The officer is looking around the room at all the books that my grandfather sent from Germany before he died. Mama thinks we should sell them.
“Impressive,” says the officer, who is also looking around at our moss-filled walls. He is speaking more softly now.
“I understand that you are quick to pick up other languages, too.”
I look to Dragos, who shakes his head. I don’t say anything further. I think that perhaps I have said too much. Mama might accuse me of showing off.
“No matter!” says the officer. “I have heard enough and can see that future opportunities for learning are limited here. At these centers, Matilda will be well educated and will participate in many activities . . . athletics, cooking, sewing. She will be given lovely clothes, and her prospects for marrying into a good family will improve.” He opens his hands to show his palms, as if everything he says is written there for us to see. Dragos has done this, too, even when he is lying.
I suddenly think of Oles from school, whom I have loved for months. He does not know that I exist because he is always examining bugs from the ground. But if I have to marry anyone, it should be him, not a German stranger.
“How long would it take?” Dragos asks.
“Your sister will need to relocate to Germany.”
“For how long?”
“As long as required.”
“How long is that?”
“She won’t be coming back.”
Dragos stands up suddenly, knocking over the chair that he was sitting on. Mama, Theo, and the officer all stand then, too. I am the last to rise, and I step closer to Dragos.
“That is absurd!” says Dragos. “She is only a little girl. She is nine years old. She needs to be here, with her family.”
The man with the eagle stares, unblinking, his hands as still as the table they rest upon. No one is talking except for the house, which creaks and groans.
“We cannot make such a decision until we discuss this with our father,” says Dragos.
“The decision is effective immediately.”
“No! Never!” yells Theo, and I am suddenly frightened for him. Mama appears to be frightened, too, and steps in front of him. Theo is always the one who gets injured when he speaks his mind. Always the one to be hurt in a fight. “She is staying here! She does not need your stupid German-speaking centers!”
“Stop it!” yells Mama.
I clench my fists against my chest. I feel the first prick of tears at the back of my eyes, and my breaths grow shorter. His words flood my ears, and their seriousness sinks into my head. I imagine that if I could reach a knife to cut myself, the blood might carry the words back out again.
“You have no choice.” The officer has remained seated. He squeezes his fists, tightly, as if his temper is trapped in his hands and he must keep it from escaping. Even Dragos’s height does not scare him into leaving, and I watch his hand move slowly to the gun at his side. “Your mother has read and signed the custody agreement. It cannot be revoked.”
He pushes a piece of paper toward us. At the bottom of the page is Mama’s scrawl. Her name is one of the few things she knows how to write. My father tried to teach her, but she complained, saying that a lavender farmer does not need to learn to write so many words. I wonder how my mother could have read the paper in front of her, even if the document wasn’t typed in German. Theo picks up the document.
I need to find air again. There is no air with so many people in the room. I back one step away from the others, then turn, but Mama has read my thoughts and steps between me and the door.
“Mama! I can’t go! This is my home. Who will look after the lavender?”
“You are going, Matilda. It is done.”
Dragos walks past Mama to stand behind me, and he grips both my shoulders. If we were playing a game, I would try and wriggle free, but this time I do not want Dragos to let me go. Theo is staring at Mama as if she is the one who has caused all this anger, but I know he also does not like looking at the officer’s eyes.
“No!” says Dragos. “Over my dead body.”
The officer is clenching the end of his other sleeve, and his face is hard like stone.
“Stop it!” says Mama, sneaking a look at the officer. “Don’t say such stupid things.”
“You can’t sign anything without Tata,” says Theo, who is now reading the document. “He would not approve. Does he even know?”
“Your father is missing,” says Mama. “Until he is found there is no pension.”
The house is suddenly silent again. Her words are puzzling, and I cannot make sense of them while they jump around inside my head.
“Officer Lehmann, may I please have a moment with my children?” Mama says in a low voice, and I see that her hands are trembling, as if she is afraid of her own words.
The officer looks at each of us. “I will give you a moment. But do not keep me waiting long.” He picks up his hat and takes two long strides to reach the door at the back of the house.
“What has happened to Tata?” Dragos asks Mama.
“Your father has been missing for two weeks.”
“Is he dead?”
“No one can say for certain.”
“That means he isn’t,” says Dragos, pacing the room. “And until he comes back, this decision should not be made.”
“If you want to fight this and get yourself shot, then go outside and tell the officer that she isn’t going. Go ahead!” She is making an idle threat. She knows that Dragos does not want to die.
Dragos says nothing.
“Where is Tata?” I ask, because I am not sure what they mean by missing.
“Mama, you cannot do this,” says Theo. “She is your daughter.”
“But what about Tata?” I say, louder this time, because it is as if they have forgotten I am here.
“What did he say, Mama?” says Theo. “What has he threatened?”
Mama sits back down and puts her hand against her forehead. No one wants to answer me.
