Pastel Orphans (8 page)

C
HAPTER
13

1941

Femke comes home with more news from the town center. It seems that all of the Jews have now been transported to the old Jewish area, where the buildings aren’t safe. They have to live in squalor, Femke says, and I remember Rani’s house. She also tells us that some of them will be shipped to special camps away from the towns.

Femke recently acquired several new chickens. She and Mama are growing cabbages and spinach and tomatoes in the fields. We have to be careful with the tea but at least there is food. Femke says that she has heard from another person in the town that the camps are not what everyone thinks: that you never come out again. There are rumors that they are killing hundreds of Jews at a time.

Mama says that it is too horrific, that she doesn’t believe it. The Jewish family says that they don’t believe it either, that no one could be that appalling. Though it sounds too incredible, I remember the shooting in the square and I am not certain of anything anymore.

One evening, there is a knock at the door. A member of the Judenrat is there to reassign the Jewish family, but he tells us to keep the barn available in case there are more people to house. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in the barn.

Femke asks where the family is being taken. The official says they are going to the camps.

“Right away?” Femke sounds incredulous.

“Yes,” says the young man. “I have my orders.”

Behind him is a cattle truck. Through the slats along the side I see many Jewish families standing. There is barely room enough for the ones already in there.

“You mean to say they are being shipped in that?”

“Yes,” says the official, a little more impatiently.

I scan the faces and see that one of the people in the back of the truck is my teacher from school. He does not look at me. He is standing at the very back, staring at the road behind and holding a small suitcase, as if he is off to work. I want to catch his attention to wave at him, but he does not look our way.

“Well, maybe they can wait for the next one, where there is room to sit down,” says Femke.

The young man goes to the truck and comes back with a German officer.

“What is the problem?” asks the officer.

“The family won’t fit in there,” Femke says.

“There is enough room.”

“Why don’t you just leave them alone! They’ve done nothing to you,” she says. He ignores her and calls the names of our barn family from his list, telling them to get their belongings.

I have never seen Femke behave like this, as if she cares what will happen to them.

Mama and Femke escort the family to the door and wish them well. We have got used to the boys playing in the paddocks and the whole family joining us at mealtimes. During the day, the adults have been used for labor and they are thin and worn from the hard work. During the evenings, the father of the boys has been building Femke and Mama a large dining table and extra chairs, in appreciation of their generosity.

The boys are teary and say they don’t want to leave. Greta gives them a hug and tells them they are very nice and she would like to see them again one day soon.

As the truck pulls away, Femke doesn’t move from the door. Another cattle truck goes past, also crammed with Jews.

“Now are we better off?” she says sarcastically, shaking her head. She looks in the direction of the second truck.

“Bastards!” she says.

After the trucks have gone, Femke stays at the door. It is as if Medusa has turned her to stone.

I ask Mama later why Femke was so protective of the family.

“She is human like the rest of us. She believes in fairness. What is happening to them is not fair.”

1942

We are having cabbage and onion pie. It is delicious. Femke has used plenty of salt. We wash it down with coffee that Femke has smuggled in from the Jewish quarter in exchange for milk and bread. We have bought more seed and another hen with the last of Mama’s money.

We have not had to house any more Jews, since they are taken elsewhere now. My friend Jasper, the Catholic, and his family were told to leave the house his father built, and they have left for Lublin. One of the boys from school has signed up to work for the Germans. When I ask him why, he says that it is inevitable that we will fight alongside the Germans since they are now our rulers and they will rule the whole of Europe soon.

This makes me angry and I tell him that he is a simpleton. He kicks me in the leg and I hit him in the jaw. The next thing we are punching each other on the ground. It is my first fight in Poland. We are stopped by others who are standing close by.

When I arrive home, I tell Mama about the fight but she doesn’t get angry. Femke looks at me curiously.

“It is good to fight for what you believe in, but be careful you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Your aunt is right,” says Mama. “It was brave, what you did, but you cannot let your temper get the better of you.”

Then she brushes the hair from my eyes. “You are so like your father, Henrik. You are so passionate.”

I do not know what to feel when she says this, but it calms me a little to know it.

Femke comes back from the Jewish area. She often calls at the homes of people she knows to take them some milk, but she no longer asks for anything in return. It seems she has grown attached to some of them. It seems that she has a side that we rarely see.

