Free Displaced Persons by Ghita Schwarz Page B

Uz—
    Yes, yes, said the man. It’s only the people from the East who came back with children. And not so many of them, and of those, not so young, like this little one. Yes, maidele ?
    Sima’s hand was a fist in Berel’s palm. My wife insisted there is a school here, Berel intervened, almost apologizing. That’s why my daughter asks.
    Ah, said the man, but there is!
    Sima giggled.
    Another beautiful sound, said the man. The maidele laughing. But listen, my friend, not yet. He gave Berel a pointed look. If you bring her with you to look for jobs—poor motherless one—they will try not to give you manual labor.
    It was true. Everywhere they went—the food line, the clothing room, the newspaper office with its lists of the living—workers of the camp looked at Sima as if she were a still photograph from a movie, a movie whose name was now forgotten but whose faces were familiar, adored. There were other children, to be sure—Berel had seen one or two young teenagers doling out food packages—but the sight of a small one, attached to her father—in fact the man who had issued their identity cards was right about the manual labor. Berel had been prepared to talk about his carpentry skills, his facility with lumber, but there was no need. Sima kept herself quiet—no mention of her sick mother—and Berel was given an assignment to do bookkeeping.
    Report on time! said the managing clerk. Believe me, if you are late, twelve others will be ready to relieve you.
    I would like to enroll Simale in the school, said Berel. Will I have time in the morning, early?
    Come here at eight in the morning, said the man. You can take a break in the afternoon, and enroll her then. You have a daughter to support, a little lamb to protect, but I simply cannot hold the job for a newcomer if you are late.
    Berel walked out of the clerk’s office elated. Office work!
    Let’s go tell your mama, let’s leave her a message, said Berel. She’ll be happy to hear from us. Even if all we do is tell her by note that we are all right.
    She’s moving tomorrow, said a nurse at the entrance of the infirmary. You will be able to visit. You, but not the child, understand?
    Berel nodded. By tomorrow he would be working at a desk, moving his pencil across dark ledgers, perhaps even feeling the need for a pair of glasses—he hoped not, of course—reporting the influx and distribution of shoes, skirts, hats, underthings. Sima herself would be at a desk, socializing with other young ones, writing in her own notebooks, making drawings, learning to sew. He would be able to tell Dvora: Today we made a start on a new life.
    But tomorrow came and again they waited at the accounting office, Sima at his hip, until finally the man in charge of showing him to his place informed him the director was absent, on a trip to the American zone, something very important, Berel must understand, he would have to come back tomorrow. Yes, of course the job would be waiting, just be sure to be here in the morning, early. The managing accountant hated tardiness. And what a lovely daughter Berel had, little lamb. Berel should be sure to enroll her in the school, even if now it was perhaps too late, the children away on their afternoon games.
    Berel decided they would visit Dvora after eating, so as not to look hungry when they arrived in the hospital. He wanted to appear before her with a look of energy and life.
    Sima, Berel said as they entered the infirmary building, can you stay here and wait for me?
    No, said Sima. I’ll come with you. How will you find her without me?
    I’ll find her, said Berel. It’s not so hard.
    I’ll come with you, she said.
    If it was me in the hospital, you’d let your mother go, said Berel. You would know she could find me.
    That’s different, said Sima.
    It’s not for children, said a woman at the table for visitors. Awoman who spoke Yiddish. Believe me, there is no use in trying to convince me.
    You see? Berel said to Sima. There’s