Holocaust - Khurram Bukhari

Holocaust 335“It’s hard to remember that we are more than names on a tag,” mymother said. “Or a blue number tattooed on one’s arm. We’re allpeople, yes, and we still are, dear Sofia. People with names, homes,loved ones. They cannot take that from us.”“But they have,” Chana Lowy said. “That’s how they’ll finally do awaywith us. No names, nothing. So we’re not anything any more.”My mother began to brush the girl’s hair, and Sofia stopped moaning.The touch of a human hand, the sense of love, and warmth, perhaps.“Poor child,” my mother said. “You make me think of my daughterAnna. How can people be so cruel? How can they do such thingsto innocents?”“It’s an old story,” Chana Lowy said. “When you have nothing else todo, pick on Jews. We were in their way, that’s all.”My mother put her arm around Sofia. “You can talk to me. I amyour friend.”The girl covered her face. Still, silence.My mother took the photos down from the boards over the bunk. “Look.My children. They are such good young people. Like you, my dear.”Sofia said nothing. But she looked dumbly at the old wrinkled photos.“My Karl. And his wife Inga. That’s Rudi in the striped shirt. He’stwenty-four now. You would like him. So handsome. And that’s Annanext to him. She would . . . would be . . . a bit older than you.”“They’ve scared her wits out of her,” Mrs. Lowy said. “You know, I’mas frightened as she is, but I try not to show it.”“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” my mother said.“Well, maybe work tomorrow. I mean, real work, in the factories,where they need us.”Sofia began to shiver. My mother put a blanket over her shoulders.One small stove, usually cold, was all that any barracks had.“You’re cold, Sofia, come sit closer. Tell me about your family. Yourmother and father. Oh, I know about Italian Jews, they are very finepeople. Sephardim, scholars. Tell me about Milano.”Chana Lowy shook her head. “Nothing. They’ve killed her mind.Maybe she’s better off not remembering. Maybe that’s what’s wrongwith Jews, they remember too much.”