Last Stork Summer (2 page)

Storks migrate back and forth from their wintering grounds in Africa to their spring and summer range in Poland
.

They are attracted to tall trees or buildings where they build nests that often weigh several tons
.

There was a family living on a farm, near a marsh along the River Warta. The day after Ewa left, mama awoke to find her husband lying next to her, staring at the ceiling. A single tear ran down his cheek.

“Is it true?” she whispered.

Papa shook his head to confirm the heaviness that was taking over her chest and making it difficult to breathe. Hair wild, eyes the color of inconsolable grief, she rocked back and forth screaming silently. She begged God to end the nightmare. Basil, who’d been sleeping on the floor next to their bed, slowly climbed up and placed his head on her chest for a few moments, then stood and howled, making the most sorrowful sound she’d ever heard an animal make. His wail bore witness to her silent screams and gave sound to the grief she could not voice.

* * *

Sovereignty is authority claimed by a community. We were now firmly controlled by Nazi authority. We were part of all the lands, people, and resources that Adolf Hitler claimed for Germany. How could a mad-man named Adolf Hitler incite the German people to wage war on their neighbors, kidnap close to 200,000 Polish children, and enslave them in labor camps?

In March 1942, I arrived at the work camp within the walls of
the Lodz ghetto. At first it was the lack of green that made me cringe. No nature, just bare russet boxes, laid out in rows, surrounded by miles and miles of barbed wire. They reminded me of weathered bales of hay, abandoned, and left to rot in the fields. There was only dirt, and brown, and depletion. The significance of Litzmannstadt was told by the barren, plank walls, and the rows of bunks cradling sleeping, rag-clad, misery. This was a place where hope died upon entering, but memories multiplied and sustained those fortunate enough to have them. I learned quickly to recall with vivid detail, all the little things that made life before the war so special. That was how I remembered who I was before I became a number and a non-member of Hitler’s Aryan society. The memory of my mother’s hugs with her long hair tickling my face was one of the first clear pictures I saw in my mind, shortly after my arrival.

I was standing in the shower room, soaking wet, naked, goose-bumps invading my normally smooth skin, shivering from fear as well as cold. I watched my long, dark brown hair fall in clumps on the floor. We were lined up after our shower, waiting and watching helplessly as we each lost our hair. The cutters were just dull scissors, and they left lumpy, unevenly spaced, short clumps of hair all over our heads. I lifted my hand in astonishment to feel my head. I’d never been without hair before. Bumpy, poking bits of fiber replaced what my head had previously worn. I thought of our sheep at shearing time. Knees knocking, heart racing, gasping the terrified air around me, I shut my eyes. That’s when memories of my mother came to me, and helped relieve the craziness engulfing me.

Suddenly, instead of feeling panicked and taking short, choppy breaths, I could breathe deeply. I didn’t want to see this room anymore, or feel the coldness of its purpose. I still felt shaky and scared, but the picture in my mind helped calm me.

Then the girl behind me started sobbing when her thick, curly hair hit the floor. I closed my eyes again, and willed my papa’s
picture to appear. The guard, as large as a tank, wearing a gray wool uniform, dashed over and started yelling at her. When that didn’t stop her cries, he rotated the rifle that was strapped to his chest out of the way, and pummeled her with his fists. She crashed to the floor while the beating continued, blood spraying from her mouth and nose.

The children in the room froze. They stared in disbelief, mouths hung open in shock. They tried not to watch, but were unable to escape the sound and action of what was happening in front of them. Shouts and kicks and blood tangled with arms and legs and tears, as hatred left its signature on her body, assaulting her into submission. I stared in horror at the brutal scene before me, unable to avert my eyes. Panic, the color of red, drenched my brain and clogged my ears, forcing me to shut my eyes again. I saw myself wrapped in my papa’s gentle embrace. The red slowly changed to orange, then yellow and finally white, giving me the feeling that I was basking in the safety of his strength. This memory kept me from running out of the room, and from possibly receiving a beating myself. And countless scenes like that reoccurred as the war progressed and my time in Litzmannstadt continued.

In my mind, I tried to imagine how the Nazis became so mean. I pictured a schoolyard in Germany. Adolf Hitler was the absolute ruler of the playground. The recess bell rang; the uniformed pupils goose-stepped out of their classrooms, but they didn’t play. Under the watchful eye of The Führer, the yard filled with children who began fighting, bullying one another, hitting, scratching, kicking and screaming. The sign hanging on the fence near the playground said, “No Playing Allowed…fight, fight, fight.” The fighting continued until the bell rang signaling the end of the free for all. Those left standing lined up and marched back in. Maybe by the time they became soldiers, I reasoned, they were already experts at wounding children.

