My Canary Yellow Star (9 page)

“The garden is full,” the man replied frostily.

“Are you sure?” Peter asked. We could see through the double doors that only half the tables were occupied. Peter
reached into his pocket, pulled out a few folded bills, and slipped one into the maître d’s hand. “Could you check your book again, please? Just to be sure.”

The older man put the money into his pocket. His smile became much friendlier. Puffing up with self-importance, he leaned over his reservation book again. “Ah yes! Let’s see if we can do better,” he said. “Yes, I believe we can! Table 4 seems to be available.”

“I thought it might be,” Peter said, winking at me.

The maître d’ turned to me. “May I hang up the young lady’s sweater? It’s a warm evening.”

“No!” I said much too loudly. I crossed my arms across my chest protectively.

Peter put his arms around my shoulders and squeezed. “She’s always cold, even on the warmest day,” he said, laughing.

The maître d’ nodded and held up a finger. As if by magic, a young waiter appeared beside him. “Sanyi, my boy, take the lady and the gentleman to table 4,” he commanded.

We followed the waiter into the beautiful dining room with its parquet dance floor. Huge marble columns entwined by ivy stood in a row across the center of the room. Several of the tables set out between the columns were empty. Most people preferred to be outside on such a warm evening. Peter and I crossed the long dance floor to our table. It was in a perfect spot, just a few feet from the band. The evening
program had not yet begun. I felt very grown up when the waiter pulled out my chair. Peter sat next to me.

“Quite a place, isn’t it?” he whispered with a smile.

“Just beautiful!”

“Do you require menus?” the waiter asked, his tone only slightly less supercilious than that of the maître d’.

“No, thank you. Well each have an espresso, please.” I was certain that even a cup of coffee would be expensive in this place.

“Well also have chestnut pudding with whipped cream,” Peter said to the waiter, ignoring my kick to his ankle.

“Are you crazy? It’ll cost a fortune,” I said as soon as the waiter was gone.

“Don’t you like chestnut pudding?” Peter asked.

“Of course I do! But it’s too expensive.”

“Let’s not worry about expenses tonight,” Peter said. “Let’s forget about the war for a while.”

Most of the men dining around us were in uniform. A group of Arrow Cross officers at the next table smiled at us, and we smiled back. I could not help thinking how a small hidden star on my blouse would erase those smiles.

The band appeared on the stage. After a few minutes of screeching, mooing, and tuning their instruments, they were joined by a singer. She was wrapped in a sparkling blue cloud from head to toe and her white teeth were gleaming against her flawless, tawny skin. She was the first
Negro I had ever seen. She seemed so alive that I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“She is from America,” Peter whispered.

The singer snapped her fingers once or twice and broke into a spirited rendition of my favorite Ella Fitzgerald song, “A Tisket, a Tasket.” I couldn’t understand the English lyrics, but I recognized the tune immediately. The hot jazz beat was so infectious that I tapped my feet to the rhythm.

Peter grabbed my hand. “Let’s dance,” he said.

Our jerky, rhythmic steps were a perfect match.

“Where did you learn to swing like this?” Peter asked.

“Oh, here and there,” I said mysteriously. I wasn’t about to tell him I had been practicing with Judit every afternoon. It helped to pass time during the curfew. “What about you? Who taught you to dance?”

“My parents entertain a lot. I took lessons. I have to know how to dance.”

For the next few hours, I swam in music and happiness. We danced and danced, and between dances we talked, savored the chestnut pudding, and washed it down with several cups of strong, sweet espresso coffee. As darkness fell, the waiter lit the lantern in the middle of our table. The pinpoints of light did a lively little dance of their own on the snowy tablecloth.

At ten o’clock, the music changed to the romantic “Moonlight Serenade.” The vocalist announced that it was the last song of the evening, and Peter pulled me very
close. I rested my head on his shoulder as we swayed to the plaintive harmony. I thought I could feel his lips against my hair, but I wasn’t sure.

Suddenly, Peter danced me into the dining hall. We stopped behind one of the marble columns in the embrace of the ivy. My heart was beating so loudly that I was certain he could hear it. We stood for a long, long moment, looking at each other wordlessly. Slowly, he bent down and kissed me on the lips. I pulled back.

“Marta, I –”

“Shhh,” I said. Then I kissed him back.

W
e made our way home from the dance without meeting a single member of the Arrow Cross, the Hungarian police, or the German army roaming the streets. I was afraid to take a streetcar, so we walked the entire way. It was past eleven o’clock when we arrived at Aunt Miriam’s. The street was deserted and eerily dark. Even the moon had hidden behind the gathering clouds. A storm was in the air. All the street lights had been turned out and the windows, though open to the stifling night, were draped in dark black-out curtains because of air-raid regulations. I could barely see the smeared outline of the yellow star above the doorway.

“Well, here we are,” I whispered sadly. “Thank you for a very special evening. I had a wonderful time.” Much more than that, sang my heart.

“Me too,” Peter said. He was standing very close to me,
his breath fanning my face, his arms on my shoulders. I was hoping he would kiss me again. “Marta,” he stammered, “back at the Casino … I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time –”

The gate creaked open before he could finish. He jumped back a step.

“Is that you, Marta?” It took me a moment to realize it was Mama. “Is that you out there?” she repeated. “It’s so dark I can’t be sure.”

“Mama! What are you doing here? I’m not alone. Peter Szabo is with me.”

“Mrs. Weisz, hello!” Peter said.

