If I Should Die Before I Wake (24 page)

When she returned to my side I said to her, "I do not have your gift. I cannot see the future, I cannot read people the way you do."

"You are young yet, give it time."

"But I am not sure I want such a gift. I see how it has been a burden to you."

"Someday, Chana, you will be able to use it to help someone, to save someone's life. Then it will be a gift."

I thought about that for a moment and then said, "There was this girl, I called her my
shvester.
I could see her, she was so real, but I think she was a—a gift."

Bubbe nodded. "Yes, a different kind of gift. All of us here have that kind of gift in one form or another. It is how we survive. It is how we cope."

"But who was she?"

"She was you, Chana. She was the brave Chana, the strong Chana, the Chana who could cry and mourn so many deaths, so much destruction, so that you wouldn't have to. To pity yourself, or anyone else, is to die here—you know that. But to feel nothing, it is death to the soul. Your shvester, your other self, kept your soul alive; and you, you have kept your body alive.

"Yes, it is good you had this shvester, but she is gone now, yes?"

I nodded. "She will not be coming back."

Bubbe smiled. "You will find something better."

"What do you mean?"

Bubbe opened her mouth to speak, but she was stopped by a voice coming from the entrance of the hut.

"Anyone who can walk must come out. Hurry! Get up! Get up!"

I could hear others moving. I tried to get up but Bubbe pushed me back down. "No, you must stay here."

"But I have to go with you." I looked in her eyes. "Bubbe, please."

She leaned over and kissed both my cheeks. "You will be all right," she said. "You have all you need. And Chana, remember. Remember all of this."

Bubbe turned away. I tried to get up and follow her, but my feet wouldn't hold my weight. "But I need you," I called after her. "I need you!"

 

I don't know how many days I spent moving in and out of consciousness. I was aware of someone feeding me, giving me lots of water, wrapping me in layers of warm blankets. Once, I woke to find Dvora huddled over me, the back of her hand resting on my cheek.

"The place is deserted," she said. "There are just a few of us still here. I have found a whole storehouse of food, so don't worry, I can take care of you until the Russians come."

"It will be too late when they get here; I cannot hold out."

Dvora forced some more water down my throat. "Don't give up, Chana. I am here to care for you."

"I thought I never wanted to see you again," I said. "How is it you are here?"

"I have been here for several weeks on the dysentery block. Bubbe took care of me. She saved my life."

I nodded and fell back beneath my blankets and closed my eyes. I felt my body begin to spin forward. I tried to open my eyes so I could see. I began to dream. I began to see things. I could see Bubbe taking care of Dvora, and Dvora taking care of me, and I was taking care of Matel, and Matel was taking care of her mother, and on it continued, branching out to the left and right, and then weaving and looping back around into a circle so great I could only view the merest fraction of it. And marching through this circle was the line of dead friends I had seen before, only this time, Bubbe was leading it.

I ran up to Bubbe and I asked her, "What is the meaning of this?"

"You know," she said.

I stepped back and looked at all the people as they continued to weave in and out, around and around, faster and faster until they were one blur, until they were One. And then I knew what Bubbe meant. Here, was God.

When I opened my eyes again I was staring up at a funny-looking man wearing a long overcoat and a peculiar cap with a red star on the front.

He stood watching me a moment.

I blinked.

"Dear God," he said in Russian. "She's alive!"

I'M SPINNING.
I can hear sounds and voices all around me. I hear sirens like a high-pitched humming in my ears. Louder than the sirens are the sounds of glass chinking, metal on metal, air whooshing, and louder and closer still, the voices.

... We're losing her, Doctor ... can't get a reading ... hold it steady ... come on, fight, little lady ... more blood ... can't ... heartbeat...

The voices stop. I'm spinning—forward. All around me is dark except a pinpoint of light in the distance. I begin to spin toward the light and it spreads out before me until the whole space is bright light. I can see someone standing in front of me. Someone I know.

"Grandma?"

"Yes."

"You're speaking to me."

"Now you are ready to listen."

"But who are you?"

"You know."

