I was still mad at my mom—furious, really—but I walked over and gave her a hug. “I love you too.”
Thursday, January 8, 1942
Dear Belle,
Milton left for training today. His family hung a large white flag in their window with a blue star in the middle, to show their pride at having someone in the service. The flags have been popping up all over. There are so many servicemen on our street that Hannah is helping some other women sew an enormous flag to hang between our building and the next one, with a blue star for everyone on the block who is serving.
I went to Milton’s goodbye party on Sunday. He looked very smart in his uniform, I must say. Enid clung to his arm all night, her bright red lips were in a proud smile. Freddy wore his Junior Service Corps helmet, and the armband that shows he’s a “messenger.” He’s worn it every day since his training.
It was so frustrating, because when I asked him what a messenger does, he just kept saying, “I have to be ready at a moment’s notice. For anything.”
“Yes, but what do you do?”
He said a lot of other things about how important his job is before finally saying, “I convey messages from the air raid warden, in case the telephone system gets knocked out.”
That does seem like an important job, I suppose. But he seems most excited about possibly being excused from school early if there’s an urgent message to deliver. He bragged, “You’re supposed to be 15 to be a messenger. And everyone else at the training was a Boy Scout.”
I think the wardens allowed his enthusiasm to make up for his age. I doubt they believed he was 15. And there’s no way Freddy passed for a Boy Scout!
Wednesday, January 28, 1942
Oh Belle. We turned 13 today.
I am exhausted, but my heart feels like it is being pulled in separate directions tonight, and I simply must write.
Max and Hannah surprised me three ways today. The first surprise was that they knew it was my birthday at all. I didn’t tell them, but Hannah knew it from when we registered for school, and she remembered. How thoughtful! There was chocolate croissant on my breakfast plate this morning. She said, “You mentioned how you’d get a chocolate croissant with your sister before school some days. I thought you’d like it as a birthday treat!” I don’t remember telling her this, but I must have done, and she made a note. How wonderful she is.
Second, when I got to the factory after school today, Hannah was there too! She said I was not going to work that afternoon, and neither was Max. We were all going to the theater! We saw a funny, silly play called “Arsenic and Old Lace.” Hannah gave me a lovely gift of high-heel shoes, just like hers, only not quite as high. And Max suggested I wear the jacket they have been fitting me for. I thought it was supposed to go to a store, but no, it is for me! My very own fur coat . . . oh, I felt like Vivien Leigh herself, going to the theater in high heels and mink. I could have been on the cover of “Radio and Television Mirror”!
At dinner, Hannah ordered champagne, and made a toast to me. I remember every word that she said: “To Anna, who has filled our lives with so much joy these past few months. And to her family, who I have every hope will arrive in New York soon, to bring us even more joy.”
It was all so wonderful except . . . this was the first birthday I have not shared with you. Do you remember when we were 8 or 9 and you paid a good portion of your saved francs to visit the fortune-teller at the fair? You refused to tell anyone (even me!) what that fortune-teller told you, but you boasted that it was worth every cent. Oh, how that infuriated me! Especially then, our lives were so entwined, I couldn’t fathom doing anything without you . . . I was sure that whatever your future held, mine did too. I wonder now what you learned. Surely the fortune-teller did not say we would be separated by a war and an ocean. You couldn’t have kept that secret, could you?
What a strange turn our lives have taken. If a fortune-teller told me that I would spend my 13th birthday in New York with people named Max and Hannah, I would have demanded my money back. Yet here I am, and you are . . . where? Wherever you are, you are with the rest of our family, and for that I am jealous. I had a most lovely day, and yet I am jealous of you. How very selfish I am!
CHAPTER 29
Madeline pushed up from our positions side by side on my bedroom floor. She leaned back against my bed, moved her reading glasses to the top of her head, and placed her chin in her hand. I could tell by her silence that she was doing some heavy thinking, but I didn’t know why.
“There’s something about this that’s weird,” she said. “You see Hannah’s toast, how she said, ‘To Anna, and to her family’?”
“Yeah,” I said. “So what?”
“Her family,” Madeline repeated to herself, slowly. “Remember what Max told Anna about the uncles?” She flipped back a few pages, to Anna’s meltdown at dinner, which I’d had her read today before we started this next part together. “The uncles said they came to America forty years ago,” she said, pointing, “from Russia.”
“Right.”
“And their sister—”
“Max’s mom,” I said.
“—came later. From Russia.”
“I guess,” I said, still not sure where this was going.
“But didn’t Max grow up with Anna’s father?” Madeline asked. “In Luxembourg?”
My head dropped to the side. “Huh.”
“Yeah. That’s what Anna’s dad told her, right?”
“Right.” I leaned back against my bed, next to Madeline. That was kind of strange. There must have been an explanation for the timeline, but it was hard enough to get a mental image of Max’s family tree, let alone dates and countries and connections to Anna’s parents.
