Summers in Warsaw are relatively mild: a bit humid, not too warm. That summer, 1939,
Eleanor’s family had spent all of July and August visiting her grandparents, who lived on a farm
in the country. She and her older sister Mary had spent the month hiking all around their
grandparents’ property and the surrounding farms, collecting leaves and flowers to dry and
keep in their scrapbooks. Each evening, they would carefully hang the day’s treasures up on a
nail in the loft where they slept. Their grandfather helped them label the plants with a piece of
cloth that they tied to the nail. By the end of the month, they had quite a collection—the loft
was fragrant with the smell of dried flowers and grass, and the shadows of the plants were
stiff and looked like winter.
At the end of August, they packed up their big trunk in preparation for returning to the
city. Eleanor was sitting in the kitchen helping her mother and grandmother pack sandwiches
and apples for the train trip.
“Are you sure you want to go back?” Eleanor’s grandmother asked her mother.
“What else could we do?” her mother said. She shrugged. When Eleanor’s mother
shrugged like that, it meant that Eleanor’s father had probably made the decision.
“Stay here, Rebecca. Stay with the children.”
Eleanor’s mother shook her head. “Joseph has already decided,” she said. “We’re going
to wait it out.”
Eleanor’s grandmother shook her head. “This is a bad idea,” she said.
Eleanor’s mother did not respond. They finished packing the lunches in silence.
That night in bed, Eleanor couldn’t sleep. They would have to leave the farm very early
the next morning, but Eleanor’s mind was busy—as her mother would say, it was whirring and
stirring, mostly with questions. Why would it be a bad idea to go home? Why wouldn’t her
mother want to go back? Her father was there, had been working all summer in the dental
office he owned with his brother. She poked Mary to see if she was awake, but Mary just
groaned and turned over in bed.
Eleanor stared at the wooden ceiling of the loft. For some reason, she felt scared.
Maybe it was the way her grandmother’s voice sounded. Or the strange cryptic warning she
had given her mother. At eleven years old, Eleanor knew some things about the world, but not
much. She was just beginning to get a feel for the ways people spoke and the hidden messages
in their words. Either way, Eleanor was not sure she wanted the summer to end.
The next morning, Eleanor’s mother woke them up gently. It was still dark out, and
Eleanor’s grandparents were asleep. Mary carried the basket full of food, their mother carried their trunk with a sling, and Eleanor held her little brother Alfred’s hand as they walked a mile
in the woods to the train station. On the train, all three children fell asleep. Eleanor woke up at
one point to see her mother staring out the window, her arms crossed over her chest, her
eyebrows furrowed low over her eyes.
When they reached Warsaw, their father was at the train station with Uncle Abraham.
Eleanor was excited to see her father, and she ran into his arms when he held them out for a
hug. He picked her up easily, and she felt immediately safe—all of her worries and fears from
the night before melted away as he welcomed the rest of the family and they walked back to
their home.
At the house, Mary went to her room to read and Alfred took a nap. Eleanor sat on the
floor of the front room listening to the radio behind the couch as her parents talked. Eleanor
was sure they didn’t realize she was there.
“I’m worried, Joseph,” her mother said.
“I have very good sources who say that it’s going to be fine. Hitler signed a
nonaggression pact with us… He can’t flout international law and opinion so easily.”
“Look what happened to Austria last year! And Czechoslovakia. Did you not hear about
this Eichmann person in Prague? Jews had to pay damages when their homes and businesses
were vandalized! Do you not get the news in Warsaw?”
Eleanor turned the volume of the radio down and inched closer to the back of the
couch. Maybe this is what her grandmother was worried about… This Eichmann person.
“Rebecca, please be realistic and calm. Has your mother put hysterical notions in your
head?”
“This isn’t about my mother. This is about what’s happening in Poland.” Eleanor’s
mother sounded furious. She stood abruptly and left the room.
Eleanor’s father sighed and leaned back into the couch so it creaked. He looked over the
back of the couch and saw Eleanor lying on the floor.
“You little sneak,” he said, and smiled. “Don’t listen to your mother. Poland is a civilized
country, just like any other.”