by Thaisa Frank
Light snow began to fall—swirls of white on grey. The streets widened, narrowed, widened again, expanding and contracting, as though they were breathing. Nothing felt quite real to Elie—not the sky, or the air, or a coffeehouse where customers drank from incongruously large cups of ersatz coffee. People hurried by, surrounded by pale grey air—the only thing that seemed to hold them together. Elie passed a muddy street with a chain-link fence followed by a row of prosperous houses. The town was breaking up, and she felt she was breaking up with it. It began to snow thickly, surrounding everyone in white. We’re only bound by veils, Elie thought, fragile accidents of cohesion.
No one was quite visible in this snow, and for a moment Elie imagined she saw her sister. She wore a dark red coat and kept her hands in a white muff. She smiled then disappeared.
Near the outskirts, streets were arranged in a circular pattern. Elie passed grey row houses, brick buildings, more row houses. The last were close to where Maria was hidden. But before she made the last turn, a Gestapo officer stopped her, said he’d lost his watch, and asked the time. Her heart began to race, and her answer—Fourteen hours and twenty minutes—sounded like a confession. He thanked her and asked if he could help find an address. Elie said no, she was just taking a walk. He asked for her papers—she was aware of his fleshy hands—and was confused when she showed him the red silk ribbon.
What are you doing at the outskirts? he asked.
I work with Goebbels, said Elie. And I’d be shot if I told you more.
The Gestapo officer shook his head. Goebbels would never shoot such a beautiful woman. Only the undesirables: shot or guillotined. Take your pick.
He laughed when he said Take your pick and told Elie she reminded him of his wife. Then he took her arm and walked with her far away from the row houses, to a city park where the bare branches of a linden tree were covered with ice. They walked to a statue of Hitler, then slowly around the park. Eventually the Gestapo officer looked at the watch he’d never lost and said:
My God. I’ll be shot if I don’t get back to my post.
Elie had to retrace the circular path near dusk. She knocked on the door of a red brick building four times—the way Stumpf told her. A wiry man in dark clothes stuck out his head.
What’s the code? he said.
Falling, said Elie.
He nodded and led her to a musty hall that smelled of very old carpet and mashed potatoes. It opened to a dark underground passage, and he glided her through the black maze like a nocturnal animal. Then he opened a door to another building and handed Elie a flashlight.
Go out into a hall, he said. Knock on the first door to the left, wait three beats, and knock three times. Leave by this passage and keep the flashlight. I’ve learned to see in the dark.
Elie surfaced to another musty hall. She knocked on the door to the left, waited three beats, and knocked three times. After a pause that seemed interminable, a startlingly beautiful girl answered. She had blond hair, blue eyes—delicate Aryan features, Elie thought, that had probably saved her life. She looked at Elie with deep distrust. Elie reached out her arms.
Maria, she said. You’re safe with me.
Maria pulled away, and Elie, who realized she wanted proof of her intentions, showed her the papers she carried and a note from Mikhail. As soon as Maria saw these, she smiled and held out her arms. Elie took bread from her bag. Maria shook her head.
I’ve been in that crawl space for months, she said. I just want to get outside.
Elie looked at her dress—made of thin cotton. And at her shoes. They were summer sandals.
No one gave you a sweater or boots? said Elie. Or a coat? Did you walk like that through the streets?
I’ll manage with a dress and stockings.
In the snow? The SS would arrest you in a minute.
There was a closet in the hall—so long Elie wondered if it led to the street. It was filled with china, silverware, records, photographs. Deep inside, Elie found a pair of sturdy shoes, a thick sweater, a scarf, and a black coat with a fur collar. She pulled out the coat. And behind it, shrinking against the wall of the closet, she saw a little boy of about seven. He had large, frightened eyes and sat so still he could have been made of stone.
What’s your name? Elie whispered. He didn’t answer. She took him in her arms and brought him to the room.
My God. Where did he come from?
He was in the closet, said Elie.
All this time, said Maria. And I never heard him.
The empty apartment had French windows covered with sheer white cloth. They filled the room with airy light, creating a sense of high altitude, even at dusk. Elie sat on the floor with the little boy in her arms. He began to tremble.
What’s your name? she whispered again.
He shook his head and buried himself in the crook of Elie’s arm.
He’s scared, said Maria.
How about we give you a name? said Elie. Do you like Alberto?
To her surprise, he shook his head no.
What about Sergei? said Maria.
He shook his head no to Sergei—and also to Luca and three other names. But when Elie said Dimitri he nodded.
Is that your real name? she said.
