out his arms, and I reach mine out, too. He puts his hands under my elbows and helps me stand. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little pale.”
“A noise.” My voice comes out scratched and wavering. I clear my throat to start again. I haven’t let go of this man’s arms. I’m still clutching them, and I know it must seem strange, but I’m also afraid if I let go, I won’t be able to stand steadily on my own. “I heard a noise. It startled me.”
Recognition dawns on his face; he pulls on a silver chain looped around his neck. “It was me. This whistle—I was testing it out to use with workers in the fields at mealtimes.”
“For workers,” I repeat.
“To call them back for dinner. I’m sorry it scared you. I shouldn’t have tested it inside.”
A whistle for workers in the fields.
But that’s not what I heard. I heard the whistle of helmeted guards as the train pulled into Birkenau. I heard a thousand screams that were all the same scream, I heard myself whispering, It will all be okay, when really I was screaming inside.
“It’s fine,” I repeat. “I was just startled.”
“Should we get you checked out?” the man suggests, helpful. “Would you like me to walk you to the nurse?”
“No! I mean, no, thank you. I think I’ll go lie down.”
It’s so silly, but really I just don’t want to be near his whistle. His whistle is part of the door that I don’t want opened, part of the path I don’t want my brain to walk down.
“It’s so silly,” I tell him out loud now. “I don’t know why I was being so silly.”
When I let go of the man’s arms, I make sure I’m leaning against the table in case my legs don’t support me. The table squeaks a bit on the floor under the burden of my weight, but I manage to not fall. Then I cautiously wave a hand to show him, I’m fine, I’m fine, I was just overreacting, silly me, and finally he leaves, looking once over his shoulder.
Slowly, I pick up the book of fairy tales from the table and shelve it. Then I stand in front of the bookcase, straightening the spines, evening up the rows. It’s a pointless task. I’m sure that after the dinner hour, when the library room would be at its busiest, the shelves will quickly become messy again. I know what I’m really looking for is a mindless task for soothing and distraction. In the hospital, we would sometimes slip skeins of wool over our hands, roll them into balls of yarn. It was better to have that to focus on than whatever was tormenting our brains.
I do not want to think about the train whistle.
I do not want to think about a book of Polish fairy tales.
I do not want to think about why my brother might not have remembered one, or why he might have felt the need to pretend that he did.
I do not want to think about what I’ve been scared to say out loud, what I have been afraid to think to myself.
I do not want to think about how he might not be my brother.
I’M OUTSIDE THE ADMINISTRATION BUILDING AND NOT EVEN sure how I got there. I blink into the sunlight, vaguely aware of the sound of voices, the rustle of fabric as people move past me on their way to dinner. I walk with them because it’s easier than fighting the crowd and walking in the other direction and because I don’t know where I would go anyway.
Why would I let myself ask that about Abek? How far am I letting my imagination run? As I repeat these questions to myself, they slowly transform into the same question I’ve been asking myself since the war ended. Not am I crazy but how crazy am I?
Near the closed doors of the dining hall, I see familiar faces. Breine and Chaim. Esther, waiting for the doors to be opened, putting her eyeglasses back on after wiping them clean on her skirt, waving for me to join her in line. And Josef. Josef is also there, because this is the night he asked if he could join the rest of us for dinner. He raises his hand and smiles. He expects I’ll be happy; I can barely nod in his direction. His face falls, but I don’t have time to worry about his feelings.