She is flustered. Her neck is red and her eyes are tormented. There are even tears in her eyes, which I have never seen before. Mama makes her a cup of tea so that she can relax and find her breath.

“Greta,” I say, “go to the barn and feed the chickens.”

“But I don’t want to go. I always have to go!”

I tell her that she must, that it is important, that she can ride my bike whenever I’m not using it.

Once Greta is gone, Femke starts to talk. She tells us what she has seen in the dilapidated Jewish quarter. She says it is worse than anything she has ever seen, and that she witnessed the greatest cruelty just when she thought it could not get any worse.

She says that all the Jews have had to leave for camps to make room for more who will be coming to the Jewish quarter. She says they were herded into the marketplace like cattle and left there for hours, then forced onto the train with only the few possessions they could carry. She saw people shot after they protested that they would not go. She saw children and women die, and even babies.

Femke covers her eyes as if this will block out the images, but I know that it won’t. Every day I see Rani’s eyes and the look on his face before he died. There is nothing that can block it out.

Mama says it is a disgrace. I see that she is shaking as much as Femke.

“What is to become of us?” says Femke. She grabs Mama’s wrist. “You must never tell Greta who she is. It will never be safe.”

“One day,” I cry in anger, “I will announce it to the world that I am a Jew!”

“Stop it,” says Mama. “Please, Henrik, not now. You must control your temper. You must never shout such a thing again. Who knows who will hear it?”

“I don’t care.”

Mama asks where the people are to be taken. Femke gathered from the gossip in the market that they will be stuffed into overcrowded camps, or possibly killed before they even arrive there.

C
HAPTER
14

The sun is hot on my shoulders. I lean against the fence near the paddocks and draw a picture of the barn. I can hear Greta inside, talking to the chickens. Sometimes we take them into the forest in boxes to hide them from the Germans and the Judenrat.

It is quiet on this day, which makes it all the more strange when I hear the sounds of a motorcar slowing down in the lane at the front of our house. I close up my drawing book and go through the back door to peer from our front window.

A German car idles directly outside our house. Mama is at the side of the house, hanging washing. It is nearly the end of the summer and she is keen to catch all the sunrays that she can for drying. Mama doesn’t turn to look at them, perhaps pretending she doesn’t see them, and hoping they will drive on.

We have made good use of the farm. Several times, officials have inspected it and approved our work. I think today is another inspection, though these people are different from the others who have come. The motorcar is newer than others I’ve seen. It is long, shiny, and black and has the Nazi flag on the front. I can see through the glass that the men in the front wear patches on their collars. Two officers are sitting in the front and one in the back.

Many Poles have had to vacate their apartments in the towns and their houses in the villages because truckloads of Germanic Poles have been arriving lately, and they need somewhere to live. These German people who are colonizing Poland are called the
Volksdeutsche
. Some of the local Poles who are not German
enough
have had to leave on foot. We are the lucky ones. It is because of the farm. It is because we are putting food back into the community. Though, at the last inspection, Femke was told that the empty field beside the house will have to be handed in since she does not have as many cows as she did when her father was alive. It will be used for another building site. Mama has told Femke not to protest; otherwise, the Germans might take all of it.

The three men look to the side of the house. They have seen Mama, which I believe is why they have stopped here, because they do not appear interested in looking at the house. My heart is racing. I do not like Mama to be alone and watched. As the men emerge from the vehicle, I walk outside and try and stand as tall as I can. I have grown much taller than Mama, tall for my sixteen years, but still I wish to be as tall as Papa. The men see me and walk towards me to shake my hand.

“This must be the man of the farm,” they say, but there is no warmth in these words and I have grown so used to Polish that their German sounds foreign to me.

Mama has seen the car and walks to stand beside me. Two of the men take off their hats. Mama is wearing an orange sundress with straps that tie at the shoulders. She has long graceful arms that are tinted a pale shade of brown, from the sun. Her hair is not done up, not like it was in Germany. It floats about her like yellow streamers.

“Are you the owner of the farm, Frau . . . ?”

“Klaus. My sister and I own the farm.”

The third man from the back is checking something on a clipboard. He is going through some names.

“She is here,” he confirms.

“And this is your boy?” asks the officer.

“Yes,” says Mama.

“It says here there is a daughter,” says the third. There is something about this comment that sounds premeditated and Mama has sensed it too. There is a delay before she answers.

