Pastel Orphans (6 page)

“She fell over,” I say. “She wasn’t looking where she was going.” But I do not give the exact circumstances and neither does Greta, as if she thinks she will be in trouble too.

Mama gets a cup of water and rinses Greta’s mouth out until the water runs clear.

“You have to be more careful,” says Mama to both of us. “Henrik, you have to keep a better eye on her.”

I don’t say anything but Greta smiles at me. When she smiles, there is a gap now and I feel guilt rise from my neck to my cheeks. She tells Mama that her mouth is feeling better, and she will be more careful when she runs, and she won’t do anything too silly. She has trouble saying words that end in
t
and
s
and I start to laugh, close to hysterically. Then Greta does too. It is not so bad; it is her baby teeth that she has lost.

C
HAPTER
9

Mama has begun to teach Polish to Greta and me. She says that if we want to go to school, we have to learn Polish.

The words are more complicated than German words and we practice them over and over again. Now, at dinner we are to ask for things in Polish and if we don’t, then Mama and Femke won’t respond.

I do not like the language. It sounds angry and looks messy.

We pull out Mama’s old bike from the back of the barn. Mama helps me oil the chain and then we paint the bike so that it looks new again. Greta wants the bike too but she can’t ride. I show her how, but the handlebars wobble a lot and she can’t steady the front wheel. It turns too sharply and she falls onto rocky cow dung. I think she will cry because she has grazed her elbow, but instead she gets up and tries again. I think that it is all right; nothing too bad can happen to her now, with her front teeth already lost.

After several goes, she is still riding unsteadily but she can stay on for ten seconds.

Mama and I clap.

Greta and I find a tree. It is wide and large and sits at the entrance to the forest behind our farm. I tell her that it is a magical tree, that only good things can happen if you believe in its magic. I tell her that it is also where we can store our memories, that the tree will remember and tell future generations about us. I tell her that if she tells the tree her hopes and dreams, they will come true.

Every day for a week she goes to the tree and whispers things to it. I watch her and don’t know whether to laugh. It is fascinating to me that she does this, that she continues to do what I say.

One time I am watching her from the window and Mama comes to stand beside me.

“What is she doing? Is she talking to the tree?”

“Yes,” I say.

Mama puts her hands on her hips. “Riki, this is not another one of your tricks, is it?”

But I don’t have to answer her. She already knows it is.

I wander across the field to where Greta is talking, and she appears irritated that I have disturbed her.

“What are you saying?”

“You said I must keep it secret.”

“Oh, but it is all right to share it with family, those of the same blood. The dreams and secrets are still sacred amongst family.”

She tells me then, blushing slightly but also pleased.

“I have asked the tree to watch over us, to keep us together. I have asked the tree to keep a special eye on you because you are important, because you make people happy.”

I get a lump in my throat and feel suddenly undeserving.

“That is very good,” I say in a formal-sounding voice. “But you know what we should do? I think that we should put new wishes in a tin beneath the tree and leave them there, and then we don’t have to keep coming back and reminding it.”

I take one of Femke’s storage tins from the kitchen and hope she doesn’t miss it. Then both Greta and I write our notes on pieces of paper, secretly, and place them in the tin. We bury it in the earth.

“This can also be a place in the future to leave messages,” she says excitedly.

I think then how intelligent she is—much more so than me. And I think that this will be the last time for tricks, that she is worthy of much better.

It is the first day at our new school. I am thirteen and Greta will be turning eight later in the year. Mama is driving us there and picking us up afterwards for the first week. It is a long walk because our farm is on the outskirts of the town, past the brewery. Mama, with the help of a neighbor, is building an extra seat on the back of the bike so that I can take Greta to school and back.

The school is a big square brick building with two floors and classrooms off to the side of a long hallway.

Mama greets the teachers. We take Greta to her class first.

It is a school that has both Catholics and Jews. Mama says that we are Catholic and the teacher looks at me longer than she does at Greta, as if she is waiting for me to agree or give a sign of the cross to confirm this. I do not understand adults sometimes.

Mama tells the woman in charge, in Polish, that the children only speak German. And the teacher nods. The teacher says to us in German that we will be speaking Polish soon enough.

Greta perhaps thinks she is only here to look at the school and then go home again. The other children look at Greta as if she is a new jewel. They are excited but Greta isn’t. She doesn’t like being looked at and turns her face into Mama’s arm. There are paintings around the classroom and toys on the benches to the side. Without the pictures, the room would be very dull, with scuffed, pale walls.

