Unravel

“It is not our diversity which divides us; it is not our ethnicity, or religion, or culture that divides us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”

— Audre Lorde

Time cannot erase anything, but it can teach us painful lessons. God knows he didn’t kill Bailey, yet I can’t shake the feeling that the whole town knew the truth and chose to remain silent. Did they know and just not say anything about it? I’m sure some did. My father knew it, too. As I sit here, watching my grandchildren play with their toys, the echoes of that day still haunts me, even seventy-one years later.

Bailey’s body lay mangled on the ground, crimson blood trickling down her forehead, pooling in the dirt. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the distant wail of sirens, a haunting symphony that echoed the chaos of that moment. How did we get here? I thought, the question reverberating in my mind like a drumbeat of despair. I guess it all started with the thrill of rebellion.

It was April 7, 1953, the day my sister, Bailey, was murdered. The Korean War saw an armistice signed, and television was in its heyday. It was also the year my father put Dmitri Massakov in the gas chamber. Hardly anyone talks about it anymore, so I am doing myself- and the world- a favor by writing this. I was a fifteen-year-old living in the town of Bellefonte, Centre County, Pennsylvania, which had a population of five thousand people.

I woke up as soon as my alarm clock rang at 6 AM. I slicked back my black hair and put on a white shirt, pants, and shoes before heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bailey was not there, so I knocked on her white door. After a moment of silence, I walked in, my mind taking in the dizzying array of pink. Pink walls, pink dollhouses, a pink dresser. Bailey was that kind of nine-year-old. Gosh, how I miss her.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” I said, gently nudging her shoulder, a smile tugging at my lips.

Bailey groaned, burying her face deeper into her pillow. “No, I’m too tired, Josef. I want to sleep,” she whined, her voice muffled.

I chuckled softly, knowing how stubborn she could be. “Come on, Bai,” I coaxed, leaning closer. “Mama is making her famous pumpkin pancakes. You know you can’t resist those!”

A moment of silence hung in the air, and I could almost see her weighing the options. The sweet aroma of cinnamon and sugar wafted through the door, mingling with the morning light that spilled into the room. Finally, she peeked out from under her blanket, her eyes still heavy with sleep but a hint of a smile breaking through."

“Fine,” she relented, rolling over with a dramatic sigh. “But only if I get extra syrup!”

"I'll let you this time," I replied.

"And three slabs of butter,"

"Oh, come on! The butter is the best part,"

"I know," said Bailey. "That's why I want it,"

I smiled and went downstairs into the kitchen and found Mama, in her blue pajamas, standing at the stove, the scents of pancakes, bacon, and eggs filling my nostrils. The white walls were full of happy pictures of family. I lingered over the photo of my grandparents, their smiles bright against the backdrop of a world I could only imagine. How I wish I could have met them, but Germany’s invasion of Poland plunged Europe into darkness, forever altering the lives of those who called it home, including my parents.

"Dzień dobry, Josef," Mama said, smiling.

"Dzień dobry, Mama," I replied.

"Hir, take some pancakes, and sit down, proszę," she said.

I did as I was told. Dad came down a moment later in his police uniform. Mama followed him. We sat there in silence until Bailey came down wearing a red dress, white socks, and black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair was tied into a ponytail. My gosh, how adorable she looked!

"Hi!" she spoke.

"Hi, Bailey," was our reply.

She sat next to me. After saying grace, we all began to chow down. Once we had finished eating, Bailey, Dad, and I got up and walked outside. The sun was shining down on Dad's bright red truck. Bailey and I climbed into the back seat, while Dad got into the driver's seat.

As we drove through the quiet streets of Bellefonte, I noticed the unusual stillness, the closed shops casting an eerie shadow over the morning. I thought this was odd, considering it was a Tuesday morning. Bailey must've seen it, too, because she said, "Daddy, why isn't the pharmacy open today?"

"I don' know," said Dad, his eyes darting from side to side.

