Free The Night of the Burning by Linda Press Wulf

own voice had said and I blushed. Daddy was getting better, but Papa had not gotten better;Papa had died. Was it all right to be so glad now?
    Nechama reached up to hug me tightly and then we hugged little Faygele and everyone else nearby. I can feel their hearts, I thought, I can feel each one’s heart.
    “Breakfast, and then your English class,” called Mr. Bobrow. “We need to prepare ourselves for our new country.” There was relief in his voice and his fingers trembled a little as he pushed up his spectacles.
    Nechama couldn’t stop talking about Africa. She heard from the bigger girls that there were diamonds in the mines, and gold. Why, if we just dug a little, we would be able to buy as many dolls as we wanted. And great bowls of milk, and even fruit.
    Sometimes I, too, thrilled with excitement at the thought of a new life, but there was a sadness that I hadn’t expected. It was the parting from Madame Engel. How could I leave my kind friend, who moved around her kitchen kingdom with her tall, regal bearing?
    Daddy Ochberg is too busy to love any of the children more than the others, I thought. I never feel sure whether the special smile he gives me is given to each of the other children, too. But Madame’s smile is just for me. Madame Engel is the only grownup person in the world now who cares about me the most. Mama and Papa died; Aunt Friedka was killed; but Madame is still here. How can I leave her?
    Yet I hadn’t been invited to stay. And there wasNechama. Certainly Nechama would not change her mind about going to South Africa.
    On our final morning in Warsaw, the sun outlined the gracious old buildings in gold as if to accentuate what we were leaving behind. We walked almost silently, two by two in a long line, to a dock on the banks of the Vistula River. Daddy Ochberg had almost all of his old energy as he packed us into a heavily laden riverboat.
    “Pesha, you’re in charge of the ten-to-twelve-year-olds,” he called out. “Itzik, you take the eight-to-tens. Laya, you’re good with the six-to-eights, and I’ll manage the little ones with Mr. Bobrow. Children, put your suitcases under your benches and sit down. No moving around now.”
    I gulped as I saw Madame Engel arrive at the dock to say goodbye. Madame must have been up since dawn to pack the two hundred food bags she was handing out. My heart was tight with pain as I watched the familiar figure move slowly along the lines of children. Finally she reached me, stopped, and held out her arms. I flew into them.
    “Thank you, thank you,” I said, sobbing, but the words were strangled. I tightened my grip around her neck and buried my head under her chin.
    Madame squeezed me close for a long time and then she held my face between her hands and looked into my eyes. Her face was as wet as mine. “You are strong as well as sad, mamaleh,” she whispered. “Hold on to the strength, but let go of the sadness. It is up to you to make a new life now.”
    I stared at her. It was true; there was something inside me, something that Madame called strength, which held me up when I could not afford to fall. I nodded slowly.
    “I am proud of you,” she whispered.
    The boat blew an echoing hoot, and Madame hugged me closer and kissed my forehead for a long time. I forgot my strength, cried out, and clutched her skirts. But she loosened my hands gently and kissed me one more time. Then she turned away slowly and walked up the ramp onto the shore.
    The boat began to move. The other children chattered excitedly and blew goodbye kisses to Warsaw. I was alone. Madame Engel stood erect on the dock and waved farewell, her dark eyes looking directly at mine.
    “Mama!” I called. The name forced itself out of me. “Mama!”

THERE WAS NO ANGEL
    1919–20
    Although Mama climbed into Papa’s deathbed and pulled the covers tight, there was no more warmth to be found. I don’t remember the sun coming out once after that. Every day was cool, and I felt as if I