"I—yes—I think—yes! You're Chana! But you don't look well. You're dying."

"You have changed, Hilary."

"Yes. I know things now. I understand."

"Bubbe used to say to me, 'If you can understand a person, you can love him.'"

"Yes, I remember."

"What else do you remember?"

"I remember it all. It's my life, too, now. You and me, we share the same past."

"Yes, Hilary, we all do. Everyone shares the same past, the same future, but some will see it better than others."

"Like Bubbe and her gift. And you. It's through the gift that I've been able to live this other life, your life."

"Yes. It was you Bubbe meant when she said that I would someday use my gift to save someone's life."

"That was so long ago."

"No, just a thought away."

"Chana ..."

"I must leave now, Hilary."

"No! Wait! What am I supposed to do now?"

"Use what you know to change things. You can change the world, Hilary."

"No. I can change me, but nothing else. Things—the world has always been this way.
What difference could I make? What difference did you make?"

"I reached out to you. I touched you. I screamed, and you heard. You are a witness. It is your turn to remember, and to tell, and to keep on telling until you are sure others have heard."

"You're asking too much. I don't have your gift. How can I reach anyone? Who will listen to me? I'm not even Jewish."

"You were an Aryan Warrior, a neo-Nazi. People will listen. Students will listen. Your past will be your gift."

"I'm afraid. I don't think I can do what you ask of me. I can't go back."

"You have to. You are a part of the chain, Hilary. We are connected now. In hearing me, in understanding me, you have given my past new meaning. It will change the meaning of your past as well, and someday your life as an angry child who has turned her hate to love will change still another life. You're a part of the chain, one you cannot break."

"But I'm afraid it will all be the same if I go back. Nothing will have changed."

"
You
have changed. That is all that matters."

"I can't go back."

"You won't be alone."

"You will be there with me?"

"No, not I."

"You mean God? Chana, you're fading. Chana? No, don't leave. Don't leave! I'm going with you. I will not do as you say. I will not go back. I can't do it."

"You will be all right. I have done my job, now it is your turn."

"No, I'm afraid. Don't leave! Chana? I'm coming with you. Please!"

 

I stare out into the light. A face comes into view. I blink.

"Dear God, she's awake. Nurse, she's awake! Look, she's awake!"

"There now, didn't I tell you?" The nurse hovers over me. All I can see is her mouth.

"You gave us all quite a scare, young lady. Do you know where you are?"

"I—in bed?"

"Yes." She laughs. "What's your name?"

"I have—I have two names."

"Yes! Yes, that's right. Hilary Burke!"

"Mrs. Burke, we prefer to let Hilary answer the questions. Now, do you know who this is?"

"Yes—Mama?"

"That's right, good."

"She's never called me that before."

"Please, Mrs. Burke. Honey, do you know what year it is?"

"I know—it's after the—the war. The war is over."

"The war? What does she mean? Nurse, is she going to be all right?"

"She's still a bit confused, but don't worry, Mrs. Burke, it's very normal."

A finger is placed in front of my face.

"Do you see my finger?" the nurse asks.

"Yes."

"Good. Now I want you to follow it with your eyes."

I follow her finger back and forth, up and down, all the while watching the back of her long nail.

"That was very good. Do you feel this?"

"Ouch!"

"Very good! I think your daughter's going to be just fine. We'll get Dr. Bernstein in here."

"Can I talk to her now?"

"Go right ahead, but she may not remember what you say. She's still pretty groggy."

Mama leans into the bed. All I can see are her eyes, round and blue, with pieces of old mascara clinging to her lashes.

"Hilary—all I—thank God."

"Mama?"

"Yes."

"You're here."

"Yes. I couldn't leave you. That's what I
wanted to say. I wanted to say—to say, well, baby, I—I love you."

"I know."

"You do?"

"You stayed with me—through the fire."

"How did you know? How could you know? That happened yesterday."

"Brad's fire."

"How can you know that?"

"They kept trying to make you leave—a real fire."

"It's a wonder the whole building didn't burn down. They even had to evacuate the other wing."

"But—you stayed."

