Thick Socks

I’m a decade older now then they were in their wedding portrait, but in many ways, much younger. The black-and-white remnant sits on my bureau, leaning against the naively green walls of my bedroom. It’s become a fixture in my house. A piece of history, a sliver of proof they were young once, too. Sometimes I stand in front of them and study their faces. It’s not just hope, but the urgency in their eyes, I'm drawn to. An urgency to continue.

There’s so much I don’t know about the things that made them who they were. My eyes drop to the bottom of the frame and I hear my grandmother’s voice:

I wore thick socks on our wedding day because of the cold. I borrowed a pretty white dress from my friend and he wore a grey suit. I remember thinking things would be okay. That I didn’t have to be scared anymore. He was never scared. Not until years later, when the memories of his childhood came back for him. That’s when he told me he wanted to die. I made him something warm to eat. I held him tighter than before.

But that was much later. You want to know the before.

I stopped going to school when I was seven. That’s when the soldiers came. My father said it wasn’t safe outside so we stayed home. He was a good man. He worked long hours, so my stepmother looked after my brothers and me. I was the youngest. The only girl. I never knew why she didn’t like me. I tried to be good. Maybe I reminded her of my mother who died a few years before. My father used to tell me things so I wouldn’t forget her. Then, my father died, too.

I was alone with my stepmother often. She found reasons to beat me. That’s what I remember. School was a safe place I could go to escape. Until they closed the schools. One day, my brother, Jan, found us in the basement, a thick belt in her hand, my back, naked and bleeding. He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her upstairs. I don’t know what he said but she never hit me again.

That’s the only memory of a mother I have. That and when I found her on the steps of our house. She had been shot in the back.

We managed for a while, my brothers and I, to find food, keep the heat in; but the soldiers got us eventually. I don’t know where they ended up, except for Jan. We were taken to the same camp. I got a job in the kitchen. Everyone said it was a good job. That you wanted to be around food. I made a friend there. I don’t remember her name, but we took turns keeping leftovers.

It was hard to know who the enemy was. First, it was the Russians. They killed my stepmother. They took us from our home. But then we were brought to Hamburg, and the Germans took over. Who was worse? I can’t say for sure. They were both bad. I still don’t trust men.

The kitchen was a safe place. It was warm there, even in winter. The German soldiers came to eat and we fed them. I was scared most of the time, but what could I do? When I saw my brother we laughed together. But we never talked about the other life, the one with our father and our house and our brothers. We stayed where we were to keep happy memories safe and sad memories quiet.

Then, I met Ivan. I saw him see me. I watched as he watched me. And then he went to Jan to get permission. The first time we spoke, I liked him. He was handsome and strong. He asked if I wanted to marry him and I said yes. He was a nice man and I was alone. I was seventeen then. It’s strange to think I was so young when I felt so old. Of course I would marry him. He could keep me safe.

I remember everything about their love: how they’d sit us in plump chairs and fill our bellies with too much food, wrap blankets around us and cover our cheeks with kisses.

Sometimes I study their faces. Even then, my grandfather didn’t smile.

He never said much about the before. Mainly, he sat at the window. He did tell me about the boat he made with one of his brothers. I picture him as a teenager, his solid frame and stoic expression. I see them both, hammering nails into wood, teasing each other like brothers do, trying to get the boat ready for what was coming.