| "At night, look at the
moon. If we are ever parted, know that, wherever we are, we will all be looking at the
same moon." |
Finally, Mother took me on her lap and declared with great ceremony and gravity:
"Know that you will never be alone. You will always have a shadow, your personal
shadow. Every person has a shadow. It will never leave you."
They took everything: my parents, my family; my childhood and my hope. I never went to
kindergarten, never went to school till I was 12 years old.
At the time, I didn't understand my parents' words, the words they spoke to me in
October 1940. I never saw my father again. When I was smuggled out of the camp and placed
in hiding in the spring of 1941, that was the last time I saw my mother.
To this day, my toenails remind me of my mother's words; to this day, the moon connects
my eyes with those of my parents; to this day, I eat the whole apple, with the seeds.
But my shadow wasn't always there for me. It disappeared when the sky was leaden. It
wasn't with me at night. I was so lonely for so many years. . . just when I looked for my
shadow, in the tear-stained nights, in the endless hours of desolation, in the gray,
perilous days, in the thick forests where we hid, my shadow left my side.
There were days when I wondered if my shadow was my own. I was not even certain whether
I was dead or alive. And what was my real identity: false names, a life in hiding, a
Jewish boy who for hours or days served as an altar boy to the priest conducting prayers
in church.
When my shadow appeared, it accompanied me and reminded me that it was the last thing I
had left in the world. My mother's warm, gentle, sure embrace, my father's strong hand
softly caressing my small hand; the stories Grandmother told me over and over again; the
little pampering of Aunt Erna, golden-haired like my mother all these were lost
forever.
I understood that my shadow was only a loan; it was mine but it was sometimes
erased. It was with me but it sometimes disappeared. It returned only to go away again.
My mother's promise was kept, but only partially: I have a shadow, my shadow, but it
sometimes abandons me. In those years of war, I turned 7, then 8, then 9, 10 and 11,
without even a shadow to depend on.
Then I was 12; and now 50 years have passed. I received and acquired much: an adoptive
family, studies, marriage to a loving woman, four glorious children who now have their own
beautiful children. I have a house, a profession, close friends.
My toenails are cut slowly, carefully, and with contemplation; at the moon, I gaze at
length, trying the impossible to retie the bond with my long-dead parents; apples, I
eat whole and remember every word my father told me.
When they were small, I told my children, and then my grandchildren, that each of them
had a shadow of his own. Without explanation. With love and joy I saw their innocent
expressions. They could not understand. They watch with amused curiosity how I eat the
apple seeds. And they press close to me when I look at the moon, without guessing what I
am looking for.
None of them knows I am carrying on a stubborn, mute argument with my shadow. It was
supposed to stay with me always, especially in those years. My mother promised. Nor does
anyone know that in the end my shadow will be taken from me forever along with the
bitter memories and the beautiful memories.
Who will know about the toenails of my children's grandfather? And the significance of
apple seeds? Who will know that the moon played an important part in the life of the
strange man that was me? And no one will remember my shadow.
Ehud Loeb is a member of
Aloumim,
Hidden Children who survived the Holocaust in France. This article was written at a
Writers' Workshop for Hidden Children at Amcha, the Israeli Center for Psychosocial
Support of Survivors of the Holocaust and the Second Generation. He immigrated to Israel
in 1958. The article is translated from the Hebrew by Malka Jegendorf.
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