Finding Sophie (3 page)

F
riday, April 27, 1945. My fourteenth birthday. Mandy's right, I do feel more grown-up. Lots of girls our age have left school and gone out to work.

Aunt Em went to the office extra early, so she could finish the new pamphlet on cooking potatoes in twenty-five different ways. They're one of the few foods that aren't rationed.

She made me the most beautiful birthday card. She used tiny scraps of leftover fabric from the quilts she makes for forces' convalescent homes.

I'm supposed to go to the butcher's on my way home from school. Good thing Aunt Em left the ration books out. I would
not
be happy queuing and then not getting anything because I'd forgotten them.

I hate going to Billy's Best Meats. His real name is William Billy. He always makes me think of the
Three Billy Goats Gruff–
not the goats, but the troll.
Who's that going into my shop?
His teeth are very pointed, as if he's been gnawing on bones, sharpening his incisors.

I may declare myself a vegetarian, then I'd get extra cheese, and wouldn't have to go through this. Nigel's scout troop has an allotment, which is one of the best in London. They grow all kinds of vegetables, and even manage strawberries.

I queue for twenty-five minutes. Finally there is only one woman ahead of me.

“Nice bit of rabbit, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Ta very much, Mr. Billy. A bit of liver'd be nice. My son's home on leave this weekend; liver and bacon's his favorite.”

“Now that I can't do. There's still a war on, you know. How about a nice bit of tripe? Tripe and onions. Very tasty.”

“Tell you the truth, Mr. Billy, I haven't seen an onion in the shops for weeks, and my son isn't a great one for tripe.”

A pause. No one dares to offend Mr. Billy. Tripe is actually the stomach of a large bovine animal, like a cow or an ox. I looked it up in the dictionary one day after they served it for school dinners. Thick gray wobbly stuff, with lines on it. No one touched it.
Poor Mrs. Wilson.

“Seeing it's a special occasion, I'll throw in a soup bone – nice bit of meat on it. One shilling and fourpence, if you please. Next.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Billy. Miss Simmonds was wondering …” I hesitate.

“What did she have in mind then, a little steak?” Mr. Billy laughs uproariously.

“I don't think I've ever tasted steak, Mr. Billy, and I'm fourteen today.”

“What kind of world are we living in, I
ask
you?” This, to the patient woman behind me. “Girls growing up who don't know what a piece of steak tastes like? What are they going to feed their husbands on?”

I try a smile.

The lady behind me says, “Should be on the Music Hall, Mr. Billy. Good as George Formby, you are, any day.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He rubs his hands over his fat stomach.

I think,
it's disgusting what we have to go through just to eat.

“Mr. Billy, my aunt was rather hoping for some lamb. She was telling me how, before the war, you had the best spring lamb anywhere in West London.”

Mr. Billy preens. “Times change, my dear.” He goes into the back, returns, and swiftly wraps up a small parcel. “That'll be one shilling and sixpence, please, luv. Regards to your aunt. Sausages for the birthday girl.” He winks at me.

I cycle home, whistling all the way, and get in just as Aunt Em is hanging up her gray tweed coat. She's had that coat ever since I've known her. It's not that she can't afford a new one, it's that I'm growing so fast she has to use most of her clothing coupons for me. Mrs. Gibson once said, “An English tweed lasts a lifetime.”
Mandy said, “Doesn't it depend how long a lifetime is?” She got told off for being cheeky.

I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Aunt Em looks exhausted.

“You okay, Aunt Em?”

“Sophie, I can't tell you how much I dislike that expression.” She kisses me absentmindedly. “Happy birthday, darling. How was Mr. Billy?”

“His usual.” I remove the string of pinkish gray sausages from the wrapping and swing them round my head like a lasso. “Look what I got. Doesn't it cheer you up?”

“It does, indeed. There is no doubt you know the way to that ogre's heart.”

I pour Aunt Em a cup of tea.

“Thank you. I need this. Are you and Mandy on the same shift at the hospital tomorrow?”

“Sister changed her to mornings this week, and I'm on from five till nine in the evening. I rather like those hours, tidying everything up for visitors, and most people in a good mood.”

“It's a bit late for you to cycle home by yourself.”