* * *

I woke early and sat on my bunk, my back against the rough, timbered wall. Usually, I was so tired I slept as long as I could, but today for some reason I wanted to take advantage of the quiet time and recall my last spring at home. What had I been doing that spring? Were my memories starting to fade? Recollections could be so comforting. In the pre-dawn light of this day, I wanted to know one thing….
when
. When would this war be over? When could I go home? When would I be held, and hugged, and pummeled by my family’s love? It was the beginning of my last spring in this camp, but I didn’t know that yet. I’m sure there must have been coughing or moaning coming from the broken bodies around me, but I could no longer hear them. Even the gnawing emptiness in my stomach couldn’t keep me from feeling that something was changing.

Time seemed to be passing too sluggishly, like a movie running in slow motion. I had the feeling that it had to be late March or early April. The glass on the tiny, single, window of our barracks had a thin layer of frost on it and I could barely see the beginning of light on the distant horizon. The sun peeked out, unsure if she was ready to rise or not. I could feel the earth awakening from its winter’s rest. I could detect it in the air, like the scent of a freshly plowed field. The dirt was saying, “I’m ready to work, come run your fingers through me, fill me with the seed you need for food,” so willing to transfer its contents into nourishment and life. The trees beyond the camp had tiny green buds forming on their bare branches, making them look like they were coated in a light green fuzz.

I looked down at my work-calloused hands. I had strong hands, just like my grandma’s. Early spring was when she planted our garden. She taught me how to prepare the soil by shoveling in dried manure that had been mixed with old straw used for animal bedding. She always made me get my hands in
the dirt and feel the texture of the soil as well as its temperature. She could tell from the feel of the dirt if it was ready for planting or needed more work. When she worked it enough and it felt just right, she would smell it, urging me to do the same.

“Smell it, Ewa; that is the way it should smell.”

Grandma knew about the land. She could tell by watching the trees surrounding our farm when it was time to prepare the soil for the garden. Just the thought of her made me feel hopeful and calm. I missed her hugs and the faint scent of lilac and roses that hung on her clothes in the spring. I knew, for me, those two smells would forever be linked with my grandmother. Sometimes, when I was out working on a farm and caught that scent in the air, I would look up expecting to see my grandmother. That smell always uncovered the expectation of seeing her along with the painful realization of my reality.

Like a beautiful song played on the piano, flowing in rhythm to create its music, the land around me was moving through seasons and cycles of life. It reminded me that life was possible. Its grace was breathtaking, creating a rhythm and music of its own, especially in the early morning light when only nature’s sounds could be heard, uninterrupted by the noise of a children’s labor camp and a war.

Soon the sirens would start, signaling the beginning of our day to day drudgery. Marching feet would transport the young slaves to and from the worksites–factories, farms, warehouses of misery. Then enforced routines and expectations would take over the tired bodies in an attempt to support Germany’s superiority.

How many Aprils had I been here? Two or three? Like different colors of wool yarn in a sweater, they were woven together, making it difficult for me to separate them. I wondered if I’d ever be able to move through my life again, as I had before the war, the way the earth rotated year after year. I wondered if my body could survive much longer in these harsh, inhumane, conditions. I was so dirty that I considered the possibility of the
earth trying to claim me back to itself before I died and returned there naturally. I was thinner than I’d ever been; I could feel my sunken stomach at night when I laid down, and my clothes felt like huge oversized drapes, but I felt strong most of the time. I realized that the emptiness that existed in my stomach didn’t reside in my heart. I was still able to feel excited about the coming spring, and the possibilities of what that would bring…the end of winter, the warmth of the sun, looking for the storks, working outside, and most importantly–the possibility of the end of war.

I yearned for the warmth of the sun on my face, and the gentle, forest-scented breezes of spring to float over me, mock jasmine adding sweetness to the mix. I imagined the rain softly washing away all the dirt and sadness that covered me, but hadn’t yet consumed me. I hated this place when I first saw it, with its high walls, stark, colorless buildings, and rows and rows of wire fencing. It was so foreign to anything I’d ever known before. The complete opposite of the beautiful countryside I’d grown up in. I shivered at the memory of my first view of Litzmannstadt.

* * *

I had arrived here exhausted from the long train ride with little food, and no fresh air or water. We weren’t transported in train cars with comfortable seats. Instead, like a canning jar chock full of pickles, we were packed into livestock cars, carriages of death moving families from life to extinction. There were no windows; our legs grew numb from standing for hours that melted into days; confusion and fear twisted our faces into impressions of our former selves. The moaning and discomfort of fellow passengers pushed in on me, making my breathing labored. Being unable to offer help made me search my brain desperately for some kind of explanation, but there wasn’t one…I was
witnessing the humiliation of my fellow countrymen.

