When the World Was Ours

by Liz Kessler

  It was like walking around in a minefield, or being in a permanent nightmare. Sometimes I wondered if Mama felt the same way. I couldn’t ask her, though. I couldn’t run the risk of upsetting her by letting her know how hard I was finding things.

  Every now and then, I would leave my worries behind. Remind myself we were in England now. We were safe. Those moments were like gasping for air after being held underwater. But something would always happen to dunk me back into my nightmare again.

  And being teased by the other boys at school didn’t help.

  ‘See you later,’ I said from the doorway, my practised smile bright on my face.

  Mama got up from the table and came to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Have a lovely day, darling.’

  ‘I will of course. I always do!’ I said in my rehearsed cheerful manner.

  ‘You’re such a good boy. I’m so glad you’re happy here,’ she said.

  I smiled again. I didn’t reply this time. I couldn’t force any more lies out of my mouth.

  Mama waved me off at the door as she did each morning, and I waved back and walked up the road to wait for the bus.

  The trouble began at the bus stop, as usual.

  ‘Hey, look, it’s the Kraut,’ said Tim, one of the boys in my year. He was taller than the rest of us and had white-blond hair and blue eyes. He was one of the most popular boys in my year, which meant everyone copied what he did.

  Tim had had it in for me from the moment I’d arrived. At first, I couldn’t understand most of what he said, but the downside of picking up English so quickly meant that I soon came to realize he insulted me every time he saw me.

  ‘How are you today, Jerry?’ one of Tim’s sidekicks, Robert, asked.

  ‘I’m not called Jerry,’ I mumbled to the ground as I sidled up to the bus stop.

  Tim thrust his arm out in a Nazi salute. ‘Sieg Heil! I am NOT called Jerry. Zat is NOT my name,’ he said in an exaggerated German accent. The other boys laughed. ‘And if you call me zat zen I vill shoot you!’

  More laughter.

  I felt bile rise in my throat. Don’t you know how wrong you are? I wanted to scream at them. Do you not realize your enemy is my enemy too?

  Anything I said would only encourage them, so I kept quiet and fiddled with the hem of my school jacket as I stared at the pavement.

  ‘Come on Jerry, we’re only kidding,’ a boy called Daniel said, nudging my arm.

  ‘I’m not called Jerry,’ I said again.

  ‘But you’re German. You’re the enemy. That’s what we call all the Germans,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s just a nickname. It’s not personal.’

  Luckily the bus came along then and the boys all dispersed to separate seats as we got on board. Respite. For now.

  I skulked down the aisle, alone with my thoughts.

  Back in Vienna, everyone hated us because we were Jewish. Here they hated me because of my accent. Would there ever be a place where I could simply fit in and be accepted for who I was? What would these boys say if I told them the truth? I’m not German, I’m Jewish, so hate me for that instead.

  I doubted it would help.

  There was only one seat left on the bus. It was next to Daniel. Out of them all, he was the least awful.

  ‘You shouldn’t take it to heart so much,’ he said as the bus started up. He spoke quietly, so no one else would hear. ‘The more they see they’ve upset you, the more they’ll do it. Act like you don’t care. Laugh with them. Tease them back. Show that you’re one of us and you’ll be accepted before you know it.’

  ‘But I’m not one of you,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, you’ve got a bit of an accent,’ he agreed. ‘But so what?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s not that.’ I lowered my voice even further. Finally, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. ‘I’m Jewish,’ I said.

  Daniel stared at me. Now I’d done it. I’d blown it with the one boy who didn’t bully me relentlessly every day. A wave of fear engulfed me. What if Daniel was a Nazi? What if they all were? What if it was all going to happen here as well, just like in Vienna, just like in Czechoslovakia and Germany? Hitler could march into England any day, and that would be it. Game over.

  My palms were hot and slippy with sweat and I was about to tell Daniel I was joking when he leaned in further. ‘So am I,’ he said.

