August 16, 1943
"Anna, Anna, Anna," Edwin's voice called me out of the deep blankness. I will never forget how he said my name—three times, as if he was trying to make it real.
"They've taken my father." I whispered the words. I didn't want to say them loudly, to hear myself speaking the unspeakable thing.
Edwin came to me in an instant, and he sat down in the faded rocking chair in my parents' living room and rocked me—back and forth, back and forth—while my tears came out and soaked the collar of his white shirt. All of my fears, all of my apprehensions, had been confirmed, and my mind rebelled against the comfort my body craved. How could I ever let myself be comforted when my Abba was gone?
"Darling," Edwin whispered, "darling, I've posted the letter. As soon as I receive confirmation, I'll take it to the police, and they'll have to let him go."
"No," I said quietly. "They've charged him with sedition. There's nothing you can do. You know as well as I do that it won't be long before even your soldiers won't be able to stay here any longer. They'll drive us all out, and the ones who stay will be questioned and eliminated."
"Tell me," said my husband, "tell me how it was. You don't need to bear this alone."
I sobbed through the words. "It was two of our police, and one of theirs—one of the ones the Germans keep sending. They wouldn't tell me anything, but I know it's because he's a rabbi. Leaders of the Jews must be stamped out, so their followers will scatter." My voice was bitter.
"He didn't struggle, Edwin. He said—he said this was what he'd expected all along, that he could go happily, because he knew I would be safe. I attacked one of them, but it didn't matter. It all happened so quickly."
"Oh, my little love," said Edwin tenderly, looking at my face for signs of injury, "did they hurt you?"
"Nothing but my heart," I answered.
"I need to tell you something," Edwin said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping my face gently. "Your father sent me a letter the day after our engagement. He begged me not to tell you about it unless—until—something like this happened."
"He said they were closing in, that they'd threatened to arrest him if he didn't stop holding gatherings in the synagogue. He believed his time was short, that once—" he faltered over the words—"once he was taken, he would not be coming back. Anna, he knew my letter wouldn't be in time to prevent it. He said you and I met at the right time, that I'd never been meant to save him, only you."
Edwin was crying by this time, and I put my arms around his neck and my head on his shoulder and held him as tightly as he was holding me. I don't know why, but I started singing one of my mother's songs, a Hebrew lullaby. I suppose, in a way, that moment is the closest Edwin and I have ever been during our short time together. Grief is a magnetic force that can push people inextricably together or force them irrevocably apart.
"Tomorrow I'll go to the police," said my husband after a while. "It's too dangerous for you to go, but I'll see what I can find out and what can be done." I nodded, but my hope was as dim as the dwindling dusk-light outside.
Edwin cooked a beautiful dinner in order to tempt me to eat. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched him, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, and even in the midst of my pain, I loved him with every fiber of my being. My Jarvis is not like other men—he can cook and sew on buttons and discourse intelligently about Romantic poets. But he is mine, and he is everything.
Still, I couldn't eat more than a few mouthfuls, and Edwin didn't force the issue. He just picked me up without saying anything and carried me to bed, helping me into my nightgown and brushing my hair because he knew that I could not do anything for myself, and all I wanted was to rest.
It's the middle of the night now. I slept for a few hours, but then I awoke, as alert as if I'd had water thrown on me. As unobtrusively as I could, I crawled out from under my husband's big arm and came out into the kitchen to write down an account of this day. I want to remember it, not because it was good or beautiful, but because it was the day they took my father away. The words are a desperate prayer that what I feel will not come true, but that if it does, Yahweh will not leave my father's side.
I will stop writing, though I could write a whole book about the pain I feel. But I hear Edwin stirring and getting up, and no doubt he'll find me in a moment. I want to be carried back to bed, to feel his arms around me again, anchoring me to what is real and good and safe. I am fortunate that I am so small and he is so very tall. When he carries me, I can tell that my weight is nothing to him, and so I lean on his strength.
I must lean on him—I cannot face these things alone, or I will go mad.
A/N: I'm upping the rating of this story because of mentions of the persecution of Jews during the Holocaust. I'm not going to mention anything graphic, but if you find that topic disturbing, please don't continue with this story.