The teacher shows Greta her desk, but when Mama tries to walk away, Greta starts crying. Mama turns back to her but the teacher draws Mama from the room. I go to Greta and crouch beside her.

“My classroom is next to yours, all right? And whenever I can, I will come and see you.” From my pocket I take my handkerchief, which Mama has spent many unnecessary minutes ironing, and wipe Greta’s face.

Then I go to my classroom. Mama puts her arm around my shoulders. I am still a head shorter than Mama. I wish I could grow faster and be tall like Papa. Mama says it will happen soon, that I need patience. I am embarrassed when Mama kisses me on the cheek in front of everyone.

There are more boys than girls in the class, and the teacher is a man with shiny hair like my father. I am given a spot at the end of a long bench seat at the front of class. Everyone has writing books and a pencil, except me. The teacher talks in Polish and I struggle to understand his directions. The children lift the lids of their desks, the bases of which are all joined together. Other students pull out their books. I lift my lid but there is nothing inside. The teacher passes me his book. The first lesson of the day is German. The next lesson is mathematics, then Polish, and then it is art class.

The teacher comes to my side and says that it is all right for me to just observe for the first few days, but he hands me some paper and pencils to draw with.

The children break off into groups at lunchtime. Some talk to me but they don’t speak German. Some know a little bit of German but are not really interested in talking to me. Then there are some Jews who speak another language to one another. It is awkward and not like in Berlin, where I could make friends straight away. I find Greta and we sit on a bench together to eat our bread with cheese and bacon.

We have to draw the teacher, and the class becomes talkative and enthusiastic.

I concentrate on the shading around his small, unusual face, with the large cheeks and beard, and tiny round eyes. Because he reminds me of a cat, I draw some whiskers below his nose. Then the teacher says something in Polish that I don’t understand. He walks around the class examining the pictures, and I am suddenly embarrassed that I have drawn whiskers. He switches to German as he approaches me. I have covered my drawing with my arms. “Let me see,” he says firmly, his dark brown eyes fixed on mine like they will burn a hole in them.

I take away my arms. His eyes roam over my drawing.

“Hmm,” he says, nodding to himself. “Interesting . . .”

He takes it to the front of the class and holds up the drawing for the rest of the class to see. The other children snigger, and when the teacher smiles, their sniggers erupt into laughter.

“The winner,” he says, first in Polish and then in German, “is Henrik Klaus.”

I am surprised. I was sure that I would be punished for drawing whiskers.

Mama picks us up in Femke’s truck and I tell her that I need a work pad and pencils. I tell her about the day and about the drawing. Mama says that she always thought my wicked sense of humor would be my undoing.

“But I won a prize,” I say, and present the bar of chocolate.

When we arrive home, I ask Mama to help me with my Polish. I am determined that I must learn it quickly so that I can talk to the other children.

I have been at school for several months. I have two friends, Jonas and Rani, who are Jewish, and one friend, Jasper, who is Catholic. We race each other at lunchtime.

Greta doesn’t like the school very much. She has not learned the language as well as me, and sometimes the others mimic her accent. I tell her that they are not being mean; they are only wanting her attention because she is very pretty. But she wants to follow me. Jonas, Rani, and Jasper don’t seem to mind her there since she doesn’t say anything, just listens.

Greta and I used to ride all the way to school but since my friend Jonas doesn’t have a bike, we walk part of the way after we reach his place. One day, on the way home from school, Jonas says, “Let’s have a running race across the field.” I tell Greta to stay on the side of the road and watch the bike.

We race across the fields and down another track, and I am way out in front. He catches up when we come to another field, but I will not give up until I can outrun him, until I have won. Finally, we stop, once Jonas is out of breath and declares that I am the winner. We have been gone for a while and I suddenly remember Greta. We run all the way back, but we are slower now because we are tired, and it is getting dark. When we reach the spot where we left Greta, neither she nor the bicycle is there.

We call her name and knock on the doors of houses close by to ask if they have seen her. We go to the brewery as the workers are leaving and they have not seen her either. I am so worried and so is Jonas, and we despair together. We walk back to the school and find a teacher still working. I am too afraid to go home and tell Mama that we have lost Greta.

It is dark now and the teacher offers to drive us home. “The first thing we need to do is tell your mother.”

