Pastel Orphans (7 page)

I nod and she relaxes slightly.

“And what will happen to Papa?”

She sighs. “He is not coming. He is too sick. He will not see the summer.”

“You knew he wasn’t coming. You kept that from me too.”

“Nothing is certain,” she says. “I thought that maybe . . . Yes, I thought we might not see him again, but I also had hope. I thought maybe his illness would pass, and that the Jew kidnapping and persecution that happened that night in Berlin would never happen again, that others would step in and we would go back to him. Yes. That is what I thought—that where we are now would be only temporary . . .”

I can see a photo of Papa that Mama has placed on the side cabinet, and I picture Papa in our apartment without us, thinking that we have somehow abandoned him. I am hoping that he is not alone tonight, that Robin is curled up beside him.

“There was nothing else we could have done. We had no choice. We had to come here. Do you understand?”

I don’t. Not really. I don’t understand why any of this had to happen. I still don’t understand why Germany had to change. I don’t understand why Papa had to get so sick. I still don’t understand why there have to be different rules for Jews. I am about to ask these questions but suddenly the words are drowning in sadness at the back of my throat and I cannot save them.

Mama pulls my chin towards her and does not let go, because she does not want me to look away.

“Your papa loved you. He would be so proud.”

I can see that she has tears that are about to fall, and suddenly the sadness is too much, and I throw my arms around her tightly, sobbing loudly now, uncaring that Femke will hear, and suddenly frightened that I might lose Mama too.

“Riki, you must know that your father was my only love,” she says, rocking me gently. “He will never be replaced in my heart. Never! You have to know that this hurts me as much as it hurts you. I love him so much. But now we must survive this. It is about looking after you and Greta, and that is the reason I left. If your father had come . . .”

“He could have come,” I say feebly, because all strength has left me, and because, deep down, I know the truth.

“Your father is very frail. He has a disease in his body that keeps spreading. It won’t be long now. I have already prepared myself for the worst. I have had to harden my heart these past months.”

A few days later, when we arrive home from school, there is an envelope on the table that has a German stamp. Mama is waiting beside it. She tells us the news that I have been dreading, and expecting, but it is still a shock. I do not cry this time because anger is blocking the tears, but Greta wails, and Mama has to cradle her and tell her that everything will be all right. That no one else will die.

It is at this moment I feel hatred towards the country of my birth. It is filled with people who have turned their backs on Papa, and let him die without us at his side. I never wish to return.

C
HAPTER
11

On the radio an announcer says that Hitler has entered Poland and war has broken out. It has been decided that part of Poland will be in the new Germany.

Mama and Femke are frightened but I am not. I want to fight on the side of the Poles and on behalf of all Jews.

I run to my friend Jonas’s place. His whole family is there, which is large. Jonas says that they are moving to Russia because it is safer. He says that if Hitler wins the war with Poland, Jews will be expelled from here anyway. He says that most of his family lives there. I wish I had a large family like his. Jonas says they will be leaving once they have all their affairs in order.

There is a loud roaring noise and Greta and I rush outside to see the German planes flying over our skies. Mama tells us to go inside immediately. Then there is the sound of an explosion. People are rushing past our house saying that part of the town and several villages have been bombed. We run across the paddock to our barn in case there are other bombings. Others follow us from the street. We climb down a ladder into the cellar and pull the trapdoor closed behind us. It is a tight space. Greta is squeezing my arm and I have mine around Mama. A father and his son are also there. I have seen them before but I don’t know their names. We are all squashed together.

After an hour passes and there is no longer the sound of engines in the sky, we come out again.

Femke and I take the truck to see the destruction of some buildings. We learn that people have been killed. I am shocked at the devastation. It reminds me of the night that shops were smashed in Berlin, but this is worse because these places are not repairable and lives have been lost. The bodies have already been removed.

When we return home, Mama tells us that the school has been closed.

