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A tap on glass, like a bird. I look up. In the second-floor hospital window behind me, the nothing-girls have woken; they're touching the glass and waving. To Dima as much as to me; they love him. He waves back.
"Next," the Red Cross woman says. I wait for a minute before realizing it's finally my turn. Her uniform is a single-breasted blue suit. My dress is also pale blue. The nurse who gave it to me said it went with my hair and eyes. Kind lies. My hair then was patchy and scabbed over, short as a boy's. It's grown back almost to my chin, but a thin, timid brown instead of lustrous curls. My eyes are still the color of empty. "Miss?" says the woman matronly. "Miss?"
"Zofia Lederman." I wait for her to check me off on her papers.
"And you're going home?"
"Yes. To Sosnowiec."
"And who would you like me to put on your list?" She reads my confusion. "We're asking if you have any names."
"Names?" I know what she's asking must make sense, but my brain is fogged again; it can't parse the words. I start to turn back to Nurse Urbaniak and Dima for help.
The worker places her hand on mine until I look back at her. Her voice has softened from its clipped, official tone. "Do you understand? We're logging where you're going, but also the family you're looking for. Is there anyone who could be looking for you?"
Names. I did this once already, months ago, with some charity workers as soon as I was conscious. Nothing ever came of it, and now his name hurts in my throat.
"Abek. My brother, Abek Lederman."
"Age?"
"He would be twelve now."
"Do you know anything about where he might be?"
"We were both sent to Birkenau, but I was transferred twice, to a textile factory in Neustadt and then to Gross-Rosen. The last time I saw him was more than three years ago."
I watch her make careful notes. "Who else?" she asks.
"Just Abek."
Just Abek. This is why I need to go home. Birkenau was liberated a month before Gross-Rosen. Abek could already be waiting.
"Are you sure that's all?" Her pen hesitates over the next blank line. She's trying to figure out how to be delicate with me. "We've found that it's better to cast as wide a net as possible. Not just immediate family, but cousins, distant relations. All will improve the chances of your finding someone."
"I don't need to add anyone else."
Distant relations. She doesn't mean it this way, but it reminds me of when my old teacher would bring candy to lessons. Don't be choosy, he'd warn, walking around with a bowl. Don't be choosy. You'd be lucky to have any relatives at all; just pick something.
"Look at all these empty rows." The worker gestures to her paper, patient, as you'd talk to a baby. "There's plenty of room to add as many people as you'd like. If you're looking for only one person—one on this entire continent—it could be impossible."
One person. Impossible.
I look at her empty lines. There aren't enough of them, not even close. Not nearly enough space for me to tell the story of the people I'm missing. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep my thoughts from leaking, because I know the nurses have been wrong all along: Sometimes it's not that I have trouble remembering things, it's that I have trouble forgetting.
Behind me, Dima shifts his weight, concerned. I can tell he wonders if he should help.
If there were enough empty lines on that sheet of paper, this is how I would start:
I would start by telling her that on the twelfth of August in 1942, all remaining Jews of Sosnowiec were told to go to the soccer stadium. The instructions said we were to be issued new identification. It seemed suspicious even then, but you have to understand—I would tell her, You must understand—the Germans had already occupied our city for three years. We were accustomed to arbitrary orders that sometimes became terrifying and sometimes benign. I would tell her how my family had been moved from our apartment to another across town, for no other reason than imaginary boundaries had been drawn on a map, and Jews could now live only inside them. How Baba Rose and I had already made stars to pin on our clothes, cut from a pattern in the newspaper.
Excerpted from They Went Left by Monica Hesse. Copyright © 2020 by Monica Hesse. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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