Beneath A Broken Sky

Chapter 7: Memories Like Lifelines

In the depths of our brutal existence, Amos and I clung to even the faintest threads of joy from lives nearly forgotten. Sharing memories became our lifeline, each recollection a sanctuary from the cruelty surrounding us.

"Tell me again about your home, Amos," I murmured one evening as we huddled together, my head resting on his bony shoulder. "The farm, your parents..."

A hush fell between us, heavy with the unspoken. Perhaps his mind wandered back, sifting through memories etched deep within, remnants of a world swallowed whole. When his voice finally returned, it carried a tremor of wistful longing.

"It was paradise, leibchen. Endless fields bathed in sunshine as far as the eye could see, the most vibrant wildflowers imaginable dancing in the breeze..." As Amos spoke, his calloused fingers drifted in absent patterns on my arm. His words, like a soothing murmur,  briefly brought that idyllic place back into existence, a shimmering mirage summoned by his voice.

"Mamanchka's garden was the jewel at the heart of it all - plump tomatoes, fragrant herbs, and the most gorgeous roses you've ever laid eyes on. And the centerpiece was her prized strawberry patch." A faint smile played across Amos' cracked lips. "I can still taste the sweetness as if it were yesterday. She would bake them into the most decadent pies, their sugary perfume wafting through the entire house..."

With eyes squeezed shut, Amos' lilting descriptions wove a dream around me. I saw his sun-kissed mother, a vision of love, tending her vibrant garden. Her gentle hands plucked ripe strawberries, filling her apron as laughter, like wind chimes, danced in the air. A young Amos, a blur of joy, bounced at her feet.

The spell broke with a soft sigh from Amos as his voice faded. When I looked up, his eyes held a grief so deep, it stole the air from my lungs. Without a word, I reached out and gently brushed away the single tear that traced a path down his sunken cheek.

"They're out there somewhere, akheven," I whispered fiercely. "Your parents. I can feel it, just as my Papa and brothers are here in this pit with us."

Amos' eyes flashed with a determination to match my own. "We have to find them, Ayala." His slender fingers, weathered and strong, entwined with mine, a surprising contrast against my chilled skin. "My Mamanchka, my Tatteh...they were everything to me. I won't surrender that lifeline to solace until my final breaths leave this cursed place."

My head dipped in a silent vow, fueled by the unwavering loyalty in Amos' eyes. In the following weeks, we turned every chore into a covert exploration. Under the guise of work details, we'd inch beyond designated areas, our eyes flitting across the sea of weary faces, searching for a flicker of familiarity.

Sweat dripping in the relentless heat, I hunched over the rubble we were hand-clearing. Suddenly, Amos stiffened beside me. Following his locked gaze, I saw a gaunt woman inching down the line of workers, clutching a dented kettle filled with something vaguely resembling broth.

As she shuffled closer, the woman's shrouded eyes and sunken cheeks slowly revealed a face etched with hardship, yet undeniably familiar. Even through the ravages of starvation, a flicker of her former beauty flickered, igniting a spark of recognition in my chest.

I grasped Amos' arm, nearly sending the bricks tumbling from my grasp as he startled. "Amos! That woman, I-I think...merciful God, she has your eyes! Your Mamanchka?"

His head whipped around, flesh draining of what little color it retained as his gaze fell upon the willowy shade before us. A strangled cry lodged in his throat. The rubble pile at last clattered to the ground as he lurched up and stumbled towards her on legs that barely seemed able to support his featherweight frame.