My legs are trembling and there is a pain in my chest such as I have never felt before, even worse than when we left Berlin.

When we enter the front door, Greta is inside, eating a piece of bread with jam. Her eyes are red and puffy. I have never felt so happy, and I rush to hug her. She turns away from me, more interested in licking the jam.

“What do you have to say?” says Mama.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Greta.

We learn from Greta that she had tried to follow us on the bike, thinking she would meet us halfway. She had begun to go roughly the same way we had, but then the fields and tracks confused her, and with the sun quickly fading, she had panicked, heading in a different direction. By nightfall, she was distraught and began wheeling the bike when her legs became weary from riding across the thick grass. Someone drove by and saw her, and was kind enough to bring her and the bike home in his truck.

Mama thanks the teacher for bringing me home, and then for the next ten minutes Mama lectures me on responsibility.

Later that night, Greta whispers in my ear just before she falls asleep.

“I can ride now. I rode for thirty minutes.”

I kiss her on her soft cheek, which smells like sweetened dough.

C
HAPTER
10

Several times, we have been to the markets in the city. There are many shops there, in the square. Mama takes me and Greta to the shoemaker—an old Jew. Mama says that we each need a new pair of shoes for school, that the ones we have are too worn.

Then we stop at the market stalls and Mama buys some flour and cheese and ginger, and later that night she makes cheesecake and gingerbread.

She looks better now—not so thin. She seems a lot happier, though I know she misses Papa, and every day she is hopeful that the postman will deliver a letter.

At school we have an athletics competition: Jews against Catholics. We cut out
J
s and
C
s and pin them on our shirts. The sports teacher thinks this is funny and adjudicates the trials. The next day of our competition, several parents come to the school to see what is happening. They don’t like what we are doing, segregating by religion in school—there is enough of that happening elsewhere. But the teachers assure them that it is harmless fun.

So far, the Catholics are winning. I am on the Catholic side, even though we have never been to church.

I look forward to art classes. We get to draw objects and sometimes there are free periods when we can choose who we want to draw. I draw Greta but I make her eyes bigger and her cheeks plumper.

“You like to caricature,” says my teacher. I have not heard of this before. “You perhaps have seen it somewhere in Berlin newspapers?”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I can’t remember,” which is true. Perhaps I have seen it done before.

“It is very good.”

I draw Femke and my friends and cows, and soon I draw scenes as well, and other portraits that are not in caricature. Soon my drawing book with its leather cover is bursting with pictures.

Mama says that I am very talented, that I am like my grandmother on my papa’s side.

We are playing soccer after school when someone points towards a group of people walking along the road towards us. As they get closer, I see that they are Jews. Some of them have long beards and skullcaps. There are women and children too. There are around sixty people.

One man comes to the fence and asks us where the mayor resides. We direct him towards the city. When they walk away, we feel sorry that they still have so far to walk with their heavy suitcases. The women do not smile at us and the children look at us wearily.

That night, I tell Mama and Femke what I saw and they do not look surprised. Mama tells me that the Jews have been expelled from Germany, that many are coming our way and some will go as far as Russia. I ask them why they all have to leave; surely there is room in Germany for some.

Femke says it is because Adolf Hitler hates Jews. “He wants everyone in Germany to look like your mama and Greta.” I am hurt that she doesn’t say my name also, and think that she did this purposely because I look more like Papa, and she doesn’t like him.

Mama and Femke have decided that we must go to Lublin by train from Zamosc. They have business there and Mama has to pick up a package from a lawyer’s office, which has been sent from Germany. She also needs to sign for some money.

Mama and Femke instruct us to sit in front of them on the train but we don’t want to travel backwards, so we sit across the aisle facing forward. Two men in robes, with long beards, board the train and sit opposite us. The older one, who is frail and thin, wears an enormous circular fur hat that reminds me of a lampshade.

Greta whispers in my ear, one hand covering her mouth so the sound does not escape to other ears: “Why is he wearing the hat?”

“To keep the lights on inside his head,” I whisper back, mock-serious.

She looks at me to see if I am telling the truth.

“Is that true?”

“I don’t know. You will have to ask him.”

Greta stands up and crosses the aisle to whisper something in Mama’s ear, and Mama says something quickly, then tells her to sit down again.

Greta whispers in my ear to tell me that Mama says that some Jewish men must wear the hat as part of their custom.

“What do you think the animal on his head would think of this custom?”

