Saving Elijah

first liberated, many wanted to tell their story. No one wanted to hear. They did not believe us, or they did not want to know. Now everyone wants to hear. My daughters always urge me to go to the place where the famous movie director is recording our experiences on film. Go there? Tell everything? Bear witness, this is our duty, they say. I lived through what happened to me, that was enough duty. I have not even told my daughters all of these things. Even my husband did not know, although he came out of there too, and he told anyone who asked him. He used to tell how he and his family hid for nine months in a space so small that when one of them shifted positions the rest were forced to do so as well. Many things. I would be angry with him for telling. The response was never enough. It never could be.
    In America everyone thinks suffering not shared is not real. All the time on the talk shows I see these people telling about the most personal things, awful things, and the audiences pretend to be sympathetic. It is just an entertainment to them.
    My daughters say I should tell for my own sake, because it would make me feel better, and it is probably that you agree since you are a psychologist. What is that, better?
    I know you witnessed what Elijah said to me that day, that he had painted a picture of Gerte, and I need to tell you this now. Gerte was the name of my child. There. I wrote this. All these years since she passed away, until this moment, I have kept my vow not to speak her name. This is fifty-one years. 2 January. Not even my daughters have ever heard the name of my child who died, or how she died. I keep it with me always, and I know her name will be the last word I will speak before I die, but I never have spoken it aloud. Fifty-one years.
    It is not a common American name, as you know. My Gerte was given a good German name. We were fools, of course. We thought we were Germans, you know.
    Dinah, I have not slept. How does your son know this name?

    Sincerely, 
    Ellen Shoenfeld

    I folded the paper carefully, put it in my pocket, and whispered, "Ellen, I have no idea." Then I went back into the house, where Elijah and my mother were waiting.

    *    *    *

    Possession came once again that night, and when the demon was through with me, I took a shower, but I could still smell the metallic odor when I got out. I made my way into the kitchen, unable to bear being in my bedroom anymore. Charlotte was sitting at the table by the window, drinking tea. It was dark, only the single light of the desk lamp illuminated, the room full of shadows, a penumbra of light.
    "Oh, it's you, Dinah. You startled me." She took a sip of her tea. Tiny lines encircled her lips, and the light touched her face in unfortunate places. Devoid of cosmetics, the skin was blotchy, the jowls fleshy and full of regret. "I just couldn't sleep."
    I had nowhere to go. I pulled my bathrobe closed and retied the sash.
    "Is something wrong, Dinah? You look so pale."
    I stood there, my arms hanging at my sides.
    "Your father is angry at me," Charlotte said. "That's one of the reasons I came. He said I wasn't helpful to you when Elijah was sick. We had a fight. Was he right, Dinah? I didn't mean to say the wrong things, I just felt so useless and terrified. I wanted to be helpful."
    My face felt suddenly hot, my palms damp. I didn't want to talk to her about this, it was still about her, always about her. I didn't want to talk to her about anything.
    I spun around and started to walk out of the room.
    "Dinah, please talk to me."
    I hesitated, turned, looked at her. My mother had tears in her eyes, she was crying. I stood frozen for a moment in the doorway of the kitchen, my heart full of pain and longing.
    "You hurt me," I said finally.
    I was mesmerized by her eyes; they had always been a beautiful deep blue, although the color had faded as she aged. It wasn't their color that held me now, it was the way she was looking so directly at me, her eyes full of love and pain. There was no anger there. Her eyes were clear and open and undefended.
    "When Elijah was sick, I hurt you?" she asked.
    I shook my head. "Always."
    She said nothing for a moment, just looked at me. I expected her to defend herself then, tell me she'd never hurt me, and that I didn't know what I was talking about. Or that my skin was too thin. Or some other argument I couldn't even hypothesize. Yes. She would deny what I felt in order to convince me that her own feelings were