“That is a terrible story,” says Jacek. “I don’t think you will make a good teacher.” Jacek turns to the twins to repeat what he said in Polish.
I am offended by this and look to Adele and Luise for support, but they have moved closer to each other and do not say anything. They are thinking about the story. They have small frowns on their foreheads.
“I have better ones,” I say, hoping to get their attention again.
The baby begins to whine, and she turns away to face the wall.
“What is wrong with her?”
“She is frightened of you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are new. Because you might hurt her. Because of your story.”
I look around at the faces. I do not know yet if they will like me.
Nurse comes in and tells us that we must go to sleep. When she leaves again, she locks the door from the outside. I lie down on a narrow bed that is as hard as the floor. The others fall asleep, and I listen to their breathing. At least I have that. At least I have other sounds in the night to listen to.
It is morning and Baby stinks. Jacek says that teachers change nappies, also.
“Frau will be angry if she comes in here and finds that Baby’s nappy is unchanged.”
This boy is very annoying. I do not know how to look after babies. I have seen them in their mother’s arms, but I have never taken much notice of them.
I remove the small girl’s nappy and wipe her bottom partially clean. She lies very still, watching me. I try to hold my nose while I do this. Adele has watched Nurse change nappies and shows me what to do. When we are finished, we throw the soiled nappy in a tin bucket by the door.
Nurse unlocks the dormitory, and the children get their bowls and plates from under their beds. We cross to the main house. In the kitchen I am given my own bowl, too.
Cook adds a pinch of salt to the oats and water in a saucepan, and then she beats the oats very hard with the back of a spoon while she boils them. She spoons the creamy porridge into our bowls. She then pours in some milk and a spoonful of honey. It tastes delicious. Even better than the porridge at home, which is made from grain. When I tell Cook this, she says the secret is in the beating of the oats. When I go back home, I will pass on this secret to Catarina.
After breakfast, Nurse takes us back to the hut. She says that I am to use the books inside to teach the children, and that after one week, Frau will give the children a test to make sure they are learning. If they are not learning, I will be punished. She locks the door when she leaves.
I pick up the books that lie on a shelf. There are books in German and English and storybooks that look uninteresting.
“Shall we start with one of the storybooks?”
“We always start with the pronunciation of the German alphabet,” says Jacek.
“Says who?”
“Says Frau Haus.”
“Has she been teaching you?”
“No. There was another girl.”
“Where is she now?”
“They took her away when she got too big. They say she might be back one day.”
“How big?”
Jacek holds a pillow across his stomach. “This big.”
“Because she was eating much more than us,” says Adele. “She was given special foods.”
“I see,” I say. But I don’t. It is probably another lie. “Well, we should start with this story. I know this story. It is a good story.” I am lying. I have never read the story before.
The book contains many different stories and has a picture of a dog on the front, which is why I have picked it up. I begin to read. The first story is about worker bees and drones, and about how the worker bees gathered up in force and fought the lazy drones, but the story doesn’t stop there. I continue reading and Jacek repeats what I say in Polish, but I don’t believe he knows some of the words because he seems to stumble over his sentences.
“Every nation has millions of workers, farmers, officials, and so on. They work hard, like the bees. The worker goes to the factory every day. The work is hard. But he does it gladly. He knows that his labor is necessary if his people are to live. There are drones not only among the bees but also among people. They, the drones, are the Jews . . .”
This is no story! I slam the book shut.
“Oh, keep reading!” whines Adele.
“No, that is the worst book I have ever read. I can find better stories than that.”
“It was very boring,” says Jacek.
I pick up another book, but it looks very dull, also.
“We like that one,” says Adele.
“I hate that one,” I say. “How about this one? About a farmer who falls in a hole and gets stuck, then loses weight and climbs out again.”
“I didn’t see it,” says Jacek. “There is no book like that.”
“Yes, there is.” I pick up a book that has a German title but no picture on the front. I pretend that I am reading from the book while I make up a story about a farmer who gets stuck in the mud, and his farm animals come to rescue him but end up falling in the hole as well. I act out the parts of some animals so that Jacek doesn’t have to translate everything.
Tiny smiles creep in from the corners of their mouths, even Jacek’s. Luise wants me to read it again.
“Next time,” I say. Jacek sits quietly with his hands in his lap. He is waiting for something else to happen.
I finally get the German-language book and have them spell and repeat some words and sentences after me. Baby falls asleep.
There is a knock at the door. It is Nurse, to say that dinner is ready. We follow her to the main house.
Cook has made some stew and ladles it into our bowls.
“That’s enough,” says Nurse to Cook. “Too much and they will become plump and lazy, and no one will want them.”
Nurse laughs at her own words, but Cook doesn’t laugh.
When we have finished our milk, we wash up our plates and return to the hut.
Back in the hut, Jacek asks me, “Are you staying with us for long?”
