by Liz Kessler
‘You must go,’ Papa insisted. ‘While they have me, it will buy you some time. But you need to work quickly.’
‘We’re not going anywhere without you,’ Mama said.
Papa looked fiercely at her, then at me. ‘You have to,’ he said. ‘I will come back for you, I promise. I will find you, wherever you are. But you can’t stay here. Listen. The paperwork is in my office. Find it and pick up from where I left off.’
‘What about Omama?’ I asked.
Papa almost smiled. ‘I have tried to persuade her, but she says she is too old. She is too stubborn. She will not leave, and I cannot persuade her. She has her friends and I hope they will look after each other. But Leo, while you’re still here you make sure to visit her as often as you can.’ His voice broke as he added, ‘And do not leave without saying goodbye to her and making sure she is all right. You hear me?’
I nodded. My throat hurt too much to speak.
‘It’s time to leave, Mr Grunberg,’ one of the men called from the hall.
‘You will get out of this country,’ Papa said to us both, his voice a hoarse croak. ‘Promise me.’
Eventually, we nodded back at him. ‘We promise,’ Mama and I said in unison.
And then he leaned in for one last wordless hug before he turned, straightened the collar of his bloodstained shirt and went to join the men.
As the front door closed behind them, I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. I would not cry. I would not give them that. I was the man of the house now. I had to look after Mama. I had to finish what Papa had started and help Mama to get us out of here. I had to keep my promise.
For the second time in less than twelve hours, I stood by the window, lifting a corner of the curtain to look out.
I watched Papa walk down the street to the police station, flanked by three men he used to call his friends.
His crime: being Jewish.
1939
ELSA
Hitler has taken Czechoslovakia.
It’s all anyone talks about at school. What will this mean for the people of Prague? What will happen to our families, to our schooling, to us?
The tension takes over my body. I try my hardest not to think about how bad things were before we left Vienna. So bad that my parents made us leave our whole lives behind. Will we have to do that again? Will I lose Greta now, as well as Leo and Max?
Leo tells me things in his letters about how his life is now. Or he did, anyway. I haven’t heard from him in a while. Life is bad over there. Very, very bad. I can’t help thinking that everything he has described is what is now in store for us here.
Did we do all of this, uproot our lives, only to put the horrors off by a year and not escape them at all?
I’m in maths when the headmaster sends a message for all teachers to read out to their classes. We’re told that afternoon lessons are cancelled so that our teachers can learn about the changes that are coming. There are going to be new laws and they need to understand how to implement them in the school.
The others cheer at the news that we will have the afternoon off. My throat feels too gummed up to cheer. Still, I’m glad for a chance to get away from all the talking about it.
Greta isn’t in my class for maths, but I hope that I can find her when we break for lunch and then we can spend the free afternoon together. I try and rush out to catch her, but my teacher, Miss Jansky, stops me. ‘I’m sorry, Elsa,’ she says, placing her hand on my arm.
‘Sorry? What for, miss?’ I ask.
She doesn’t reply. She just shakes her head. Then she squeezes my arm and gives me a sad kind of smile. I’m starting to feel a bit uncomfortable and I’m not sure how to respond.
‘You coming?’ Frida, one of my classmates, is waiting at the door.
‘Go on,’ Miss Jansky says. ‘Take care, Elsa.’
I’m relieved to get away from the awkward moment.
‘Some of us are going into the city after school,’ Frida says to me. ‘See what’s going on with Hitler’s army! Want to join us?’
I think about what Mutti and Vati have said to me recently. They don’t like me going anywhere without telling them where I’ll be. They’ve started being all protective again, like they were in Vienna before we left. And Hitler was the man Vati went to fight! I don’t want anything to do with him! Just his name scares me. But I don’t want to say any of this to the girls and sound like a baby.
After Vati came home from the army last year, we thought things were going to be great. We thought all our troubles were over. But things have been tough lately. Vati’s work has dropped off. No one seems to be offering him contracts and Mutti’s been quieter again. They haven’t talked about any of it with me and Otto, but I still feel it. There’s something different in the air.
I’ve got a tiny voice inside me wondering if maybe our troubles haven’t even begun.
But I know I can’t say any of this to the others. Luckily, Greta is beside me before I can reply to Frida.
‘We’ve got plans,’ she says quickly. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’
The other girls shrug and move off without us.
‘Do we have plans?’ I ask Greta as the girls walk away.
‘No, of course not,’ she replies.
‘Why did you say we did?’ I insist, even though I’m grateful that she did.
‘Because it’s dangerous in the city,’ she says.
‘Dangerous?’ I ask. I can’t stop myself. Every nerve ending in my body jangles with tension and I know I shouldn’t push it. I don’t want to say it out loud. I don’t want Greta to say it either. But if I don’t, I’m scared the tension inside me will burst out and break me into pieces.
‘You know it as well as I do. We’re Jewish,’ she whispers urgently. ‘It’s not the same for us. Not any more.’
And finally, I have to face the truth that has been lurking inside me all along. The cold words hang heavy in the air around us. The words that are so similar to those I said to Leo and Max two years ago.
