It Rained Warm Bread Read online

  If we saw one Nazi soldier,

  we knew there were others close by.

  They loped about,

  their noses pointed toward the sky

  as if they were trying to pick up a scent.

  We admired our shoes, the ground beneath our feet.

  We dared not look into their eyes.

  We looked down

  in submission

  and backed away slowly.

  With each fearful step we thought we were giving them

  Kielce.

  But we were wrong.

  They were taking it.

  BULLIES TO BEASTS

  The wolves had been quietly marking our territory

  for their own

  with the urine of our blood and

  the scat of our bodies.

  Letting us know

  this place was theirs.

  I had learned from my father’s many books

  that the world was big.

  How much could wolves need?

  Want?

  Demand?

  They moved with a confidence

  as sharp as their teeth,

  covering many square miles.

  We didn’t know yet

  (and some would never know)

  that we were not the only ones.

  Others

  from nearby towns

  had met with the same fate.

  We forgave ourselves

  for not knowing.

  We’d never thought to study wolves.

  Had no idea how horrible they could be.

  They were bullies transformed into beasts.

  Yes,

  there were rumors,

  but even my father,

  so like Solomon,

  could not have imagined such evil.

  MAIL

  Letters arrived.

  Small, white envelopes that held the voices

  of our family in Chicago.

  Grandfather Israel, Uncle Abraham, and Uncle Jacob.

  COME TO AMERICA.

  It wasn’t an invitation,

  it was a plea.

  A chance.

  America was watching,

  could see by their blank hollowed-out

  faces that something in the wolves

  had been starved.

  Now they were ravenous,

  would stop at nothing to fill

  that empty place.

  Inside one envelope,

  a ticket and papers

  wrapped inside a letter like a present.

  COME. TO. AMERICA.

  But my father wouldn’t leave us.

  My father tossed each chance aside.

  He did not want to believe

  what our American family already knew.

  COME.

  Urgency inked into the thin white paper.

  Grandfather Israel, Uncle Abraham, and Uncle Jacob

  kept writing,

  their voices quiet but insistent.

  The news had traveled all the way to Chicago.

  And they were sending it back to us.

  “Don’t you know?

  The wolves are on the attack.”

  COME.

  All of us at once?

  Neyn. Es iz faran nisht genug gelt.

  No. There is not enough money.

  There is a job waiting for you.

  You’ll find a place to stay.

  In no time at all,

  you’ll have enough to send for

  Golda, Bella, Moishe, and Saul.

  Trust us.

  Wolves will not bother with

  women and children.

  They will be fine.

  But you have to

  COME.

  NOW.

  My father could stand it no longer.

  Every day scribbles on pieces of paper

  were pushing him toward America.

  His suitcase was already packed.

  There was no time for long goodbyes.

  He kissed each of us,

  held my mother close,

  and whispered something in her ear.

  Tears were streaming down her face,

  but she smiled.

  And then he was gone.

  But before we had a chance to miss him,

  he was back.

  The borders were closed.

  There was no way out.

  My father had waited too long

  to take his last chance.

  COUNSELOR

  Whenever there was a problem …

  What to plant?

  How to make a cow well?

  How to get an ornery goat to give milk?

  Who to marry a son or daughter off to?

  My father had the answer.

  He was a learned man.

  Wise, like Solomon.

  People would arrive

  outside our house

  carrying their troubles in their hands,

  or their fear.

  My father would listen,

  and the answers that didn’t come easy

  made him pace back and forth

  until he wore a path in the dirt.

  He would walk and it was as if his steps

  unearthed the answer.

  I would watch from the window

  as each person left

  lighter than when they arrived.

  Their burdens lifted.

  But now that the wolves are here

  my father’s footsteps

  bring no answers to light.

  Only dirt rises from the ground under his feet.

  And when the dust clears,

  the wolves surround us.

  CHAPTER 3

  WOLVES AT THE DOOR

  WOLVES AT THE DOOR

  The Nazi soldiers have built a den in our town.

  They are wolves traveling in packs.

  They are hungry.

  Neighbors are disappearing.

  There are beatings and

  public humiliations.

  They are eating Jews.

  We become shadows.

  Try not to draw attention to ourselves.

  Be still.

  Don’t breathe.

  All we can do is watch,

  recording every offense.