I look at her dress, which I have never really looked at closely before. She made it last year. It is pale pink and has buttons down the front and a full skirt that stretches to her ankles. I suddenly want to touch the fabric because I may not see it again. I kneel down in front of her and place my head in her lap, feeling the smooth cotton against my cheek as I fight a war against my tears. “Mama,” I whisper. “Please don’t do this. Please wait for Tata to come back.”
I can feel her warm, coarse hand on the side of my head. “It is too late. I have made a bargain with the devil so that all my children are safe.”
“What do you mean?” says Theo.
“He said that he was within his rights to take both my boys to war if I do not consent to this . . . to Matilda going. He also said that I would not receive my husband’s wages if I do not sign. We will starve. At least Matilda will go to a nice place, and when she is older, she can come back. It is a choice that I did not have, and an opportunity that the other girls in the village have not been given. He told me that. She has been selected.”
“Tch,” says Dragos, which means he doesn’t believe it. “How do you know it’s a nice place?”
“No, Mama,” says Theo. “Dragos and I will go to war if that’s what it takes. We will send all our money back to you.”
“No, that cannot happen. In any case, it is too late.”
When I stand up, I look through the back door that the officer has left open. A car is parked behind our house, and several men in uniform stand beside it. They carry guns.
“Mama,” I plead. “Don’t let them . . .” Just for a moment she looks as if she will break apart—her mouth twisting, her eyes blinking fast, her head falling forward—and then she is back to normal. She pushes me away. She has given her daughter away with a scratch of ink. She cannot love me.
“Matilda, if you don’t want your brothers killed in war, if you don’t want to starve without your father’s pay, then you must go with the officer.�
�
Mama sounds angry, as if this is all my fault.
I rush to the room I share with Mama and throw myself on the bed, burying my face in the pillow. I draw in the scent of crushed lavender and freshly cut wood, the smells of my mother and brothers. How can we be apart? How will I cope without them? My tears bleed into the pillow.
Theo has come into the room. He touches my back so that I will look at him. His eyes are red, and he whispers into my hair, “Tilda, I’m so sorry.”
We hold each other, and I do not let go until the knock at the door. The front of Theo’s shirt is wet with my tears, and I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open my eyes, Mama is in the room.
“I will pack your things,” she says with her back to me. I do not want to look at her, so I leave the room. I find Dragos smoking tobacco in the kitchen. His face and neck are red. Sadness has replaced his anger.
“This is wrong,” he says to me. I hear no sign of the mischief that is usually in his voice. “Tata, Theo, and I will come for you one day. You will come home. We will make sure of that.”
I throw myself into his arms, and he lifts me slightly off the floor.
“You are a good little sister,” he says. “You always forgive me for my teasing. I cannot imagine the house without my Sun.” This has always been his name for me. He says my head is covered with curling, golden rays.
“I am going to war anyway,” he tells me. “There is nothing to keep me here. I must fight to help end it quickly, and after that, whether they allow it or not, we will bring you home.”
Catarina, my mother, whom I no longer think of as “Mama,” carries a leather suitcase from the bedroom. She has packed up my life.
“You cannot keep the officer waiting.”
My eyes are dry when I take the case from her. She has always said that tears are a sign of weakness. She looks at me, waiting for something, but I turn away toward the door. There is nothing more to say.
“Be strong, Matilda,” she says.
I do not feel anything for her, even when she puts her hand on my shoulder. It is as if someone has cut me open and taken out my heart.
Outside, the car is waiting silently, like a spider for its prey. As I get closer, the engine starts. The spider is getting ready to snatch me away. My legs are suddenly very weak, and I’m not sure if they will carry me these last few steps. Officer Lehmann holds the car door open, and I slide across the seat, which is smooth and firm like the side of a horse. The smells of burning fuel and new leather quickly block out the sweetness of the forests in the hills. He shuts the door that now separates me from my brothers.
I don’t want to look back, but I do. Catarina has collapsed on the ground, one arm across her head, the other across her stomach. Dragos and Theo bend down to help her up. That is the last I see of them. I don’t have time to wave because we are quickly on the dirt track that will take us out of the village and into the town.
Tata will be angry to find me gone. He once told me that when I was born, he cried with tears of love.
Outside it is getting dark, and the hills and the birds are disappearing into the sky to sleep. Tata said that fairy tales are like the wings of a bird. They set your mind free. I close my eyes where I can be free.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELSI
It is four o’clock in the afternoon. I am sitting in the waiting room of the doctor whose door has no name plaque. I am worried that the operation is dangerous and is taking too long. I am also worried that we will not be home by curfew, and worried, also, for Leah, who has been left alone in the apartment and may come searching for us if we are not there by nightfall. The guards have stepped up the patrols since too many people have been caught wandering at night. They perhaps will not be as lenient now as they have been. Lenient used to have a different meaning outside the gates. It used to mean that my father would not be angry with me for getting home late, that he would not stop me from seeing my friends. Now it means that we will not be shot or imprisoned.
It is silent behind the frosted door. Mama is having an operation that will stop her from becoming pregnant again. She says that it is a decision she might have discussed with Papa if he were here, but now there is no time to wait.
