“You listen to me, boys,” she said fiercely. “I’m coming back for you. This is only for now. Soon you’re coming home”

IT was hot and dry the day Mama left Shmuel and Yuda at the orphanage.

Mama wiped her eyes again and again, complaining of dust, but her eyes were wetter than dust could make them. The early summer sun baked Shmuel’s neck, his back, and his head. He was twelve, but held his Mama’s hand, trying to memorize the weight of it, the feel of bone beneath the thin skin.

Mama hadn’t said where they were going, but Shmuel knew. He and Yuda weren’t the first to be separated from their parents. Sometimes it was sickness, sometimes it was hunger, and sometimes it was both that stole parents away. The city was filled with parentless children who’d wrap their few belongings and take the long walk to one of the buildings that took in orphans.

They passed a knot of British soldiers leaning against a jeep talking and laughing in their khaki shorts and matching shirts, berets at a rakish angle. It was too hot for a hat, Shmuel thought. He watched as one lit a cigarette with a match he pulled from his pocket. Shmuel held his breath as they passed, but the soldiers ignored them.

Women in long dark dresses, baskets slung over their arms, walked toward the Machaneh Yehudah open-air market. The shuk reminded him of Tatte. Tatte had been a carpenter, and when the British told the vendors they must modernize their stalls, it was Tatte the merchants called.

Tatte used to take Shmuel along with him. All the vendors had loved Tatte. He was patient, and never harassed anyone for payment, never raised his voice in response to the nervous shop owners who wanted the work done faster. While Tatte worked, some of them would slip Shmuel nuts, a date, or halva if he was lucky. Once, Menachem — the merchant with the biggest stall — gave him a sliver of chocolate.

Shmuel shifted the bundle he was carrying. Inside was everything he owned. He pressed it against his chest and felt the weight of it on his already heavy heart. He glimpsed Yuda and Mama, thought he saw silvery tracks on their faces. His own eyes were as dry as the air.

At the edge of the city, they came before a large stone building with many windows, surrounded by a courtyard. The noise assaulted him. Groups of boys chased each other. Others sat on the ground, hands cupping stones, playing chameish avanim. Closing his eyes for a moment, he let himself believe he was home, playing in the large fields near Shaarei Chesed.

“Shmuel,” Mama said.

He opened his eyes. He held his mother’s hand more tightly, and felt a drop of sweat slip down his back.

“Shmuel,” she said. “Listen to me.”

He turned and looked at Mama — the blue tichel she’d tied around her hair that morning, her blue dress with buttons down the front. Yuda began to cry. Mama crouched and pulled Yuda close. She murmured into his ear and smoothed his curly peyos. Shmuel’s throat thickened.

Mama drew Shmuel into the hug. For a long moment, they stood pressed together, and Shmuel wished it would go on forever.

“Shmuel,” Mama said, pulling away. Her voice broke.

“Shmuel,” she tried again. “My bechor, my little man.”

She grasped his shoulders tightly.

“Your brother,” she whispered into his ear. “Look after him. Take care of Yuda.”

 She pulled away, cheeks wet. Then she took each boy by the arm, and looked at them.

“You listen to me, boys,” she said fiercely. “I’m coming back for you. This is only for now. Soon you’re coming home.”

Shmuel knew she meant every word. But she was married to Yitzchak now, and he’d heard how Yitzchak talked about Yuda and him.

A man in a black coat and hat approached them.

“Come with me, boys,” he said.

Mama gathered them into her arms for one last hug. Abruptly, she broke away and hurried off. Shmuel watched her go.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1081)