Shores Beyond Shores

by Irene Butter

I reread Mutti’s second line to make sure I understood. It didn’t help. Mutti and Pappi were right: my Poesie book filled slowly. Very slowly. Pappi didn’t write until June the next year, and Werner took until August! Everybody wrote nice things, but I couldn’t believe it took them so long to figure out what to say.

  Pappi wrote:

  You sweet little one,

  you belong to me,

  you belong to me,

  you are the most lovable.

  Then Werner:

  Dear Irene,

  Little person, I wish you in many ways much blessing and

  good luck.

  Your brother, Werner

  I laughed, as I didn’t know any other Werners.

  And then from Vera:

  When later on you are grown up and you re-read

  this album

  and between the lines you see this verse,

  I hope that it brings you joy and that you think of the one

  who is writing this now and even if we don’t see

  each other

  you still remain my friend.

  Vera.

  Well, of course we would see each other. Did she think we wouldn’t? We would be best friends forever.

  Someone had written a single line and left it unsigned: Vergeet mij niet. Forget me not. How could I forget somebody I didn’t even know?

  In the winter of 1941, Werner and I returned to Vondelpark, ice skates slung over our shoulders on white laces, and there, on a pole at the entrance, was a freshly painted sign, black letters on white wood: Voor Joden Verboden. Forbidden for Jews.

  “What?” I asked.

  “No!” Werner said. “I don’t believe it.” He kicked the pole, leaving a muddy print. “What are we going to do? Destroy the park?” He asked the air around the sign. “There’s no reason for it.”

  Then he looked at me, and his face softened. “Come on, let’s go home,” he added. “It’s just one more thing they are taking away from us to make us miserable. Let’s not give them the pleasure.”

  I tried to lift up my chin as I looked through the iron barred gates at all the people within. I saw how the iron fence surrounded the park, protected it, prevented people from going in. Prevented us from going in. I saw clearly now, though my eyesight blurred through welling tears.

  “I’m not so sure I wanted to skate,” I said to him, and to myself. “I think I’d rather play at home.”

  On our walks to and from school that spring, Vera and I saw more signs—in storefronts, on lampposts, in front of libraries—that forbid Jews from one thing or another. We ignored them as best we could, locking arms tightly as we went.

  In Miss Pino’s class, Vera and I practiced our handwriting, and Rudi picked my pencils up when I dropped them. Rudi was Jewish, and I wondered if that was why Miss Pino had sat us together. Vera wasn’t Jewish, or at least not as Jewish as me, since her family didn’t celebrate the holidays we did.

  From time to time, classmates would sign my Poesie book when I carried it with me. Lena, one of my classmates, wrote:

  In the heavens, there are angels.

  On earth, there are only naughty people and you are one

  of them.

  I laughed.

  Miss Pino even signed it, her beautiful handwriting straight across the page as if she could see invisible ruled lines:

  …to fly high without flickering, that is not what you

  should do.

  To become smart, no one becomes smart without effort and

  without work you don’t get anywhere.

  So serious, I thought. Why did teachers have to be so teacherly?

  “Rudi, would you sign my Poesie book?” I asked him.

  “You know my handwriting is bad. Can I do something else?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it tomorrow. I have to get ready.”

  The next day he took the Poesie book to his desk and hunkered over it throughout the break, flipping pages and pressing his hand into them.

  “Here you go,” he said giving it back. “Remember that a picture is a thousand words. So imagine what a few pictures are worth.”

  On every other page I had stuck stickers in my Poesie book. Pictures of bouquets, boys, girls, planes, a blimp, animals, a horseshoe, an automobile, but the one thing they all had in common was flowers. Every sticker included flowers. Now, scattered throughout the book, were new, non-floral stickers. A pig in a suit with a monocle. The wicked witch from Snow White. A boy in lederhosen with a giant cone of candy. A black cat. Rudi’s fingers had touched everything.