"Yes, but how do you know all this? And what about Brad?"

"I—don't—Simon."

"Yes, baby. Simon's missing."

"How long?"

"Three days. You've been out three days."

"You stayed."

"Yes."

I close my eyes and sleep. I dream that I'm trapped in the room above the ceiling with Simon. It's so hot we're suffocating. We scream but no one hears.

Mama is staring at me when I open my eyes.

"It's okay, baby, you just had a bad dream."

"Simon. I know—where."

"Shh."

"I know where he is."

"Hilary, what do you mean? You know where Simon is?"

"The hole."

"A hole? He's in a hole?"

"Yes."

"Good Lord! Nurse, nurse! We need you! Where is this hole? Hilary, can you remember? We need to find him. The nurse can call the police. Just tell us where he is, baby."

"The ghetto."

"Oh, nurse, that missing child, she knows where he is. Hilary, what's the ghetto? Is that a hangout? A restaurant? Oh, the police will know. Please, nurse, could somebody call them? Tell them the missing boy's in a hole at the ghetto.

"You sleep now, baby. Sleep now."

"Simon—I must find..."

"Shh, sleep now. We'll find him."

"He's in a hole. No! No, he's—he's in a locker."

"Hilary, think. Is he in a hole or in a locker?"

"Mrs. Burke, let her rest. It's still too soon."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I just thought she knew. It seemed like she knew."

"I know where."

"Shh—it's okay, baby."

"Listen to me!"

"Now, look, she's all upset. Mrs. Burke—"

"The gym locker! Simon is there."

"Hilary, are you sure?"

"Mrs. Burke!"

"Brad, and Chucky, and Billy."

"Okay, baby. You sleep. Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Sleep now."

I close my eyes. I hear Mama's voice whispering to me again and again, "Everything will be all right." I feel her hand on my head, her breath on my cheek. I drift off to sleep and dream of baby Simon playing patty-cake with my father.

 

When I open my eyes, I see that I'm wrapped in white. My left leg is in a cast suspended from a stirrup. Mama is still here sitting beside me. Her face is pale and small, too small for all her hair. She is frowning at her hands, studying them. Her Bible is about to slide off her lap.

"Mama, what is it? Is Simon...?"

"Oh, Hilary." She catches her Bible. "Yes, they found him. It's all over."

"Tell me, I want to know."

"Another time."

"I want to know. It's all right, Mama."

"No, it can wait. Let's get you well."

"Please!"

"It's not good."

"I know. The police, they'll want to talk to me. I'll tell them."

"Baby, Brad and the others, they're in jail."

"Where is Simon? Is he—is he dead?"

"The police found him in back of the school."

"But how..."

"It was Brad, baby. Brad hung him up by his suspenders. In a tree. He told the poor kid if his suspender buttons broke, he'd shoot him. Chucky and Billy were there, too, teasing him, threatening him."

"He's dead! He's dead! I remember. They shot him hanging in the tree!"

"No. No, Hilary. He's all right. He's here. Down on the second floor. It's okay. The kid did okay. He's alive. He found a water bottle in that locker, three-quarters full, and some orange peels. He's okay. He'll be okay."

"He's really..."

I promise.

"And you. You stayed with me."

"Yes, baby, I'm here. Things are going to be better. I promise, things will be better."

"I know, Mama."

She moves closer. I feel her lips on my forehead.

I close my eyes and sleep, and dream about a grown man hanging in a tree and a woman named Chana.

***

People bustle in and out of my room at all hours of the day and night wanting to run tests, to take me to therapy, to feed me, to medicate me, and even to visit me, but never does a gray old woman named Chana come to see me.

I begin to wonder, Who is this woman who haunts my sleep, who tells me incredible things, expects incredible things of me? Why do I know her so well? Why do I feel this pull on me from somewhere else? Why do I want to be with her so much, when I don't even know where she is?

The days pass. My memories of Chana grow more vivid. I'm remembering everything—the ghetto, jail, Auschwitz—and yet I still have one question I cannot answer: Is Chana real or just someone my guilty conscience has created?