A horrible moment of silence followed. “Say goodbye to your friend, Marta,” Mama said. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

The gate to the building clicked shut behind her. There was just enough time for Peter and I to squeeze hands before I followed her into the courtyard.

“What have you got to say for yourself, Marta?” she asked. Although her voice was low, I could hear her fury. “I knew by the way you were acting that you were up to something. Sneaking around with Peter like some kind of … tart. How could you? I expected more of you! What have you got to say for yourself?”

I didn’t answer.

She grabbed my arm and shook it. “Do you realize what you’re doing? The boy isn’t Jewish. You could be killed.
He
could be killed. Shame on you!”

I remained silent.

“And not telling me … You wouldn’t have dared to behave like this if your father was at home!” She slapped me across the face with a heavy hand.

I was so shocked that for a moment I couldn’t speak. I just stared in her direction in the darkness, my hand protecting my face. Neither of my parents had ever hit me. Tears began to pour down my cheeks.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong. I’m only fifteen, Mama! For once I wanted to have a good time. We went to the Casino for one of the tea dances.”

The corner of Mrs. Grosz’s blackout curtain lifted even though both of us were whispering.

“A good time! A
good
time! Don’t you realize you could have been transported for breaking the curfew? For associating with a Christian boy? Didn’t you realize what a chance you were taking? Didn’t Peter?” Suddenly, she began to weep. She pulled me close to her. “The Szabos can’t be any happier about this than I am,” she continued. “We were such good friends, and look at us now. They made it clear where their sympathies lie.”

“Peter isn’t like his parents, Mama.”

She let go of me and sighed. I wanted to see her expression, but the darkness obscured it. “Let’s go upstairs to bed,” she said finally. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I undressed in the dark as quietly as possible and tried to put Mama’s anger out of my mind. As I lay on my mattress on the floor, next to Grandmama’s bed, I relived every enchanted moment of the evening that had just passed. I could feel Peter’s arms around me, his lips moving in my hair. Once again we were swaying to “Moonlight Serenade.” Peter was kissing me, and I was kissing him back. Then I fell asleep.

The next day, Mama asked me to go to the greengrocer’s with her. “I may need help carrying the potatoes,” she said.

“We’ll come too,” Ervin volunteered. He and Gabor were playing chess at the kitchen table.

“No need,” Mama said. “I probably won’t be able to buy enough potatoes to make it worth your while. Marta’s help will be more than sufficient, and I’d welcome her company.”

Ervin gave me a knowing look. I wondered if he had been awake when I got home last night. The parlor where he was sleeping faced the courtyard.

As soon as we reached the street, Mama took hold of my arm and pulled me over to the side of the building. “I owe you an apology, Marta,” she said stiffly. I could sense the effort the words took. “I couldn’t sleep all night. I can’t believe I actually hit one of my children. I’m very sorry. There is no excuse for it, but I was beside myself.” She sounded so tentative, so humble, so unlike her usual proud and confident self that my heart filled with love and pity.

“Forget about it. I have. I’m sorry you were so worried.”

“I can’t help weeping when I remember my own fifteenth year – the parties, school, friends. Then I see what you have – the scrounging for food, the way we live, the constant fear. And Papa! Not knowing where he is, how he is …”

She looked so sad that I tried to console her. “It’s not so bad, Mama. We’ve got each other. And Papa will be home soon and the war will be over.” I sounded much more optimistic than I felt.

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Mama said. I was glad to see that she was able to give a slight smile. “Peter …” she said. “He’s not just a friend any more?”

I could feel myself start to blush. Mama looked searchingly into my eyes, and I returned her look, unblinking. That exchange of glances made us into equals, two women sharing a precious secret.

Mama patted my face gently. “The boy isn’t Jewish, Marta! I know he’s a good boy, and I am fond of him. But he isn’t Jewish,” she repeated, as if I needed reminding. “You’re a young lady now. This is not what I want for you, my first born, my only daughter! In normal times I would forbid you to see this boy, but nothing is normal nowadays.” She sighed deeply. “I can see that Peter makes you happy, and happiness is a most precious commodity. So tell me everything.”

And I did. I told my mother everything … well, not quite
everything. But I did speak about the abuse we had received from people on the streets when they saw us together. I even told her how I started covering up my yellow star whenever we went out in public. Mama was horrified.

“Marta, you mustn’t be so reckless! If you’re caught, you’ll be deported. So will Peter! Promise me that you won’t do anything so foolish again,” she begged. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it so hard that it hurt. “We must obey their rules if we’re to survive. If we disobey them even a little bit, we’re lost. There are just too many of them – and they have guns! There is no way we can defy them. Surely you must realize that!”

“I’ll be very careful, but I
will
see Peter if I can. He is decent and kind and he makes me feel alive. Can you see that?”

“I’ll try, but it won’t be easy,” Mama said, gathering me into her arms. “I’ll try.”

I laughed weakly from relief.

“No daughter of mine will sneak around with a boy behind my back,” Mama added, her voice full of the old authority. “Invite Peter for Shabbos dinner. Ask him to be careful not to be seen entering our apartment. And don’t worry about explaining the situation to Grandmama and Aunt Miriam. I’ll talk to them.”

What had I let myself in for? And Peter – I knew he liked my family, but how would he react to being cross-examined by them? They could be extremely nosy. To stop
my imagination running wild, I decided to change the subject and tell Mama what had happened on the streetcar. I told her all about the mother and child who did not have the proper documents, and about the old Jewish man with the Schutz-Pass that had been given to him by the Swedish diplomat Raoul Wallenberg.