  When I returned home that day, I sat on the small bench by the window that looked out over our street. I watched for Pappi to turn the corner after getting off the tram from work. I wanted to show him the stickers. The sun shone through the slats, the stickers and the writing sparkled, and I felt good. Finally, he was there. Pappi in his hat. I ran downstairs and jumped into his arms as he entered.

  “You are getting way too big for this, Reni!” he said, though he caught me with ease and spun me around until one of my shoes flew off and landed in the dining room.

  “John, you are going to bring down the house with that ruckus,” Mutti said.

  “Pappi, I want to show you my book,” I said. I waited for him to take off his hat and sit down with me on the sofa.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  We read together what people had written.

  Werner came from our bedroom and announced the Henki Express was going to new destinations, including the USA! The Henki Express was Werner’s pretend travel agency. He studied other countries and when he was interested enough, he arranged pretend trips there. In the kitchen, Werner showed Pappi and me on a map how we would travel by train and then by ship to land in New York.

  With summer’s start, the sun strengthened, stretching out its warm light farther into the evening. It was June 1941 and Vera, Werner, and I stayed outside as long as possible. Along the nearby canal, we gathered on our bikes to ride along the water’s edge. My metal horse and Vera’s were fast friends as they flew along at a full gallop. We grasped the looping handlebars and steered the big-for-us wheels ahead. Go.

  At night, the brick paths along the canals were smooth trails. We barely felt the jiggling space between the bricks as our fat tires traveled over them. The young families were at home, and people roamed leisurely in twos. We sped along, heady with the early night smells of pollen and full leaves. Werner was strongest and could fly up the bridges and back down long before we could. Up and down and around. My ears jumped between the sounds of birds settling in for the night, bugs waking up, water lapping at the canal walls, a far-off barrel organ, and our chains rhythmic straining against gears.

  We picked up Rudi from his home. He was almost as fast as Werner and twice as graceful. His long legs and arms moved like a dancer’s. We took over a street, and rode side by side, all four of us. Evening lights slowly turned on here and there, reflections shining up from the water in shimmering light.

  We came upon a small park in the middle of a square with winding brick paths around small shrubs and statues. Rudi pedaled up, wound between the blackened shrubs, and disappeared. Werner came to a halt at the entrance and held up his hand for Vera and me to stop. We backpedalled on the brakes, both of us sliding into the back of his bike with a crack. Tacked up on a tree was a sign: Voor Joden Verboden. Jews Forbidden. In the lower right corner was an official police seal.

  “Rudi, come back!” Werner called, fear edging into his voice.

  “Rudi!” I screamed.

  I looked at the deserted streets and whispered to the night to let him come back before anyone saw. He flew back around the corner just then, almost knocking into us, his eyes wide and filled with light. Werner pointed to the sign. Rudi stopped smiling. All of our bikes, like eager steeds, strained to go on, but we turned back. Our horses had turned into just bicycles.

  As summer turned to fall, there were so many “last times
.”

  The last time we went to the cinema, Vera and I saw Snow White, and I hid my face behind Mutti’s arm at scenes with the awful stepmother. And then I was no longer allowed to go to the cinema, because Jews were not allowed, and Vera had to go without me and tell me about the films. She was a good storyteller, and it was almost as fun as the real thing.

  The last time we went to the park on a warm fall day, Vera and I lay in the grass on our towels and talked about how many babies we’d have when we got older. She wanted three girls, and I wanted one boy and one girl.

  There was the last time Werner kicked a soccer ball with his friends. And then he was no longer allowed to play on any sports teams.

  And finally, the last time I could go to school with my friends.

  It was a Saturday when Mutti gave me the news. She sat me down in the living room, a folded letter in her hand, and put her arms around me. On Monday, I was going to a new school. A school just for Jews. No more walking with Vera. No more sitting next to Vera. No more recess, or lunches, or Shirley Temple card swaps. No more Miss Pino. No! I stood up, ran down the stairs, and out onto the street. I walked fast to Vera’s apartment, the next block over, and knocked on her door. When she answered, the look on her face told me she knew, too. We hugged, and then her mom and dad hugged me, too. We stood there in a small circle, until it got awkward, which it sometimes does with adults, and Vera and I went into her room to play dolls.

