I Have Lived a Thousand Years by Livia Bitton-Jackson

pack onto his back. It is a staggering load. But my prematurely tall, seventeen-year-old brother walks with feigned ease under the prohibitive weight.
    “You see? It’s nothing.”
    Then he helps me put the straps of my pack on my shoulders. But as soon as he heaves the pack on my back, I stagger and fall. And I am unable to regain my balance.
    “I can’t carry all this. I can’t even stand up. How could I ever walk with this?”
    “Don’t be a sissy. Try.”
    Mother is worried. “No. She can’t manage such a load. We’ll take a few things out of the pack.”
    I am embarrassed. And hurt. I so wished to carry as much as my brother. Every article of clothing, every item of food may be essential. Perhaps, precisely the thing we take out of my pack will be the thing needed most. Why don’t I have the courage to face carrying the burden? I hate my weakness.
    Aunt Serena volunteers, “Why don’t you add those things to my pack? My pack is too light anyway. You know I can carry much more.”
    But we know she can’t. My favorite aunt is a gentle, frail widow in her late fifties. She has suffered from poor health most of her life. We have learned not to play rough games or make loud noises in her proximity. My kindly, soft-spoken, delicate Aunt Serena, Mommy’s elder sister, has always been my special friend. Ever since I was born she has pampered me with a thousand little attentions. She would share every favorite dish, every special delicacy with me, even if I took hours to show up at her house for my daily visit.
    I remembered her roast pigeon, her cocoa roll, her candied orange peels. Oranges used to be rarities in our country. One could buy oranges only in the spring, and the price would be very high. Aunt Serena would buy one orange, and wait for my visit. We would sit on the veranda, and she would peel the orange slowly, carefully separating the slices. She would hand me a slice, and take the next for herself. Each slice of orange would be a tender offering of love. Each slice of orange would bind us closer together.
    Then she would wash and boil the orange peel in water and sugar until the syrupy liquid thickened and dried on the strips of peel, turning it into a most delectable orange candy.
    “Forget it. We don’t need these anyway. Forget it.”
    Mommy quickly puts the things back into the closet. Now my pack is bearable. It still feels like a drag on my shoulders, but I manage to stand upright with it. Mother’s knapsack is as large and as heavy as my brother’s.
    The news of liquidation had struck the ghetto like a thunderbolt. On a Thursday the Hungarian military police officer read the order. On the next Sunday, at 5 A.M., the ghetto would be liquidated. “Every person, man, woman, and child, is permitted to take along any of his personalpossessions, as much as he or she can carry, but not exceeding fifty kilograms in weight. Belongings must be carried in a sack on the back. No suitcases are permitted. Be prepared to carry your load for long distances ...”
    Sunday 5 A.M. ! That was less than three days away. Backpacks had to be sewn, choices made. What to cram into a pack small enough to be carried for long distances? Food? Clothing? Valuables? Where were they taking us? To a cold climate? Then warm clothes were most essential. Would they feed us on the journey? If not, food was most essential. How about gold, silver, or even china? Converted into cash, these may prove most important. Who knew? Who could guide us? I wished Daddy was here.
    Mother tore up sheets and made knapsacks for each of us. My brother, Bubi, insisted on having the largest and heaviest knapsack. He wanted to carry the family burden. In Daddy’s stead.
    In mute stillness we move about making preparations for departure. With averted gaze we passed each other, muffling even the sound of footsteps.
    Was this the pall of defeat?
    The men’s chanting of the Psalms was getting louder. The young boys joined the chanters. Bubi sat