I am confused by the question.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they go away with a new name straight away.”
“Who?”
“Children who come to the hut.”
“Were there more of you here?”
He nods. “Months ago they took all the good ones.”
“Good ones?”
“The ones who are the closest to German. We were the ones that were left.”
“Who took them?”
“People who want children. They take the ones they want.”
I feel my chest fill with fear.
“Are they coming back?”
“I don’t know. No one has come since last spring, since the last commander left. Then after that the teacher stopped coming, too. Frau says that once the new commander arrives, there will be more children. They might be keeping you longer because you are the teacher.”
That night I lie in bed picturing the people who come. I cannot get Jacek’s words out of my head. I have a bad dream that Frau steals me in the night and puts me on another train with strangers. When I arrive at the other end, there is a giant bee waiting for me.
DECEMBER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELSI
The heavy rain has turned the soil into thick, glutinous mud. It pours all day and night. It beats my back and thunders on my head. My shoes are sodden, and my skirt muddied at the hem. I am trying to save some of my food coupons in the hope of exchanging them for a new pair of shoes: ones that fit.
Underneath the bridge, there is a tram full of Aryans and Volksdeutsche, who travel the road that cuts through the ghetto. This road is for Germans and Poles and protected from the ghetto by fences on either side and guards stationed at either end of the bridge. Some people on the tram watch us curiously, as if we are animals in a zoo, before turning away, perhaps because the walls, and
the people within them, are objects of distaste. But some purposefully face forward the entire time, absolving themselves with ignorance. They cannot be responsible if they do not witness firsthand what is happening to their own Polish people beneath their very noses.
I carry the full buckets from the water pump. The muscles in my arms ache, but I must not slow down, not while the guards watch me from the end of the bridge. I have already seen them make fun of two prisoners by pointing guns at their faces as they walked past, making them run with fear, tripping over themselves in their haste to hurry on.
Once on the other side of the bridge, I do not look at the faces of the guards in their ugly gray uniforms and their beetle-shaped helmets. They stand underneath the shelter of a makeshift tin awning that protects them from the rain. Mama said we must always look away or down, to not encourage interaction with the men who patrol the streets.
“Take a break from the rain,” calls one of them when I reach the bottom of the stairs. “Put down your buckets.”
If I say no, I will appear rude and ungrateful, so I comply. My heart is beating fast as I step underneath the awning to share their dry space. The air around them is heavy with mischief. Rain falls around the shelter in sheets as thick as walls, and suddenly I feel vulnerable and trapped.
“Why do you go to the water pump?” asks the younger guard, who has a scar that runs along his jawline. He talks loudly above the noise of the rain. “You could just leave your buckets outside and catch some water there.”
“If I leave the buckets outside, they will be stolen within seconds.”
They laugh at this, then repeat to each other what I have told them, then laugh some more.
“What is a girl like you doing in this place?” says the same guard.
I do not know where to look or how to respond. It is a question, like many from the Germans, that might be filled with traps and hidden meanings, designed to elicit a response they want to hear—one that will cause them to act irrationally, cruelly. So I say nothing and pray that this silence doesn’t offend.
The guard who is doing all the talking says to his older colleague, “She looks a bit like my sister.”
“You haven’t seen your sister in two years. You have stood too close to the front line; it has obviously affected your memory,” says the second in a more derisive tone. “Did someone take to your sister’s hair with a carving knife, too?”
This question is another source of amusement for them.
My knees tremble as my gaze rests upon the rifles that are slung across their middles, their fingers dangerously touching the triggers. I have witnessed how these weapons can end a heartbeat in seconds, maim someone for life. I have seen much in the time I have been here. Things that no one should see, that only a year ago seemed unimaginable. I have seen another kind of human condition that makes men turn into creatures unrecognizable—creatures whose sole motivation is to destroy the human spirit.
“Look at the eyes. They are not Jewish eyes,” says the younger guard.
They like to play games with the passersby. They have their own rules out here on the streets.
“Are you from Germany?” says the same guard.
“No,” I say.
“What about your parents, grandparents?”
“My father and grandparents are from the north . . . Denmark originally.”
“I see. Pity, don’t you think?” he asks his colleague. “The eyes say to me Mischling.”
“Doesn’t matter about the eyes,” says the older.
“Yes, but she is an Aryan Jew.”
“A Jew is a Jew.” They are self-indulgent; they are bored, though the second guard is not as attentive as the first. Interaction with the prisoners appears beneath him. He walks a few meters outside the shelter for a better view of the streets, leaving me alone with the young guard.
“Your shoes are worn. Do you not have any others?”
I shake my head. “I am saving my food coupons to exchange for another pair.” This is more a wish on my part, since not using food coupons is harder than I thought when there is so little food to begin with.
“There are other ways that you can get new shoes. Quicker ways.”
I do not want to hear them. I have seen what has happened to Mama. I will die before that happens to me.