He shook his head no and dove back into Elie’s arm.
Dimitri, she said. We’re going to go out now. I’ll wrap you in some blankets and carry you. And if anyone asks, we’ll say you aren’t feeling well.
Do you understand? she asked Maria.
Maria, who seemed glamorous in the coat with the fur collar, nodded. Of course she understood.
The town was almost in blackout when they left the safe house. Elie carried Dimitri carefully, and Maria reveled in the open air. More than once she looked at her reflection in a shop window.
Don’t look at anything, said Elie. And don’t stare at people holding suitcases!
When they came to the jeep, Elie put Dimitri in gently and covered them both with blankets. Dimitri was as still as Maria had been under the floorboards. But Maria looked from beneath the blanket so often, Elie told her that she could come out if she crouched under the window. It got darker, the road narrowed, the pines grew thick, and Elie’s fear of the dark began to grip her. She tried to quell it by telling stories she and her sister once told under a dark red comforter at night. They were about wolves who granted wishes or snow maidens who could talk. She started to feel safe until Maria said:
Do you really believe all that?
I used to, said Elie.
I never did.
Maybe you should start to, said Elie.
When they hit the unpaved road, and the car began to jolt, Elie realized she didn’t know where Dimitri would sleep. Or what she’d say to Lodenstein when he discovered them.
Max,
You must be surprised that I was able to smuggle this to you. “Good” guards. Come to the edge of the barracks. We can talk there.
Nyikolaj
If only the landscape were rearranged, Elie thought. A wide road, telephone lines, lit houses. I could knock on wide road, telephone lines, lit houses. I could knock on any door, and people I never met would let the girl stay with them. Beyond the houses she’d find the streets of her childhood where she and her sister jumped rope and teased boys. And beyond those streets she’d find the convent where they made other girls laugh by imitating Sister Ignatius who had a nervous cough and Sister Hildegard who licked chalk from her fingers. You’re headstrong, her father always said when they got their knuckles rapped. You never try to imagine how things will turn out.
That’s not true, Elie thought. We were only bored. She saw her sister’s face. It was attentive, alert. It held her with her eyes.
What are you thinking? asked Maria.
How beautiful the woods are, said Elie.
They are, said Maria. But anyone could come out of those trees and shoot us.
They won’t, said Elie.
The car skidded on ice and curved into the clearing,
miraculously empty of people. The shepherd’s hut was the only shape in the snow—a dark mound, silhouetted by moonlight. Elie carried Dimitri down the stone path to the hut and Maria followed. The door to the incline didn’t startle her—it was clear she understood camouflage. Nor did she seem confused when Elie rushed her past the room she shared with Lodenstein. But Maria was astonished by the cobblestone street and frozen sky.
Is this a real town? she said.
I’ll explain later, said Elie.
Do other kids live here? she asked.
I’ll explain that too.
Maria looked at the enormous door to the main room and smiled when Parvis Nafissian came out. Elie pushed her on to the white house where Lars was by the pear tree. Don’t say anything, she mouthed to him.
As soon as she saw Maria, Talia gathered her in her arms and told her how big she’d grown. She touched the snow on Maria’s coat and said she’d brought real weather. Maria laughed and said real weather had come to her. She hugged Mikhail, looked around the room, and noticed a mirror.
I haven’t seen myself in five months, she said.
At first Talia didn’t notice the boy in Elie’s arms. But when she did—in a pause that was less than a heartbeat—she hugged him too.
This is Dimitri, Elie said.
Where did you come from? Talia asked Dimitri.
Do you want to tell? asked Elie.
Dimitri shook his head.
From a closet in that safe house, Elie said. No one came for him.
She sat on the couch and unwrapped the blanket. Dimitri crawled behind her, like a mouse squeezing into a hole.
He needs to eat, said Talia.
Both of them do, said Elie.
Maria spun around, walked to the window, and looked at the frozen sky with its moon and stars. This is an enchanted place, she said.
Soon the atmosphere was imbued with calm—as though the children had always lived there. Talia brought potato soup from the main kitchen. Mikhail told Dimitri a fairy tale. Maria stood in front of the mirror and twisted her hair into a French knot. She wanted to know when she could see snow again and was disappointed when Mikhail said: Tomorrow.
The calm reminded Elie of her own family in the evening—knitting, reading, doing homework. And while she basked in this sense of calm, she thought of different things to tell Lodenstein: She’d found the children in the woods. Or in the jeep when she came back from her foray. Or a woman at a market begged her to take them. Each story seemed better than the last one.
