Pastel Orphans (4 page)

C
HAPTER
7

1939

Mama announces that we are going on a holiday to see her sister and we are taking a train. She has pulled out the suitcases from the hallway cupboard and wipes the dust from them.

Greta says she doesn’t want to go, that she doesn’t like trains. I tell Greta that she is making that up just to be difficult.

Mama helps each of us pack. We are leaving tomorrow, and it sounds exciting that we are travelling at night.

It is the afternoon that we are leaving, and our suitcases are by the door. Mama is wearing her best suit and a smart hat.

I am wearing my trousers, braces, a white shirt, a buttoned cardigan, and a coat, which is too short in the arms now, and my shoes are scuffed. Papa isn’t well enough to polish them.

Mama calls us into the living room to tell us about the trip. She says we will travel through the night so we can sleep, and that we must not talk to anyone. She is looking mostly at Greta when she says this.

“Riki, from now on, when we are out, or if someone asks you, you must introduce yourself as Henrik Klaus, not Riki Solomon, and you, Greta, are Greta Klaus. I want you to pretend you are actors in a moving picture.”

I remember the identification cards and it makes sense now. Mama has been planning this trip. I don’t like this plan because I am remembering that I did not see Papa’s cards.

“And what about Robin?”

“Papa’s cousin and my friends will take turns looking after Papa and Robin. And on other days, Papa will look after Robin.”

I know that Mama is lying, because Papa can’t get out of bed.

“Why can’t Robin come?”

“I doubt she would be happy to travel . . . and besides, Papa likes the company. It will be good for him.”

“How long are we staying there?”

“For a few months, possibly longer.”

“But I thought it was just a holiday.”

“It will be a long holiday.”

“And Papa . . . when is he coming?” It has taken me a bit longer to ask this question because I fear the answer.

“Your papa might join us later . . . I’m not sure when.”

“No!” I say. “We can’t leave without Papa!”

I run into the room to see him. Inside his room it is dark and I can hear his heavy breathing. Hannah is there also. I did not see her go in. She must have crept in during the night. Mama has followed me in.

“Papa,” I say, “you have to get better quickly.” He lifts one eyelid but he doesn’t say anything. It is as if he doesn’t know me.

“Come out, Henrik,” Mama says gently. “I want to explain.”

Mama closes the door carefully so that it doesn’t make a sound.

“Is it because someone will take us away? Is that why we are going?”

Mama blinks and looks at me.

“It is because the place we are going to is better,” she says. “Hannah is looking after your father and after he is better, he will come and join us.”

“What about our things here?”

“Well, Papa and Hannah will try to sell the place and put money in our bank.”

“But why can’t we just stay here until it is sold?”

“The place is too big and our savings are gone, dear Riki.”

“But I don’t want to go.”

I see there are tears in her eyes, and she turns to put the back of her hand against her mouth. I rush forward to hug her and Greta does the same. The three of us cry but I do not understand why it has to be so sad. Soon Papa will join us and we will have lots of money in the bank and we will be living in a new apartment.

“But why do we have to go so far away from Papa?” I ask.

“Because Berlin is not safe at the moment. There is a lot going on here. There are a lot of changes that are not for good.”

I remember that Reuben, Marian, and Zus were sent far away because Reuben said something that someone didn’t like.

“Has Papa said something bad?”

“No,” says Mama, “of course not.”

“Mama, is it the Führer who wants to change things?”

“Yes.”

“What things?”

“He wants to take nice places from good people and give them to only those people he likes.”

“Why?”

“Because as the leader he can do what he likes.”

If I were the leader, I wouldn’t change things. I would make sure that everyone was happy.

“Now, children, you have to say good-bye to your father, but one at a time. You first, Greta.”

Hannah has gone to the kitchen so that we can speak to Papa in private. Greta disappears into his room. She is in there for five minutes and Mama keeps looking at her watch. She is walking around in circles, looking nervous. Occasionally she walks to the window. I start to get nervous and stand and walk too, but she tells me to stop moving and sit down.

Greta comes out. She is smiling. Smiling! After she has said good-bye to Papa! “He says he might be able to come soon. He said that one day we will all be together.”