“I have heard that spying can bring a certain amount of privileges. I am sure that if you agree to spy on those Jews in your building, the chairman will give you a new pair.”
“I don’t think so. There is nothing that is worth spying on. They work and sleep. It is all they do.”
“Are you sure they don’t plan something? And they are not thinking up ways to escape, or to hurt a hardworking German guard?”
“Yes, I’m very sure.”
The soldier looks around, his hand still on his gun.
“Still, you should consider it. Your feet must hurt. That is hardly a way to live—in shoes that are falling apart . . . your poor feet on the cold bitumen.”
The other soldier returns to stand near his companion, cursing the rain that has dampened his coat.
“What are you saying to her?”
“I am suggesting that she keep an eye on things inside the buildings, to report if anything unusual is taking place. In return we will find her new shoes. What do you think?”
“Perhaps that is not the only thing she can bargain with?” says the second one, whom I trust the least.
The first guard views me carefully, then shrugs. “Perhaps. Though it is a little late for that. She is very skinny. Move along then, Fraulein Aryan Jew.”
My chest heaves as I walk briskly to the corner so that I can disappear from view. The water is not as heavy as the fear I carry in my chest. I walk past the market where people trade their clothes for money. Some of the new arrivals from Germany and northern Poland—looking well fed and overdressed, as if they are here on holiday—are keen to swap their warm coats for extra bowls of soup. By the coming winter, they will regret it.
I will not tell Mama about the conversation with the guards. If I do, she will try and stop me from going anywhere. She will carry the load herself, and she is too thin, the weight falling off her before my eyes.
Lilli has told me of a job with the youth police to round up the homeless to make sure they are not causing trouble. It would mean an extra portion of soup. But it would also mean working for the Germans, and that is not what I want. I have come upon another group at the ghetto: ghetto youth whose purpose sounds more in tune with my own aspirations.
They are Jews, all hungry to fight the order, although that is all I know. Their activities are run by Simon, but I don’t know yet what they are. It is enough for me to know that they are eager to make changes in the ghetto. Simon will not say more until I commit.
I once went to a meeting. There were a dozen other young people there in an apartment. We had to enter the building at separate times so that no one knew we were part of a group. Simon talked about the persecution of the Jews and about our history. He talked about the killing of Jews that is done out of jealousy and greed.
His speech was mesmerizing. When he speaks, everyone listens. What he said made sense. Since I arrived in the ghetto, very little has been said about the strength of the Jews. Everyone talks about the failures; we are constantly feeling sorry for ourselves. I have learned that Simon had a sister in the ghetto, also. She and his parents were taken one night by guards and are yet to return. I know that Simon doesn’t have an apartment. He moves around, living with different group members.
He carries within him the same restlessness I do, and the same desire to fight against our forced containment and the harshness of conditions here. He does not offer the promise of extra food coupons or extra soup like the youth police does. But he offers something else. He offers a chance to help free us, not just physically but in thought. To unite and become part of a group that instills pride among us, who applauds our forebears and works to stop the Germans from weeding
our heritage and accomplishments into extinction.
I reach inside the neck of my blouse and feel, hanging from a piece of string, the small band of silver that Simon has given me. We have grown close, though I feel I am yet to know him deeply.
He is thin, like everyone here, yet the hunger has not reached his face. It is still full of color and life, his light-brown eyes still bright with hope. He is one of the rare ones who holds fast to passion, and he has recognized the same in me.
Still, it is a lot to think about. I will not commit to the group until I am sure of its motives. Their plans—the ones they talk about in secret—are likely dangerous. I believe he had something to do with the recent fire because he confided in me that during this diversion, several Jews on a list for deportation managed to escape.
I walk up the stairs to our apartment, feeling a wave of resentment that Leah—even if Mama did allow her to leave the apartment—is too weak to help with the buckets. Not that it is her fault. Neither do I blame her personally. It is just that it is the case. More of the stairwell is missing. Someone has stolen the wood for their fires.
The door of our apartment is ajar, and I am instantly alarmed. There are foreign voices coming from within. A man and woman stand inside talking to Mama. Leah sits on the chair, watching me, expressionless as always. She is often able to hide her feelings, unlike me.
The older woman wears a fur coat, her hands at her throat as if she is strangling the animal she wears. Mama looks warily toward me.
“This is my other daughter . . . Elsi,” she says.
The woman does not seem interested in my arrival. She is too busy looking disgusted at her surroundings. The man, however, steps forward to shake my hand. He wears a small beard and a hat.
“This is Yuri and Rada. They have been billeted in this apartment . . . just until your father comes back.”
Papa isn’t coming back, I want to say, but I know that such words will shatter my mother, who is already emotionally fragile. Simon has finally admitted that he thinks many have been killed in the camps. But I can never say this in front of Mama. Once when Leah asked her if Papa was still alive, she fell to pieces.
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