Day After Night by Anita Diamant

never complain about the dampness, or
     the long winter nights, or even the smell of the canals at low tide.
    But Mr. Loederman had erased her longing and turned her homesickness and nostalgia
     into anger and loathing. Why had he survived? Why not her father, who had been a better
     man—kinder, smarter, and younger, too? Why was Tedi alive and not Rachel? Where was
     her mother? Her cousins? Her friends? Suddenly she imagined Amsterdam full of ghosts,
     reproaching her from every window, every storefront, every doorway.
    In Palestine, at least, no one would burst into tears at the sight of her.
    Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Tedi traced her name into the dirt and remembered
     Mr. Loederman’s wife, Lena, an old-fashioned woman who wore crocheted collars. They
     had had a grown son, a daughter-in-law, and a grandson. All dead, she realized. She
     should have hugged him back.
    The accordion raced up a scale. Young voices rose into the night. Tedi put her fingers
     into her ears and listened to the sound of her own breathing, one breath at a time,
     as her father had taught her when she was seven years old and miserable with the mumps.
     Papa had sat beside her on the quilted white counterpane. “Shah, darling, shah,” he
     said, putting a cool hand on her burning forehead. “Take a deep breath. Good. Now,
     take the next breath. Then another breath, and another, and another, and
voilà
! You will be somewhere else, all better, no more headaches. The sun will shine and
     we will eat too much chocolate and we won’t tell Mamma.”
    Tedi was rocking and weeping, her fingers in her ears, wanting her father, wishing
     that she could be that seven-year-old girl again, wondering how a lifetime could be
     burned and buried when it was so close that she could still feel the comfort of her
     father’s hand on her face.
    But the hand landed on her shoulder instead, grasping her firmly from behind. Tedi
     screamed and threw her elbow back as hard as she could and jumped to her feet, fists
     clenched.
    Zorah was on the ground, clutching her thigh. “Bloody hell,” she sputtered. “You idiot.
     Why did you do that?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Tedi, dropping to her knees. “I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?”
    “I’ll be all right,” Zorah said, sitting up and rubbing her leg. “I didn’t mean to
     startle you.”
    Tedi was rocking back and forth, her eyes squeezed shut, her arms wrapped around her
     sides.
    “Really,” Zorah insisted. “It’s not that bad.”
    “They would grab from behind like that,” Tedi whispered. “One of them would hold me
     down. They both laughed. They covered my face. It was as if I wasn’t even there, just
     my …”
    Zorah put her arm around Tedi’s shoulders. It took a long time until she stopped rocking
     and trembling. The accordion played a tango from start to finish. Then there was a
     big-band ballad and a local folk tune. Finally, Zorah ventured a few words. “It was
     hell for women in the camps. I know.”
    “I wasn’t in a concentration camp,” Tedi said. “I was in hiding. I was at a farm in
     the countryside. All day long, locked inside the barn, and at night the farmer’s son
     would come. Sometimes he brought someone else, an older man, and the two of them,
     sometimes every night.
    “When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I said something to the mother. She slapped me.
     The Germans came the next day.”
    Tedi started rocking again. “Don’t,” said Zorah, pushing the heavy hair away from
     Tedi’s damp forehead. “Those bastards will rot in hell forever. But you got away,
     didn’t you? You are far, far away from all of that. You’re safe now, right?”
    Zorah put her arm around Tedi’s shoulders and held her still. “You’re in the land
     of milk and honey, right?”
    The sound of the party rose and fell, as though it were coming from a boat circling
     the shore.
    “It’s late,” Zorah said finally. “Time for bed.” She stood up, brushed the dust