Something told me he was lying.

"Tell the truth, Dad," I said.

We stopped in front of the traffic cop.

Dad sighed and said, "Vell, everyone grows up eventually,"

He was wrong. Not every child gets the chance to grow up; some, like me, are forced to face the harsh realities of life too soon. Bailey should have gotten the chance to start a family and get a job. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if things had been different.

Dad turned around and said, "If you mus’ know, Mrs. Kowalski vas attacked in her house alongside her mudder,"

Dad’s grim words about Mrs. Kowalski’s attack hung in the air, a chilling reminder that our town was not as safe as it seemed. How could anybody hurt her, or even more so, her elderly mother? Why did it have to happen? She had always been so good to us children, always smiling whenever we came into her candy shop. Her mother was no different. Bellefonte was not known for its violence, especially within the largely Jewish-Polish population.

"Can I ask how they did it?" queried Bailey.

"Ze person broked in t’rough ze window," Dad said, "and dropped rocks on zair heads,"

I could tell from the blood leaving her face that Bailey instantly regretted asking that question.

"Did they-?" I began to say.

"Die?" Dad said, a hint of melancholy in his voice. "Yes, dey died,"

"Do you know who did it?"

"It might haf been dose damn Germans,"

"Daddy, don't say that word!" exclaimed Bailey.

I stepped out of the truck and onto the freshly cut grass of The Old Bellefonte High School, the scent of earth and clippings filling the air. The red brick building loomed before me, its tall white pillars standing like sentinels, framing the double wooden doors that proudly bore the school’s name above them. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, sending a few swirling past me, whispering secrets of the past. The parking lot sparkled with the shiny bumpers of Fords and the vibrant hues of Dodges. I could hear the distant laughter of students mingling with the rustle of leaves.

Amanda Weber walked near the entrance and sat down on the grass. Her long wavy red hair blew in the wind, and I swear I heard angels sing. She wore a white blouse, brown pants, and kitten heels that caused several other guys to look at her. Amanda never noticed; she had been my girlfriend since the seventh grade, when she and her family moved here from Lübeck, Germany. Her focus was always on me, a testament to the bond we shared, one that felt as timeless as the gentle breeze that surrounded us.

I was about to walk up to her but stopped when I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder, a firm grip that sent a chill through me. I groaned inwardly. Dad despised all Germans. He and Mama had lost relatives—family members who had been sent to Auschwitz or Buchenwald, their lives extinguished in the horrors of the Holocaust. After the war, they were forced to immigrate to the United States. They found jobs, built a life, and raised us, kids, only mentioning the war whenever it seemed fit.

"Now, Josef," said Dad. "Don’ vant you to see or talk to her or her sister today, got it?"

I looked him in the eye. I had been telling my parents that Amanda and I had broken up three years before to avoid any drama. My father must have assumed that we remained friends afterward, which only created a more substantial rift between us. I can’t count the number of nights I snuck out just to meet her at the park or the movies. As I nodded in response, a sense of relief washed over me. At that moment, I realized that the truth didn’t matter as long as I could keep her safe from my father’s disdain. I felt no guilt for the lie; instead, it felt like a small act of defiance, a way to protect the one thing in my life that brought me joy.

"Jesteś dobrym chłopcem, Josef," Dad said, smiling as he got back into the truck.

"Dziękuję, Ojcze," I replied.

As soon as the truck was out of sight, I went over to Amanda.

"Hallo, Engel! How are you, ja?" she said, warmly.

"Hey, baby," I said before kissing her on the cheek. "I'm good. How's the family?"

"Family is good," said Amanda. "Ve bought a couple of dogs two days ago,"

"Dogs?" I said, impressed.