I longed for someone to make eye contact with me and acknowledge it was really as bad as it felt; to bear witness to the annihilation of the Polish people and the insanity of war. Could no one stop the immense suffering that had been forced upon us by the greed of the Nazis? We had one bucket of water a day to share with everyone in the car…and we had one bucket to use as a toilet. Many people didn’t survive the transport trains. Sometimes, during the past few years, I couldn’t help think that they might have been the lucky ones.

Stork nests are huge: some old nests may be over six feet in diameter and nine feet in depth
.

Numb from all the violence I’d witnessed, and consumed with sadness and yearning for my family, home, and dog, I didn’t think I’d survive a week. I was down to one minute.
Focus on this minute. Get through this minute. Breathe, follow directions, and don’t think too much
. Time is funny that way. When you want it to last, it speeds along in a race it can’t bear to lose, making you call out, “Slow down, what’s the hurry?” When you want it to glide like storks on an airstream, it meanders, barely moving, making you wonder if it’s gone to sleep. The nights ran and the days meandered….sleep, work, work, work, sleep, work, work, work, sleep.

Slowly, as if wading through a river of remembrance, I started recalling moments from my life. Moments I’d been forced to leave behind. At first, my memories turned to longing, filling me with a profound sense of loss. A hole so big and deep I feared I would tailspin endlessly if I let myself acknowledge it. Then gradually over many days, as I allowed a few more of my memories to seep in; they sustained me and the misery changed. Just as spring changes trees from bare branches to leaves and flowers, my memories changed from what I’d left behind to what I’d return to at the end of this chaos. I learned to visit memories for comfort and strength. Each new situation that assaulted my senses would bring a fresh reflection, something to cling to, like an enormous boulder that stubbornly adheres to the side of a cliff. I only needed to hang on. Whenever I felt the vast hole of hopelessness starting to overtake me, I looked around for
something to jog my thoughts, and keep me connected to my life before the war. The sounds and sights of nature were reminders of my previous life. I listened attentively to nature’s subtle sounds….frogs croaking at night, flies and bees buzzing during the day, birds chirping at dawn, wind blowing through trees, even dogs barking in the evening, “talking” to each other. Nature was all around me. I needed only to observe it.

Closing my eyes, I took a long, deep breath and smelled the wood on the walls. As I did so, I remembered the storks and reflected on the many hours I’d spent observing them. I listened intently. I wanted to hear the muted sound of the storks’ wings gliding overhead. The summer before the war was the last stork summer, a summer of freedom and happiness I thought about all the time. How many days had I spent that spring and summer searching for the storks, observing their habits?

The meadow with its vivid green grass had a creek running through it, slowly and calmly gurgling its way to the marsh. My shoes were wet most of the time even though I tried to keep them dry by jumping from clump to clump of green while chasing frogs. Brown frogs, golden eyes, an important food source for the storks. I enjoyed catching them and marveled at their delicate fingers and metallic eyes. Before releasing the croakers I warned them, “The storks will be back soon and you will be on the menu.” They disappeared into the tall grass with a quick vault.

With Basil following at my heels, I ran down the narrow path that crisscrossed our farm. I reached the end of the path and easily jumped up on the old, weathered-wood gate. It gently rocked back and forth underneath my weight, its rusty hinges creaked like my grandmother’s wooden rocking chair. Basil put his front paws up on the top board. Mouth open, tongue out, his eyes searched the horizon with me. He knew what I was looking for. I rubbed his ear as we watched. Just outside our fence a farreaching marsh unfolded. I was eager to see the first stork this spring. They nested on the edge of town in huge nests that sat on
the tops of buildings, or large trees that bordered the marsh. They hunted for food in the marsh, sustaining their life with a nice variety of small creatures. Grandpa said that whoever spotted the first stork of spring received an extra measure of luck.

Every March and April for as long as anyone could remember, the storks came. Towns and villages all over Poland welcomed their arrival, viewing them as a sign of fertility and prosperity. They are mute, making no birdcalls, but they do clatter their bills when greeting a mate, and their long heavy wings gliding through the air create an elongated swishing sound.

Grandpa always promised, “The storks are a blessing because they teach us to have faith. They bring us prosperity.”

Even before I grew to fully understand the meaning of his statement, I felt the storks were special. My mind flooded with so many questions about them. How long had they been coming here? How could something that big glide so gracefully? Why do some storks have such brightly colored beaks? Why are they mute? Why do they leave at the end of summer? How did they learn to do their mating dance? How many miles do they travel in the air on their way back to Poland? Where do they rest on their long migration?