The doctor steps out from behind the door. He doesn’t look at me straight away but remains focused on a paper in his hand. I remember him from several weeks earlier, when he treated Mama and saved her life. He is tall, with light-brown hair and a short forehead with brows that jut forward over deep-set eyes. Everything else on his face seems to fall into place evenly.
When he finally puts the paper down, he folds his hands together and examines me over the desk as if I am a specimen of some tiny, interesting species. Though his is not the smug look worn by some officials. It is more questioning. The scrutiny, however, becomes too intense, and I drop my eyes to look at my lap. He does not wear the Nazi uniform, though the guard who carried Mama home last time we were here had been pliant in the face of his commands. I am curious as to how a doctor can have such authority.
When he does speak, it is in a formal voice.
“Your mother is still a little dazed from the medication. She needs another half hour.”
I look at the fading light coming in from beneath the front door.
“I will sign a form that says you can be out past curfew. Tell me . . . where is it that you live?”
I tell him the street.
“Do you have running water or toilets?”
I shake my head, and he looks away first this time. He scratches something on a piece of paper, puts down his pen, and leans back into his chair. He then checks his watch before his eyes find mine again.
I do not know where to look, so I stare at a painting of a raven on a spindly branch above a desolate land. It reminds me of Hitler looking upon the remnants of Poland. He follows my eyes.
“Do you like that one?”
“Yes.” But I don’t. It looks evil.
“Ravens are my favorite birds. They are very intelligent and learn from their mistakes. If only we all could.”
I think this may be an attempt at humor; it is difficult to tell because the edge of his mouth, which almost formed a smile, has repositioned itself, expressionless as before.
He opens a drawer and pulls out a packet that he holds toward me.
“Would you like some chocolate?”
Even from where I sit I can smell the cocoa and sugar, and my tongue becomes moist at the thought of it.
I stay seated, and my eyes drift between his face and the chocolate.
“What is your name?”
“Elsi.”
“It is all right, Elsi. I promise that I will not be poisoning you today.” This time he does smile, though the expression is small and rehearsed. It is something that does not come naturally to him. He breaks the bar of chocolate into pieces. “Here!”
I stand up and cautiously take the small offerings, then place one inside my mouth quickly before it can vanish, as if part of some cruel magic trick. The chocolate melts, spreading across my tongue: so sweet and creamy that I want to cry with pleasure. I eat the rest slowly, letting each tiny piece melt so that it lasts. It has been more than a year since I have known this sensation. The doctor puts the rest of the chocolate back in the drawer.
“Can I ask what your family did before the war? Can you describe it for me?”
I am instantly suspicious. I want to ask him why he wants to know this, but that is not how it is done here. You do what is asked, you answer whatever question is asked, and you lie when you have to. Mama has told me so many times not to talk, not to trust, but there is something inconsistent about this man. He does not seem like the Gestapo. And he saved Mama from dying.
“Are you writing this down?”
“No,” he says, and gives a short laugh this time. It is neither soft nor brittle, but somewhat genuine. It is not a laugh like those of the soldiers, ones that reach all the way to their boots when they kick a man or a woman who has fa
llen in the streets. I have memorized that sound. I know what amuses them.
“You can say whatever you like.”
I say nothing.
“You are also welcome to sit there silently if you wish.” He returns to write something else in his notes.
If he is a spy, then what I tell him will mean little. And since I do not think he will hurt the people he has also saved, I tell him—though not everything. Not the details about Papa, or the things Mama says about the soldiers, not the fact that Leah is often ill. Germans do not take kindly to sick children. And suddenly it feels good to talk. My parents always said I talked too much, but it was not until the ghetto that I stopped. It has been so long.
I was sixteen when the bombs first struck, and then seventeen years old when soldiers came to take us away. Next month I turn nineteen.
When the bombs were first being dropped, our family sheltered in Mr. Krolewski’s apartment building. The bombs made a whistling sound while they were in the air, and the engines groaned across the skies. The basement was the size of a small apartment and choked with voices and pipe smoke and the smell of onions cooking on small gas burners. Despite the raging argument happening in the skies, the basement felt ordinary. It was a hub for people to gather, bringing with them blankets and bedding, small chairs and tables, cooking pots, needlework, packs of playing cards: mothers, grandparents, children, teachers, carpenters, shop owners, and others randomly thrown together to continue the domestic tasks they had started earlier that evening.
At the time I couldn’t understand why Leah had to be dragged from the cupboard, trembling and whimpering at the first sound of warplanes. Everything was exciting in a way, because I had yet to experience fear. Perhaps because our parents had always shielded us from bad news.
At first the sounds of planes seemed to be coming from too far away to concern me. But mayhem arrived quickly, and the sky was covered with fire. In the streets, people were running in all directions to find a safe place to hide from the bombs. Some of my friends were in Mr. Krolewski’s basement, too. We played Truth or Dare, told stories, and sang “Poland Is Not Yet Lost,” and everyone in the basement joined in. Life had not yet changed, just shifted position ever so slightly.
Broken Angels Page 4