“Was,” says my mama. “She died recently.” And I am suddenly frightened for her that she has lied. I have already seen their methods of punishment for deceit.

The man checks his records. “You need to advise us if there are changes in circumstances,” he says. “You need to register the death with the Gestapo.”

“I am very sorry,” says Mama. “We have been so busy and it was unexpected . . .”

“Do you have the documentation?”

“Mama,” I say, before she has a chance to lie further. “Do you want me to fetch it for you?” I have no idea where or how I can produce such fake evidence but stealing the attention from my mother is the only thing I can think of to do.

“Not yet,” says the first officer sharply, the one who does not take off his hat. “What happened to your husband?”

“He died in Germany, which is why my children and I returned here.”

“Oh, that’s a pity. So much death,” he says with false sincerity. “What did he do?”

“He was a tram driver in Berlin,” says Mama, “until they cancelled some of the lines.” The third officer is taking notes.

“Must have been difficult, and such a shame to be widowed so young.”

“What is it that you want?” asks Femke, who has walked outside. I sense that she has been listening to the conversation, that she now wants them to get to the point of their visit.

“Our purpose is to make sure that the residents here remain loyal to our leader. We are recruiting for our orientation centers, specifically designed to help the Germanic Poles reacquaint themselves with their German origins. It is especially important for the design of the country.”

The officer who speaks is tall with light brown hair and light gray eyes. He wears the gray uniform, and a badge with three leaves is on his collar. His trousers balloon over the tops of his boots, which have been recently polished. The second officer has a badge with only two leaves and the third wears an insignia that looks like lightning bolts.

I hate the first man. He looks at Mama as if he wants to eat her. I do not like the way he pouts his thick, rubbery lips as he speaks, or the lack of sincerity in his tone. His uniform does not make him respectable.

“Well, as you can see,” says Femke, “we speak perfect German. Our parents loved Germany . . . Our father was born there, and we are faithful to the Führer.”

“Sure you are,” says the German with the three leaves unconvincingly. His movements are relaxed and unhurried; it appears he has much time to contend with matters here. He directs his speech to Femke.

“You keep your farm well and we are appreciative of your support. But there is always room for improvement. We are looking for loyal German women for our programs. Your beautiful sister here would be perfect.”

“No, please . . .” Mama’s clear voice has broken slightly. “I have my son . . . and my sister needs me here.” But Femke is calmer and talking smoothly, as if she is one of them.

“What are these programs for?”

“They are wonderful houses with beautiful kitchens. Women are taught so many things. It is a gift and an honor to be selected for them.”

Mama is frowning and has taken a step closer to Femke and me.

“Well, I would say that there are plenty of intelligent women from your own country you can employ. My sister looks good, but she does not make for a good wife. She follows the tasks I set for her but she cannot cook, she is a terrible mother, and she does not remember things well. You don’t need her.”

I understand why Femke is talking falsely. She wants to meet them on their own slippery, slithery, snakelike terms. She wants them to think that she knows as much as they do, that she understands their needs, that she is one of them.

“You don’t understand, obviously, that we wouldn’t be standing here if we didn’t need her.”

“Then tell your Führer that my sister is honored by the offer, I am sure, but she is not available. I need her here so that we can keep producing the food that keeps your officers’ bellies full.”

I can feel much danger in the air and it is dawning on me suddenly that they are talking about taking Mama somewhere far away, perhaps so far that I will never see her again. I put my arm around her.

“You cannot take my mother.”

The first officer laughs and the other two respond with grins, though the lightning bolt—the youngest of the three—appears more nervous than amused.

“You look like you are a loving family but we would take even better care of her. She would have more attention.”

I step forward then and the officer with only two leaves, who is much shorter and wider than the first, steps towards me.

“Do not do anything foolish, boy!”

The lightning bolt addresses the first man as Herr General and says that perhaps it would be better if they left her and found someone more suitable. That there are still many more places to inspect today, that she is already Volksdeutsche and such persons are needed here.

The general views Mama carefully with his roaming eyes. “She is perhaps too old for the program anyway,” he says. “Very well, ladies,” and this time he nudges his hat briefly, but that is all. He still does not raise it. The women here are not worthy of his respect. The lightning bolt tells Mama that she must bring documentation of her daughter’s death to their office in Zamosc by morning so they can record this in their register.

The men turn away and I sigh inwardly with relief that we have until then to decide what to do. We stand there watching them, since there is nothing else we can do and we are afraid to turn our backs.

