They asked too many questions, Jonathan and Chayim, these boys of hers. They wanted to know about her past, Menachem’s past, about family. They had almost no family, but knew blood comes from somewhere. And somewhere, their blood lay, staining the earth. Somewhere was a place that had defined their family for hundreds of years. Chaya gave few answers, feigned forgetfulness, hoped they would stop asking. They did not.
She would tuck them into bed. They would ask about her childhood, her mother. Did Bubbe tuck her into bed, too? Did she sing, kiss her, say goodnight? The more they asked, the less Chaya could counter with “I don’t know.” Instead she agreed to tell them a story. This story was one her mother had told her when she was a girl. This story helped define their family. It was a trade, a story in exchange for silence. She would tell a tale to bribe her boys into forgetting that they had asked for more information. She never made sense of the details, perhaps never fully understood the message, but the words were her mother’s, and these boys might learn something from the old country other than sadness and loss. They might remember what they’d learned, while she tried to forget what she knew.
It was on one night early in the winter when the Rebbe received a premonition: something terrible was coming to the village. It being his village, he went around the next day telling people to hide. Now the people were no...
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