  Soldiers, foaming at the mouth

  as they destroy businesses and houses

  and people.

  Our Polish neighbors watch, too,

  but only for a moment.

  They must make a choice:

  Bury their heads in the sand

  or pick up a fistful and throw it at us.

  The Nazis devise a plan

  to make it easier to find their prey.

  By candlelight,

  my mother sews yellow patches

  on our jackets and coats.

  We are stars,

  but we do not shine.

  NOT ENOUGH STARS

  The wolves are howling.

  They come out at night

  sniffing within the walls of the ghetto.

  “One of you, come with us.”

  In every house,

  someone is taken.

  A father.

  A son.

  A brother.

  There are not enough stars in the night sky,

  so they snatch those of us

  who wear them on our coats.

  CORNERED

  My brother, Saul, is gone.

  Disappeared in the night.

  Our mother is frantic.

  A limb has been ripped from her.

  “My baby! Did they take him?

  Is he in prison?”

  She has already answered yes

  to both of these questions.

  My father corners her.

  Moves toward her slowly

  with soothing sounds.

  “Saul is fine,” my father says.

  “He wanted to do something.

  He is strong.

  He knew the wolves were hungry for
<
br />   young men who looked like him.

  He left to find help.

  This was his chance

  to do something.

  He took it with my blessing.

  I know I’m his father but

  I couldn’t stop him.

  He’s seventeen.

  He’s a man.

  He didn’t want you to know, Golda, because

  he knew you wouldn’t let him go.

  Hopefully he will make it to Russia.

  Be alive.”

  My mother’s relief in Father’s words outweighs

  her anger.

  But now

  she keeps me tethered.

  Forewarned is forearmed.

  ONE FROM EVERY FAMILY

  There is much work to be done.

  The Nazi soldiers need

  more workers.

  My brother, Saul, is strong,

  but he is not here.

  He is a shooting star on a mission.

  I stand tall. Chest out.

  I am a boy wanting to be a man.

  They take my father instead.

  Mother and I visit him

  every week.

  He is working in a big field moving rocks.

  I know they are heavy because I can

  see the strain in the men’s faces and in

  their arms as they lift and lug

  the rocks to a designated area.

  We bring my father food,

  but mostly we just bring him us.

  The food, he hardly touches,

  his stomach punishes him.

  He has always had stomach problems.

  But he can’t get enough of us.

  He swallows us up with his eyes.

  We know that he is full

  each time we leave him.

  TRADING PLAGES

  The next time we see my father,

  he is still sick,

  has been sick the entire time.

  I hardly recognize him and try not

  to look frightened.

  He can barely stand and his skin hangs

  on his body as if it is trying to go somewhere without him.

  My mother tells the man in charge

  that he must let my father come home

  so that she can make him well.

  He looks at this David standing in front

  of him with a slingshot full of words, and

  laughs.

  The rule is that each household must offer up a male

  to come work.

  If she does not have another one,

  my father must stay.

  My mother closes her mouth.

  Her weapon of words cannot slay this Goliath.

  I stand tall. Chest out.

  I am a boy wanting to be a man.

  I dig deep and say,

  “I will take his place.”

  My mother begins to shape her mouth

  into a no,

  but Father is sick.

  I am the only one left.

  I am the only man in our house.

  Saul is still gone.

  Our hope is that he is safely in Russia by now.

  She hugs me tightly

  and makes the trade.

  Me for my father.

  MY MOTHER’S BOY

  When my mother comes to visit,

  she can see that I cannot stay here.

  Through my tears, I tell her

  everything.

  The wolves circle.

  They are always nipping at us.

  Sometimes they bite.

  And sometimes they rip us apart.

  The work is hard.

  I am grateful for the men who

  take up my slack

  when the wolves are not watching.

  I am hungry for my family.

  I want to go home.

  My clever mother

  has a plan.

  She sneaks me out

  under her coat.

  Wrapped in her arms,

  my feet walking in sync with her own,

  I breathe in her smell.

  We are almost one person.

  I can feel her heart pounding

  in her chest.

  And I can hear her muffled prayer.

  She does not ask if she should do this,

  she tells the Master of the Universe,

  respectfully,

  that she is taking me.

  We walk right out of the camp.

  God has graciously granted her request.

