Relkin looked at her, surprised. “The Nazis sent us to Belzec anyway. Unity and all . . . the Unity only meant that we all went together . . .”

“They loaded us onto railway cars. . . . I don’t remember too clearly, but I remember looking for my father and thinking he was in the next car. But he wasn’t and I never saw him again.

“So there I was, alone with thirty-­odd Dabrowa men who survived the trip and two other children; a kid who died the first month whose name I can’t remember, and Danny Walinsky, who was a few months older than me.”

“What happened to Danny?” Hawkins asked.

Relkin shrugged. “He lived; he changed his name to Uze Ben Ezra and sells phony antiques in his shop in Haifa. Danny Walinsky is a vontz. . . .”

“Bedbug,” Rachel translated softly.

Relkin went on, “For a long time, nothing happened. Then one man, I don’t remember his name, found out his wife was dead, and he screamed and cried the whole night. The others got impatient because he was interrupting their sleep. But Levy cradled him in his arms like a child, kissed, him, crooned to him, rocked him, until the poor man finally fell asleep and had some rest.

“They took another young man away to the hospital and we never saw him again. Except for that, everything went along evenly. I know that sounds mad, but it’s true. Danny and I learned Talmud. We played, had enough food to stay alive. The seasons changed and I remember standing outside, as cold as it was, and watching the snow melt. I actually felt joy when it did. Joy. It seems incredible to me now, but if I try I can still smell the dirt outside the barracks starting to thaw, even over the other smells. Of course I can’t feel joy anymore . . . too old. Then that spring . . . the third spring we were there . . . two of the Dabrowa men were shot. I don’t know what for. One was my uncle. He was older than the others. Maybe that was why. Maybe he faltered and couldn’t work anymore . . . maybe . . .”

Relkin stopped and shook his head.

“Stupid . . . even now, when I know better, I still look for reasons. They shot him, that’s all, along with . . . Abe Dworkin’s brother. Oh God . . . the moaning and crying. It was Levy who did the comforting. I didn’t feel sorry, except for Levy being so upset. But the dead men hadn’t paid much attention to us, they never gave us food, so I didn’t really care. I think if they’d hurt Levy, I’d’ve died. He was everything to me by then, mother, father, teacher. He cried with Dworkin and he helped me say Kaddish for my uncle. The men mourned . . . there weren’t any stools, so they squatted, covered their heads with their shirts, and rocked and chanted.