I want to argue, I want to laugh, I want to tell her she is being silly.
But in the end I don’t do any of those things because the truth is, I know that Greta is right. It’s not the same for us. Nothing is the same for us now.
LEO
I ran to the door to greet Mama. She’d been out all morning. She greeted me with a simple shake of her head and my heart deflated.
It was the same every day now. She would go from embassy to embassy, from one administrative task to the next, from one crushing disappointment to yet another.
I went with her sometimes. We would stand in long lines, edging slowly forward for hours on end, unable to leave the queue to get something to eat or drink or even visit the toilet for fear that we would lose our place. Finally, after many hours, we would get to the front. Mama would hold out the papers we had been told we needed in order to leave Austria and every single time our hopes would be dashed. There was always some reason they wouldn’t sign the papers, something we had done wrong, some tiny detail that made them send us away empty-handed.
One time, the official behind the desk didn’t even look up at us. We had queued from eight in the morning and it was now a minute before five.
‘We are closed,’ he said. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
‘Please sir, I have waited all day,’ Mama replied. ‘There is still one minute. I just need your signature. Surely you have time to do that for me? I am begging you.’
The man slowly lifted his head. He looked Mama in the eyes. For a second, I let myself believe he would do what she asked. Why wouldn’t he? It was the simplest of requests.
‘I am a slow writer,’ he replied with a cruel laugh. ‘Now get out and do not make me repeat myself again or you will regret it.’
He went back to his paperwork and we shuffled out of the office and walked home in silence.
Another time, Mama had managed to get one set of papers signed. Then she was told to go to another building to get a seco
nd set stamped. I went with her again. This time the queue was shorter. We were in the final queue before lunchtime. Our spirits were high and I remember Mama even smiling as she handed over the required documentation. This was it. We would be a step closer to leaving the country.
But when she handed over the paperwork, instead of simply stamping it and sending us away, the man behind the desk shook his head. ‘You have done this wrong,’ he said. ‘You are meant to get it stamped first. Then you get the other section signed. I cannot accept this.’ He ripped the papers up in front of our eyes. ‘Start again,’ he said as he casually dropped them into the bin beside him.
‘I can’t go through it again,’ Mama said to me now. It was more than four months since Papa had been taken away and we were no closer to leaving Vienna than we’d been that day. ‘What’s the point?’
‘Mama, we can’t give up,’ I tried to argue. It wasn’t even about following Papa’s urgent plea for us to leave any more. We knew even without him here that he was right; we had to go. Every day told us that Austria was no longer a country for us. The daily taunts, the restrictions on our movement, the curfews – it was no way to live, and Mama knew it as well as I did.
‘I can’t do it,’ Mama said. ‘They act like cats toying with a helpless mouse for their own entertainment. I won’t put myself in that position again. I refuse to give them the satisfaction. And anyway, even if we manage to get these documents signed, we still don’t have all we need, and we never will.’
‘Why is that, Mama?’
‘Because it is not enough for them that we leave everything behind – our home, our possessions, my husband! We have to have a sponsor in a country we want to go to. Someone to vouch for us, give us a home, a job, assure the Nazis that they are rid of us for good.’ She looked at me, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. ‘Leo, my darling,’ she said softly. ‘We don’t know anyone in another country. There is nobody waiting to help us.’
‘But Mama, we have to keep trying,’ I insisted.
She softly put her finger over my lips. ‘I’m finished,’ she said. ‘No more. We will brave things out and your father will soon be home, and then we will all be together and get through this as a family. It can’t get any worse than it is now. Just hold tight and we will get through it.’
‘Okay, Mama,’ I said with a deep sigh. What choice did I have?
In the silence that followed, I heard an envelope land on the mat by the front door. I went to get it. I recognized the writing.
‘Papa!’
‘Look, see, something good!’ Mama said as she picked it up and tore the envelope open. Each month we had received a letter from Papa. This was the fourth one. I lived for those letters.
We certainly didn’t have much else to live for these days.
‘Come, let’s get into my bed and tuck ourselves under the blanket to read it,’ Mama said. Snuggling under the blanket together was one of the upsides of the fact that we didn’t have enough money to put the heating on. We could hardly afford anything since Mama had been forced to sell Papa’s photography studio for a fraction of its value. The Nazi Aryanization laws meant Jews were barely allowed to own anything nowadays. We were lucky we still had our home.
Mama had had to hand over all her jewellery too. Luckily, the day the Nazi soldiers came for it, she’d already had an idea what they were coming for. People in our neighbourhood had been whispering about it for weeks. Just the night before they came, she had taken off her wedding ring and sewn it into the hem of an old blanket.
It was the only piece of jewellery she still owned but she never dared even take it out to look at, let alone wear it.
For me, the most treasured possessions I had were these letters from Papa.
I jumped into bed and pulled the blanket around us. Mama unfolded Papa’s letter and we read it together.
My dear wife and son,
I am well and everything is fine. They feed us and look after us so well you would hardly think I was in prison! I have made friends here and I work hard each day. The guards are friendly. You must not worry about me at all. I will see you soon.