At first we do not know whether it is Germany or Russia that wants our town, because they are splitting the country down the middle: half to Germany, the other half to Russia. Then the German trucks arrive with soldiers and we hear that they have set up an office in the town. Everyone who is a Jew must be registered.

Mama tells Greta and me fictitious details about our “German father.” Greta does not look worried when Mama does this, because to her this is the truth. For me, it is the burden of a secret.

Mama tells me later that the surname of Klaus belonged to someone who really lived once, and then died, and their identity was stolen by someone who makes fake identity cards. She says that without the “J” stamped on the cards, we will be safe. She says that she and Papa used all their spare money to purchase the papers without the “J.”

Jonas, Rani, and I watch the German cars go past. It is getting cold again and we wear our coats and scarves and caps and try to sink into them to disappear. I feel sorry for both of them. They watch the cars as if they are watching their futures, as if all hope lies with the men who drive the cars. Rani lives with his grandparents. His father is dead and his mother left for Palestine and chose not to take him.

“Will you leave for Russia too?” I ask Rani. He does not look like most Jews. Rani has red hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and lots of freckles. He is smaller than many of us because he had an illness when he was small. The dark hollows beneath his eyes make him appear sickly. Though, when he plays soccer, his aim is perfect; he rarely misses a goal.

“No. My grandparents are too old to travel,” he says.

I do not say that he might have to go. Something tells me he doesn’t yet know, and I do not want to be the first to tell him. But Jonas does instead.

“You will have to go,” says Jonas. “They will make you. Mama is home packing now.”

Rani looks confused.

“But I don’t want to go,” he says. “I like it here.”

I punch him on the arm to distract him, so he doesn’t think too hard about it.

“It’s all right. Jonas will carry your grandparents on his back and when the Germans move out again, he will carry them back.”

Jonas throws his crust of bread at my head and I duck to miss it, and Rani is laughing.

I turn my head so he doesn’t see what I am thinking. I am thinking that because of the hateful German army I am about to lose my friends. That life will not be the same without them.

It is Jonas’s last day in Zamosc. He and I shake hands and he says he will see me when his family returns after the war.

C
HAPTER
12

A
UTUMN
1940

A member of the Judenrat—a Jewish council organized by the Germans to administer the work rosters and living arrangements of the Jews—arrives at our door and says that we must take in some Jews who have arrived from the west and require temporary accommodation until they are moved elsewhere.

Femke says that there is no room, but Mama interrupts and says that they are welcome to the space in the barn, and that we have extra blankets.

Many Jews have been removed from their apartments in the town to make way for the Germans who wish to live there now. Near the city, the area designated for Jewish housing is filling up fast, which is why we must house the family until the Germans can make more room.

The family of six enters our house. There is an older couple, their daughter and her husband, and their two boys, who are six years and four years.

Greta and I show the boys around the farm while Mama and Femke talk to the adults. The boys tell us that German soldiers told them to pack their things and leave their house, that someone else will be moving in there. They are sad that they couldn’t find their cat before they left, and they think he might be walking around the streets and windowsills looking for them, crying and feeling very hungry. I tell them about Robin and how we had to leave her, and suddenly I am feeling very sad about our cat too. I don’t tell them this, though. I only tell them about Robin so that they feel better about leaving their own cat.

Greta asks why they couldn’t just stay there and why the Germans couldn’t build their own places. The boys tell her that the Germans hate the Jews.

“It is ridiculous,” says Greta. “We have the same skin and hair, and some of my friends are Jews.”

The boys gaze at Greta as if she is an angel, as if they have never seen anything so heavenly. And in that moment I see it too. Despite the cold, she is radiant like the sun.

Rani’s family has been moved to the designated area. There is talk that they will have to move again soon to a much older area. When next I see Rani, he is wearing an armband to show that he is a Jew. All the Jews have to wear one now. I am feeling like a fraud and thinking how Femke said it is still in my blood.