  My jaw fell so wide open it almost hurt. ‘What?’ I hissed. ‘You’re Jewish?’

  ‘There isn’t a synagogue in this town and we’ve never been part of a bigger community – but yeah, we light candles on Friday nights and we don’t eat bread at Passover.’ Daniel shrugged. ‘I’m Jewish. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘But – but you’re just like all the others! They don’t tease you, they don’t bully you. You’re one of the gang!’

  Daniel pulled a face. ‘Why shouldn’t I be one of the gang?’ he asked. ‘It’s not a crime to be Jewish, you know.’

  I actually laughed at that point. He had literally no idea. No idea that, actually, it really was a crime to be Jewish in my old life.

  But maybe it was me who had no idea. No real belief that those days were over and that we really were safe in England. Daniel was right. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I had to stop acting as though I had.

  I had to start living again.

  It was time to start telling myself I was safe. We’d escaped. We had nothing to fear in Britain.

  So I smiled at Daniel. ‘No, you’re right,’ I said. ‘It’s not a crime at all. I’m only kidding.’

  ‘See, that’s more like it,’ he said. ‘Just keep smiling like that. If someone says something stupid to you, don’t let them know it’s bothered you. Brush it off. Tease them back. You’ll fit in with us in no time.’

  By the time we got to school and Daniel and I sat next to each other in registration and nudged each other in assembly and sent notes to each other in class, I realized I had something I hadn’t had for years. Something I hadn’t had since Max and Elsa had left Vienna.

  I had a friend.

  1941

  ELSA

  Where we live now isn’t too bad. We were moved to a tenement block on the poor side of town. We were amongst the first to be moved here. Like the Nazi soldiers had said, it was our misfortune to have been in a house so near to their headquarters that meant we were evicted so early on.

  The rest of Prague’s Jews weren’t all that far behind us. All of this year, Jewish families have been having their homes taken from them and being sent to live in these tenement blocks. Being so close to so many Jewish people is almost fun, in a strange sort of way. It’s like we’re one big family, a community of people all in it together. The best things about it are:

  My family are close to me all the time.

  Greta is here too. She and her parents came a few months after we did, so we can still see each other as much as we want. They live in the same block, a couple of floors below us.

  Greta and I have adopted a cat. We have called him Felix and he is the sweetest little creature you have ever seen. He is always outside our block waiting for us whenever we go out and he meows and arches his back really high when we stroke him. He is mostly black but has little white paws that look like socks and a tiny white spot on his nose. After my family and Greta and the boys, who I still love even though I never see them, Felix is my favourite thing ever in the world.

  The worst things about living here are:

  It is very crowded. I don’t know how many there are of us now in this block but we share our three-bedroom apartment with three other families. That’s one family in each bedroom and the fourth in the lounge. With one bathroom between us.

  The rats. (Although we sometimes let Felix into the apartment as he helps chase these away.)

  There’s nowhere to wash our clothes so everything is quite dirty.

  We are hungry a lot, as Jews are not allowed to work, so we have very little money to buy food. And yes, Greta and I make that worse for ourselves by sharing what little
we get with Felix. But we have both agreed that it is worth it for the cuddles and purrs we get in thanks.

  Even with all those things, every morning when I wake up, I remind myself that I’m lucky. I have somewhere to live. It might be crowded but at least it is warm and dry. Mostly. It wasn’t too bad in the summer, but now the autumn nights have started to draw in the cold is seeping through the walls – and so is the rain.

  But at least we have a roof over our heads. And we are still here and still together.

  Mutti and Vati are glad that I have a friend. Greta and I meet in each other’s apartments every chance we get. We talk about anything and everything, like we always have done.

  I sometimes can’t believe I have only known her a couple of years. I feel like I’ve known her all my life. We are almost like sisters.

  ‘What do you want to be when we grow up?’ Greta asks me today as we sit together on the wall outside the tenement building, feeding tiny morsels of bread to Felix. It’s one of our favourite questions.

