They Went Left Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Monica Hesse

  Cover art copyright © 2020 by Laywan Kwan and Faceout Books; fabric texture © Katsumi Murouchi/Getty Images; city ruins © vicnt/Getty Images; red thread © Evelina Petkova/Arcangel; woman with suitcase © Ildiko Neer/Arcangel; needle © Mir Basar Suhaib/Alamy Stock Photo.

  Cover design by Marcie Lawrence and Jenny Kimura.

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: April 2020

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hesse, Monica, author.

  Title: They went left / Monica Hesse.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Audience: Ages 12+ | Summary: “Zofia, a teenage Holocaust survivor, travels across post-war Europe as she searches for her younger brother and seeks to rebuild her shattered life”— Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019031255 | ISBN 9780316490573 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316490580 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316490603

  Subjects: CYAC: Holocaust survivors—Fiction. | Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Jews—Poland—Fiction. | Holocaust, Jewish (1939–1945) —Poland—Fiction. | Europe—History—1945—Fiction. | Poland—History—German occupation, 1940–1945—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H52 The 2020 | DDC [Fic] —dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019031255

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-49057-3 (hardcover), 978-0-316-49058-0 (ebook), 978-0-316-54044-5 (intl.)

  E3-20200219-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  A

  Ą

  B

  C

  Ć

  D

  Part Two

  E

  Ę

  F

  G

  H

  I

  J

  K

  L

  Ł

  M

  N

  Ń

  O

  Part Three

  Ó

  P

  Q

  R

  S

  Ś

  T

  U

  V

  W

  X

  Y

  Z

  Ź

  Ż

  Epilogue

  A Note on History and Research

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Praise for Monica Hesse

  For Andrew, my own little brother

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  THE LAST TIME I SAW ABEK:

  Barbed wire, rusty metal knots. I was being transferred. We all were, we lucky girls who could still sew and still stand, and as the guards marched us past the men’s side of the camp, the men were lining up for roll call. Our eyes scrambled over them, greedy, searching the living skeletons for our fathers and cousins. We were good at whispering without making a sound by then; we were good at reading lips. Rosen? Rosen or Weiss? we girls mouthed, passing family surnames through the fence like prayers. Are there any Rosens from Kraków? From Łódź?

  His cheeks were still round. His eyes were still clear; I noticed that. The older men must have been giving him their bread. In the beginning at least, we would sometimes do that for the youngest among us. I saw a healthy Abek and gave thanks for all the times I’d given bread to anyone’s sister in my own barracks, a barter with the universe that someone else should be doing the same for my brother.

  “Abek Lederman,” I mouthed to the girl next to me. “Third row.”

  She took his name and whispered it through the fence, and on the other side, I saw the men part, reaching for his shoulders and pushing him closer.

  I knew we would have no more than a few seconds. Barely enough time for me to grab his hand or pass him something. What did I have to pass? Why hadn’t I saved half a potato, a piece of string?

  Ahead of me, a woman stopped to take a rock from her shoe. Stupid. This guard would hit you for such an infraction, any of them would. As soon as the woman bent, the guard brought her mallet down on the woman’s back, and she yelped in pain. But as she cried out, she also looked back at me, and I understood this delay was a gift; this delay would give me enough time to speak to my brother.

  “Zofia!” he cried. “Where are they taking you?”

  “I don’t know,” I mouthed. I could already feel tears pooling in my eyes but bit them back so as not to waste time. I reached for his hand through the fence, his little-boy fist that I could still cup my palm around.

  “Abek to Zofia,” I told him.

  “A to Z,” he said back.

  “When I find you again, we will fill our alphabet. And we will be whole, and everything will be fine. I promise I will find you.”

  This is the version I have dreams of sometimes. Clear as day, sharp as a needle, so I can see every hair on his head. And when I dream this scene, Abek nods at my promise. Like he trusts me, like he believes me. For a moment, I feel at peace.

  But then something changes. Then dream-Abek’s face twists, and his words come out pained: “Something happened,” this Abek says. “But we don’t have to talk about it yet.”

  Part One

  Lower Silesia, August 1945

  LINES. I AM GOOD AT LINES. I AM GOOD AT LINES BECAUSE YOU don’t have to think in them, just stand in them, and this line is easy because now only a few people are in front of me, and easy because I understand the reason I am in it, and it’s a good reason, and I am good at lines.

  At the front of it, an official-looking woman—from the Red Cross, I think—sits behind a table. It’s a nice, indoor table, as though it was carried out to the street from someone’s dining room. Except, instead of sitting on a rug, it sits on cobblestones, and instead of candlesticks, it’s piled with neat stacks of papers and smells of furniture polish, or I imagine it would; it looks like that kind of table. A solitary cup also sits on it, next to the papers at the proper two o’clock of an imaginary place setting like a leftover from the table’s former life. A cup of tea for the official worker.

