WHAT ELSA TOLD ME

Dear Elsa,

When I saw you on the subway platform, I thought you were a ghost, all wrapped cocoon-like in that chiffon scarf and chic pale pink outfit, your skin transparent and milky smooth, your soft eyes and hair blending like tulle into the background.

I could sense that you had been looking at me for awhile. And when the train arrived I watched you approach me. Saying that I reminded you of someone famous was a clever and safe way to open a conversation. I knew what you were doing though. Already. And I went with it, guiding you gently to a seat where we could sit together. You were so fascinating to look at.

When you told me about the man that you had once loved, how much he had meant to you, I could see the tears glisten in your eyes and even though it happened so many years ago, it was as if it was yesterday and I understood that he was your soul mate. And when you discovered he was married already, you wondered how could he have kept this secret for so long knowing about your past and what had happened to you. It was heartbreaking. I asked what had happened to you and you seemed surprised, as if I should have known it all along, that you are Jewish and had barely escaped the holocaust as a child. You heard me gasp.

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You told me how you left your native Poland, fleeing into a forest, three young children, you and your brothers, how you lived in that forest all winter with no shoes or winter clothes, how you ate bark from the trees and dug under the snow for roots. How you and brothers built a little place to huddle and hide and that you were so very, very frightened and I could still see so much deep suffering in those memories. How you knew parents were gone, even then you knew and you were only six years old. But you also knew that you had to survive and look... you did survive Elsa. You survived and you lived. How you lived! Even though you were only able to recover some of that life back. Something stayed in the forest like a ghost and never came out.

The reason I gasped, Elsa was because the night before you and I met, I had a dream about the Holocaust. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to interrupt your story but I was truly astonished that you were telling me this on a train that afternoon. In the dream, I was in Europe somewhere and was trying to convince some teachers that their children were in great danger, that the Nazis were coming for them. I was begging them to stop singing and to hide but the teachers were reluctant, not grasping the urgency of the situation. I woke up in a panic and couldn’t go back to sleep even though it was only four in the morning. I didn’t tell you this Elsa even though you were sitting right there telling me about your childhood and the nightmare you went through, how you barely came out alive - the miracle of how you and your brothers survived this ordeal.

I felt the urgency to tell this important story, that you were trying to get as much as you could into our exchange. You sensed that your days were numbered and you were hoping that I might be a witness to this story before your generation of survivors are gone and all those memories would fade from us forever.

We rode together on the subway train from the bottom of the city to the top. When we arrived at your stop, I watched you reluctantly rise and as the doors closed I knew I would not see you again. Thank you for that lovely fragile wave as the train pulled away. I will cherish that memory.

Later on that day I remembered having an obsession with the Holocaust that had come upon me in my twelve year old fever, activated by a story told to my grade six class about children being hidden by families in the countryside of Poland. Remembering how I went out and tried to find every book on the subject to understand what had happened there. I had forgotten this shadowy piece of my childhood when libraries in Pointe Claire Quebec were overturned for materials to feed my need to understand. It is with regret that I did not learn more about your life before the subway doors closed and you passed out of my life forever.

But I will not fail you Elsa. I will tell your story.

Sincerely,

Jody Terio

September 2017