Many of the Jewish shops are closed and the occupants are now put to other work: cleaning, clearing land, and other labor tasks. They will soon be sent to dig anti-tank trenches. Rani’s grandparents are two of those people but Rani stays at home while they are out. They have lied about his age. They say he is only thirteen so that he doesn’t have to work. His grandmother doesn’t think that he will last a week with the rattle in his chest.

But Rani says that his grandfather can hardly stand when he gets home, and his grandmother is too tired to eat. I have heard that many Jews have gone away, and some have escaped through the forest. I tell Rani that maybe he should escape too. I show him the route, which I found by accident one day. It is a pathway that leads into the forest and up to the north. I tell him that many have gone this way to other cities that are safer. That is what I heard, though I can’t confirm it. I run home and tell Mama what I have suggested. She says I shouldn’t have suggested that. “You don’t know if where the others have gone to is any better. They might be caught and if they are—”

“They will be shot,” says Femke. “The Germans have started the first executions of Jews who do not follow the rules. They don’t care whether they are children or mothers or grandparents.”

“That is impossible!” I say with disgust.

“It is true,” says Femke. But she doesn’t say it in a gloating way. There is softness in her voice. She is not happy about their treatment, despite her views on Papa.

On the following day, when I go back to the Jewish area, Rani’s house is empty. The Jews have to report to the officers if, for whatever reason, they are to leave. I believe that Rani’s grandparents have escaped while they were at work and that Rani has gone with them. Their little house, which is more like a shed and not fit to live in, has a broken door and a missing window. There is a small pile of wood on the floor. The house is cold and dark and bleak and not like the place they had before, which was bright and clean and warm.

Cupboards and drawers have been left open. I say a prayer to God to look after Rani’s family. I don’t need a church to do this, and it is just as well since the Germans do not like Catholics either.

Femke has asked me to take the bus to the town to see if there is anyone selling tea. There are shortages of food and, now with the Jews living in our barn, many of our supplies are drying up. Even Polish non-Jews are given restrictions and rules, and the Germans are greedily taking our supplies. We have only a few chickens left and no more pigs; we ate one of our cows and two have been stolen. We do not have the money to replace them.

An officer comes to our door. He is very polite. He compliments Mama and Femke on the farm and on how well they take care of the land. He wishes to take our milk for his officers. Femke is pleasant in return and the man keeps looking at Mama.

“Can I also trouble you for some eggs?” asks the officer, but it is not really a question.

“Of course,” says Mama. Greta and I run to get some. We put only the small ones in the basket and hide the other ones under some hay. When we hand the eggs to the officer, he asks, “Are you sure there aren’t more?”

“Yes,” I say too quickly.

He looks at all of us, as if he is taking a mental photograph, and then he thanks us and leaves. Once the door is shut, Femke complains and stamps her feet.

“They take too much,” she says. “How am I supposed to trade for other things once the milk and eggs run out?”

I tell her what Greta and I did with the eggs and she nods her head.

“You must take half of those into the town and see if you can trade them for tea.”

Femke takes her milk to the mill in exchange for flour. She has not traded for any alcohol since the war started.

I take the bus to the town that used to look pretty but is no longer picturesque and colorful. The German vehicles and officers have covered the town in gray and black.

I notice that there is a group of people standing in the center of the marketplace. They have their hands tied behind their backs. Some are only children. As I get closer I see that one of them is Rani and I raise my hand to wave, but then I notice several German police officers who are standing there too.

Rani has seen me. He is pale and thin and ghostlike.

The officers are talking to the group, and there is also an interpreter from the Judenrat speaking Yiddish to Rani’s grandparents, who do not speak Polish well. An officer begins to yell in German at the group. He is frightening with his hard, brittle words as he tells them they have not followed orders, that they are to be punished.

I stay back in the shadow of the building and watch, and many other people have moved back also, afraid to be caught up in whatever is happening. The officer is telling the group in the center that they must be an example to others so that no one else will try to escape. I am scared all of a sudden that they will be taken to the prison camps that we have heard about: where Jews are not allowed to leave, where they have to work all day, hammering stone.

