What the Suitcase Bearing my Family Name Might Have Contained When It Arrived at Auschwitz
Wool socks. Diapers. Mittens. Hats. Dresses. The fear of God. Dark rye flour. Clogs made from scraps of lumber and leather. The Torah in Hebrew and Russian. One good wool suit. A child’s necktie. The Tsenah Urenah. A straight razor. A hand mirror. The plague of boils. Photographs of faces no longer considered human. The plague of darkness. Armbands bearing the Star of David. Wild yeast. Letters from Palestine and America. A sweater knitted from the remnants of other sweaters. Pots and pans. A spoon, a knife, a fork for the daily business of taking small portions of this world into the gullet. A vessel for ritual handwashing. A cigarette lighter. Pipe tobacco. Six neatly folded men’s undershirts. First clear flour. Kippot. Tallitot. A butcher’s knife. The plague of blood. Extra scarves. A carved wooden doll clothed in a kerchief. A needle, thread, and thimble. Woolen vests. The plague of locusts. Candles for marking the Sabbath. Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed. Enough flour to feed all the Jews of Słupca. Worms in the flour. Roaches in the flour. Mice in the flour. Rats in the flour. Nothing that can be recovered, nothing that can be known.