Basil stood beside me, eyes and ears alert. He knew better than to bark. He’d been my loyal companion for the past two years since I was ten. My father, against his better judgment, presented him to me when he was weaned from his mother at eight weeks old. All of the other pups in the litter were trained and sold. My family had raised, trained, and sold German Shepherds for many years. They were great herding dogs and many of the farmers in our area had flocks of sheep and needed herding dogs to manage their flocks.

I enjoyed watching the dogs work the sheep. Even though they eyed the sheep intensely, it looked like they were having fun. Persistently focused, heads facing forward, eyes alert,
crouching low, they purposefully watched for an opportunity to rush in and collect their brood of complaining animals. They’d gather them in a pen, or help us move them to a different pasture. Moving the sheep was an enjoyable job for the dogs, and one they looked forward to.

Basil was supposed to be a herding dog as well. However, he was born with a deformed back paw, walked with an unusual gait and couldn’t be sold.

I pleaded with my father, “Please, papa, don’t put him down. He won’t be any trouble, I promise.”

“Ewa, we can’t keep pups that won’t sell.”

A chunk of disagreement stood between us. To my father it was a business, that’s all, but to me it was so much more. I was so attached to this tiny pup with the funny back paw that I ignored my papa’s reasoning and treated him with all the love and care I could give him. I just couldn’t leave him alone. Every spare minute I had was spent holding and playing with him. Whenever I entered the kennel, he was the first to bound over and greet me. He was comfortable in my arms. After playing, I’d sit and hold him. He often slept on his back in the crook between my body and my arm, legs moving, chasing squirrels in his dreams. I begged grandpa to talk with my papa about him. I’d never wanted anything so badly before, and I couldn’t imagine not seeing him every day. I didn’t recognize it then, but I was learning about love and survival; how they often go hand in hand, like storks and Poland.

Even though he wasn’t perfect, he was perfect to me, so I named him Basil. His alertness and knowing gaze always reminded me of how strong, smart, sensitive, and loyal he was. He remained by my side from the first day I got him. Despite my father’s misgivings and my mother’s protests, he slept on the floor next to my bed. I fell asleep every night rubbing his ear and woke every morning to see his head resting on the edge of my bed, his eyes focused on my face, waiting patiently for me to open
mine. Basil, my shadow, accompanied me wherever I went, even school. He lay outside the classroom door, eagerly waiting for me to emerge and take my place beside him on the walk home. In the early fall we’d stop and pick the “paper” apples off the trees that grew along the road. They were delicious, whitefleshed balls of taste. They made the best applesauce and Basil loved them as much as I did, except he ate every part, seeds and core included.

Basil was my constant companion and best friend. When he wanted my attention he’d lay his head on my arm, and if that didn’t work he’d take tiny pinch-like bites on my arm, or lean all his weight on my leg. On days when I didn’t go to school I’d finish my chores, and we’d take off exploring parts of the farm and the forest beyond. Daily as spring approached, we’d journey to the meadow and the wooden gate so I could look for the first stork.

I told him things I couldn’t tell anyone else. His sympathetic eyes reassured me that he was listening, and understood how I felt. I was safe with Basil by my side. Unlike me, he was quick to pick up unusual sounds and smells, and to notice small differences in our everyday world. If he could have talked, he would have warned me about the German invasion and complete destruction of my country. Perhaps I placed too much trust in him but life was changing so quickly that spring and summer, and I needed something constant to hold on to. Basil was all those things and more.

* * *

A slight gust of wind hit the barrack, bringing me back to the plain, wooden walls and the desolation of Litzmannstadt. No paint, no color, no pictures, just one small window that scarcely let any light in. It was such a severe contrast to my bedroom at home. Though small, it was cozy and colorful. The walls were
bright yellow, and the morning light gave it a sunny glow on cloudy days. The timbered walls here were rough and thin, and barely kept the wind out. In winter it was a freezing ice-box, in summer hot like an oven.

I was saddened to realize how familiar this all felt to me now. Looking around I wondered if I would ever go home and feel my parents’ hugs, Basil’s licking kisses, or smell my grandma’s baking. The starkness of this place made my memories more alive, staring me down like a persistent herding dog, refusing to let me forget where I came from, keeping me focused on where I needed to go. Some days it felt as though it would be easier to give up, but the memories wouldn’t let me. “Hang on,” they whispered.

“I am,” my heart responded, ashamed I’d entertained any thought of giving up.

This camp had seen far too many children come and go, who like myself had left families, pets and homes behind. Were their memories as distinct as mine? There was never time to talk in the mornings. We worked for twelve hours every day. In the evenings, exhausted, starved, ready to collapse, we shared a few stories, but fatigue and hunger settled in like a heavy bank of fog, its weight lulling us to sleep. Sleep meant we’d survived another day. Sleep meant we’d have an opportunity to dream. Sleep meant escape from the cruel and harsh realities of war and life in a labor camp. Sleep was never long enough.