by Alex Amit
After my hands cover it with dirt and stones, I stand up and pack in the ground with my feet while looking around, trying to remember the exact location in my memory, promising myself to come back one day and get it back.
“Now it’s time for the Jewish girl issue,” I whisper to myself as I sit down and lean against the wall of a nearby building, trying to unravel the yellow badge from the dress with my fingernails and teeth.
“What are you doing?” the strange boy asks, surprising me, but it seems to me that my answer satisfies him. He just stays close to me, watching curiously as my fingers try to tear the sewing stitches.
“Hang on a second.” He runs down the alley.
My eyes follow him, but I have to get back to my unraveling, I have to hurry before someone notices.
“Try this.” He hands me a rusty nail and I thank him with a little smile.
“Are you afraid of the Jews?”
“No, why?”
“Mother says that the Jews bring diseases, like the rats, and that they want to take over the world, she saw it in an exhibition.” I look up at him, trying to figure out his intentions, popping the stitches more quickly with the help of the rusty nail.
I must not think about the posters for this horrible exhibition. They have been pasted on billboards all over the city, inviting the public to come see how we have big noses and lots of money. Posters that made me hate myself and my family every time I passed them by.
“The Jews are just ordinary people,” I answer him, and wonder what to do with the yellow badge resting in my palm. I despise it, but Mom had to pay for it with expensive clothing stamps instead of buying clothes last winter. I’d sat in our cold living room and watched her silently embroider them on our clothes, hating her for giving in to the Germans’ rules. Where is she now?
“Mom says they’re like rats, and the sign can be seen.” He points with his hand, and I notice that a less-faded mark remains on the dress fabric where the yellow badge had been.
“Hang on a second,” I hear him say as I try to rub the cloth and smudge the less-faded place, noticing that he is running down the alley again, dipping his hand in a bucket filled with water which lies at the entrance to one of the buildings.
“Here you go.” His mud-smeared hand passes over the fabric of my dress and smears the area, painting it brown as he passes his hand over my chest, not noticing my cringe.
“Now you can’t see.” He steps away and carefully examines the covered stain, while I look at my dress. Now I’m just a normal, neglected girl.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Hang on a second.” He turns away from me and runs, entering the doorway of the next building. But after he disappears from sight and only the sound of his footsteps is heard, and although I am still hungry and know I must get more food, I get up and quickly walk out of the alley to the main street. I have to stay away from his mother, even though I am not a Jew girl anymore. I left my identity and a buried diary under the street stones behind me in the alley, but the yellow badge is still in my dress’s pocket. I could not throw it away.
Les Halles, Paris center food market, four days later
“She’s hiding somewhere here, check between the horses.” I hear the panting voices of the two policemen looking for me.
For three days now I have been hiding in the streets near the huge market building in the center of the city. Every time I hear voices coming close, I change my hiding place and try not to be noticed by anyone, silently praying while closing my eyes. For three days now I have been waiting for the dark hours, so I can go out and look for something to eat, moving carefully among the merchants who unfold woolen blankets and stay asleep on their goods stalls, guarding them from thieves like me. Every night I move slowly under the huge market construction, hiding and peeking behind the big wooden carts used to transport sacks and goods, waiting for an opportunity. A fallen vegetable, a few forgotten radishes, a slightly torn sack of potatoes that I can expand with my fingers, I will settle for anything I can lay my hand on.
After four days of running, I’m hungry and tired and dirty. Mathilde’s slices of bread are a distant memory of a sweet taste, but I try not to think about them, it makes me hungrier.
For the first two days I was lucky and managed to find some cauliflower that fell from a broken wooden box and was forgotten, but that’s all. Yesterday, I almost stole some carrots. I noticed a skinny merchant who’d left his cart abandoned for a few minutes. He went to greet his friends, joining them for drinks, and I tried to take the opportunity. Slowly I approached the cart while they talked, careful to stay shaded and not enter the light of the small lantern which hung over the stand.
“This Calvados is pure nectar; Pierre always has the best apples.”
“For you, always the best.”
“Finally, the Germans are cleaning the city.”
“Yes, they show us how to lead herds in the streets, without a lot of dirt.”
Under the cover of laughter, I took a few more steps towards a torn sack of carrots.
“Pour me some more Calvados.”
“Now you are becoming like the Jews, wanting to rob all my property.”
The sounds of laughter became stronger, allowing me to stretch my hand towards the cart, but as I pulled my hand out of the sack, holding a handful of sweet carrots, one of the sacks fell on the market floor, and Pierre’s friend noticed me. Since then, they and the police have been trying to lay their hands on me.
My dress is already torn from that time I slipped on the stones as I ran at night between the aisles, escaping from the policemen’s whistle and the footsteps of their hobnail boots approaching me. I managed to escape that time, but my knees have been bleeding since then, painting my legs in burgundy stripes.
Only the cargo horses do not care. They don’t chase after me, allowing me to hide among them in the haystack that lies in front of them. Their soft noses sniff me curiously as they leisurely chew the straw, indifferently waiting for the end of the day. Close to each other they hide me in their presence until evening time, when they are harnessed to the merchants’ carts. Then they will say goodbye to me, not before letting me stroke their noses with gentle motions, assuring me they will return tomorrow before sunrise with new merchandise.