Leo, I hope that you are looking after all my old photographs. Remember what I always say about photography? That a picture paints a hundred words. Remember that! You know I am telling the truth! And that’s why you must always remember to do everything I tell you! You are the man of the house now.
I love you both with all my heart and I will see you very soon. Please don’t forget to check on Omama, and send her my love too.
Papa.
Mama smiled as she folded the letter. She held it to her mouth and kissed it.
It was so rare to see her smile nowadays that I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but something about Papa’s letter was bothering me.
‘Mama, can I see it?’ I asked.
‘Of course. Put it with the others when you’ve finished.’
She handed the letter to me and I read it again.
Then I realized what it was. Papa’s words about taking photographs weren’t right.
Remember what I always say about photography? That a picture paints a hundred words.
That wasn’t what he always said. He always said a picture paints a thousand words.
Had he forgotten that? Surely he couldn’t have done. Papa would never forget something so important to him. Something he said to me over and over again.
But then why say it?
I read the next line. You know I am telling the truth!
My heart thudded as though it were on springs as I realized: Papa was talking in code! By lying about the phrase, he was trying to say he wasn’t telling me the truth about the other things in the letter! I reread his words. All the things he said about how good everything was – he was lying. He obviously didn’t want Mama to worry, but he was sending me a message, I was sure of it.
And that’s why you must always remember to do everything I tell you!
There was only one thing he had told me to do: get out of Vienna.
Which meant I had to think harder, I had to find a way to help Mama be stronger. We had to leave.
As I folded the letter up and took it to the special drawer in Mama’s room where she kept the other letters, I had a sudden memory of doing something similar. A drawer with something special in it.
What was I remembering? Was it a dream or a real memory? It was getting harder every day to hold on to the good memories so I was about to dismiss it as an illusion. But then, just thinking about memories brought that wonderful day into my mind. My ninth birthday. The memory of that day brought more pain than joy nowadays, so mostly I didn’t think about it.
Except for some reason, it was tugging at me now.
And then I realized why.
The letter! The letter from the Stewarts!
I hurled myself down the stairs and ran into the kitchen. Please still be there, please still be there, please—
Yes! There it was! Still tucked at the back of the fancy cutlery drawer.
I charged back upstairs. Breathless with hope and excitement, I ran into Mama’s bedroom. ‘Mama,’ I said. ‘We mustn’t give up.’
‘What? Give up what?’
‘We have to get out of Austria.’
‘Leo, please, not this again. I’ve told you—’
‘I know. And…’ I paused. Should I tell her about Papa’s secret message? No. If he had wanted her to know, he wouldn’t have sent it in code. I was the man of the house now, like he’d said. I had to find a way to make this happen.
I sat on the bed and talked quickly. ‘Let’s just give it one more go,’ I said. ‘We’ll get up before the dawn breaks. We will be first in every queue. We will smile and listen and do everything perfectly, and we will get the papers in order. We’ll take every step together.’
Mama sighed. ‘But, Leo, I told you, even if we do all that, we still come to a dead end. We still have no one to vouch for us. We have nowhere to go!’
I thrust the letter out to
her. ‘Yes we do,’ I said firmly.
‘What’s this?’ She took the letter from me and opened it. Then she laughed softly. Sadly. ‘The English couple from your birthday years ago,’ she said.
‘They might do it,’ I said. ‘They might help us.’
Mama shook her head. ‘Darling, a ride at the fair and a piece of cake do not equate to what we would be asking of them.’
I drew a slow breath and puffed out my chest. ‘Mama,’ I said. ‘They are our last hope. They are our only hope. We have to try.’
Mama held my eyes for a long while. As she did, I realized what was making her so reluctant. It wasn’t that she wanted to give up. It was that she couldn’t bear to let herself hope, only to have that hope dashed again.
Finally, she nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I will write to them tonight.’
I threw my arms around her. ‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said, kissing her cheek.
I wished I could tell Papa that I had a plan. Even if it failed, at least we were trying to do something.
That had to be better than letting the Nazis take everything from us without even putting up a fight.
MAX
Max woke before his alarm went off. He was out of bed even before the sun had risen, before his parents had got up.
He made his bed and, still in his pyjamas, he crept into the kitchen where his mother had laid out his pressed uniform the night before. The first thing he did was check that the creases in his shirt and shorts were all in the right places. Next, he pulled out his boots from under the table and inspected them.
‘Max, what are you doing?’ His mother stood in the kitchen doorway, yawning as she pulled her dressing gown close around her and glanced at the clock. ‘It’s not even six yet.’
Max held up a boot. ‘I wanted to shine my shoes, Mother.’
She laughed. ‘Again? Surely you shone them well enough last night?’
Max’s father appeared behind her. ‘Leave the boy alone,’ he said, coming past her into the kitchen. ‘He’s doing a good job.’
Max stared down at his boots so his father wouldn’t see his flushed face. If he knew how much joy Max got from his occasional snippets of praise, he might give them out even less frequently.