  “Next,” she says, and we move forward because this is how lines work; they move forward.

  I look back toward the door, but the other nothing-girls don’t come out to say goodbye. I’m the first one of us to leave the hospital. In the early weeks after the war, there were always goodbyes from the healthier patients, a
lways plans being made. You could look out the ward window almost any time and see a truck grinding past, stuffed with German soldiers on their way home, Polish soldiers on their way home. Russians, a few Canadians, everyone traveling in a different direction, and every direction was someone’s home, as if the world were a board game and all the pieces had ended up scattered in the wrong corners of the box.

  But none of the nothing-girls were well enough then. So we don’t have a protocol yet for what to do when one of us leaves. We have no addresses to exchange. We have nothing. We weigh nothing, we feel nothing, we existed on nothing, for years.

  Our minds are nothing. That’s the biggest nothing, the reason we are still in the hospital. Our minds are soft. Confused.

  “Zofia? I didn’t know if you wanted to keep this.”

  I turn to the voice, the little blond nurse jogging out the door, mouth like a red bow. She hands me a letter, addressed in my own handwriting. Return to sender. The sender was me; the addressee was—I’m not even sure who the addressee was this time. For months, from the day I was well enough to pick up a pen, I have been writing letters to everyone whose address I’d ever known. Have you seen him? Tell him to wait for me. But their addresses weren’t their addresses anymore, and the mail wasn’t the mail anymore. And I wasn’t me anymore, but it became clear I couldn’t do what I needed to from a hospital bed. If I wanted to find him, I would have to pull myself out of it.

  Even though my mind is still soft, that’s why I’m standing outside and the other girls are still in the window.

  Tell him the doctors won’t let me leave by myself until I’m better, I wrote. Tell him I won’t be better until I leave and find him.

  “Here, I also made this for you,” the blond nurse says, passing me a bundle of cloth, still warm. Food. The heat feels nice against my stomach. I start to unwrap the cloth so I can hand it back, but she says to keep it.

  So now I own this checkered cloth. It is mine, and that will bring the number of possessions I own in this world to six. Later, I can fold it and use it as a kerchief for my hair, or I can cut it in half, in triangles, and have two handkerchiefs; that would bring my number of possessions to seven. I also have a dress, undergarments, a pair of shoes, a donated bill of money in a large denomination, and a document saying I was a prisoner in Gross-Rosen. It’s supposed to connect me with relief organizations, help with food rations. The workers who gave it to me said it would be my most valuable possession.

  “Next,” the official woman says. She’s my mother’s age, with lines on her brow that have only begun to soften her face. The queue behind me has grown, as more soon-to-be-discharged patients come out. Another worker arrives to help.

  The blond nurse, still watching me. “Did you forget anything else?” she asks. Urbaniak, I remember. Her surname is Urbaniak.

  “My shoes. Where are my shoes?”

  Why didn’t I realize before? I’ve just looked down at my feet, and the brown leather boots I’m wearing are a stranger’s.

  “Those are your shoes. Your new shoes. Remember?” She’s gentle, and then I do remember: These brown boots are mine now, because when I was brought to the hospital months ago, I was wearing the shoes the Nazis had assigned to me, ill-fitting and full of holes. My frostbitten feet were so swollen that a nurse couldn’t pull them off; she had to slice them at the tongue. The nurses said I cried; I don’t remember crying.

  It turns out, if you have to lose toes to frostbite, the third and the fourth are possible to lose and still be able to walk and balance.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer, Zofia?”

  “I remember about my shoes now; I just forgot for a minute.”

  “You had already asked me about them once today.”

  I force a smile. “Dima is leaving; he’s going to his new post, and he has a car to drive me.”

  Dima-the-soldier is the one who brought me to the hospital, which was not a hospital then, just a building crammed with cots and bottles of iodine. Dima’s Red Army jeep was crammed, too, with people. The Russians had liberated Gross-Rosen three days before, but it had finally become clear that none of us, including the Russian soldiers, knew what liberation was supposed to look like. Hundreds of us were still inside the gates, too weak to leave. Dima found me barely conscious in the women’s barracks, he later told me in the broken Polish from his mother. It was lucky I’d passed out, because by the time he stroked life back into my face, all the good rations had been handed out already: waxy chocolate, tinned beef.

  Our stomachs were too weak for rich foods. I watched people who’d lived for months on a potato a day eat the beef and never get up again. We were liberated and still dying by the dozens.

  “It’s over now,” the soldiers said to us in February. It wasn’t over, not officially, not for a few months, but what they meant was, the SS officers were not coming back to the camp.

  “It’s really over now,” the nurses told us in May, spoon-feeding us sugar water and porridge. We could hear cheering and yelling in the corridor; Germany had surrendered.