Some of the older ones are ushered forward. Then one of the police officers walks over to them and—before I have even understood what is happening—shoots a man in the head. The man crumples to the ground. The officer moves to the next one and does the same and then the third. Then they bring more people forward and I am staring, stunned, unable to believe the brutality. It is as if I cannot wake from a nightmare. There are around twelve in all who have been shot, and then Rani’s grandparents are brought forward. I see that Rani has screwed up his eyes and he cannot look. The other children are crying for their dead mamas and papas.

Someone else is pulling the bodies away and members of the Judenrat are piling them into the back of a truck, like waste, one on top of another. One member of the Judenrat does not flinch like the others who squeeze their eyes and lips closed when someone is shot. I wonder how hard that man’s heart must have grown for him to do such a job, to betray his fellow Jews.

Rani’s grandfather is on his knees and he is crying and begging for his wife and grandson to be saved. His wife is kneeling beside him and then it is over. Rani has heard but he has not seen. He will not look. Then there are just the four children, who are screaming. The officer is angry and tells the other soldiers that children must be shot first in the future. One of the children starts to run away and is shot in the back, and then the officer marches several yards to where the child has fallen, stands above him, and shoots again. The other children are dragged to the center and told to stand still. The girl is whimpering, and the boy is wailing: loud wails that hurt my ears. There are two more shots and then it is just Rani, who has not moved and has his eyes closed still.

I start to rush forward but am grabbed on the arm by a boy some years older than me.

“Are you crazy?” he asks. “Where do you think you are going?”

“He is my friend.”

“They will kill you too if you try and intervene.”

“But I am a Jew.”

“Be quiet!” he says. “You don’t need to tell
them
!” The officer walks to Rani and pulls the trigger and Rani falls to the ground, as if he is playacting. The fall is graceful and gentle, like everything else he did in life.

I drop the basket and almost let out a scream but the larger boy has grabbed me around the chest and has his other hand over my mouth. He drags me down the street and behind a building, and keeps his hand in place until I stop resisting. He is big and strong and I am no match.

“Listen,” he says. “Their time will come. For now you have to be patient. You have to do as they say.” When he sees that I have gone still, he releases me and walks away.

I walk back into the square, and Rani’s body has already been discarded into the truck, which is leaving. I pull my cap over my face and notice that the eggs from my basket lie broken on the ground.

When I am home, I tell the others what I saw. I do not care this time if Greta and the smaller ones hear me, for they must know, though Greta still does not know our secret. She cannot. Mama says I must not go alone to the market anymore. I have no appetite and no more tears. The boys and Greta come to my room. Greta rubs my back. She has tears in her eyes for Rani.

The boys are silent. Greta does not say what is in her eyes, not in front of the boys, but she tells me later that she is relieved that we are not Jews, that it is one less thing for Mama to worry about.

Mama bakes the bread and we are given smaller portions to feed everyone.

“But this is not enough,” I say. “I am so hungry. How am I supposed to grow taller?”

Everyone stares at me except the older Jews, who look down at their plates. The grandfather passes me some of his but Mama stops him.

“No,” says Mama to the newcomers. “Don’t feel bad.”

I storm into my room with my stomach aching, and I throw myself on the bed. Mama follows me in and lies beside me. She wraps her arms around me and squeezes me.

It has been weeks since I saw Rani killed, and I do not like Poland anymore. I tell her that I wish we had never left Germany, that it would have been safer there. But I don’t mean what I say. It is the hunger talking.

Mama tells me to keep my voice down—even the Jews who are living in our barn do not know our origins.

“People know us in Berlin,” says Mama. “You would have been given away. No one here knew of Emmett or his background.”

I look down at Mama’s arms that are wrapped around me and have grown so thin, and remember then that Mama has less food than everyone else.

“Mama, I will try not to complain anymore.”

“Oh, my poor boy!” she says. “I am so sorry for everything. I wish that the world were not like this. I wish for you to know a fair world . . . to have a childhood without worry, without hunger.”

I fall asleep and when I wake she is gone.