“Shhhhh… be quiet,” I whisper to them. Soon the evening will come, and I will be safe. Maybe the policemen will give up and go hunt another girl, or return to their families and to the dinner table. I must not think about food, the hunger makes it difficult for me to hide motionless. Please go away, with a little luck I will live another day.
“There she is.” I hear the shout followed by a whistle from the policeman, and footsteps pounding the pavement. I rise from my hiding place and start running through the haystacks, skipping over a metal fence and not looking back, ignoring my painful knee.
I must not stop running. My feet carry me into the narrow passages between the empty boxes, panting while passing among some sellers who follow my run, but the steps behind me do not give up. The pounding of their feet hits my ears like a speeding train moving after me and never stopping. No matter which aisle I choose, they keep following me, whistling and yelling at me to stop. I can’t give up, I run with a hunched back, so as not to attract attention as I skip past a pile of sacks waiting to be thrown to the garbage, choosing a new path and trying to listen to the chasing voices, even though my breathing interferes. Have they lost me? Their voices are no longer heard, I have to look back while I keep on running, and then I get hit and fall.
He’s a big man, really big, sweaty, wearing a grey tank top full of stains and smelling of sauerkraut, a filthy beret on his head, and his eyes looking at me with interest as I lie on the floor at his feet. He bends down to pick up the wooden crate that fell from his hands when we bumped into each other, and to my horror, I see a yellow badge on the pavement at his feet.
The big man’s movement stops.
My gaze meets
his as my fingers search the pocket of the dress, feeling the tear there. What can I say to him? I gasp and try to overcome the pain in my leg, ignoring the blood, but I’ve run out of energy to escape.
“Did you see a girl run down here?” I can hear the cops’ voices on the other side of the pile of crates.
“I have not seen, ask him.”
My eyes beg for mercy as I look at the big sweaty man in the grey tank top, not knowing exactly what to ask from him. Maybe he will protect me or help me, please do something. In a moment they will emerge around the corner and I will be part of a group of Jews gathered in the street, marching towards an unknown destination like a herd of cattle.
The man looks at my begging eyes and through the narrow aisle over my shoulder, seeking those who are chasing me. After a second, without saying a word, his huge arms, which until then had loaded empty wooden boxes into a grey pickup, grab me as if I’m a sack of potatoes. With one push he throws me into the van’s trunk and I hit the hard metal floor, fighting not to scream from the intensity of the pain.
“Have you seen a girl running here?” I hear them panting while they speak to him, as I crouch in the trunk, hiding behind the wooden crates that he continues to load.
“Gypsy girl?”
“We suspect she’s Jewish, we are catching them all.”
“She was really stinking; she passed me and ran that way.”
They do not even answer him, only the sounds of their shoes are heard moving away from me, mingling with the thumping of wooden crates which are loaded on the van at a steady pace, building me a growing protective wall, while I lie on the cold metal floor, letting my breath relax a little.
Finally, I hear the trunk door slam shut and the twilight which has penetrated through the opening is replaced by darkness, and after a few minutes the pickup engine makes a rumbling noise and we start driving. The bumps of the shaky vehicle on the pavement stones hurt me, and I try to sit so as not to get hit by the metal floor.
I have no idea where he’s taking me, but I can’t think about it right now.
Why has the car stopped? My ear presses against the metal side of the trunk, trying to listen to the sounds outside. The van door opens and closes, shaking the van slightly. I can hear footsteps nearby, talking and laughing, is he alone? Is there anyone else with him? Did anyone wait for him? What are they planning for me?
The creaking of the trunk door and the noise of the crates being moved makes me jump and I notice his silhouette in the dark.
“You can come out.” But I’m afraid to, I feel safe here.
“You can come out now, it’s safe,” he repeats himself and gives me his hand.
My palm disappears in his big hand as he helps me stand on the street, supporting me for a moment as I try to straighten my sore legs. Even though we are already out of the market, the smell of his body remains as strong and unpleasant as before. We are still in Paris, but in another neighborhood I do not know. The street is narrow and almost completely dark in the evening, and I cannot read its name from the small sign painted at the end of the nearest building. Where am I?
I try to look around, but he rushes me. A barrel thrown in the street, a wooden cart tied to a stand, several posters taped to the wall expressing appreciation for the government’s achievements, and one streetlamp scattering a dim light. That’s all I get to see. Where did the man he was talking to go? The one I’d heard while in the car?
“Follow me.” The big man enters the nearest building.
My foot stumbles when I bump into the first step in the dark and I hit the wall, trying to stabilize myself with my hands, but he does not stop and I have to follow him into the dark stairwell. The creak of his shoes on the wooden boards is clearly heard, where is he taking me? My hand holds the simple railing firmly, leaning on it for support as I get ready to turn around and run away.