  “Mom and Dad told me that your school is far away from here,” Vera said, putting a blue coat on her doll.

  “I don’t know where it is,” I said. “I don’t care. It’s just stupid.” My hands wouldn’t do anything today, not even dress dolls. My fingers just wanted to stay curled and asleep in my pockets.

  “We can always see each other after school, you know. I’ll keep you up to date on everything that’s going on,” she said, and put another coat—this one red and white polka dots—on the doll. “And you can tell me about all the new people in your class, and what your teacher is like.”

  “I don’t feel like meeting new people,” I said.

  Vera put a bigger, yellow coat on the doll.

  “Vera, your doll looks like a stuffed animal with all those clothes! Not very fashionable.”

  We both giggled at the stacked fabric around the doll’s middle. We played for the rest of the afternoon. My hands still felt heavy when I thought about leaving for school without Vera at my side.

  Two days later, Werner walked me to school before continuing on to his new one. Mutti and Pappi wanted me to have company, at least on this first day. Werner wasn’t so thrilled, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to go even farther, to a school called the Jewish Lyceum, all the way on Voormalige Stadstimmertuin street. Food trucks rattled by on the road next to us.

  “If we were on the Henki Express, we’d get to school faster,” he said. “The ole Henki would take us to school and even let us spend weekends in the countryside, or take a boat across to England. We’d see Big Ben and the Tower of London.”

  “Who’s Big Ben?”

  “It’s not a who. It’s a giant clock in a tall tower in London. It chimes like all the churches here in Amsterdam, only much louder. Even the Nazis and their bombs haven’t been able to stop the clock. It chimes and chimes.”

  Time could tick by, despite the Nazis. As if they never happened. Life could go back to what it was.

  “I want to see Big Ben with you. Can we go when we’re older?”

  “Yes. If you have the money to afford my luxury trains and ships,” he said. “Anyway, for now, just try to have a good day.”

  He left, the gait of his walk, quick yet heavy, reminding me of Pappi.

  I turned and I faced my new school. It didn’t have nice brick steps, or a tap-tapping principal. As I entered the brick building and gave the secretary my name, she pointed the way. I walked down the hall to a classroom. It all felt loose, like a dress sewn too quickly, with stitching showing and uneven. The chairs and desks didn’t match, and there were too many crammed into too few rooms. I searched the group for familiar faces. Rudi! There he was. He had saved me a space next to him. It was so crowded that our knees touched together under the table, but we left them there. The teacher, Mr. Pinto, called us to attention. Here we were. Just us Jews.

  9

  Amsterdam, the Netherlands

  1942

  Soon being Jewish wasn’t enough; we had to show we were Jewish. Starting in April 1942, we had to make sure we wore a yellow six-pointed star, one that looked like the Star of David, on our jackets. Mutti said we even had to buy them, as if we wanted them. It seemed to me that the star made me invisible. People looked at the star, and then they didn’t look at me. They looked away, or they looked through me. I was eleven and disappearing.

  And so were Jewish families all over Amsterdam—literally, disappearing. Knocks on the doors by the Dutch police and Nazis and… poof…a family was gone. I had been taught that police were good guys, but I knew that wasn’t always true now. There were whispers of places to the east where Jews were gathered and were forced to work on Nazi projects. Shadows where I had only seen sunshine before.

  By the summer of 1942, even Werner’s hopes of travel were doused by the restrictions. I no longer jumped into Pappi’s arms when he got off the tram because he wasn’t allowed to take the tram anymore, or a bus, or a taxi. None of us were. Pappi had to walk, so he returned late, sometimes too late for me to see him. Vera and I weren’t even allowed to be in each other’s homes. Jews and non-Jews could only see each other outside, in the few public spaces that weren’t already signed with Voor Joden Verboden. Vera, our friend Greetje (who was not Jewish either), and I played outside together whenever we could. Greetje’s little sister Gerda had just turned four years old and was so cute. Like Shirley Temple. Her bouncy blond curls stayed perfectly in the hairstyles we tried on her, so unlike my thick dark mass. We played hopscotch. My yellow star didn’t seem to bother them.

