stains at the bottom, scratches on the sides, and the doorknob didn’t turn all the way. But now the broken doorknob was forbidden. Now, beneath the trapdoor, there were secrets.
I dropped the teacher’s roll book on the floor. I didn’t want it. I no longer cared for prizes or stories. I just wanted to pull up the secret floor and search the mysteries beneath.
That evening I asked my father if he could please let me do exactly as I wanted, and not ask any questions at all. To my great surprise, he said no.
Usually he said yes. When I wanted something, I’d simply ask my father and he’d say, “Of course. For my best duh’ter—anyt’ing!” Then my mother would come in and ruin it. Like the time my father gave me a whole container of ice cream at midnight when I couldn’t fall asleep, but my mother made me put most of it back. And like the time I wanted an entire bar of white chocolate, and my father gave me two, but then Rivky saw and told my mother, who said that half a bar was bad enough and forced me to share. And like all the other times.
My mother was the decider, the grand sayer of yes and no in our home. My father’s job was to agree. So that evening, while my mother was out, I ran to my father breathlessly. I grabbed his hand just as soon as he walked in the door and dragged him down the hall to the last room.
“Abba, Abba, could you open the floor at the bottom of the closet? Could you? Could you? Please? It’s very important for a school report thing I need! Quick!” I pointed to the bottom of the closet. “That!”
He chuckled. He said, “You esk Mommy? Vat she said?”
“Mommy?” I asked. “She’s busy.” And I begged and pleaded and promised that I would take real good care of him when he got old.
But my father refused. Without my mother’s permission, he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, he just vouldn’t. He had built the study and the closet just for her. He had reconstructed the entire space, closing up the back door, putting in the closet and shelves—enough to make room for the entire Holocaust—and adding three windows to let in the sun. He looked proudly around as he said this.
I stood, glum, my arms crossed angrily over my chest. I stared ahead. The secret door, please.
My father looked down at me. He said that if my grouch grew any grouchier, my cheeks would fall right off.
I pouted harder than ever.
Then I heard the front door. My mother was back.
Later that evening, I asked Rivky if she knew about the secret place under the closet, but she said it was none of my business. I asked her if she knew what was in there, besides the Holocaust, but again she said, “If Mommy said not to look, then you are not allowed to look.”
I went to Yitzy. He said there were important things in there, and he knew exactly what, but he couldn’t tell. And that he had once opened the closet floor and had gotten a ringing slap across his face.
Finally I thought: Nachum. I would show him the secret door. He would certainly open it and take everything out. Then I could blame him for the trouble.
But Nachum got trapped under a falling wardrobe before I could even try. When it fell right on top of his body, he didn’t make a sound. We only knew something had happened because we heard a loud crash from down the hall. Then silence.
My mother rushed out of the kitchen. My father came running after her. They found Nachum in my room lying trapped under the wardrobe where I kept my clothes, only his head sticking out, his eyes staring at a point on the wall. He blinked heavily. His lips did not move. It was as if the pain had not reached him yet, as if his brain did not know that a large piece of furniture had pinned him down.
My father lifted the wardrobe off him and Nachum jumped up like a caged animal let loose. My mother reached out to him. She said, “Nachum, Nachum, show me where you hurt yourself! Show me! What happened?” But my brother rushed past her, his head jerking
I dropped the teacher’s roll book on the floor. I didn’t want it. I no longer cared for prizes or stories. I just wanted to pull up the secret floor and search the mysteries beneath.
That evening I asked my father if he could please let me do exactly as I wanted, and not ask any questions at all. To my great surprise, he said no.
Usually he said yes. When I wanted something, I’d simply ask my father and he’d say, “Of course. For my best duh’ter—anyt’ing!” Then my mother would come in and ruin it. Like the time my father gave me a whole container of ice cream at midnight when I couldn’t fall asleep, but my mother made me put most of it back. And like the time I wanted an entire bar of white chocolate, and my father gave me two, but then Rivky saw and told my mother, who said that half a bar was bad enough and forced me to share. And like all the other times.
My mother was the decider, the grand sayer of yes and no in our home. My father’s job was to agree. So that evening, while my mother was out, I ran to my father breathlessly. I grabbed his hand just as soon as he walked in the door and dragged him down the hall to the last room.
“Abba, Abba, could you open the floor at the bottom of the closet? Could you? Could you? Please? It’s very important for a school report thing I need! Quick!” I pointed to the bottom of the closet. “That!”
He chuckled. He said, “You esk Mommy? Vat she said?”
“Mommy?” I asked. “She’s busy.” And I begged and pleaded and promised that I would take real good care of him when he got old.
But my father refused. Without my mother’s permission, he couldn’t, he shouldn’t, he just vouldn’t. He had built the study and the closet just for her. He had reconstructed the entire space, closing up the back door, putting in the closet and shelves—enough to make room for the entire Holocaust—and adding three windows to let in the sun. He looked proudly around as he said this.
I stood, glum, my arms crossed angrily over my chest. I stared ahead. The secret door, please.
My father looked down at me. He said that if my grouch grew any grouchier, my cheeks would fall right off.
I pouted harder than ever.
Then I heard the front door. My mother was back.
Later that evening, I asked Rivky if she knew about the secret place under the closet, but she said it was none of my business. I asked her if she knew what was in there, besides the Holocaust, but again she said, “If Mommy said not to look, then you are not allowed to look.”
I went to Yitzy. He said there were important things in there, and he knew exactly what, but he couldn’t tell. And that he had once opened the closet floor and had gotten a ringing slap across his face.
Finally I thought: Nachum. I would show him the secret door. He would certainly open it and take everything out. Then I could blame him for the trouble.
But Nachum got trapped under a falling wardrobe before I could even try. When it fell right on top of his body, he didn’t make a sound. We only knew something had happened because we heard a loud crash from down the hall. Then silence.
My mother rushed out of the kitchen. My father came running after her. They found Nachum in my room lying trapped under the wardrobe where I kept my clothes, only his head sticking out, his eyes staring at a point on the wall. He blinked heavily. His lips did not move. It was as if the pain had not reached him yet, as if his brain did not know that a large piece of furniture had pinned him down.
My father lifted the wardrobe off him and Nachum jumped up like a caged animal let loose. My mother reached out to him. She said, “Nachum, Nachum, show me where you hurt yourself! Show me! What happened?” But my brother rushed past her, his head jerking
Similar Books