His place is small, much smaller than our apartment. Does he live here? Only one room without an entrance hall, and that’s it. First he goes to the window and closes the curtain tightly, and only then does he turn on the light. I can still hear his breaths from the climb, as I watch him arrange the blankets on the metal bed, turning his back to me. In one corner there is a bathroom niche, a clothesline tied with several clothespins, a kitchen corner, two wooden shelves, a small table and three chairs, a tall, narrow wooden closet, and the iron bed next to the wall by the window. The big man turns around and faces me.
We inspect one another for the first time after those few seconds in the market. He is still big and sweating from the summer heat, in the same dirty tank top with the smell of sauerkraut, and the beret that had previously been on his head lies on the small table, but still he’s not smiling at me.
“Sit.” He hands me a chair, places it in the center of the room in a clumsy motion, and I sit down, watching the cream paint peeling off the walls. What shall I tell him if he starts asking me questions? But he stays silent, still checking me, shifting his gaze from my messed-up hair, down my filthy, torn dress, to my bare feet with clotted streaks of blood, and I look down.
“Your dress, take off your dress.” I hear the words coming out of his mouth, and slowly grow terrified.
Can I escape? Can I get up from the chair and run to the door? Did he lock the door? Where’s the key? Why didn’t I notice? Why did I follow him up the stairwell and not escape into the street? Why is this happening to me? Where is Mom? What should I do?
I give him a questioning look.
“Take off your dress,” he repeats and reaches out his hand. I freeze, so cold.
In a slow motion I get up from the chair, go to the corner of the room, turn my back to him and open the buttons one by one. A tear goes down my cheek, I cannot do it, why is he so big? I don’t deserve this.
The dress is sliding from my hands to the floor and I imagine I hear the noise of the fabric hitting the wood like a gunshot. Sometimes, in the evening, I would hear shots from the window. I sit down on the floor and cringe. My stomach becomes a lump of pain.
In slow motion I turn to him in my bra and panties, covering as much of my body as I can, and give him a pleading look. I have no strength to fight him, nor to escape.
“The dress, bring me the dress.” I kneel on the floor and carefully gather the cloth with my fingers, rolling it into a lump and placing it in the palm of his hand, protecting my body as much as I can with my other hand and looking at him. Why is he doing this to me?
When will he return? Will he return alone? I must be ready.
I have no idea how long it’s been since he took the dirty dress from my trembling hands and left. He bundled it in his huge palm, smiled at me and walked out the door, leaving me kneeling on the dirty wooden floor with only a bra and panties covering my body. Before I could escape, I heard the sound of the lock imprisoning me.
What should I do? How should I prepare myself? I must get out of here. Carefully I move the curtain that covers the window and watch the dark street. The streetlight is too dim and I’m not sure if there are two people standing in the dark entrance of the next building or if it’s just my imagination, but I step back, afraid they’ll see me peeking out of the window.
The door, is there another key in the room? How can I get out onto the street like this? In just a bra and panties? I have to find something to wear, but the door is locked and my fingers searching the high shelf next to the door can’t find a key. There are footsteps in the stairwell, run away! And I quickly get away from the door, sitting on the iron bed, not on the bed, I have to stand, or sit on the chair, the main thing is to be ready.
It’s not him, it’s someone else, the steps continue on. I must do something, there is a brown bag with bread on the kitchen counter, but despite my hunger, I don’t have the courage to eat, I’m too nervous, I want to scream.
Will he do to me what my mother always scared me about? I’ll die, it’s better for me to die, or defend myself and die, a knife, in the kitchen drawer there is a knife, I’ll use i
t. Again I hear steps up the stairs, be prepared, like this, when I sit at the end of the bed, my back close to the wall, holding the knife tightly in my hand, hidden behind my back, I must stop shaking, there is a key turning in the lock.
“It’s the best I’ve been able to get.” He places a package wrapped in newspaper, tied with a simple rope, on the chair. But I do not move from my seat at the end edge of the bed, I must be ready. My palm holds the knife tightly behind my back until my muscles tremble from the tension.
“What is it?”
“I got you another dress, more or less the same size.”
I slowly get off the bed. The noise of the metal springs rings in my ears as I carefully approach the package. My hand is still holding the knife behind my back, ready for any surprise, but he’s not trying to catch me. With a shaking hand I place the knife on the floor and open the bag, keeping the knife close to me. In the package there is a simple grey women’s dress, and I press it to my body in order to hide my nakedness.
“I hope it’s good enough.”
“Thanks.”
“You need to clean up,” he says, and turns to the small bathing corner, collecting ready-made soap and placing it in my hand. If he notices the knife lying on the floor, he ignores it and says nothing. He simply turns his back to me and goes to the kitchenette, starting to arrange groceries. I’m so hungry.
How can I clean up next to him? I can’t go to the bathroom corner to wash myself, knowing his eyes will look at my body. I can’t do it, it’s too much for me.
As he turns from the kitchen corner, probably wondering about the sound of breathing he heard, he finds me sitting on the wooden floor and crying. Without a word he walks to me, picks me up like I’m a rag doll and takes me to the bathroom. After placing me next to the bucket of water, he makes sure I am stable enough and puts the soap in my hand again, but I keep standing still with a begging look, smelling the strong scent of his body.
