipe off that blood?

"Baby, can you hear me? I'm here. Right by your side."

So what's she want, a freakin' standing ovation? It's all show, this coming to see me. She doesn't care.

"I brought you something. It's a book. Well, it's my Bible. You can't exactly read it yet, I know, but I can read it to you."

See. This is her way of torturing me. Like I want to hear her quoting Scripture. That's all show, too, her church and Bible thing.

"That awful Brad boy asked for you. I tell you that because I'm a good Christian woman and I
won't tell you any lies or keep anything from you, but that boy's got nerve. Won't come in here himself. No, not into a Jewish hospital. Shows how important he thinks you are. No guts. That's what it is. Sure, it's easy to hide behind bushes and attack people in the dark, but we won't see him anywhere around here, I tell you."