“I don’t think he would like it,” says Greta, frowning.

Greta stares at the hat, her mouth open. I nudge her to stop, but she doesn’t. Whether it is her curious look or the seriousness of her words, I suddenly find the whole thing funny and fight back laughter, so much so it hurts, and my eyes start to water.

And then a tiny giggle escapes me, like a squeak, and I have to cover my face with my hands to stifle the sounds. My amusement, now in the form of snorting, spreads like a sickness to Greta, who can’t hide it at all, and she collapses against me in loud fits of laughter.

Femke is so angry there is red fire leaping from her eyes when she looks at me. Mama looks horrified and puts her finger to her lips for silence. Femke says, “Be quiet.” She thinks she whispers this but it comes out like a loud hissing sound, and several people turn to look our way.

The older man with the hat purses his lips and stares at Mama as if she is the cause of all this. Mama apologizes for our outburst. He doesn’t respond but the younger man smiles. He presses his hand on the leg of his older travelling companion and says, “They’re only children.” Then he turns and looks directly at me, smiling with his black eyes as if he can also see the humor.

My laughter stops and I tell Greta to stop also, which she does instantly.

I don’t know why but I feel guilty that he is not angry. For the rest of the journey, I stare outside the window at the dull countryside. I am too ashamed to face them.

In the city we stop and have tea and cake at a bakery, and then Mama and Femke go inside a lawyer’s office while Greta and I wait outside on the pavement.

I notice that there are many Jews walking with suitcases. Some are led into various buildings. Greta asks what they are doing, and I tell her that they are looking for new places to live.

“Why?” asks Greta.

“Because they are Jews and they have been sent from Germany.”

“Will Papa be sent soon?”

“No, silly. Papa is not a Jew.”

Mama and Femke come out of the lawyer’s office, and Mama is wiping away tears. Femke tells us to hurry along or we will miss the train, and we walk at a fast pace to the station.

“I told you that the Jew would screw you for every cent.”

“Shut up,” says Mama, suddenly angry. “It is not their fault. It is not Hannah’s fault that she can’t sell the place. The jewelry that they sold is enough for now. We are lucky to have that.”

“Mama, what has happened?” I say, but do not look at Femke because she will give me dagger looks for asking about grown-up business.

“Oh, Henrik, your father’s cousin was supposed to sell the house but she has been told that she can’t.”

“Because she is a Jew?”

“Yes,” says Femke, curtly.

“Well, that is hardly her fault,” I say, repeating Mama’s words. “And what about Papa? Will he still come if the place isn’t sold?”

Mama turns to Femke as I say this, but Femke turns her head away. She does not look pleased about something.

“Yes,” says Mama. “Hopefully.”

We board the train and this time Greta and I face Mama and Femke.

“What is fornication?” asks Greta.

“This is what I don’t like about church,” says Mama to Femke, after we have returned home from church. “It leads to too many questions.”

Mama decided that we should attend church to say some prayers for Papa, for Jews, and for Germany. She said that the church is a safe place, and that with all the unrest we must practice our faith. I tried to tell her that we can pray for Papa without going to church, but this did not work, and we were forced to go.

Mama ironed my best shirt and Greta’s pale pink dress with the lace collar, which had become too small for her, and Mama had to quickly lower the hem.

Femke said that she is far too old to start practicing now.

At church, the priest talked about fornication as part of his sermon, saying that sex is a sin before marriage, just as murder and stealing are sins. Greta repeats these words.

Femke laughs. “See, it is a waste of time. It did not work on you.”

“Silence,” says Mama, but she is smiling slightly.

They think I am too young to understand what they have said, but I know that at some time Mama and Papa might have sinned.

Mama responds to Greta’s question: “It is young girls and boys who spend too much time together under the same roof before they are married.”

Femke laughs again. I have not seen her so humorous before and I start to laugh also. Mama asks Greta to go and fetch some eggs from the barn.

“Just tell her the truth,” says Femke after Greta is gone. “She will hear it from one of the boys at school sooner rather than later. They all talk about it.”

Femke is right. We have already discussed it at school, Jasper, Rani, Jonas, and I. It is when a man’s penis enters a woman’s vagina. Sometimes it leads to a baby, and sometimes it doesn’t. When I first heard of it, I tried hard not to imagine Mama and Papa. It sounds too disgusting.

“Not yet,” says Mama. “When she is a little older.”

The following weekend we do not go to church, or anytime after that.