Mama purses her lips. “Go on, Henrik. Go and say good-bye to your father.”

I enter the blackened room, which smells like disinfectant and sweat and old wood and cod-liver oil and chemicals. I think how horrible it is for my father to be trapped like this.

I sit near Papa. I am scared at first to go too close because his eyes are closed and his breathing is loud and scratchy. But then his arm stretches out and he grabs my wrist gently with long bony fingers that remind me of the skeleton in
Treasure Island
.

“Hello, Son,” he whispers through cracked lips that barely open.

“Do you need some water, Papa?”

“No.”

“When will you be better? Will you be coming soon?”

“I don’t know, Riki. Nothing is ever certain. Time means very little.”

I do not ask him what he means because I can tell that it hurts him to speak.

“You are older and more responsible now. Take care of yourself, and take care of your mother and sister too. I know you can do it.”

“I will, Tateh.”

He opens his eyes into slits and I can see that his eyes are the color of the deep ocean, which again reminds me of
Captains Courageous
, and this thought makes me cry. I lie down beside him on the bed and he moves slightly to let me in.

“There, there,” he says, stroking my head. “Everything will be better soon. As long as there is a sun and a moon, there is another day to love and fight.”

“Tateh, I love . . .” I don’t finish because my words have turned into a whine, and I begin to sob so hard that my chest hurts.

Mama enters. “Henrik, go to your sister,” she says in an urgent voice.

“Good-bye, Riki,” says Papa.

“Good-bye . . .” And I run out of Papa’s bedroom and down the hallway to my room, where I throw myself on the bed. I hold Robin tightly to my chest and she purrs loudly in my ear.

A short while later Mama knocks on the door to say that we are leaving. Her voice is weak and her sentence cracks in the middle. When I come out, she is cleaning her face in the kitchen. I see that her makeup is smudged and her eyes are red and puffy. In front of the entrance mirror, she layers her makeup thickly to cover the red blotches on her cheeks, then paints her lips brightly once more. She is wearing the lovely coat that Papa bought her several years ago. It is light blue, lighter than her eyes, and the scarf around her head is patterned in the same color.

At the door she looks at Greta and nods her head, and then turns to me and frowns, just slightly, as if she should alter something but can’t. She checks that our papers are in her handbag. She has done that four times in the last few minutes, forgetting that she has already checked. Her hands are shaking.

“All right, children,” she says. “It is time to leave. I want bright, happy faces all the way to the train station. If anyone asks, we are going on a holiday. Now, remember about your last names. We are actors in a play. Do you both understand?”

I nod. Once Greta sees me nod, she nods also.

We catch the bus and Mama smiles at everyone. She sits near some people and remarks on the lovely coats of the other children and how pretty they are. It is a different Mama than I have seen, but then I remember she is now an actress, so when the people turn to me, I smile, wider than normal. We get off the bus and walk to the train. My bag is very heavy and I have to carry Greta’s as well. Mama also carries two suitcases.

The pavement is slippery with snow and we step carefully, except for Greta, who slips and falls and starts to cry. A policeman rushes to help. He is very handsome and asks if Greta is well enough to walk.

Mama answers for her sweetly, and the officer can’t help but smile back and asks if we are going on a holiday. Mama says yes, that she is visiting her sister but that she is looking forward to returning to Berlin, which is the best city in the world.

The officer carries one of Mama’s suitcases and Greta’s. Mama buys some tickets. We have to talk to the officer some more while we wait for the train, and Mama lies that she is a widow.

Greta whispers to me, “What is a widow?”

I whisper back, “None of your business. Be quiet.”

“What is your name?” the man asks.

“Karolin Klaus.”

“Well, Karolin Klaus,” he says, “I hope we meet again.”

The officer continues to smile. Greta is staring at Mama curiously. I grab my sister’s arm and squeeze it, just in case she is thinking of saying anything that might give away our disguise.

We climb aboard the train when it arrives; it has a picture of an eagle on the front carriage. It is filled with people, and we find some seats at the end that are not taken. Mama collapses in the compartment. She has taken off her smile and it is the old Mama again.

