The Locket

by Evans, Mike

  “Relax,” Aunt Haya lowered her voice. “This will all work out. You will see.”

  “No, it won’t,” Oscar argued angrily. “Not unless we make it work out. If this becomes a problem, they could force Interior officials to stop helping us. The entire operation will collapse. Lives will be lost.”

  “Sarah’s life will be lost if I send her back.” “I know it’s a difficult choice but—”

  “No.” Aunt Haya cut him off. “It’s not difficult. She’s my sister’s daughter. I know what I must do.”

  “You must—”

  “She stays and that’s final. Now get on with your business and don’t speak to me of this again.”

  Oscar stormed from the kitchen, brushed past me, and strode to the bottom of the staircase. “Alona!” he called in a loud voice. “We must be going.”

  Aunt Haya appeared at my side and we stood there together, watching as Alona came down from the second floor carrying a suitcase at her side. Oscar took it from her and started toward the front door. She turned toward us and we stepped forward to say goodbye. Before we were through, Oscar opened the door and called once more, “We really have to go.” Alona turned away and walked to the door. As she stepped outside, she glanced back at us and waved.

  I heard the car door close and the engine start, and then they were gone. Aunt Haya and I stood in the hall a moment longer, listening to the silence. Finally she spoke. “You heard our conversation in the kitchen?” “Some of it.” I looked up at her. “Would I really die if I had to go back to Austria?”

  “Don’t worry. I will never let that happen.”

  I knew she meant it, but already I had seen enough to know that forces were at work in our lives that neither of us could control. And the question occurred to me: If I would be in danger living in Austria, what about Mama, Papa, and David?

  The following day, Aunt Haya enrolled me in school at the Cathedral of Cordova, a massive complex located across the river from our house. I was nervous and intimidated by the surroundings and by the language. I knew only a few words in Spanish. The school had no textbooks in German so they gave me books in French. Between the two— the smattering of Spanish I already knew and my anemic ability with French—I had a tough time keeping up.

  At noon, we went outside to a courtyard to eat our lunch. We sat on the grass. Class members sat in groups of three or four. I sat down to eat alone. Before I could open my lunch, a girl sat down beside me and thrust her hand toward me. “I am Claudia Molla,” she said in perfect German. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  As we talked I learned her family had recently returned from Germany, where her father worked at the Spanish Embassy in Berlin. While we were getting acquainted, a boy named Gabino Vega joined us. Gabino spoke only Spanish, so he and I communicated through Claudia.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, Claudia, Gabino, and I became good friends. Aunt Haya would not allow me to bring them to the house, but she did permit me to visit them in the park on Saturdays, and once or twice I accompanied them to church on Sunday. Each time, I was aware that policemen in blue uniform kept a watchful eye on us, usually from a respectful distance. And once or twice I noticed a man following us. He wore a dark suit and broad-brimmed hat and looked like something one might imagine from a Georges Simenon novel.

  One Saturday, while the three of us were sitting on a bench in the park, one of the police officers who had been lurking about us all morning approached and began asking Gabino questions.

  “I have noticed you in the park before—with your friends.” He nodded to tip his hat in our direction. “But I never see your parents. Are you from around here?”

  “Yes,” Gabino replied. “And what is your name?” “Gabino Vega.”

  “I see. And do you have your identification card?” “I am a student.”

  “Students are not exempt.”

  “He lives in the city,” Claudia spoke up. “He isn’t required to carry it. And besides, he’s not old enough. Children are exempt.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “I am Claudia Molla. My father works with the diplomatic office.”

  “I see.” He turned his attention back to Gabino. “You realize if I take you into custody, your parents will have to appear in our office to obtain your release.”

  The tone of his voice irritated me. We had done nothing wrong. “Why would you do that?”

  The officer cut his eyes at me. “You are not from Spain. Where are you from? Your accent. You are German?”

  “Austrian.”

  “A Jew?”

  “A girl. A schoolgirl who has done no wrong.”

  “Well, schoolgirl from Austria, do you have identity papers?” “They are at the house.”

  “Did no one tell you that you are required to have them with you at all times?”

  “I don’t have mine, either,” Claudia offered. “Are you not a citizen of this country?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Then you are not required, as long as you remain within the city.” He looked at me. “But you, young lady, are supposed to have your identity card with you at all times.”

  “I won’t forget it next time.” “See that you don’t.”

  Claudia nudged me. “We should be going now anyway. Our parents will wonder where we are.” She stood and turned to leave. The officer stepped aside to let her pass. I took Gabino by the hand and we followed her.

  As we hurried down the walkway, he called after us, “Perhaps you should find somewhere else to play next time.” We paid him no attention as we made our way from the park to the street.

  At the corner, Gabino and Claudia boarded the bus. As she paid the fare, she glanced back at me. “Do not worry. He meant us no harm. My father would not allow it.” I waved to her as she followed Gabino down the aisle to a seat.