  ‘Alive?’ I reply.

  Greta laughs and nudges me in the side. ‘No. Really. What would you be if you could be anything?’

  I think for a moment. ‘I’m embarrassed to say it,’ I say eventually.

  Greta leans in closer. ‘Go on. I won’t tell anyone.’

  I shrug. ‘I think I’d just like to be a wife. I want to get married and have three children and stay at home and cook beautiful meals.’

  Greta laughs. ‘Who will you marry?’ she asks me. ‘Let me guess…’

  I laugh too. ‘Maybe Max or Leo,’ I say. ‘Unless someone else asks me first.’

  The truth is, I can barely picture Max and Leo any more. I still have the photograph of the three of us, packed tightly in a case with my clothes, but I rarely look at it nowadays and without it I can hardly even conjure up their faces in my mind.

  I still think about them. I wonder if they’ve moved as many times as I have. I wonder if Leo is still safe in Vienna, if Max is happy in Munich, if they ever think about me.

  I wonder if I will ever see either of them again.

  And then my heart hurts and I have to change the subject. ‘What about you?’ I ask Greta. ‘What will you be?’

  Greta talks in a whisper. ‘I’m going to be a resistance fighter,’ she says.

  ‘What’s one of those?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve heard of young women who are joining the fight against Hitler. They run secret errands and no one suspects them because they’re only girls. What d’you think?’

  What I think is that the thought terrifies me. I couldn’t bear for Greta to go off and do something so dangerous. I cannot lose the only friend I’ve got.

  ‘I think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever known,’ I say.

  Greta hugs me, then feeds Felix the last few crumbs and picks him up for a cuddle. ‘And when we’ve won the war and sent Hitler packing, I shall marry one of your boys,’ she says. ‘And we will live in a big house in the country and have seven cats.’

  I laugh as I watch her playing with Felix. These moments with Greta are everything. Her friendship makes me feel alive.

  And that’s about as good a feeling as any of us have around here nowadays, so I know it’s something to treasure.

  LEO

  It was Saturday morning and I was awake early as I was meeting my friends at the park. I was scrabbling under my bed looking for my shoes when I heard Mama scream from downstairs.

  ‘Leo!’ she yelled. ‘Come quickly!’

  Old habits still hadn’t left me. My heart thumped so hard I could feel it in my throat. And my mind went to the places it always went to.

  It was all over. Everything in England had been a dream and reality had now caught up with us. The Nazis had found us and Mama and I were about to be dragged out of a life we had no right to live.

  I ran downstairs. Mama was standing in the hall, one hand clapped over her mouth, the other clutching a piece of paper.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’ I asked breathlessly. ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

  She nodded and held out the piece of paper. It was an envelope. She took her hand away from her mouth. As she did, I could see that she was smiling. ‘It’s from your father,’ she said.

  A letter. From Papa. Not the Nazis. Not something bad. Something wonderful.

  As I took the envelope from her, my heart kept racing – but with excitement, not fear. It was covered in postmarks and scribbles. Our old address in Vienna was crossed out with thick red lines; postmarks declaring numerous posting points and dates covered the whole envelope, and at the top were two stamps. One bore the Nazi Eagle picture and the other was a picture of Adolf Hitler.

  Even with all of that, I could still recognize the writing beneath the scrawls and stamps and forwarding marks. I would know it anywhere.

  ‘It is from Papa!’ I cried. I followed the trail of postmarks with my finger. One after another after another until I read the one covering the stamps and discovered something that shocked me. The original date was 1940. Papa’s letter had taken a whole year to reach us!

  ‘Come in the kitchen and let’s sit by the fire,’ Mama said. ‘We can read it in the warmth.’

  I followed Mama into the kitchen. The room was still in darkness from last night’s air raid. We’d had the curtains closed for a blackout for almost twenty-four hours. The raids happened fairly regularly nowadays.

