By Sharon Sheltzer
This tense, yet wonderful letter was chosen as the winner of the SLO NW May “A Letter Home” writing contest.
Mr dearest Hava,
I pray fervently, hoping you did not wait for me at our meeting point. Taking each step with you, I dream you are being guided through the forest and will reach the mountain pass before dawn. If you make it through, you will be the last of our family. You must. Name your children after Papa and Mama.
In the wildest hope that this letter will reach you, know only death could prevent me from following through with our grand plan. Perhaps there is a god—he hasn’t been there for the big stuff, but how else to explain I had a piece of precious paper and pen in hand when they burst through the door?
It is dark and cramped in here. I can barely scratch out words, and my knees are crushed against the splintered beams. My hand trembles as the Germans pound the floor and our ceiling convulses. They have lost their minds with rage, screaming, “We saw the smoke! We know you’re in here!” If they check the stove and see no embers, they may suspect it’s our passageway to the sub-floor dug-out. It will all be over, and worth it if we take some of those bastards with us, and you make it to freedom.
Ari wedges his face into my side and reminds me there is something to live for. His chest rattles from pneumonia, and he tries to stifle the sound. At least his wheeze muffles the racket of boots above, getting closer. A small crack in the foundation lets in a thin stream of light and air, allowing me to see this page and some relief from the stench of death on this street. My resistance sister Sarit is in the space behind the post, and the faint shadow of her shoe emerges, silently tapping. We are all that remains of the fighters in this block.
A rat scutters by and I drool for the meat.
Dear sister, I thought we were beyond fear, but it roils my empty gut today. Doors are slammed and walls torn apart. Their rage cannot be greater than my own. I take pleasure in their frustration. Beasts. There are three of them, by their voices. An axe. Each swing threatens my grip on this pen.
Boots loud. Silence. Stove door rattling.
P.S.
We waited two hours after they left. I saw your beautiful smile and heard your laughter from when we chased sheep over the lush hills. Does such a color as green still exist? And sunshine? I tried to remember, but the damp chill of winter seeped into my bones from the dank ground of the makeshift bunker—would it be my grave? I know love still exists because I would die for you and Ari, but what about goodness? Surely it has disappeared from this earth.
Dear sister, as with our luck escaping the farm, I was blessed again. They fired a barrage of shots into the dirt, dust swirling so thick that they didn’t see us with their flashlights. We choked into our elbow crooks and they marched off, either satisfied they had eliminated us vermin or angry we had escaped. In case one remained guarding the front door, Sarit and I dug for three hours under the foundation into what used to be a side garden plot, saving Ari his remaining energy and stopping at every sound. Nails ripped, we waited for the street patrol to return to their comfortable houses and listened. The alley was empty. I knew where water could be found and brought some back for Ari. His eyes opened and shone with relief. I stuffed this letter into my bra. The icy wind propelled us to another bunker, where we begged our way in and I finished this letter.
I will search for a courier, so you know I survived another day. Send word back if possible.
Your loving sister
Leave a Reply