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softly of faith and hope and taking care of each other. Her eyes are sad and soft. Papa kisses both of our foreheads. He speaks a Hebrew prayer, blessing the daughters he cannot protect.
Tolek clucks to the ponies to begin their trek toward the border, and once again we depart for Slovakia, leaving our parents behind. They stumble through the deep December snow, waving goodbye. Mama's babushka falls from her head. She places one hand on her wig, holding it securely to her head, while the other chases the air frantically, as if she is trying to hold onto one last glimpse of us.
"Goodbye, Papa!"
"Goodbye, Mama!"
Our voices yell repeatedly in unison until all we have left are hoarse whispers.
Long after they have become tiny specks on the horizon we wave, hoping they can still see us. I know that they are waving, too, hoping the same thing. Mama's and Papa's black shapes etched against the snow are engraved in my mind as if they are still there waiting for us to return, as if they always will be there, waiting.
Tears usually taste salty but mine are bitter, frozen to the sides of my cheeks, frozen in time.
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I write slowly, lingering over each word as if the very act of pen on paper will bring my youngest sister closer to me.

     

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March 18, 1942
Hummene, Slovakia
Dear Danka,
I miss you very much. I wish I could speak with you in person, but that is not possible. I know how excited you were about Schani and I getting married, but there is not going to be a wedding after all. With Slovakia under this martial law now, I don't see that there is any way out of this situation but to turn myself in to the authorities and go to a labor camp. The Silbers think I'm overreacting too strongly when I tell them they'll be shot for harboring me, but you and I know differently. And they have been so kind to me these past few months I cannot bear to put them in danger.
I'm afraid this is going to be just like leaving Poland all over again, and my heart won't stand breaking one more time. Will the Germans ever stop ruining our lives? I don't want to leave you alone, but I cannot risk anyone's life and I don't think the Slovakian Jews understand that the Germans mean business. Please, be careful. I will pray that things are safe for you in Bratislava. Give my love to Zosia and tell Herschel and Ester their Auntie Rena sends them a big kiss and a hug. I miss you.
Your loving sister, Rena
I tuck the letter into its envelope, wishing there was something else I could send to protect Danka, but she's all the way across Slovakia and beyond my reach. The forces that are taking control of all our lives have accelerated like an avalanche through a mountain pass and everything we know and love has been swept up into its path. There's nothing more I can do, I must trust God to take care of those I leave behind.
There is another letter to write. This one I truly wish to avoid but there is no way around it:
Dear Schani,
I'm sorry to be telling you this with the wedding just two weeks away, but I don't know what else to do. I am obeying the

     

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recent order and turning myself in to the authorities for a German labor camp. Please understand why I must do this and try to forgive me. I've told you what Poland was like before I escaped to Slovakia, so believe me when I write, Don't Take Anything The Germans Say For Granted. Maybe I won't have to work for more than a few months. I don't know anything yet about where I'm going or for how long. I pray you will respect my decision. I'll write you and Danka as soon as I arrive in camp and know more.
We are young enough that when I'm released from this work camp we can begin again; I'm only twenty-one years old after allthat's not too old for you is it? (That is supposed to be funny, Schani. I don't want you to cry about this.) Someday we will have a good life and you will make a fine husband for me, but not right now. I hope you can wait for me one last time. I do