Hush Yael

Midnight. It is dark. The only sources of light are the moon shining through the windows, and the stars, dim as they may be, dotting the sky like glitter on a black piece of paper.

It is dark. But it is not quiet.

I hear various noises throughout the apartment. They are gunshots, grenade explosions, people screaming, footsteps running for their lives. My home is being invaded.

I hear shouting from my mother and father. I hear my older sister crying. The front door is thrown open, then slammed shut. My neighbor is screaming. Someone bursts into my room and lifts me from my crib. It is my mother; her face is red, stricken with tears. She is terrified. For her life as well as all of ours.

I am oblivious to the fact that death may possibly stare me right in the face in a matter of minutes.
Everything following that seems to go by in a blur to me. The door to the attic is flung open. My mother holds me tightly to her, crawling up the ladder to squeeze inside. I hear the front door being broken off its hinges. I hear unknown, foreign voices. They are angry, mean, loud. They are searching for us. I can hear my father and sister being taken away. Their cries reach my ears. They call for help.

I cannot do anything for them.

More footsteps, coming up the stairs, walking down the halls. I hear them. I feel them. I can picture what they look like. I want to scream. Cry out. Do anything. But my mother keeps a hand over my mouth to silence me.

“Hush, Yael,” she whispers to me. Her voice is soft in my ear. Her words tremble and shake. She is afraid.

My tiny voice vibrates against her fingers. I am small, young, fragile. All I can do is try to breathe. But it is hard. And it keeps getting harder.

I hear more voices outside the attic window. The same ones from before. They are down at the beach. My sister’s frightened cries reach my ears. Faintly, but they still do. My father holds her and tells her it will be okay.

He is lying. He knows they are going to die. I know they are going to die.

Silence, and then I hear the gunshots. One, two, three. My sister’s screams are loud, sorrowful, painful. She screams and cries for our father. I hear his body hit the water. He is gone.

My sister’s voice is stopped abruptly by a loud crack, and then another one. Her head has been smashed in with the butt of a shotgun and has made contact with a large rock. She too, is dead.
My voice desperately tries to scream in horror. But my mouth is still covered by my mother. She holds me tighter, to keep me safe. But she is slowly smothering me.

“Hush, Yael,” she tells me again. She is now shivering. She isn’t cold. She is frightened. I watch a tear fall from her eye.

I try to tell her to remove her hand. I want her to take her hand away from my mouth. My lungs need air. I cannot breathe.

Minutes pass, hours pass, though it feels like forever. I hear the sirens approaching. Blue and cherry lights are shimmering through the attic window. I hear more shouting. More gunshots. The clinking and clattering of chains and handcuffs. They have been caught. They are finally being taken away.
Footsteps are approaching the attic. My mother crushes me to her, unaware that she is slowly taking my life. I struggle for oxygen. I am having trouble holding on to consciousness. I am slipping away.

The attic door is opened. Police are there, helping us down the ladder and back onto the ground floor. My mother then releases her hand and stares down at me. But I am unresponsive.

She cries and screams. She shakes her head.

“What have I done?” she says to herself. “What have I done!” she cries aloud. I hear her sobbing, “Wake up, Yael, wake up!” I feel her tears fall on my skin. “Please, Yael, wake up!”

But my mouth does not move. My eyes do not open. No sound comes up from my throat.

She didn’t mean to do it. She was only trying to protect me. From those people. From being found.

But she had accidentally killed me.

I lie in my mother’s arms, cold and pale.

I am dead.

---

My body thrashes about. My whimpers turn to screams. I sit up violently, lashing forward.

“No!” I cry out. My eyes are wide. My face is dripping with cold sweat. My breathing is heavy and slow. I am desperate for air.

It was only a nightmare. But it was a very real nightmare.

Thirty-two years ago. But it seems like just yesterday. It still haunts me. It will never go away.

April 22nd, 1979. The day my family was murdered.

I too, did not survive.

I feel a hand reach over to take my own. It is my sister. She stares at me with dark brown eyes covered slightly by black hair. My sister, Einat, who, on that day, had her head crushed between a rock and the butt of a gun.

But she looks as if that horrible ordeal did not even happen to her. Her face is smooth. No outbreaks or wrinkles or cuts or scrapes or scars. No bullet holes or bruises or bumps or stitched up wounds.
She is perfectly fine.

I take in another breath. My lungs are full, healthy, and alive. My bright green eyes shimmer despite the dark. My dark brown hair falls in front of my eyes, sticking to my face.

“Hush, Yael.” Her voice is quiet, but reassuring. Like mother’s.

It was only a nightmare. There is nothing to worry about. I am perfectly safe.

I am dead, but I am in heaven. And nothing can hurt me now.