The Earth Is Singing (22 page)

“I need to get out of here,” I say into the dark earth.

My mouth is crammed with the stuff.

I lie for a while longer, to make sure that I have the best chance.

I count the seconds and minutes in my head and try to get to another hour.

Then I summon up all my mental energy and focus it into my arms.

They are thin and weaker than they used to be and I am numb from lying still for so long, but I have a plan.

I have never forgotten my ballet moves. Even when I couldn’t physically do them in the ghetto I would run through them in my head when I couldn’t sleep at night.

One of the first things we were taught was how to do our five basic arm positions.

I am lying down rather than standing up. But I take the deepest breath that I can and try to bring my arms in front of me. Then I push my arms away from one another into second position. I am aware that I am pushing my arms into the bodies of dead people but I pretend that I am in the swimming pool in the days before Jews got banned and that I am pushing my arms against the weight of the water. Then with a superhuman effort I heave one arm up over my head into fourth position and with it I manage to shift Mama’s body a little, just enough to push my arm a little higher into the earth above. My other arm goes up to join it and I stay in fifth position until my arms start to shake and tremble and I have to rest.

I wait until I can summon up a little strength.

Then I repeat the whole sequence again.

All the time I try to ignore the horror of what I am pushing against and I just imagine myself in that pool, parting the current with my arms. After what seems like a lifetime I have positioned myself on top of Mama’s body rather than underneath it.

I lie there for a moment, gasping for breath with silent tears adding to the mix of tastes in the back of my mouth.

I am glad I cannot see anything.

But I feel her there. I say:

“Goodbye, Mama. I love you.”

I don’t want to leave her. But I have to get out of here.

With another couple of mighty pushes I start to work my way past the next row of bodies.

My head hits the fresh air what seems like years later.

I gulp and cough and wipe the soil and the stinging substance off my eyes and face.

I stand with my body still submerged in the pit and my head peeking out of it for quite some time.

I use my eyes to look left and right. I keep my head motionless. I do not know who might still be in this forest and what they are planning to do.

I can’t tell whether the faint light in the forest is the beginning of another day or the end of the previous one. I don’t know how long I have been lying in this ghastly pit.

I wait a while longer, straining my ears to pick up even the slightest noise.

There is nothing, save the rustle of leaves, the distant sound of trains and traffic and some odd humming noise which I can’t place.

I can’t even hear any birds.

The birds won’t sing at Rumbula.

I heave myself right up out of that grave.

I stand on the edge of the pit and look down at it.

The humming noise increases.

My stomach lurches with shock.

The Latvian soldiers have filled in the grave with earth but they must have failed to aim their shots as accurately as it seemed.

The earth is singing.

Moans and cries filter their way up into the cold air.

The earth is moving.

Red, oozing, shifting.

The full horror of what has happened hits me harder than the butt of a soldier’s rifle.

I drop to my knees on the edge of the grave.

I call “Hello?” in a wavering voice. “Can I help anyone? I am a Jew.”

Then I call again, as loudly as I dare.

But nobody can hear me. They must have been buried lower down.

Sobbing, I turn away.

My body is jerking and buckling with the cold.

I am still dressed only in my underwear.

I look around. I see the mountain of clothes, sorted into piles but not yet taken away.

I scuttle over, all the time looking around the forest. I am very nervous of soldiers arriving back unexpectedly.

I grab clothes from the pile. I choose women’s clothing but some instinct tells me to cover them up with men’s. I put on an oversized white shirt and a long black pullover, a pair of men’s grey trousers. I find the pile of coats further back in the forest and I choose the thickest I can find in the darkest colours. Then I shove my hair up into a flat grey cap.

I am warm.

But I am not safe.

And I am alone.

No mother.

No grandmother.

Nobody.

I run deeper into the forest as quickly as I can, trying not to make much noise on the twigs and leaves underfoot. I find a tree with a wide trunk and squash myself up behind it.

Then I wait.

I spend the next few
hours pressed up against the tree with my chin on my knees and my arms wrapped around them.

The sun is starting to rise so I know it is the dawn of a new day.

I don’t have long to sit here.

I am shivering from shock and cold and each time I start to think about Mama I try to push the thought aside. I am not ready to accept the full horror of what has just happened to me.

My brain runs feverishly through a list of possibilities.

I can’t go back to the old town to try and find somewhere to sleep. That much is clear. I will be shot or, at best, allowed one night sleeping rough before somebody recognizes me as a Jew and reports me to the authorities.

I can’t hide out in this forest for long. The SS might be planning to bring more people here to kill.

I can’t walk out of the forest and ask anybody for help. They might be a Jew-hater.

Mama!
my soul cries out in pain.

There is nobody left to help me.

Nobody.

Then it is as if a light shines into my brain.

Yes.

There is.

I have not seen him for some time but if he was taken away to work in the Small Ghetto then there is a chance that I will find him there. I might even find his father, too.

I must get back somehow to the Small Ghetto and find Max! He will help me. I am sure of it.

My heart gives a little skip of nervousness.

I stand up, ready to find my way out of the forest. Then I remember that it is now daylight.

I sit down again.

I look around.

I have spent a long time lying under the dark ground and I don’t much want to do it again but this is the only way I might get out of here alive.

With weak arms I manage to dig myself a pit, just big enough so that I can lie inside it and cover myself with leaves and earth. I pray to God that no SS sniffer dogs will come to this part of the forest in the next few hours.

I am starving. I pick a few berries and some soft leaves and stuff them into my mouth, not caring that in a few hours I will probably have the worst cramps of my life. My stomach has shrunk so much that even a few bits of unripe fruit will have a bad effect.