“Mama! Mama!” yells Greta from inside the house. “We have new chicks.”

There is no time to turn, no time to hide. Greta comes out of the house and stops dead when she sees the car.

“You lied?” says the general viciously to Mama. He then turns to Greta, who takes a step backwards.

The first officer walks briskly towards her and bends down to speak close to her face. We are too afraid to move—we have seen their guns. We have seen what these can do.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Greta.”

“Is this your mama?”

Greta does not need to turn around. “Yes.”

“You are very beautiful.”

Greta smiles and lowers her head graciously. She is smart. She has seen the way everyone is standing like statues, and she has smelled the fear, but she does not look at me in case that would give her own fear away. She knows she must play along.

“And what is your name?” Greta asks squarely.

The first officer turns to the second and laughs a second time. “What an amazing young girl you are. But you don’t need to know my name. Did you know that I have a very important job?”

“No.”

“Well, I take young girls and women to live in beautiful cities. The girls there are fed cake and sewn new dresses. The beds are soft and it is always warm in these houses. Do you get cold here, Greta?”

“Sometimes.” Greta is always honest.

“Do you want to go someplace where you will have everything you want?”

“No,” says Greta firmly. “I like it here.” The smile on the officer’s face is fixed, shallow, and cold.

I don’t think I have loved Greta more than I do at that moment. She has been a loyal soldier and now she has grown to be a warrior princess also.

Lightning Bolt looks nervous. Two Leaves whispers something in the ear of the general, who nods.

“Well then, I think that since the mother is not coming, then we must look to the child, who will no doubt grow to be more beautiful than the mother.”

“You will not take her!” says Mama. All frailty from her voice is gone, replaced with the voice of a lioness: low and angry.

The officer holds out his hand to Greta but she does not take it. She turns then and the second officer swoops and grabs her around her middle before she can run.

“Don’t do this!” cries Mama. “Leave her! I will go instead.”

“Too late,” says the general flatly. Mama runs after the officer holding Greta and hits him on the arm. I try to take Greta but the lightning bolt grabs me from behind. I kick him between the legs but then feel a fist to my stomach. The second officer has done this with one arm while he holds Greta in the other.

Mama is hitting him in the face so that he will drop Greta. Femke pulls at Greta’s legs but then the third officer holds back Femke’s arms. I lie winded on the ground and Femke is restrained.

Suddenly, there is a sound like a crack. The crop that the Nazi general has in his hand is raised in the air so he can strike again, and I see that Mama has fallen on the ground. There is blood oozing from a cut to her face. Femke escapes the arms of the officer and rushes to her sister’s side. I rise and run towards the car. Greta is thrown into the backseat while the third officer hurries around to climb in beside her from the other side so that she cannot escape. She is crying and kicking at the door to stop it from closing and one of them has thrown a blanket over the top of her to muffle her screams.

As I get closer to the car, the door closes and the second officer drives the car away. I run after it and see that Greta is restrained in the backseat. She frees herself for just a moment and turns to look at me through the rear window. There is a look of terror and helplessness on her face. I run fast to reach her, hoping the car will stop, but it speeds away.

Something is thrown out of the window. As I approach, I see it is Greta’s silver locket. It is lying open on the road and Papa looks out from his photo as if he is a witness to what has happened.

Finally the car is out of my view, but I can still see Greta’s face in my mind. Her melancholy and fear have travelled behind the car to reach me. I pick up the locket and start back towards the house, bereft, despairing, and angry. I must get Femke’s truck. I must travel in the direction of the town. I sprint home.

When I arrive at our house, there is no sign of Femke or Mama outside, or in the living room. I go to Femke’s room and she is sitting beside Mama on the bed.

It seems that when Mama fell to the ground, she hit her head and became unconscious, and she is just now coming around. Femke has Mama in a sitting position against the headboard. She has a damp cloth across Mama’s forehead and with another she is dabbing at Mama’s wound, which extends from the top of Mama’s left eye and across the bridge of her nose to her cheek. There are splatters of blood on the front of Mama’s dress.

Femke’s hands are trembling badly. Mama is murmuring. I sit on the other side of the bed and hold Mama’s hand.

“Mama, can you hear me?”

Mama’s eyes are open slightly. She tries to speak but I cannot understand the words. I lean my head in and still I do not understand.