"Ja, dogs," said Amanda. "It is, how you Americans say in English, a cultural t’ing,"

As we walked through the doors, the scent of cologne and deodorant hit us, accompanied by the sounds of chatter and lockers slamming. Whether or not anyone was talking about Mrs. Kowalski and her mother, I don't know. All I know is that children and teachers gave Amanda dirty looks, probably because they suspected that she did it. Several people pointed to her and chanted, "Hail Hitler!" while putting their fingers under their noses. Others kept smacking her on the back of the head, causing her to flinch. I could see her eyes widen in shock, her cheeks flushing with humiliation. I wanted to smack them, to tell them off, but that would have only made me as bad as them.

"Hey, don't listen to them," I said as I put my book bag in my locker.

She glanced at me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and for a brief moment, her eyes tore away from mine. "It’s hard not to," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise. “Vhat if zey do somesing to me ven my parents und sister leave tonight for—?”

She stopped talking.

"'For' what, Amanda?" I asked.

Amanda didn’t respond. Her brow furrowed like she was lost in thought. I knew that look; it was the same one she wore when she was trying to solve a math problem. Obduracy and assiduousness were a perfect countenance on her. The way her lips pressed together and the slight tilt of her head suggested she was wrestling with an idea that refused to be tamed. I watched her, captivated by the intensity of her focus. The world around us faded into a blur, the laughter and chatter of our classmates becoming a distant echo.

At that moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the universe, suspended in time. I could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, each thought sparking another, illuminating her features with a quiet determination. “Amanda,” I said softly, breaking the spell, “what are you thinking?” She looked up, her eyes brightening as if a light had flicked on. “I just had an idea,” she replied, her voice a mix of excitement and hesitation. “What if we—” Before she could finish, the bell rang, jolting us back to reality.

The sound reverberated through the hall, and I could see the momentary flicker of frustration cross her face. Just as quickly, it transformed into a determined smile. “Let’s talk after class,” she said, her tone resolute, as if she had already made up her mind about something important. I felt a rush of anticipation at her words, eager to hear what she had in mind. The bell’s ringing faded into the background as I focused solely on her, the promise of her idea hanging in the air between us.

“Amanda,” I said softly, breaking the spell, “what are you thinking?”

She looked up, her eyes brightening as if a light had flicked on. “I just had an idea,” she replied, her voice a mix of excitement and hesitation. “What if we—”

Before she could finish, the bell rang, jolting us back to reality. The sound reverberated through the hall, and I could see the momentary flicker of frustration cross her face. But then, just as quickly, it transformed into a determined smile. “Let’s talk after class,” she said, her tone resolute, as if she had already made up her mind about something important.

We didn’t get the chance to talk until the final bell rang. Students poured into the hallway like water into a glass, their laughter and chatter creating a lively backdrop. I had actually forgotten what Amanda had said until I saw her red hair cascading down the stone steps and onto the sidewalk. I looked around, hoping not to see my parents or Bailey anywhere before I warmly embraced her. In that moment, I thought about how Clark Gable must have felt when he embraced Vivien Leigh in Gone With The Wind, a rush of warmth and longing flooding through me. The scent of her lotion filled my nostrils, sweet and nauseating, so I took a step back.

“You forgot about me, didn’t you? Ja?” Amanda asked, trying to search my face.

"Yes," I admitted, my head hanging low.

She smiled and spoke, "I have been t'inking, and why not throw a secret house party?"

Now, I could have responded one or two ways. I could have said that it was a terrible idea, and stayed home, or gone to the party and have the time of my life filled with dancing and singing. Choices are funny because they do not let us see the outcomes. As a young kid, I believed that if I made one decision over another, I would regret it for the rest of my life. Ironically enough, I did just that.

“A secret house party, eh?” I said. “I don’t know, Amanda,"

“It’ll be fun even if it is just you and me, Josef,” she replied with a suggestive wink.

I wanted to say yes, to escape into the night with Amanda, but a nagging feeling tugged at me.

"I’ll think about it," I said.

A secret house party sounded thrilling. But what if something came up? I pushed the thought aside, focusing on the excitement in Amanda’s eyes, unaware of how one decision can change the course of another person’s life.