The best story by far was about finding the children under a fence at a railway station. While Elie was embellishing this story, she heard a knock on the window and saw Stumpf’s huge face at the glass. She put Dimitri on Mikhail’s lap and raced outside.
What’s that boy doing here! he shouted. Why didn’t you take just one?
And leave the other to rot?
But we bargained for one, said Stumpf.
We bargained? I thought we were saving lives, said Elie.
I meant, arranged for just one child, said Stumpf.
What do you mean arranged? Like the mail in your office?
Stumpf gulped some schnapps and waved his hands toward the main room. This place is a rabbit warren, he said. We don’t have a place to put another one.
That little boy had been in the safe house for at least a day by himself, said Elie.
All the more reason to leave him there. Stumpf walked back and forth and appeared to be thinking. Finally he said:
I won’t have anything to do with him. He’s yours.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
There was a thump behind him: Lodenstein dropping a chessboard.
So this is what you brought from the outpost, he shouted at Elie.
I told her not to meddle, said Stumpf.
Shut your fucking mouth, said Lodenstein.
He kicked a bench. Talia tugged at Maria, who was watching from the window.
I knew it was a bad idea, said Stumpf.
Don’t talk to me, said Lodenstein. The two of you did this behind my back.
We didn’t, said Elie.
Lodenstein picked up an artificial rose bush and smashed the pot into shards.
Then how is bringing two fugitives the same as bringing mail?
Elie kicked one of the shards.
I won’t talk about it now, she said. You’re acting like an animal.
She went back to the Solomons’ and banged the door with such force it rattled the artificial pear tree.
I did it for Elie, said Stumpf when Elie left. And the deal was for just one child.
What do you mean deal? said Lodenstein.
I mean it was for Elie, said Stumpf. She’s good-hearted, but she doesn’t think. Here—have some schnapps.
I don’t want schnapps. I want to know what’s going on.
Elie went to that town and got them. I’ll make her bring them back.
You’re a liar and a moron.
Don’t shout! It’s our private business.
Business, my ass. Lodenstein picked up the chessboard and held it over Stumpf’s head.
I could crack your skull with this, he said, and no one would know. That’s how stupid you are.
The tick above Stumpf’s eye began to skitter.
Please! he said. The walls can hear!
And indeed all the Scribes were listening. Nothing was better than a good fight. Maybe Lodenstein would murder Stumpf, and they could bury him in the woods.
I told you there would be a mess, said Ferdinand La Toya.
Maybe it’s not a mess, said Parvis Nafissian.
Believe me, it’s a mess, said La Toya. We should have written a letter after all.
Soon banging pots could be heard throughout the Compound—Stumpf, eating more than his share of sausage to quell his anxiety. Elie buried her face in the Solomons’ couch.
What is this place? said the girl.
Someone’s invention, said Mikhail.
But do people really live here? said Maria.
In a manner of speaking, said Mikhail.
Where do they sleep?
Mostly in a big room, said Talia. But you’ll sleep here.
Can I see that room? Maria asked.
Tomorrow, said Mikhail.
I wish I could see it now.
Talia and Mikhail looked at each other with disappointment. Maria, who’d been nine when they last saw her, now reminded them of Aaron before they went to Lodz—fascinated by the world, whatever that world was—and not very interested in them.
Elie turned to Dimitri. Do you want to see the room too?
No, he said. It was the first word he’d spoken.
Elie was pleased that he’d said something. She kissed him and said: Why not?
Because this is so soft, said Dimitri, patting a pillow.
Talia and Mikhail looked uncomfortable. Then Talia said: He’s so little. You two can sleep on the couch tonight.
I don’t mind sleeping in that big room, said Maria.
And there’s always room for another Scribe in there, said Elie.
Mikhail laughed. Always room for another Scribe? he said. You’re talking like the Reich.
But I’m not thinking like the Reich, said Elie. She hugged Dimitri and told Talia and Mikhail to bring him to her if he got scared.
Don’t lose sight of Maria, Talia mouthed.
I won’t, she mouthed back.
While they walked down the cobblestone street, Elie pointed to the frozen canopy and told Maria not to worry about the groans of pulleys and gears—it was just the sky changing from night to day and back again. Maria said the only sounds that worried her were gunshots.
No one new had arrived for almost a year, and Maria got a standing ovation from Parvis Nafissian, Niles Schopenhauer, and a man named Knut Grossheimer, who never talked to anyone. When the clapping stopped, Elie took Maria back to the street and asked if she knew about French letters—common slang for condoms. Maria said she
’d gotten some from a soldier who snatched her from a line to the gas chambers, but she only needed to open one.