“Check this out!” Madeline said. She’d flipped back to the very beginning of the diary, the part Anna had written while still on the boat. She read aloud: “Something odd happened then, Belle . . . I think Papa caught Mama’s eye before answering. It was a strange look but so quick, I couldn’t decipher it.”
I leaned over her shoulder and picked up from the next sentence. “I cannot say, even now, and there is no one here to help me analyze it.”
Madeline’s brown eyes caught fire behind her reading glasses. “She definitely saw a strange look, Imani. And it meant Max isn’t really their cousin!”
“Slow down,” I said. “Let’s think about this.” I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. Anna was in a good place. She still missed home, of course, but she was happy with Max and Hannah. If Madeline was right—if Anna’s parents lied to her about Max being their cousin—it would ruin everything.
But Madeline was in investigative-journalist mode, ready to go live with her findings. “It explains everything! The stuff about Russia. All the ways Max is different from Anna’s dad.”
“She does say Max looks nothing like her father . . .” I granted.
“They’re strangers,” Madeline announced, almost giddy. “You should ask your grandpa. I bet he’ll know. I bet you anything he’ll say Anna’s parents sent her across the world to live with strangers!”
“So what?” I said, my voice rising. “What’s wrong with that? Everyone who’s adopted lives with strangers.”
Madeline’s mouth closed. Her face turned bright pink. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Whatever.” I stood up and moved onto my bed. I lay on my back and squeezed my eyes shut. I was not going to cry.
“Imani,” Madeline said tentatively.
Was Madeline right? Did Anna’s parents lie to her about being related to Max? Were they really cousins, or was Max just some guy who agreed to sponsor some kids so they could escape a bad situation? Did it even matter? Whether Max and Hannah were blood-related or not, they were still complete strangers when Anna started to live with them. They were still so nice to her. They were still giving her a home and a life
. She probably would have died if they hadn’t taken her in. What did it matter if they were or weren’t her cousins?
And yet. It made all the difference, didn’t it? If the people serving as your parents were blood-related or not. If you knew the truth about things or were kept in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” Madeline said. She put a hesitant hand on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes. The tears that had been building came spilling out.
“I’m really sorry,” Madeline said again. “That was a really stupid thing for me to say.”
“It’s okay,” I managed.
Madeline sat on the edge of my bed and put her arm around me.
“I’m okay,” I said, hugging her back. “Really.”
We pulled apart, and a small smile played at her lips. “Do you want to play Chinese checkers?”
I laughed, making a tear zigzag down my face. If only I had a Chinese checkers set. There was probably some app Madeline could download, but that wouldn’t be nearly the same.
Madeline looked at the time on her phone. “Should we keep reading? I think we’re almost done.”
I sighed. “I think I want to read the end by myself.”
Madeline was quiet for a while. Then she said, “Text me later?”
I nodded. She got her shoes and closed my bedroom door behind her. I lay there for a long time, and I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up, the room was dark and I could hear Jaime and Dad downstairs. In my post-nap haze, I gathered that they were talking to my mom on the phone, and I heard them each say goodbye. She must not have asked to speak to me. She hadn’t even texted once since she left.
I rolled to the edge of my bed and saw the diary on the floor. I wanted to read the rest by myself? Well, I couldn’t have been more alone.
Thursday, February 19, 1942
Oh Belle,
I received a letter from Kurt today.
I am willing it not to be true. If I don’t write about it, maybe it will all be not true. I will wake up and it will have been just a nightmare . . . and you will be beside me, and we’ll assure each other it wasn’t real.
The postmark says Poland, so I was correct about that. He says I don’t need to worry about you, but that is plainly a lie to fool the censors. Why else would he “remember with fondness” our times playing Super Hirsch? Super Hirsch, our invented hero, the only one who could save us from danger or death? The meaning is clear. If he needs Super Hirsch, wherever you are must be truly horrendous.
And the worst part of all . . .
I wish I had never received this letter. It would be better not to know.
Oliver . . . My Oliver. I left him first, and now he has left us all . . . How could this happen? I am like Frida’s father on the boat . . . alive but dead inside. I am numb. I will be dead too if I concede it is true.
No, I will not believe it. It cannot be true.
CHAPTER 30
No,” I whispered. “Oliver can’t have . . .”
I read the entry again, and my own issues seemed like tiny pieces of fluff. Why did I want to read the rest of this diary on my own?
I jumped out of bed and opened the door. My brother was in the hall, about to go into his room.
“Jaime!” I shouted.
He flinched. “Geez, Imani. You scared me.”
“Sorry. Can you read something really quick? From Grandma Anna’s diary?”
“Um. I guess?”
I shoved the open diary in his face. “Right here. Just this entry.” I stood there while he read. My fingers drummed against my thigh impatiently.
“Who’s Oliver?” Jaime asked when he was done.
“Her little brother,” I said. “What do you think happened to him?”
“It sounds like he died.”
“But maybe he didn’t, right?”
“It sounds like he did.”
