Millie: June, 1920

The salty breeze was bitter and foul. It stung the eyes, lingered in the nostrils, covered the pores of one's skin with a layer of unrest. And while the sea stretched endlessly and there was nothing but the openness of sky meeting water, one could not help feeling trapped. Millie stood on the deck, hands grasping the railing, the skin framing her knuckles turning white. She turned her face up towards the rush of wind, letting it attack her delicate skin. Her stomach churned with the waves, hazel eyes pained with the constant nausea that had not left her body since she boarded the boat. The train had been much more pleasant, smooth and easy, the lush, rolling hills and crystal streams flashing before her eyes in mere seconds. She lifted one hand to cover the fabric of her pocket, feeling the weight of the papers there, heavy as stone, bearing a name not her own. Mary Bright. Her real name, Miriam Filipowska, hidden between two syllables. As the boat chugged on, gray waters disappearing behind, Millie felt Baranovich fall further and further from her heart. Her home in Baranovich, a city in eastern Russia, had been nicknamed “The Pale of Settlement,” as Russian-Jews were confined there, unwanted and unwelcome anywhere else. It was not that Millie was not proud of her home. After all, it was a real city, not a shtetl. The Czar of Russia himself had once visited Baranovich. But the pull of her love, Hayman,  already in America working with his brothers, was stronger than the hold of home. His gray eyes, intense yet gentle in their wisdom, and boyish grin that brought dimples to life in his cheeks… that was Millie’s home. Still, Baranovich was ingrained in Millie, deep within her soul. She was reminded of this as the words of Alexander Pushkin came to her. Her mother had loved his work, reading his poems to her children each night until the words were melded into their young hearts. As she tended to in times when her heart was fluttering with a feeling she could not quite put into place, Millie found the words of a poem escaping her heart and dancing upon the tip of her tongue.

For shores of home, so sweet but distant,

You were to leave the alien place;

The hour was sad and instant,

And tears were running on my face.

With chilly hands, with bitter passion,

I vainly tried to keep you up;

The awful pain of separation

I prayed you to not interrupt.

Mille: July, 1920

America. Millie stood, once again, on the same earth as her love. As she waited in the customs line, her heart was steady in her chest, though her palms were clammy and cold.

“Name.” The voice was filled with scrutiny, and the eyes matched. Millie felt her cheeks grow hot as she felt the customs officer’s eyes linger on her nose for too long and follow the spirals of her dark, curly hair.

But as he met her eyes, hazel and light, Millie heard herself say in a even, confident voice, “Mary Bright.” With the simple mutter of the word next, she was in a new world. The train to New York was a blur in Millie’s mind. The world around her had ceased to matter. Millie could only focus on the fact that with each second, the distance between her and Hayman was growing smaller and smaller. As the train screeched to a stop, Millie’s heart lurched. Clutching her bag with a trembling hand, she made her way through the crowded train station, weaving agiley through the crowd, most of whom towered a foot above her. Millie scanned the crowd, her chest growing tight as the bustle of people began to make her feel dizzy, until she heard a laugh. A deep chuckle, both resounding and light. A creek flowing over stones. She knew that laugh anywhere. Spinning around to see his face, Millie’s eyes shone with tears.

“Do I trust my eyes? Is my love truly standing before me?” Hayman’s voice wrapped around her and drew her close. Milie reached her hands up to his face, tracing the laugh lines around his eyes, feeling the the stubble on his cheeks. She spoke through tears of happiness.

“Yes, libling. I am home.”

Hayman pulled her closer, one hand on the small of her back. A train rushing by blew Millie’s dark curls in front of her face, and Hayman brushed her hair off her cheek with gentle fingers. He kissed her, long and deep, and the bustle of the train station melted away.

Millie: November, 1939

Mille stood, clutching a letter, gazing out the window at her children, running on unsteady legs about the garden. Brown curls, reddish in the sunlight, bounced with the joy of a future not yet told. Millie’s shoulders tightened, a sigh escaping her despite her best efforts, and she turned her eyes back to the letter.

My dearest Millie,

Now that the war has progressed, Aarron and I have been forced to leave our medical studies and return home to Russia. We are surrounded by speculation and rumor, but I must believe the worst of what I hear. Many of our neighbors have left. I do not wish to worry you, I am sure it will be alright. This is God’s world, and he will protect us. We send you all our love.

Your dear brother,

Solomon

As Millie turned her eyes back to her children, she told herself not to worry. She had just visited home, and everything had seemed to be alright. But as Millie looked back at the letter, the inked out portions, blacked out and smeared, screamed otherwise.  

Millie: December, 1945

“Mama, what is wrong?” The young, bright voice held no trace of pain. It belonged to a heart not yet tainted, a heart knowing nothing of the dark truths of the world. The little girl had noticed the tears rolling down her mother's face as she sat on the couch, a pale yellow envelope trembling in her hands. Her father sat beside her mother, his arm wrapped around her, strong, but his face was a ghostly shade of white.

“It is nothing, meyn teyere.” But her mother’s voice shook. The little girl, too young to believe anything but her mother’s words, nodded and ran off to play. Once the little girl was outside, out of earshot of her mother, wails filled the air. A sadness so deep, the world seemed to stand still. So still one could almost hear the trees growing, feel their roots stretching deep below the earth as Millie lost the earth below her feet, gravity failing to hold her to the ground. They were dead. All of them. Family photographs shattered, Millie’s face the only one not broken into pieces, into dust, and thrown into the wind. She thought of her home. Her mother and father, who insisted their daughters be sent to school and educated just like their sons. How special Millie felt, pen in hand, working through mathematics with her mother nodding over her shoulder. She remembered the music that always filled the house, beautiful notes leaving pianos and guitars and floating up to the attic, where Millie knew her youngest sister would be curled up, book upon her lap, lost in her own world. If only they could have hidden there, in those imaginary worlds, safe from reality. More tears escaped Millie’s eyes, searing permanent lines upon her face. The sun set, and darkness fell upon Millie and her home. The world was so dark, so cruel. And Millie knew she would have to fight if she ever wanted to see the sun rise again.

Epilogue

Millie never discovered what happened to her family. It was commonly believed that the Jews of Baranovich were brought out into the woods behind the city and shot into a ditch. A mass grave. However, recent information suggests that the Baranovich Jews were shipped to various concentration camps and met their end there. Millie’s brothers, Solomon and Aaron Filipowska, went on to work with underground groups that helped Jews flee Baranovich to safety from the Nazis. This narrative is dedicated to all of the Jews whose lives remain as lost as lost can be, causes of death never determined, bodies never returned to loved ones and laid to rest. May they find peace in the memories their loved ones carry, and may we give them peace by striving for a more accepting world.

Remembrance silently, before sad eyes of mine,

Unrolls its scroll in lines’ successions.

And reading with despite the life, I had before,

I curse the world, and tremble, breathless,

And bitterly complain, and shed my tears sore,

But don’t wash out the lines of sadness.

Alexander Pushkin