The Algum Tree

A deafening ring punctured the inner depths of my subconscious. I initially mistook it for screams. The universe unfolded as I awoke. Beads of sweat descended my forehead and fell into my eyes. I closed them. The ringing was overtaken by a loud, consistent bang, as if large chains were falling in sequence. We were moving fast. It was dark, the only visible light came through a small hole near the top of the train car.

"Daniel! Wake up Daniel!"

Ezra had spoken over many layers of chatter. I heard Yiddish, then Polish, then German, then Hebrew, then Yiddish again. I opened my eyes once more, but the light was so dim that I made out only a gentle silhouette in front of me. It was Ezra.

I closed my eyes once more. My ears were still ringing from the gunfire. I remember Ezra and I had barricaded ourselves in a bunker at the south end of the ghetto, at a crossroads called Muranowski Square. We had, from what I remember, 12 Molotov cocktails, two pistols, a Mosin-Nagant smuggled in from the east, and an MG42 with 74 roads. SS infantry had besieged this area of Warsaw for several weeks. We didn't have a visual of their light armor until the 4th day of fighting.

We had grown up with the stories of the Sicarii. The Jewish rebels who held off a Roman siege at Masada for 7 months. Also, Samson, the hero who brought down a temple on top of himself, killing his enemies.

Throughout spring, those of us left had transformed the ghetto from our prison to our fortress. That fortress was to be our Masada, and I told Ezra to reserve two bullets for us when the time came. Our hearts wanted nothing.

I reached up and felt a layer of dried blood on my forehead. I extended my right hand and felt Ezra's trousers. A tingling sensation in my fingers made my grip weak.

"Where are we?" I managed to spit out.

"It looks like the countryside" I heard him say, likely peaking from the hole above.

I opened my eyes again. There must have been no less than 70 people on this train car, which was bare, lacking any rows or seats. Our Rabbi was at the other end. He had dawned tefillin and his eyes were closed. He was shuckling, hard enough to hit his back against the wall of the train car. I made out the chant, the same one my father said on his hospital bed, when the air raids started. It was the Vidui, the Jewish prayer for facing death.

Part of me believed I was already there. Had it not been for the dried blood atop my head, I would think I had transcended this life. Judging by the stench of the train car, I must have been unconscious for at least a day, if not two, if not three. I reached under my shirt to feel a small vacancy, a narrow aversion from tension pneumothorax, of which I had not the slightest recollection.

I rested my head against the coarse wood of the car. A young woman sat beside me, clutching her infant under a blanket. We locked eyes, then she pressed herself against her child, whispering in his ear:

"I acknowledge before You, Lord my G-d and the G-d of my fathers, that my recovery and my death are in Your hands. May it be Your will that You heal me with total recovery, but, if I die, may my death be an atonement for all the errors, iniquities, and willful sins that I have erred, sinned and transgressed before You, and may You grant my share in the World to Come, and grant me the merit to abide in the World to Come which is vouchsafed for the righteous..."

I closed my eyes once more.