I pulled the diary back from him. He didn’t know. He hadn’t been reading the whole thing. He didn’t even know who Oliver was. Why’d I even ask him?
I went into my room and got my phone. But this was too urgent, too important, to talk about by text. I sent Madeline a quick message—I’m coming over—then slipped my phone into my back pocket, stuffed my feet into my sneakers, and ran downstairs.
Outside, I held the diary tightly in one hand. Madeline would definitely say Jaime was wrong. I sprinted the two blocks to her house.
Madeline opened the door as I ran up the front steps. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
I opened the diary to the page I’d marked with the ribbon and rushed it into her hands. “Read this,” I said. “Now.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Oh no.” She disappeared inside for a second and returned wearing her reading glasses and a pair of flip-flops over her socks.
I shifted from foot to foot while she read. My hands were shivering in my pockets. My quick breaths formed clouds of fog as they came out of my mouth, then evaporated before my eyes.
When she finished reading, Madeline sat down slowly on her front steps. “Oliver,” she said quietly. “He couldn’t have . . .”
“He couldn’t have, right?” I said desperately. “I needed you to read it, but I don’t think it means that he . . . I don’t believe it.”
“Anna’s upset,” Madeline reasoned halfheartedly. “She’s depressed. But not enough. She’d be much more upset if Kurt’s letter said Oliver—”
“Don’t say it!” I shouted.
Madeline frowned at me. “Oh, Imani.”
I was like Anna. I flat-out refused to believe it, and so it could not be true. There was no way—no freaking way—that Oliver had died.
Sunday, March 8, 1942
Dear Belle,
I still feel sick with shame at how selfish I am.
My nightmares have returned, each night worse than the last. My clothes are hanging loose on me because I have not been hungry one bit, not even for Chinese food. Mme. Veron invited me and Miriam to eat lunch with her in the teachers’ room, and she prepared a French meal that brought back memories of summers with Mama’s family. But I could not eat, and my baguette turned to stone.
I read Kurt’s letter every night. It can’t be helping with my sleep, but I cannot stop myself. Freddy’s parents get the “Jewish Daily Forward,” so Freddy brings me old papers and translates the Yiddish. I don’t know if he is being considerate or just being a boy, but he doesn’t try to comfort me at all. He just sits there in his helmet and armband and reads me the news from Europe.
Something truly awful is happening to you and everyone else—whoever is left of you, wherever you are. I am sure of it. Do we still have a twin connection, Belle? It is becoming more difficult to have faith. If you knew what a horrid sister I have been (happily spending our birthday apart . . . oh I disgust myself) you would probably snip that string in two and leave the pieces to sink to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean . . . until some German U-boat comes along and blows them to bits.
Saturday, March 28, 1942
Belle,
I haven’t been going to the factory lately, and I haven’t been playing Chinese checkers. But tonight, Max convinced me to play, and during the game, he told me that everything is changing. Many of the workers have left to join the service, and now the government has requested that the factory make army fatigues instead of fur coats.
I was in shock when he told me. My little white marble was suspended in my hand. I forgot where I was going to move it.
Max said, “It’s all right. No one is going to buy a luxury like a fur coat during wartime anyway.”
I suppose he’s right, and I’m glad the factory can play some part in helping defeat the Germans once and for all. But all of the progress we made with the pelts is not going to amount to anything now. I have let you down again.
Why would I think that solving that puzzle would help bring you here? There were so many obstacles I refused to see. If all of Papa’s and Grandfather’s savings could only afford to send one of us, how could my meager salary at the factory pay for nine? Even the millions I’m convinced are squirreled away in the uncles’ apartment (hidden in shoes . . . in old cereal boxes . . . in mounds under the mattress . . .) even if I had every dollar of that, how would I get it to Mama and Papa? Mail a parcel full of coins? Ask Western Union to wire money to your ghetto? So much for being the thoughtful twin. So much for being 13. How childish my plan was. I am not only selfish, I am also stupid.
I was a dunce to think that any of you might join me here at all. Mama and Papa picked me to send away, probably because I am stupid. They didn’t want me anymore. And now you are all together even farther away, in Poland. Except for Oliver.
I was stupid to write to you in this book. It did nothing to bring us closer. I do not have the heart to keep writing you notes you will never receive in a language you will never get to speak. The news about Oliver has changed everything. I am so hopeless against it all.
IT IS ALL SO UNFAIR. Why did those horrid uncles get to see their sister again, when it’s clear I will never see mine?
CHAPTER 31
We’d moved inside, away from the cold, but my hand still trembled as I turned to the next page. It was blank.
“Oh no,” Madeline breathed.
My heart started beating furiously. I turned another page. Blank. “I knew we were close. But not this close. That can’t be all,” I said. “It can’t be. That can’t be where this ends.”
“It can’t be.” Madeline held out her hand for the journal. She started flipping pages, calm and confident. She flipped, becoming less calm and confident with every page, to the very end, where Frida’s address in Chicago was written. Blank, blank, blank.
The Length of a String Page 16