  I pulled aside the curtain in the kitchen and opened the envelope as Mama stoked the fire. Then we pulled two stools together and read Papa’s letter.

  My darling wife and my dearest son,

  I hope this letter reaches you. I just want you to know that everything is fine with me. I have been moved to a place called Dachau where I am working hard alongside many friends and comrades. We are treated well. We sing as we work. We are well-fed and well-dressed and everything is really great.

  And, Leo, guess what? I met your old friend Max the other day! He asked how you were and asked me to send you his fondest regards.

  And of course so much of the same from me to you both. I will see you soon, I promise.

  My love, always,

  Papa

  I gripped the letter and stared at the words, reading them over and over. And then a tear fell on to Papa’s words and smudged them.

  Mama gently covered my hand with hers. ‘Hey, careful,’ she said. ‘This is all we have of him.’

  She was right. Not only that but, as I read the letter again, I couldn’t see any hidden code telling me to disregard his words. That meant they must be true. Papa was safe and well.

  I passed the letter back to Mama. The thought of Papa so far away from us, working so hard, sending us a letter that took a year to get to us, hurt so deeply it felt like a football being kicked into the pit of my stomach.

  But his words eased the pain. He was fine. He was being fed. He was singing and working and he had friends. And he’d seen Max! My old best friend had sent a message to me across all the miles and all the years. He still thought about me.

  After all this time, all the letters I had sent Max without receiving a reply, I had begun to think I would never hear anything of him again. Maybe I had got his address wrong. Maybe he had tried to write to me too. It wouldn’t have been easy for him. I wasn’t a fool, I wasn’t a hopeful kid any longer. I knew his father wouldn’t want him to write to me.

  But he could have found a way. Maybe he had written and his letters had gone astray – and now we were in England and he would have no idea how to find me.

  Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He still cared – and he’d seen Papa!

  Maybe if I wrote to him again, I could give him my new address and I’d hear back from him. It was worth one more shot.

  I’d do it after football. And I could tell him all about my new friends as well! Maybe he’d even meet them one day. I was sure he’d like them, especially Daniel who was the nearest thing I had to a best friend nowadays.

  I looked
at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Mama, I have to go. The others will be waiting for me.’

  Mama was smiling. My heart stopped for a second; I hadn’t seen that smile for so long. The warmth of it, the love behind her eyes. It was as if the knowledge that Papa was fine had brought her back from behind a veil where she’d been hiding all this time.

  ‘You go and play,’ she said, patting my knee. She held Papa’s letter against her heart. ‘I will be here with your father.’

  I stood up and bent to kiss her forehead. ‘I love you, Mama,’ I said.

  ‘I love you too, my wonderful boy,’ she replied. ‘Have fun with your friends.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. And I knew it was true.

  The feeling Papa’s letter had planted inside me kept me warm all day. It made me kick the ball harder, pass it better. It meant I ran around the pitch with my hands in the air, whooping at the top of my voice when I scored a goal.

  It even meant that afterwards, when we finished with football and were playing soldiers instead, I didn’t mind being the German this time – even when I got shot in the middle of a ‘Heil Hitler!’ salute.

  It was only a game, after all. We were just having fun. I was with my friends. It was a good day.

  ELSA

  It’s a Saturday morning in late November when they come for us.

  We know them quite well by now. The Judenrat. The Jewish Council. They visit us at least every month, checking we are all okay, we have enough food to survive and so on. The Nazis chose them to do their dirty work – and, like us, they were powerless to say no. In their way, they are no luckier than we are. Especially on days like today when they have come to give us bad news.

  They know as well as we do that they could so easily be the next ones to receive such news. They know as well as we do how dispensable they are to the Nazis. They know as well as we do that sending them to do this work on a Saturday – a religious day for Jewish people – is the Nazis’ way of making them the butt of their fun as much as it’s about reminding us how few rights over our lives we have now.