The officer waves to us as the train takes off.

“Snake!” Mama says, her teeth together. I don’t know why she doesn’t like him but this makes me laugh, and then Mama smiles and laughs, but only briefly. But any laughing is good because she does not do that as much as she used to when I was small like Greta.

“Mama, why is he a snake?”

“He just is,” she says dreamily, looking out the window. We watch the lights of the city disappear behind us. We watch the buildings get smaller and then there are less buildings and more trees and smaller houses. The train ride is bumpy and the door rattles and air creeps in, making a whistling sound. I breathe on the windows and this leaves a white mark.

Mama wraps scarves around our necks. I take mine off again. Greta doesn’t. She puts her head in Mama’s lap and I watch her eyes start to droop with sleep.

A ticket man comes and asks for our tickets and our papers. He looks at our pictures and at us. Mama has put her bright smile on again but this officer doesn’t notice. He does not smile back. He takes his job very seriously.

It is almost completely dark. Mama pulls out a tin and opens it. Inside are pastries filled with cheese and sausages. I take two of each. I go to take another one but she says it is for Greta when she wakes.

The train makes a nice sound. It is like music. It goes
che mm che mm che mm
and makes me sleepy. I lean on Mama’s shoulder.

Mama wakes us very early in the morning and tells us that we have to change to another train. We step across the railway line and wait an hour. I breathe out for as long as I can, and watch the steam rise from my mouth. Greta does the same.

This platform does not have many people. They are old here. We get on another train and it rattles across countryside. The sun has just come up, and its orange light shines so brilliantly across the tips of pointed roofs and through our window that I have to squint to see. We pass lots of fields with cows and horses and sheep and geese, and then we come to another train station.

“Where are we, Mama?” I say.

“Zamosc.”

This station is much smaller than the one in Berlin. There are only a few people waiting. The platform buildings have tiny windows. We cross the tracks and walk to the park where we are to meet my aunt Femke. We pass a fountain where the surface of the water has frozen.

“Is this where we are going to live?” asks Greta.

“No, not here,” says Mama. “Our house is in a little village. It is still a distance yet.”

Mama tells us to wait in the park while she buys two sodas. Then she returns and we drink these and have the bread and cheese that she has also brought. We wait and wait, and Greta and I lie on the snow until Mama tells us to get up again. People pass us by and wave from carts and cars, and we wave back.

Mama looks at her watch and frowns. Then a small truck pulls up beside us. It has a high front bonnet and a tray on the back. Femke gets out of the truck. She looks like Mama, sort of, but she is smaller, wiry, and her face is hard and lined. She wears a gray skirt down to her ankles and boots, and a shirt buttoned all the way to her neck. Over this she wears a drab gray coat which looks like a man’s. Femke has more lines around her eyes, and the veins are protruding on the back of her hands, which are also wrinkled. She is like a dried-out version of Mama.

Mama rushes to Femke and they hug, though Mama is more affectionate than Femke, whose arms do not stretch all the way around Mama, but rather bend at the elbow. Mama calls us to stand to attention beside her.

“This is Henrik and Greta.”

“Hello,” we say.

Femke says something that I do not understand.

“In German, please,” says Mama to Femke.

“Tsk,” says Femke, but she does not hug us. She turns away, disinterested, so we say nothing more.

I cannot fit in the front of the truck and have to sit in the back. Greta asks if she can sit with me. While Mama is thinking about her response, Femke says that it is all right.

“Is it safe?” asks Mama. “It will be very cold.”

“Of course it is safe,” says Femke. “It is nearly spring. It’s not that cold.” She turns to us. “Just hold on to the sides in case of the bumps.” Mama frowns.

Our bags are put in the back also. We drive along a track which is bumpy and not smooth like the roads in Berlin. There are no pavements to walk along. There is nothing here—just areas of land with houses, the same as we have seen from the train.

There are blankets in the back, and Greta and I huddle underneath them because the wind is nipping at our cheeks. The blankets smell like grass. My nose feels frozen and Greta’s looks red.