  Mutti instructed Werner to stay with Vera, Greetje, and me now, almost always when we were together. We met up with Rudi and other friends to unharness our metal horses and gallop along the silvery night canals. Until…another day and another rule.

  Pappi walked into my bedroom as I was sorting Shirley Temple cards. Shirley was dressed up from her different movies. She looked serious, pouty, and then happy. My favorite was her as Heidi, holding a little goat. I loved that movie as much as I loved the book. Heidi had problems, but she was always happy. Not everything worked out for her, but she ended up with her beloved grandfather in the end because she was smart. Pappi pulled back the bottom of the thick black curtain that covered my window. The light poured in. He sat on the edge of my bed. The sun sliced through and long shadows flew across the floor and walls. The colors of the cards laid out across my pink blanket jumped out. I felt the warmth dance along my forearms and travel up my neck.

  “Thanks, I forgot to open them,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s easy to forget.”

  “I wish we could have the curtains open at night. To see the lights and the night sky, and stars.”

  “Me, too. Me, too,” he said with a sigh. “Reni, I have bad news.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What?”

  “We cannot own bicycles. We have to put them outside on the street by one o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Why do they want our bicycles?” I felt tears coming and tried to blink them back.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Don’t they have their own?”

  “They do have their own. I think…I think it’s a way to test our strength. And we are strong. But I am so sorry, my little one. I know how much you love to ride.”

  He hugged me close and left. I let the tears go, sank onto my pillow, eyes closed, face up to the sun. A few minutes later I heard the squeak and roll of Werner coming and sitting on his bed.

  “I have to give up mine, too. I think we may be leaving here anywa
y,” Werner said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I overheard Mutti and Pappi talking,” he said. Then he got up and closed the door and sat down on my bed this time, leaning closer to me.

  “I think it has to do with a man Pappi met on the street the other day,” he explained, chewing on the skin around his thumb. “The man said he could get us passports from another country so that we can leave Europe and Hitler behind.”

  “We can’t get passports from the Netherlands?”

  “No, they will not give them to Jews.”

  “But we get them from another country? How?”

  “I don’t know. All we need to know is that they can help us get away from the bad guys.”

  After lunch, Pappi told us it was time to say good-bye to our bikes. We walked down the stairs and into the front hall where my beloved bicycle, my metal galloper, rested against the wall. And I said good-bye, hugging the handlebars.

  “Be glad we don’t have a cat or a dog, Reni,” said Werner. “Those would be even harder to give up.” I had always wanted a puppy, but now I was so glad I didn’t have one. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to give up a pet. I watched Pappi wheel my galloper away, as it disappeared around the corner to join all the other bicycles unlucky enough to be owned by Jewish children.

  Summer had always been a time of freedom and space and sun-soaked adventures with friends, away from the structure of school and adult eyes. But not this summer. This summer felt different. In July, we were restricted to our homes from 8:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. Werner, Vera, Greetje, Rudi, and I could only gather outside to be together anyway, and now our long summer evenings were cut painfully short, like a fingernail clipped too close. It was hot that summer, and the swimming pools were closed to us. So we hung out by the side of the canals, under the spotted shade of the leafy elms in the early evenings.

  On one of those evenings, we walked single file—Werner, then Greetje, then me, then Rudi in the back—along the canals. Yellow star, no star, yellow star, yellow star. The rush and honk of cars on the other side of the trees was on our right, and the cool, slowly rolling water knocking houseboats against the stone on our left. I put my arms out on each side to stay balanced along the cement edge. Then I bent down to grab a stone and, as I got back up, I tripped on the hem of my skirt. I gasped and jutted my left arm out to catch my fall. My arm hit the cement and skidded over the edge just as someone grabbed me around my waist and pulled me back. I sat down hard on my right hip, and turned around. Rudi.