  In Linz I had been aware that some did not like me simply because I was a Jew. Karl Eichmann had made that painfully obvious, as had those who attacked us during Grandma’s funeral. Living in Cordova, I found that most were accepting of me, but that day in the park I had a sense that other issues were at work, issues I did not fully understand or appreciate. When the officer approached us, I fully expected to be the focus of his attention, but I wasn’t. Instead, he turned his attention to Gabino, who, other than being a boy, bore no distinguishable outward difference from Claudia, and not much from me, either. I thought about this as the bus drove away from the park, turned at the next corner, and disappeared from sight.

  Soon after the bus was gone, Alberto arrived to collect me. We returned home without further incident until I entered the house and discovered Oscar was waiting with Aunt Haya in the front parlor. Aunt Haya called me over to the sofa where she was seated. “Sit here with me. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Oscar, who stood near the fireplace, was less diplomatic. “What happened in the park just now?”

  “How do you know about the park?”

  “Never mind about that,” he retorted. “Tell me what happened.”

  I told him about the policeman and how he questioned Gabino until first Claudia and then I intervened. My explanation did not allay Oscar’s anger.

  “Gabino Vegas’ parents are Basques,” he fumed. “They are part of a separatist organization—a group that wants to break away from the Spanish government. From the monarchy. The police are watching them. That is why he asked those questions.”

  “I am not Basque.”

  “He wasn’t there to talk to you. He was just there to watch Gabino.” “We had done nothing wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You must have nothing more to do with this kid… this Gabino.” He glanced over at Aunt Haya. “Actually, it would be better if she had nothing to do with either of them. Claudia’s father works with the diplomatic staff.” Aunt Haya raised an eyebrow and nodded her head.

  “But they are my friends,” I blurted out. “And they did nothing wrong.”

  Aunt Haya placed
her hand on my knee. “Listen, Sarah,” she began quietly. “What Oscar is telling you is important. I know it sounds harsh but you must trust me on this. You must have nothing more to do with them. Especially Gabino.”

  Tears filled my eyes. “This is worse than Austria. Gabino and Claudia are my friends.”

  “I know they are your friends, but we can’t take the risk right now.” “But why?”

  Aunt Haya turned sideways on the sofa to face me. “Sarah, political groups in this country are arguing over control of the government. The Basques are part of that disagreement. They want to break away and form their own territory with their own government. Others want to dissolve the monarchy entirely. We are caught in the middle.”

  “But how does that affect Gabino and Claudia?” “Gabino’s parents are active in one of those groups.”

  Oscar was frustrated. “She can’t possibly understand,” he sighed angrily.

  “Can’t understand what?” I retorted. “That you bring strangers to Haya’s house but don’t want me here? I understand very well what you mean. You don’t mind associating with Jews, or protecting Jews, so long as no one knows you’re a Jew, too.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It is, too. If they find out I’m Jewish, they’ll figure out you are, too. And you don’t want them to know.”

  “Now, now. Let us not say things we will regret later. One day this will all work out, but we must be cautious. We are involved in a struggle as well and we must take care not to call attention to ourselves.”

  “We? I’m not involved in any struggle.”

  Aunt Haya gave me a knowing look. “Sarah, you above all people know the struggle we face. That is what brought you here. Oscar and I are doing our part, as is Alois. I know you are young, but it is time you face up to your responsibility as well. We are all in this together and we must all do our part.”

  “What does Uncle Alois have to do with anything?”

  “He arranged for you to come here, for your safety after your conduct called attention to yourself.”

  “That was Karl Eichmann.”

  “Yes. But you disregarded the advice of your parents and ignored their warnings. Your imprudent behavior gave Karl Eichmann an opportunity to exploit the situation. He is a dangerous man and part of a dangerous group.” She looked me in the eye. “These are dangerous times and we must each do our part if any of us is to survive.”

  “You know him? You know Karl Eichmann?”

  “I remember him from when I was a little girl. He was older, a handsome teenage boy, and I was infatuated until my friends helped me see what he was really like and helped me understand the struggle we face.” She looked away and coughed. “You must do as we say and avoid Gabino from now on.”

  “How will I do that without being rude? I see him every day in school.”

  “He will understand,” Aunt Haya reassured. She started coughing again and I tried to comfort her but she waved me off. “It is nothing,” she said as she dabbed the end of her nose with a handkerchief. “Now run along upstairs and wash. We will eat before long.”

  I stood and turned toward the doorway, but Oscar stopped me. “There is one more thing.” He drew an envelope from the pocket of his jacket. “This came for you today.” From the writing on the outside I could see the envelope contained a letter from Mama. I reached for it, but he moved it away. “I will give it to you, but I must tell you, I have asked them not to write. And you must not write to them.”

  Anger flared inside me. “Why not?”

  “It is better if no one knows you are here.”

  “But I have papers from the government. Official papers that say I am here legally.”

  “And they will help you when you travel, but most people in the neighborhood already know who you are. We don’t want to answer questions.” He handed me the envelope and I rushed upstairs to read it. Loneliness swept over me, and the thought that I should be prevented from writing to Mama and Papa seemed absurd. No one could stop me from communicating with them.

  * * *

  The next morning I came downstairs for breakfast, still angry about the things Oscar and Aunt Haya had said to me the day before. As I entered the kitchen I found a stack of books on the table, all of them written in German. Aunt Haya stood near the counter, sipping a cup of coffee. I looked over at her. “What are these?”

