Honorable Mention - Fiction

by Hannah Gumpert

November 10th, 1938

I peek out my window and pretend it still has glass,

that the stone lying on my kitchen floor is a new decoration Mama bought,

—pretend the stores don’t refuse to sell to her now—

that the scatter of shards isn’t there.

People shout in the streets, curse, destroy—cheer.

I pretend there’s a parade outside, not a pogrom,

that the light coming from my temple is from festivities, not fire.

If I try hard enough, I can almost tell myself it’s true. 

They sound happy enough for it to be, laughing amidst the sound of screams

and breaking glass.

Papa holds me tight.

There will be a better day soon, Rivka,

he says, just—not today.

I nod, and I believe him, I do, but—

What is happening to my home?

September 21st, 1941

On the cattle train, I cry. Mama stands with me, along with so many strangers.

Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands.

—a thousand times a thousand so many so many—

The train creaks and protests under all our weight.

Things will get better soon, Rivka,

Mama tells me, just—not today.

I close my eyes and pretend I’m on a train that will take me to a magical world,

not the kingdom of death the others whisper of.

I pretend I don’t hear them.

October 12th, 1941

In the barrack, Mama pulls me close.

—I miss papa no no papa’s here he’s still here he is—

Be brave, Rivka,

Mama whispers. Stay strong. It is our only way to defy them.

She rubs frozen fingers together,

tells me to pretend the pieces of straw she clutches are Shabbat candlesticks.

Under our breath, we murmur the prayers,

—be quiet be quiet don’t let them hear you don’t let them break you—

and the sound is everything they couldn’t destroy.

November 3rd, 1941

Every night, the silence is pierced by the howls of wolves.

The men dressed in black, the ones with guns in their hands and swastikas on their arms—

I pretend they’re werewolves, monsters howling at the moon.

The sky is too choked full of death

—clouds just clouds they’re just clouds—

to see the moon, but I pretend that beneath its glow, they shed their human skins

and expose the truth of themselves.

People couldn’t do this to us. They couldn’t.

Only a monster could.

Every night, as the werewolves howl around me, I hug Mama close and cry silently.

I want to go home. I want to go home. Please, God, take me home.

December 19th, 1941

It's cold. So cold.

The wolves start up again, howls piercing the icy air,

but I— I don’t have the energy to pretend

anymore.

There’s no moon, just clouds of death pumped out from the smokestacks.

There are no soldiers with beasts beneath their skin, only men who are monsters all by themselves.

The death camp’s song drifts through the air, but there are no wolves, just people—

desperate, pleading, broken people—

crying out into a world that has long since stopped caring.

December 31st, 1941

In the dark room, Mama holds me,

—you’re crying mama why are you crying what’s wrong mama i’m scared—

whispers promises I’ve heard before:

there will be a better day soon, things will get better soon, we will go home soon,

just—not today. Someday. I promise. I promise, Rivka—

—mama i don’t believe you—

The only way people leave this room is in ashes,

drifting from the smokestacks into a sky stained black with death.

I don't want the smoke to eat me. Mama, don't let it eat me. Mama, I want to go home.

It will be okay, Rivka,

Mama whispers. Don’t worry. It— it will be okay.

—i don’t believe you mama i’m scared oh mama help me save me please it hurts—

It will be okay, Rivka.

It will be… okay…

It…

…