  My mother is not a thief.

  She has reclaimed me.

  I am my mother’s boy

  a little while longer.

  LOCKED ARMS

  I wake to the sound

  of my mother crying.

  In the kitchen,

  she’s holding my brother in her arms.

  Saul is home.

  We sit around the table.

  Saul tells us his story.

  He made it as far as the Russian border.

  There was no way out.

  Poland’s neighbors

  have locked arms,

  with their backs to us, and will not

  let us pass.

  BEFORE AND AFTER

  Before

  We were content.

  We always had enough to eat.

  “If you have enough to eat, you are wealthy,”

  my father said,

  and why wouldn’t we be?

  My father was in the cattle business.

  After

  I learned that my father was just a man.

  Not even a farmer.

  He only ever had one cow at a time.

  He would go to the country, buy a cow, fatten it up,

  and sell it to the butcher.

  Before

  I knew how to play.

  A ball dancing between my feet as

  I dashed and darted across our asphalt field

  from one goal to another

  playing soccer with my friends.

  After

  The streets were deserted.

  There was no dancing.

  Father said the music of our youth

  had stopped playing.

  Before

  I thought the men who showed up in our town

  were just uniformed tourists

  passing through on their way to somewhere

  more interesting than our little town.

  I smiled into eyes that did not see me.

  After …

  PRAYERS

  They are trying to erase us

  as if we are scribbles on a chalkboard.

  They have obliterated our synagogue,

  turned it into a warehouse.

  I look in the windows,

  see pieces of furniture huddled together,

  heads bowed as if in prayer.

  I wonder if there is a prayer

  for protection from wolves.

  I know that we are The Chosen People,

  but I can’t believe we were chosen for this.

  Those who pray are arrested

  for organizing religious meetings,

  their homes demolished.

  In our house, led by my father,

  my family found a way to talk to God.

  We huddled together, heads bowed.

  Our prayers were whispered,

  sometimes riding on the air we breathe.

  We did not know everything, yet we knew this:

  The wolves can eat the Jews, but

  their mouths are no match for

  The Master of the Universe.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE KIELCE GHETTO

  1941

  THE GHETTO

  It is hard not to be angry at the Maker of the Universe.

  We have been ripped from our home

  like a Band-Aid from a wound,

  so fast, but we are still stinging.

  We are herded together into an area,

  wooden fencing en
twined with barbed wire.

  We are marbles on a board.

  We roll in whatever direction the wolves tilt us.

  We are too many to a room and all of us strangers.

  Fear draws us together.

  We huddle,

  hold on to each other, close our eyes, and pray for sleep,

  because there is food,

  but only in our dreams.

  There is home,

  but only in our dreams.

  There is school and friends and freedom,

  but only in our dreams.

  We are caged.

  We cannot leave.

  We are trapped,

  while the animals roam freely.

  WE STILL REMEMBER HOW TO PLAY

  We are not in our own home,

  but Mother

  still lights the

  Sabbath candles,

  blesses our one small room.

  I say a prayer for the strangers that surround us

  and the rats that scurry about.

  On a good day,

  my sister makes a doll from straw

  and still remembers how to play.

  And we all

  forget our place in the galaxy,

  with our yellow stars.

  On a good day, our bellies stop singing their sad refrain

  and remember what it is to be full.

  On a good day, we remember when the only stars

  we knew were the ones up in the sky.

  HENRY, A FRIEND INDEED

  I thought nothing good

  could come from being here in

  the Kielce Ghetto,

  but I was wrong.

  I have found a friend.

  “My name is Moishe,” I tell him.

  “My name is Henry,” he says back.

  We both speak our names as if they matter.

  Henry is small like me.

  We make a good team.

  Every morning

  we go wait at the ghetto gate

  for the guard to take us to the labor camp.

  We dig trenches.

  Shovel sand.

  Both of us quick.

  Both of us strong.

  They call us “little guys,”

  but we don’t mind.

  Today the guard rewards

  our hard work.

  A loaf of bread for each of us.

  Henry and I smile.

  We make a good team.

  Because of us

  our families will be less hungry tomorrow.

  UNDER THE WALL

  We knew they were coming,

  the unwelcome guests we had tried

  hard to avoid.

  Father was too sick to fight them off,

  but Mother distracted them