Unravelled Read Online Free PDF Page B

she had anticipated.
    Mama slumped over and wiped her forehead, forcing herself to stand up straight by holding onto the doorframe, her knuckles turning white. She stood up on her swollen feet and immediately asked us to get to work, stretching her muscles so she could scrub and clean with us. Although our mother rarely felt well enough to clean the home, she still lived by the motto "A clean home is a happy home," and wanted to carry it through to The Ghetto, even through her pain, swelling and rash. We changed into dresses that weren't as nice as the ones we had worn for the move and started scrubbing the floors and walls with improvised cleaning solution Papa made from some hand soap and water. Even Papa pitched in as the five of us got down on our hands and knees and scrubbed with every fiber of our beings, with the little energy we had left. Most of it had been sucked away from hours on our feet, waiting and waiting.
    When we were almost ready to stop for the evening and start cooking a meal, a swift knock came at the door. Papa had warned us not to open the door while we were here, and that he would do it. If he, for some reason, wasn't home, we were to pretend we weren't home either and become deathly quiet until the person left. If we had to, we would even hide behind the doors or scurry to the other room.
    Papa walked nervously to the brown, wooden door and slowly turned the knob with his dirt-laden hands. The way he laid his hand on the knob so slowly reminded me of a character in a mystery movie. The door squeaked on its hinges as Papa opened it wide enough to see who the offending party was. 
    The door swung open to reveal a band of exhausted and hungry looking peasants, dressed in Orthodox Jewish attire, complete with prayer shawls and curls. A mother, her arms weighed down with packages and face covered in sweat, stood looking exhausted. Two little boys, with their Chassidic curls, leaned against their parents, the apples of their cheeks red from their journey.
    "Hello?" My father greeted them as a question.
    "We're the Goldbergs. I'm Zvi, my wife, Chava, our children Daniel and Samuel," he nodded, as if that explained their appearance on our new doorstep.
    "Are you our neighbors?" Hajna asked without hesitation, our mother quietly pulling her back as she started to walk toward the weary group, her slippered feet scuffing across the floor.
    "No," the father, Zvi, shook his head. "We live here."
    "No, no, no," my father shook his head. "This is where we were assigned. The family Stern David."
    Zvi Goldberg licked his finger and rubbed a dirty hand through his Chassidic curls, took a deep breath and fumbled through his pockets to find the papers. His wife and children looked on, burdened by the heavy loads on their backs, all of their life's possessions. They had no doubt come from one of the villages outside of Szeged, trudging along without the luxury of a wagon, all but collapsing under the weight of their bundles. Beads of sweat had formed all over Chaya Goldberg's face, as if she had been caught in a rainstorm on the way here. As Zvi Goldberg fumbled, I saw my mother catch Chaya's eyes and smile, to which Chaya shyly smiled back, like a teenager in the school corridor catching the eye of a popular, much more stylish girl.
    "Ah ha! Here it is," Zvi Goldberg exclaimed, running his free hand through his wiry, bushy black beard. "You see? The same address as your family. Maybe there is a mistake?"
    My father rested his tired body on the doorframe, his shirt yellowing with sweat stains. His eyes looked not only sad, but as if there were buried behind a deep valley of wrinkles. Compared to my grandfather in Debrecen, my father always looked youthful and spry, with a smooth face compared to the deep creases that had taken over my grandfather's. Nagyapa, my grandfather, had always been hunched over, as long as I could remember him. He shuffled around his apartment in slippered feet, a testament to his arthritis, and