so many of you to look after. But know this: What came of her wild stories—it wasn’t good. Do you understand my meaning?”
I nodded. This gesture served a dual purpose. Not only did it secure Elma’s approval, but it allowed a second tear to descend my cheek without her notice.
“Now tell me, then. What did you see in that room?”
Searching for a suitable answer, I thought about rows mounted on the wall—even in their capture, the eyes had fluttered their pretty colors with a flighty animation, and the dust that coated them had the appearance of pollen. Many had likely migrated long distances. All received the treatment of pests. They’d been lured in, trapped, starved, pinched into submission, and then, when life had been sufficiently drained from them, they’d been pinned into place, mounted as curiosities for study.
“Butterflies,” I blurted out. “I saw butterflies. Only butterflies. They weren’t eyes at all. Just butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
“Yes. Row after row of butterflies. A class of insects. In the moth order Lepidoptera.”
Elma put a finger beneath my chin and lifted my jaw toward the ceiling. I wondered if she would halve me, and just when I figured that she surely would, she released me and assumed the tone of a frustrated and imperious revisionist.
“But they are not butterflies,” she informed me. “They are beetles. The doctor has collected them for years. Understand?”
I said I did understand.
“Say they are beetles, Stasha, I want to hear it. You made an error in describing what you saw. Correct yourself so Pearl understands too.”
“I saw beetles,” I said to Pearl. I did not look at my sister while I spoke.
“You don’t convince me.”
“I saw beetles, nothing more. Not butterflies. Beetles. Order Coleoptera. Two sets of wings.”
Satisfied, she turned and walked on, her stride enlivened by the interrogation, and when we reached the end of the hall, she swung open the door to a room that would alter us forever. It is easy to think that there are many such rooms in one’s life. This room, you might say, that was the room where I fell in love. Or, This was the room where I learned that I was more than my sadness, my pride, my strength.
But in Auschwitz, I found that the room that really changes you is the one that can make you feel nothing at all. It is the room that says, Come sit in me, and you will know no pain; your suffering isn’t real, and your struggles? They’re only slightly more real than you are, but not by much. Save yourself, the room advises, by feeling nothing, and if you must feel something, don’t doom yourself by showing it.
Elma stripped us after we entered this room. Into her arms went the dresses Mama had sewn; Elma regarded the strawberry print with scorn. Even fruit could not avoid offending her.
“So childish,” she observed while stabbing one of the strawberries with a red-lacquered finger. “Do you like being children?”
“Yes,” we said. It would be the last word that we would ever speak in unison. I wish I had known that at the time, but I was too overwhelmed by the task of pleasing Elma, whose powdery face lit up with disbelief.
“How funny. I can’t imagine why.”
“I’ve never wanted to grow up,” I said. This was true. Growing up held too much risk of growing away from Pearl.
Nurse Elma smiled her too-straight smile.
“Then you are in the right place,” she said.
Yes, I should have deduced the truth about what she was implying about our future. But something about Nurse Elma upended me, and I couldn’t think properly in her presence. Elma seated us on chairs, their steel backs so cold that we started to shiver. The room felt icy, then hot. A fog winged across my vision. I knew that fog well. It visited me whenever I saw cruelty. I tried to imagine Elma into a less cruel person as she set aside our things and arranged a tray of measuring instruments, but the woman’s image had a peculiar solidity
I nodded. This gesture served a dual purpose. Not only did it secure Elma’s approval, but it allowed a second tear to descend my cheek without her notice.
“Now tell me, then. What did you see in that room?”
Searching for a suitable answer, I thought about rows mounted on the wall—even in their capture, the eyes had fluttered their pretty colors with a flighty animation, and the dust that coated them had the appearance of pollen. Many had likely migrated long distances. All received the treatment of pests. They’d been lured in, trapped, starved, pinched into submission, and then, when life had been sufficiently drained from them, they’d been pinned into place, mounted as curiosities for study.
“Butterflies,” I blurted out. “I saw butterflies. Only butterflies. They weren’t eyes at all. Just butterflies.”
“Butterflies?”
“Yes. Row after row of butterflies. A class of insects. In the moth order Lepidoptera.”
Elma put a finger beneath my chin and lifted my jaw toward the ceiling. I wondered if she would halve me, and just when I figured that she surely would, she released me and assumed the tone of a frustrated and imperious revisionist.
“But they are not butterflies,” she informed me. “They are beetles. The doctor has collected them for years. Understand?”
I said I did understand.
“Say they are beetles, Stasha, I want to hear it. You made an error in describing what you saw. Correct yourself so Pearl understands too.”
“I saw beetles,” I said to Pearl. I did not look at my sister while I spoke.
“You don’t convince me.”
“I saw beetles, nothing more. Not butterflies. Beetles. Order Coleoptera. Two sets of wings.”
Satisfied, she turned and walked on, her stride enlivened by the interrogation, and when we reached the end of the hall, she swung open the door to a room that would alter us forever. It is easy to think that there are many such rooms in one’s life. This room, you might say, that was the room where I fell in love. Or, This was the room where I learned that I was more than my sadness, my pride, my strength.
But in Auschwitz, I found that the room that really changes you is the one that can make you feel nothing at all. It is the room that says, Come sit in me, and you will know no pain; your suffering isn’t real, and your struggles? They’re only slightly more real than you are, but not by much. Save yourself, the room advises, by feeling nothing, and if you must feel something, don’t doom yourself by showing it.
Elma stripped us after we entered this room. Into her arms went the dresses Mama had sewn; Elma regarded the strawberry print with scorn. Even fruit could not avoid offending her.
“So childish,” she observed while stabbing one of the strawberries with a red-lacquered finger. “Do you like being children?”
“Yes,” we said. It would be the last word that we would ever speak in unison. I wish I had known that at the time, but I was too overwhelmed by the task of pleasing Elma, whose powdery face lit up with disbelief.
“How funny. I can’t imagine why.”
“I’ve never wanted to grow up,” I said. This was true. Growing up held too much risk of growing away from Pearl.
Nurse Elma smiled her too-straight smile.
“Then you are in the right place,” she said.
Yes, I should have deduced the truth about what she was implying about our future. But something about Nurse Elma upended me, and I couldn’t think properly in her presence. Elma seated us on chairs, their steel backs so cold that we started to shiver. The room felt icy, then hot. A fog winged across my vision. I knew that fog well. It visited me whenever I saw cruelty. I tried to imagine Elma into a less cruel person as she set aside our things and arranged a tray of measuring instruments, but the woman’s image had a peculiar solidity
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