Upon placement of the tenth casket, I noted a feeling of being watched. I twisted to scan the area and traced the gaze to the Protestant side. Like others who’d climbed the trees to view the ceremonies, Arie was perched on a branch, but off on his own. Peering from under his cap, his eyes held mine for only an instant before shifting away.

No surprise.

Since our time at the event hall, we had seen each other around yet always with our parents near. Aside from subtle looks, we’d reverted to our usual distance. Any closer might mean talking. And what ever would we say? Revel over how fortunate we were when so many, literally around us, weren’t?

Among the children in the stairwell, just two others survived, making us subjects of whispers and awe. Of bitter jealousy for some. To those like Father Lawrence: divine inspiration.

He soon paid a call to each of our homes, the Protestants included, to offer comfort. When he visited mine, he contended that the Lord had a reason for sparing my life, that it was up to me to uncover that purpose.

What I didn’t have the heart to confess—to him or anyone else, back then and to this day—was that, in the deepest parts of my being, my survival didn’t seem a product of God’s will.

It felt lucky at best.

At worst, a mistake.

Chapter 11

Standing before the trench, I noted the jagged silence, a break in the eulogies. My attention had drifted. I surveyed the caskets below. All had been placed in the ground. Grouped by families, their black and white cases resembled piano keys in a curious order.

I glanced up and found myself alone. Attendees had receded as if fearing I was contagious, their gazes set in my direction, waiting. Alarm and bewilderment whirled my thoughts. What did they want? Had I forgotten? Where was my father?

“Papa…” I called out, a strangled voice, searching.

Then I saw it.

The crowd’s withdrawal exposed a solitary white casket. Its lid lay askew, revealing the emptiness of the box—save for two etched words inside. Wary though anxious to make them out, I trudged closer. The rough letters looked carved by fingernails, a name darkened by blood.

FENNA VOS

The casket was mine.

I jolted and felt something binding my legs. Panting, scrambling, I worked to break free—

It was a blanket and quilt. Over my mattress. On the floor.

I shot upright, heart thrashing and lungs pumping. A half-moon cast muted light through the window and over the main room of the apartment, my home. Shedding the dream, I sought the familiar: the swooped line of laundry and a washtub for a sink, the cast-iron skillet amid a shelf of scant food, the square supper table, two wobbly chairs.

Beneath my flannel nightgown, sweat trickled down my sides.

Inhale, two-three-four. Exhale, two…three…four.