One afternoon, I arrive home from school and Femke and Mama are sitting around a new radio that Mama has bought in the city. Greta goes out to feed the chickens.

Mama and Femke turn the dial and there is a strange station that is being broadcast in Yiddish. Then they turn to another one and a man is speaking in German, and he is reciting an article written by another German. He says: “If the Jew wants to fight, it is fine with us. We have wanted that fight for a long time. There is no room in the world for the Jews anymore. The Jew or us, one of us will have to go.”

I say: “I do not understand why Germans hate them so much. They are my good friends. In school they do not make trouble, and look at my shoes.” I hold up my shiny brown shoes that the old Jew made. “They are clever.”

Femke is sitting in the corner, stitching up a hole in some linen. She squints at me over the top of her glasses.

“You are a Jew, you silly boy. Did your father never tell you?”

I stand up. “What did you say?”

“Femke is being ridiculous,” says Mama, avoiding my eyes.

“I am not a Jew. My father’s parents were Jews.”

“What do you think that makes you and your father and Greta?”

“Quiet, Femke! That is enough!” warns Mama.

“I am not a Jew. My grandparents were Jewish but I am not a Jew.”

“He should know for his own sake,” Femke says to Mama.

“We are not Jews!” I shout.

“It doesn’t matter what you think, Henrik. Right now it is up to the Germans to make the decision. It is your blood that counts. That is the misfortune.”

“Misfortune!” says my mama. “What do you mean by that?” But Mama does not wait for Femke to answer. She turns to me. “Calm down, Henrik. Emmett stopped practicing the faith after we met so that we could get married.”

“It is not what he does. It is his blood. You are in denial. Your children are Jews, whether you like it or not. If it wasn’t for Jews trying to run Germany, then this country would be better off. Then the Führer would not be sending them here and making them our problem.”

“You can’t believe that,” says Mama, raising her voice. “It isn’t true. The Jews did not make trouble and they did not want control of the country. It is power and control that Hitler seeks. He is mad. He wants Germany in his own absurd vision.” She turns towards me with her arms outstretched. “Don’t listen to your aunt.”

“No, don’t listen to your aunt,” mimics Femke. “Your mother chased your father. Did she tell you? They met in Warsaw while she was studying music, and when he got a job in Berlin, she chased him there too.”

But I do not want to listen to Femke.

“I am not a Jew!” I shout. “If we were Jews, it would say so on our identity cards.” But as I say this, I am remembering the false name. I run from the house and across the paddocks until I find a lonely field on someone else’s property and sit beside a cow, and I tell myself and the cow that I am not a Jew. I am thinking of all the things that have been said in the past, of the way my father looks with his smooth, dark olive skin and dark brows, and of how I look the same.

It is very late when I return. The house is quiet. Femke and Greta have gone to bed. Mama sits on the couch under the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp.

“Sit down,” she says.

I do, but I am careful not to look at her. I feel not just deceived, but foolish also, for not seeing what was right in front of me.

“Part of what Femke says is true,” she says. “But much of her talk is because she is a bitter old Pole who does not concern herself with children’s matters.

“As far as the Germans are concerned, yes, you are a Jew. Your father was born a Jew but renounced the faith to marry me. Your grandparents weren’t happy. They were Zionists. Do you know what they are?”

I have heard only pieces of information. Mama explains that they are people who stick to the old practices and want to return to Palestine, rather than assimilate into the countries where they are living. She says that my father’s parents returned to Palestine and had no contact with their son after he married Mama. They have had no contact with Papa because they are unhappy with his choice of a wife.

I start to sob and hope that Femke doesn’t walk out from her bedroom and call me a sissy.

“Riki, I am sorry I have not discussed this with you, that I haven’t explained, but it is the reason we left Germany. If anyone found out about your origin, you would be sent away. We paid much for new identities to remove all trace.”

“And there I was, thinking that we were German spies with our new names.”

Mama smiles. “That is what I love most about you, Henrik. Never lose your sense of humor.”

“You should have told me earlier. I would have understood.”

“We felt . . . your papa and I . . . that you shouldn’t know, in case you were ever questioned. You give much away in your eyes. You wear your heart in them. And Riki, you must never, never tell Greta. Your aunt was wrong in what she did and I have told her so. We are not speaking. She can be hurtful sometimes; there is a bitterness inside her that grows each year, because she has never known love. Promise me you will not tell Greta.”