And then they found it — the last flask, the small bottle that would enable them to start anew. 12 writers share the last flask that lit up their own lives 

Rattle of Hope

Elisheva Luger

Just keep walking, Sara told herself over and over, silently, lest the Nazi soldiers hear her and shoot her on the spot.

But after 13 hours of walking, she couldn’t help but wonder if that would be so terrible.

The soldiers ordered everyone to sit. Sara sat. Just behind a snow-tinseled bush, a speck of white gleamed. She leaned forward and saw a blue-and-white polka-dotted baby rattle.

A baby rattle?

Did babies — pink-cheeked and chubby-legged babies — still exist in this world?

Sara stared at the rattle. It looked new and shiny. That meant that not too long ago, someone was here, someone with a baby, someone who lived without constant hunger, fear, or the prospect of death.

The Nazi guards screamed at them to resume walking. Sara put one foot in front of the other, the image of a baby rattle in front of her.

Liberation came the next day, and within a few months she was living in New York. She was shocked when a shidduch was suggested.

She’d been experimented on by the infamous doctor. Word had already spread about the small, if not miniscule, likelihood of his “patients” having children. But the young man in question had also endured experiments, and so, it was an appropriate match.

Yaakov had a kind face and a quiet strength about him, but he made no mention of children. “I know we probably can’t have children, but somehow I believe we will. I need you to believe it’s possible as well,” Sara told him.

Sara worked as a seamstress and Yaakov built up a small business. A year later, Sara began to feel weak and had no appetite. She soon discovered she was carrying a child, but the doctor warned her that due to the abuses she endured, it was impossible she would carry to term. A miscarriage was inevitable.

As the weeks went on and her baby was still within her, Sara allowed herself the pleasure of wondering whom they would name the baby after. She probably wouldn’t give birth, and even if by some miracle she did, chances were high this baby would be the only one. Out of all of their parents and siblings murdered, whom would they name the baby after?

On a sticky June afternoon, Sara gave birth to a seven-and-a-half pound healthy baby boy. Eight days later, she stood in shul and watched as Yaakov whispered a name, and then heard it aloud: Avraham ben Yaakov.

Avrumie, after her father.

That night, Sara bentshed her husband that he would merit to name their next child after his father.

Less than two years later, they were blessed with another baby boy.

By the time they had over a minyan of boys and a handful of girls as well, the doctors stopped warning Sara about the impending heartaches.

Just before the birth of what would be their youngest, Sara realized that this baby would be named after someone they never in their wildest dreams thought they would name a child after — a grandparent — for they had 16 children, and all of their parents and siblings had been named for already.

Soon after, Sara and Yaakov themselves became grandparents. And through the years, Sara gifted each one of her grandchildren with a baby rattle as a reminder that even the tiniest drop of hope can lead to miracles.