Then I crawl inside my tiny pit, shut out the light and wait.

I have to judge the amount of time gone by without being able to see much sky.

There’s a tiny crack in the leaves I’ve covered myself with. I peer up through it and watch as the sun rises. Then I try to sleep for a while. When I wake up the sun has started to lower again. As far as I can make out, it must be about four or five o’clock in the afternoon.

I push myself out of the ground and sit still for a moment.

I listen. I sharpen my ears and strain for any sound.

Nothing.

The humming has stopped.

I stand up and brush my strange men’s clothing free of earth and leaves.

Then I leave this forest of Hell.

It takes me a while to get my bearings as I go.

I’m weak from lack of food and still in shock.

As I walk in what I hope is the direction of
Maskavas iela
I think of this time last year. I can’t believe that the only thing I had to worry about back then was how long it would take me to save up for new ballet shoes and whether I could get a new dress too.

This time last year, Mama, Papa and I were still living in the beautiful villa with the cherry trees. I was studying at the ballet school and spending most of my time trying to look pretty for Uldis.

Just the thought of his name makes me feel sick.

Traitor.

The word is spat out in Omama’s voice, not my own.

Tears rise up in my eyes but I trudge on.

The only thing which matters now is finding a friend.

I need to stay alive.

In case Papa is still out there somewhere.

There is no use going straight to the ghetto.

If I did that I would face the Latvian policemen on the gate and if they asked me to remove my cap they’d be sure to realize that I was left over from the forest massacre. They would wonder what on earth I was doing on the other side of the gates and probably shoot me on sight.

I have ripped off the yellow stars from my borrowed clothes. I have no fear of doing that now. It is not about being Jewish any more. It has gone beyond that. It is about being alive or being dead. I pull the cap tighter over my hair and button up my oversized coat. I roll up the legs of the man’s trousers a little bit to stop them flapping around my ankles.

Then I lower my head and walk along the pavements. Even this feels odd after so many months spent walking in the gutter, but I mustn’t be suspected as a Jew.

I am reaching the old part of town. It is nearly dark.

I make my way across the town to
Jelgavas
iela
. It takes me a long time, because the streets look different at night and I am not thinking straight.

It’s a long shot. I don’t even know if they are still working there.

But after hiding behind a wall of the building next door for what seems like eternity, I see the lights in the factory window start to blink off like tired eyelids.

I wait.

A line of figures in dark coats assembles outside.

I hear the usual crack of whips and the shouts of the Latvian policemen.

The figures shuffle into columns and are given the order to start walking.

I am in the right place.

I wait until the line has reached where I am hiding and then I slip out from behind the wall and am into the line of people before anybody has had a chance to notice.

I keep my head down and trudge along with the rest of the men.

The ground underneath is slippery and treacherous but I don’t care.

My heart is pounding hard and I can hardly believe what I’ve done.

I’ve done it. I’ve joined a work detail. I am going back to the Small Ghetto.

I am still alive.

The walk back to the ghetto takes just over half an hour.

I am jostled against the man next to me as I walk along but I take care not to look him in the face.

The walk is silent and grim.

The men walking with me are little more than skeletons wearing dark coats. Even in the gloom of the evening I catch glimpses when we pass near a street light. I can see their profiles of bone and skin and little else. There is a smell of decay and unwashed bodies and a feeling of – what?

Acceptance?

Resignation?

Lack of hope?

I am not sure. But whatever it is it comes off in droves from these silent men as they are marched back towards their foodless homes.

I allow myself to be jostled and pushed back with them. My legs feel weak and my stomach aches from the raw fruit I ate earlier. I am going back to – what? No Mama, no Omama, no Sascha and no future. For the first time I think:
It might be easier just to fall over into the gutter and die.

Then I push the thought aside.

Papa’s face looms up in front of me. My memory of him is a little less clear. I can’t quite get the exact shape of his face and for the first time I doubt the colour of his eyes. But the expression in them is still strong and clear.

Be strong, my little dancing girl.

That’s what he’s always telling me.

And I promised.

I failed to keep my other promise – to look after Mama. So I have to keep this one.

So I take a shaky breath of the cold night air and continue to march with the silent men.

I can see
Ludzas iela
ahead!

It is different now. Divided right down the middle by high barbed wire and posts with warning notices pinned to them.

As I am straining to try and see where we are going I jostle the man next to me and he knocks my cap off.

It falls to the ground as if in slow motion.

I make a grab at my hair with one hand and hold it up while I fumble on the ground for the cap but it is too late. For one flash, my long brown hair has tumbled around my shoulders and down my back and the man next to me has seen.

He bends down and picks up the cap. He hands it back to me and for the first time I see his face clearly in the moonlight.

It’s a young man, more of a boy. Sharp-featured, with fair hair that falls over one side of his face and the pale grey sheen of un-nourished skin that we all have.

I don’t know who’s more shocked.

I can’t speak but I implore the boy with my eyes as hard as I can.

Don’t tell them. Please.

The boy recovers himself fast. He moves in front of me a little to shield me with his body and with a brief jerk of his head, signals me to put my cap back on.

I shove it on with a shaking hand and push my lank mass of hair up inside it.

God has answered my prayers for the second time today.

I would like to thank
this boy, but I can’t.

The SS have stripped us Jews of all rights, including being able to talk when we want to. I swallow down great painful lumps of relief.

The boy risks a low whisper.

“I thought all the children were dead,” he says. “We heard rumours.”

I give a small shake of my head and offer a tiny smile. More of a cheek-twitch, really, but then there’s a policeman about a metre ahead of us and he’s armed.