“I come straight home, you know that.” Mandy and I have been nursing cadets since we were twelve, and it's got us our war service badge in Guides. “Did you have a rotten day, Aunt Em?”

“I did, rather. Jean Mitchell's husband was killed in action. She got the telegram this morning. I wanted to send her home, and she said, ‘I'd
prefer
to stay if you don't mind, Miss Simmonds.
You see, there's no one there now.’ Her son's just volunteered for the Merchant Navy. Sorry I'm so gloomy. Let me finish this lovely cup of tea and I'll be myself again.”

“You've got it.” I am given a look.

“Sometimes, Sophie Mandel, I think I'm sharing my home with a member of the American forces. Where do you pick up these expressions?
Mm
, something smells delicious. I'll lay the table.”

We have two sausages each and fried tomato and triangles of fried bread.

“You should be working for the Ministry of Food, Sophie, not me. You're a wonderful cook.”

Aunt Em had made me an eggless birthday cake with white icing, which was a bit runny because you can't get real icing sugar. We're saving the cake until Mandy and Nigel get here.

“Time for presents,” says Aunt Em.

There are two this year, instead of one. I open the big one first.

“Aunt Em, oh, I was hoping for this. Thank you a million times!”

It is a beautiful new sketchbook, a bit bigger than last year's. “I don't know how you do it.”

“This is the last one, Sophie. I bought six in 1939, when it looked as if there might be a shortage. Now open your other gift.”

“What a beautiful velvet box.” I lift the lid. “Aunt Em, is it an identity bracelet? I've always wanted one of those! It looks like real gold. It's got a charm on it.” I falter. It isn't a charm, not exactly, nor a bracelet. Aunt Em has given me a gold necklace and on it is a Jewish star, a Star of David.

“Let me fasten it for you, Sophie.”

I go into the hall to look in the mirror.

I hate wearing anything round my neck. It's choking me. Why would Aunt Em give me this? Religion isn't part of our lives.

Aunt Em says, “Last week during my lunch-hour walk, I passed by my favorite antique shop – the tiny one almost hidden away in the mews. I bought my little rose-colored carriage lamp there before the war. On an impulse, I went in. The owner remembered me. He was pricing some estate jewelry on the counter. I decided to buy this piece. He told me it was very old – of Persian design. I wondered who it had belonged to.”

“Thank you, Aunt Em. It's lovely. I'll keep it for special occasions.”

There is a familiar knock at the door.

“That'll be Nigel and Mandy.” I'm relieved to get away. I put the necklace back in the box, and into my pocket.

“Happy birthday, Sophie.” Mandy hugs me.

Nigel pushes a big tin into my hand. “Many happy returns.”

“What is it?”

“Open it. It's from all of us,” Mandy says.

“Toffee. I don't believe it! However did you …?”

“We made it, didn't we, Nigel? It's from one of the Ministries' Christmas recipes. It's called honeycomb toffee.”

“Carrot-based,” Nigel says solemnly.

“Liar. Don't listen to him, Soph. We saved our sugar ration, and Mum gave us the syrup and voilà!”

For the rest of the evening we play Monopoly and eat toffee and almost finish the birthday cake. “You must take the last piece
home for your mother. Please thank her for the syrup,” I remind Mandy.

After they leave, Aunt Em says, “I'll do the dishes. You've done more than your fair share, getting supper and facing Mr. Billy.”

“Good night, Aunt Em. You do spoil me. It's been a wonderful birthday.”

A
ll evening I'd been conscious of the box in my pocket. I'm not sure why I was in such a hurry to put the necklace out of sight.

I wish I hadn't said I'd been hoping for an identity bracelet. In a way, it is. In Europe Jews wear a star to identify who they are. Like us carrying identity cards to prove we're entitled to a ration book. It's not the same, though. Hitler hates the Jews more than all his other enemies.

I'm sure Mother said once that I'd been christened. She'd have told Aunt Em those kinds of things, seeing they were pen friends. Aunt Em's a Quaker and doesn't believe in organized religion. I go to midnight mass at Christmas with the Gibsons, and Aunt Em stays home and greets us with cocoa after the service.