  What did they mean, it was over? What was over? I was miles from home, and I didn’t own so much as my own shoes. How was any of this over?

  “Next,” says the official woman, and I take another step forward.

  A puff of smoke, the growl of a motor. Dima pulls up in his jeep. He leaps out when he sees me waiting, and I’m struck again by how much he looks like a cinema poster, like the film version of a soldier: Square chin. Nice cheekbones. Kind eyes. Dima, who postmarked my letters for me. Who, when I begged him, asked his soldier friends about Birkenau and found out for me that it had been liberated a few weeks before Gross-Rosen. And who repeated the same thing for me again when I forgot, and then again when I forgot again. Remember, Zofia? We discuss already. My mind is a sieve, and Dima is how I am allowed to leave this place—because he is leaving with me.

  “I would have come inside, Zofia.” He places his hands on my shoulders. His hair is shorter above one ear. He must have cut it himself again in the mirror. “You get too tired. You know I worry about you.”

  “I have to stand in this line now.”

  “She has to be processed,” Nurse Urbaniak explains. “The aid organizations are keeping records.”

  A tap on glass, like a bird. I look up. In the second-floor hospital window behind me, the nothing-girls have woken; they’re touching the glass and waving. To Dima as much as to me; they love him. He waves back.

  “Next,” the Red Cross woman says. I wait for a minute before realizing it’s finally my turn. Her uniform is a single-breasted blue suit. My dress is also pale blue. The nurse who gave it to me said it went with my hair and eyes. Kind lies. My hair then was patchy and scabbed over, short as a boy’s. It’s grown back almost to my chin, but a thin, timid brown instead of lustrous curls. My eyes are still the color of empty. “Miss?” says the matronly woman. “Miss?”

  “Zofia Lederman.” I wait for her to check me off on her papers.

  “And you’re going home?”

  “Yes. To Sosnowiec.”

  “And who would you like me to put on your list?” I stare at her, and she reads my confusion. “We’re asking if you have any names.”

  “Names?” I know what she’s asking must make sense, but my brain is fogged again; it can’t parse the words. I start to turn back to Nurse Urbaniak and Dima for help.

  The worker places her hand on mine until I look back at her. Her voice has softened from its clipped, official tone. “Do you understand? We’re logging where you’re going, but also the family you’re looking for. Is there anyone who could be looking for you?”

  Names. I did this once already, months ago, with some charity workers as soon as I was conscious. Nothing ever came of it, and now his name hurts in my throat.

  “Abek. My brother, Abek Lederman.”

  “Age?”

  “He would be twelve now.”

  “Do you know anything about where he might be?”
/>
  “We were both sent to Birkenau, but I was transferred twice, to a textile factory called Neustadt and then to Gross-Rosen. The last time I saw him was more than three years ago.”

  I watch her make careful notes. “Who else?” she asks.

  “Just Abek.”

  Just Abek. This is why I need to go home. Birkenau was liberated before Gross-Rosen. Abek could already be waiting.

  “Are you sure that’s all?” Her pen hesitates over the next blank line. She’s trying to figure out how to be delicate with me. “We’ve found that it’s better to cast as wide a net as possible. Not just immediate family, but cousins, distant relations. All will improve the chances of your finding someone.”

  “I don’t need to add anyone else.”

  Distant relations. She doesn’t mean it this way, but it reminds me of when my old teacher would bring candy to lessons. Don’t be choosy, he’d warn, walking around with a bowl.

  Don’t be choosy. You’d be lucky to have any relatives at all; just pick something.

  “Look at all these empty rows.” The worker gestures to her paper, patient, as you’d talk to a baby. “There’s plenty of room to add as many people as you’d like. If you’re looking for only one person—one on this entire continent—it could be impossible.”

  One person. Impossible.

  I look at her empty lines. There aren’t enough of them, not even close. Not nearly enough space for me to tell the story of the people I’m missing. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep my thoughts from leaking, because I know the nurses have been wrong all along: Sometimes it’s not that I have trouble remembering things, it’s that I have trouble forgetting.

  Behind me, Dima shifts his weight, concerned. I can tell he wonders if he should help.

  If there were enough empty lines on that sheet of paper, this is how I would start:

  I would start by telling her that on the twelfth of August in 1942, all remaining Jews of Sosnowiec were told to go to the soccer stadium. The instructions said we were to be issued new identification. It seemed suspicious even then, but you have to understand—I would tell her, You must understand—the Germans had already occupied our city for three years. We were accustomed to arbitrary orders that sometimes became terrifying and sometimes benign. I would tell her how my family had been moved from our apartment to another across town, for no other reason than imaginary boundaries had been drawn on a map, and Jews could now live only inside them. How Baba Rose and I had already made stars to pin on our clothes, cut from a pattern in the newspaper.