  “Your schoolbooks.”

  “They will let me use books in German?”

  “You aren’t going back to school,” she said flatly.

  “I’m not?” My lack of proficiency in Spanish made school difficult but I was doing better. That she suddenly would take me out seemed odd, especially after she’d made such a point of registering me. “Why am I not going back? I thought it was important.”

  “Education is important, but there are too many things about Cordova you do not yet understand.” She gave me a thin smile. “It’s not your fault. It’s just the way things are. Enrolling you in school now was a hasty move on my part. That was my mistake. You will study here at home for the remainder of the year, and then we will see about school in the fall.”

  “I thought you said they might not take me in the fall.”

  “That may be a problem. But right now we have bigger issues to worry about. You can learn at home. I will help you and if that proves unworkable, we will hire a tutor.” Maria set a plate of eggs on the table before me as Aunt Haya continued to talk. “You will follow a schedule. Class in the morning, and then you can help me in the afternoon.” She gestured toward the plate. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  After I finished eating, I took the books to a room off the parlor and sat at a table with a view of the garden.

  * * *

  At first I didn’t like studying at home. School was always fun, even when classes were hard, and I enjoyed seeing my friends. Studying at home didn’t feel like real school. After a few days, however, life settled into a rhythm. As Aunt Haya had instructed, I rose early and spent the morning studying downstairs. After lunch we worked together. She had an office on the third floor and some days we sorted through files up there. Other days we weeded the garden and worked outside as the weather allowed.

  About three weeks after I left school, I was in the garden when a voice called to me in a coarse whisper, “Sarah. Sarah.”

  I turned to look behind me and there was Claudia, peeking out from behind a tree. She smiled at me and stepped out in the open. “Where have you been?”

  “Right here.”

  “Why haven’t you been in school? What’s the matter?” I looked away. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “This is me,” Claudia came near to press the issue. “You have to tell me what happened.”

  “It’s because of Gabino—his parents, actually.”

  “What about them?”

  “That day, in the park, with the policeman. That’s why he was asking Gabino all those questions. He was only interested in me because I was with Gabino and I spoke up.”

  “I spoke up, too.”

  “Yes, but your father works for the diplomatic staff and I’m sure he knew it already. Besides, he wasn’t really interested in you. He was following Gabino.”

  “And your aunt is afraid he will come for you, too.”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “And they are worried about what might happen to me if I must return home.”

  Claudia looked puzzled. “I thought this was your home?”

  Suddenly I realized I had said too much. “You should go now. I can’t talk.” I turned away and started toward the house. It was an abrupt departure and a few steps down the garden path I realized it must have struck her as rude, but when I glanced over my shoulder, Claudia was gone and I decided to leave it at that. It was best for us both.

  As I came in the side door to the kitchen, I expected to find Maria standing near the sink or bent over a pot on the stove. Instead, the room was quiet, the stove was cold, and she was gone. I crossed the room
to the hall and walked toward the stairs. As I turned to go up, I glanced into the parlor. Aunt Haya was seated in the chair by the fireplace. A man and woman sat on the sofa with a little girl next to them. They all turned to look in my direction as I came by. From the looks on their faces I was certain I had interrupted a conversation. To break the moment I caught Aunt Haya’s eye and gestured over my shoulder. “Where’s Maria?”

  “I sent her to the store.” She stood and came from the room to the hall where I was standing. When she was in front of me she lowered her voice. “Help me get them downstairs.” She gestured with a roll of her eyes toward the people in the parlor.

  All of this puzzled me. “But the bedrooms are upstairs.”

  “We don’t need a bedroom.” Her voice held a hint of frustration. “Help me get them downstairs. Quickly. Before Maria returns.” I could feel my forehead wrinkle in a puzzled frown, but I nodded, “Okay.”

  Aunt Haya motioned for them to come and then she led the way down the hall to a door near the kitchen. She opened it to reveal a staircase that went down to the basement. We followed her down the steps and made our way past the furnace and coal bin. Beyond them we came to a wall lined with shelves. On the shelves were rows of jars filled with canned vegetables that had been harvested from the garden. Aunt Haya moved to the corner and grasped the end of a shelf. She glanced back at me and nodded. “Help me.”

  I stepped quickly to her side. “What are we doing?” “Pull this away from the wall.”

  I grasped a lower shelf and pulled with her. Slowly all the shelves moved toward us and I could see the wall they were attached to was really a large door. Behind it was a finished room with four chairs, a table, and two small cots. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling.

  Haya turned to the man. “Wait in here, and do not be afraid.” “Yes,” he nodded. “We will wait.”

  They stepped inside and then we closed the door. Aunt Haya checked to make sure all the jars were in their correct place, then we trouped back up the stairs. As we came to the first floor and closed the basement door, Maria entered through the side door carrying an armload of packages from the store. I helped her put them away while Aunt Haya took a seat at the kitchen table. When we finished with the packages, I helped Maria prepare supper. Aunt Haya watched. As I peeled a potato I glanced over at her. “Will the others be joining us?”