The little velvet box fits into one of the desk's cubbyholes. I can't think of a special occasion when I'd wear it.

I breathe in the special newness of my sketchbook. At school we use exercise books that have thin yellowish utility paper. Hopeless for real drawing. This paper is thick and made specially for sketching.

Five years ago, I, Sophie Mandel, of 16, Great Tichfield Street, London
WC
1, made an unbreakable rule:
THE OLD SKETCHBOOK MUST BE COMPLETED BEFORE I AM ALLOWED TO BEGIN DRAWING IN THE NEW ONE
.

Two pages left. I decide to let my pencil improvise, the way a musician does.

Twenty minutes later, I look at my drawing. It's of a rather grand brick building. I've shaded the bricks gray, but they should be old rose. There's an arched doorway of thick heavy wood, not the kind that would break easily. Above the arch is a stone tablet inscribed with ancient writing. The windows are high and narrow, like church windows. There's a small courtyard enclosed by a low stone wall. Wrought-iron gates in the center are ornamental. The gates are open. In the middle of each one is a circle and a perfect six-point star….

Papa comes home early. He holds a handkerchief to his face.

“Are you hurt, Papa?” Zoffie asks.

“Your papa was careless; he fell out of a tree. Put your hand in my pocket, Zoffie.”

The little girl finds a fir cone. “
Mm
, it smells the way you do when you come home from work – like pine trees. Thank you, Papa.”

“Where is Mama?”

“Mama works late on Fridays, Papa.”

Sometimes on Saturday mornings, Zoffie goes to the shop to help her mama. She picks up pins that are scattered on the floor of the workroom, where Mama does alterations for rich ladies. Mama shortens sleeves and lengthens hems and always talks with a pin between her teeth. They play a game – will Mama drop the pin?

Papa says, “Let's go for a little walk. Put your coat and hat on; it's cold for November.”

Zoffie thinks it is a very long walk. They stop outside a big stone house and pass through some pretty gates. There is a side door, and they go in. Papa keeps his hat on. They cross a large hall and stand at the back of a high-ceilinged room filled with people.

Zoffie sees many candles flickering. On a small balcony, some little girls sit with their mothers. A man sings a song that makes Zoffie want to cry. The men wear long white scarves embroidered with silver and gold. They sway back and forth and sing words that Zoffie doesn't understand.

Papa bows to a man with a long beard; he stares at them.

Papa holds the girl's hand tight. “Time to go,” he whispers. Outside it's dark. “Let's hurry, Mama will have supper waiting.”

Footsteps behind them. They come closer. Papa's breath is loud and fast.

“Will it snow, Papa?” He doesn't answer.

“Jacob, wait,” a voice calls out behind them.

They stop. Papa turns round slowly, gently nudging Zoffie so she stands in front of him. Papa puts his hands on her shoulders.

“A beautiful child, Jacob. It is good to see you once more. We must leave for Poland next week.”

Papa puts out a hand. The old man covers it with both of his own. Then he touches Zoffie's cheek with one finger, turns, and goes back toward the stone house.

“Papa, is that St. Nicholas?”

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks.

Zoffie nods.

“That is your grandfather. My father. He is going away. I wanted him to see you. A long time ago, we had a disagreement.”

“Were you angry with him, Papa?”

“We were angry with each other.”

“What is the palace called, Papa?”

“It is not a palace, Zoffie. It is a place where Jews go to pray. It is called a synagogue. Now hurry, and remember it's a secret.”

Mother is waiting for us. “Zoffie, your cheeks are cold like little winter apples.” She puts the back of her hand against my cheek, where Grandfather's finger had touched it. “Quickly wash your hands for supper.”

Zoffie hears Mama say, “Jacob, your face is bruised.”

“I got in the way of a small demonstration. It is nothing for you to worry about.”

“Where were you tonight? I asked you not to go out late. It's too dangerous.”

Zoffie sees Papa put his arms round Mama. “A little walk, that's all, Liebchen. Even a Jew must have exercise.”

“Only a crazy Jew goes out on a Friday night. Promise me to be more careful. Go to work, come home. Stay home with us.”

“I promise.”

For supper there are sausages and fried potatoes. Zoffie eats two sausages.