If I Should Die Before I Wake Read Online Free PDF

it wiser to try to escape without travel permits, the Stars of David torn from all clothing—meaning certain imprisonment or even death if one were caught? Or was it better to remain there at home while rumors of Jews being dragged out to the woods to dig their own graves before being shot became facts, as the list of friends and neighbors who had disappeared grew longer?
    Only Bubbe remained calm, living in a world of certainty as she did. Not only did she have a sixth sense about things, bringing people from near and far to seek her advice, but she had total faith in God. Somehow she was able to see a much larger picture of life and humanity than most people. It was this constant faith, and her calm, Mama said, that kept Bubbe looking so young and gave her so much energy. I tried to imitate her when, on the second night of
shiva,
we said goodbye to Jakub and Mosze. We watched them walk away into the shadows, away into the night, until as far as we could see, they were the night.
    On the outside I felt sure I looked like Bubbe—that same hint of sadness in my eyes, acceptance and faith in my posture, standing straight and tall—but inside, I felt as if a giant rat were gnawing away at my stomach.
    As Zayde closed the door behind the boys, Mama fell to the floor and cried. I forgot about wanting to be like Bubbe and started to run to Mama, to comfort her the way we had done during the day of the funeral, but Bubbe held me to her and whispered, "Leave her, Chana."
    It was hard to watch my mother in so much pain. I wanted to be there with her, to cry with her, but I couldn't. I was saving my tears for Tata. I was storing them up for when shim was over and I could play my violin, and remember. While I played, I could imagine us together again. He would be at the piano, his long fingers stretching like wings across the keys, and I would stand beside him with my violin. Together we would play the music of our favorite composers: Bach and Mozart.
    I left Bubbe's side and moved over to the violin, which sat upon the piano bench. I closed my eyes and ran my hand along its worn leather case, and leaving the Germans and Jakub and Mama far behind, I dreamed of the last time Tata and I had played together.
    Three long days after Jakub had fled toward Russia, he returned, dirty, thinner, and defeated. Saying nothing, he brushed past all our open arms and retreated to his bedroom. A moment later Mr. and Mrs. Hurwitz entered our home with such a look of horror and disbelief on their faces, we knew immediately what had happened. Jakub had stopped by their house before coming home, to tell them the story of their son's death.
    He had died because of a loaf of bread. It was as simple and as horrible as that. Neither my brother nor Mosze had the proper papers necessary to cross the country legally and so, like so many others, they planned to travel through the woods at night toward the River Bug—the dividing line between German- and Russian-occupied Poland—and sleep under cover as best as they could during the day. On the morning of the second day, Mosze must have felt the knapsack he was sleeping on slip out from beneath his head. He looked up to find an old man squatting on the ground and rifling through the sack. A moment later the man located the bread, pulled it out, and fled. From his cover of leaves and dirt, Jakub had watched all this, too, and it took both boys a moment to realize that what had happened was not a dream. Without thinking, Mosze jumped up and took off after the old man. Jakub called after Mosze, but Mosze ignored him and a minute later the old man and he were standing beneath the morning sun, fighting over the loaf of bread. Jakub stood up and had just decided to go and help his friend when he heard the gunshots. He turned and spotted four Nazis standing in a row a few yards away from his friend and the old man, their rifles held high as they waited for their bullets to hit their marks. Jakub ducked