Pastel Orphans (19 page)

The girl does not say anything and I suddenly wonder if we have the right house. Because war changes much, including addresses.

“Do you know Otto?” I ask, and the girl turns towards me. She watches my mouth, curious at the wheeze in my voice.

The girl nods. “He is my sister’s fiancé.” We have made some connection and she doesn’t appear as if she will run.

“Otto asked us to come here and see Emelie,” says Henrik. “We are on a special mission and we are not to tell anyone our plans, except for Emelie.”

“Mama can keep secrets.”

“No,” says Henrik quickly. “Otto gave us strict instructions to speak only to Emelie.” And then he corrects himself. “He said you were a lovely girl and could be trusted also.”

I can see that the girl is thinking hard about this, absorbing our words. Her eyes dart towards the corners of the barn. She remains suspicious.

“You are quite safe,” I reassure her in broken German.

“It is simply a message that we must give to your sister, and we must tell no one else. Here,” says Henrik, passing her the letter. “Can you give this to Emelie when no one is looking and then tell her to come to the barn when it is dark? She can pretend to be getting some more food or going for a walk. Do you think she can do that?”

“Yes,” says the girl. “My sister is eighteen. She can go wherever she wants.”

Henrik takes a step forward and the girl steps back.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Maud.”

“That is very pretty,” I say.

“I like your name,” she says to me. “Are you German?”

“Yes,” says Henrik before I have a chance to answer truthfully.

“So are we. We came here to live with Papa, who works here, but I want to go home. I miss my friends.”

“So do I,” says Henrik. “I miss our home, my parents, and my cat. I can’t wait to go home.”

And I can see that trust has washed over her like a summer shower.

“So, can you take that to her now and tell her that she must not tell anyone? That she can trust what Otto says, and she can also trust us.”

“Yes,” says Maud.

She opens the door, takes one last look at us, and closes it again. Our fate rests completely with her.

We climb back into the loft and I am relieved to lie down again. I want to sleep but the excitement of our current predicament is suddenly too great.

“Do you think we can trust her?”

“Yes,” says Henrik, and I love the way he can give a definite answer, as if he is willing it so, or as though he knows much more than any of us.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Not good,” I say. There is no more point to lying. We have done as much as we can for now.

“What do you think it is?”

“I have a weak chest.” This is what Mama used to say. “I am prone to chest infections.”

“How is it treated?”

“Just medicine and rest.” I don’t tell him of Mama’s warm herbal drinks, or the ground seed paste and leaf oils she spread across my chest, or the steaming, salty baths used to clear my lungs. There is no point.

“Then we must get medicine.”

Long after dark, a light comes towards us across the snow. We wait for the doors to open to see who it is before we climb down from the loft.

The girl takes off the scarf that is wrapped around her face and neck. Emelie is a pretty girl with curling, honey-colored hair. Her eyes are wide with curiosity. She holds the letter in one hand.

“Come! Sit!” she says. She does not appear fearful. The letter is enough to make her trust us.

We sit on the hay bales in one of the stalls. She lights a kerosene lantern and hangs it on the wall.

“Are you Polish?” she asks.

Henrik says that he is German but asks, for my sake, if she speaks Polish. Emelie says she can speak German, Polish, and English.

“I have not heard from Otto for a long time. You cannot imagine how good it is to hear that he is alive.”

I feel a lump in my throat and have to look away. But Henrik is a professional now.

“Yes,” he says. “He is a good man. You must know that.”

“Yes,” she says. “I do. We plan to get married.”

I wonder if she is lying, or if this is her fantasy, because Henrik has already said that Otto admitted she was his temporary girlfriend. His real love lives in Germany.

“Now tell me what it is you want. Otto says that you need help and food and that you are trying to find your sister.” She is looking at us carefully while she says this. “I must say I am rather surprised. I would not have believed that Otto could be disloyal to his unit and help others on the run. But there you are. You never really know anyone. Are you Jewish?”

There is a pause. And I am wondering what Henrik will say.

“Yes,” he says. “In part, but Hitler’s dogs do not know this about my sister.” Then he realizes his mistake. He has forgotten that he is talking to one of Hitler’s people.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It is all right,” she says. “Mama complains about him all the time, though not outside the house, and certainly not to Papa. Even Otto did not understand the need for war. But you must know something about me before we go any further. Firstly, I want to help you because if Otto thought you were worth helping, then you must be good people. But secondly, my father is Oberführer Scherner. He works for the Führer. I don’t know what his duties are and he doesn’t spend much time at home, but I do know that it is dangerous in this city for people like you. It is full of Germans now and the Jews are trapped.”

“Yes, we have heard about the ghetto.”

“It makes sense that Jews should live in a place together,” says Emilie. “But then they were driven out of their own place and into another; the people who lived across the bridge swapped places with them. And then Hitler’s men turned the ghetto into a prison.

“I still see trucks go across the bridge carrying Jews who have been found hiding in the city, as if they have committed some crime. I’ve seen small children carrying all they can in their little suitcases. Otto said that it doesn’t make sense. We talked about this in secret.

“The ghetto is a dreadful place from what I’ve heard,” she says in a way that suggests she wants no knowledge of it. “The sanitary conditions are not the best, with people so crammed together.”

She appears open and honest, and yet there is something underlying the things she says that bothers me. Something that does not seem sincere, but it is nothing I can define as yet. I sense a shallowness to her words, a disconnection to the meaning behind them—perhaps because they are someone else’s words, maybe Otto’s, and are now chosen just for us. Could it be that she is more disgusted by the state of the ghetto than the cruel reasons for it?

“And what of your father? Does he say anything about this?”

“No,” she says. “He shelters us from what he does. He is a good father to us . . . So, what is it that you need? You cannot stay here forever but I will help you with some food and clothes, and if there is any information that I can find, I will do what I can.”

“Rebekah is ill,” says Henrik carefully. He does not want to frighten her away. “She has a chest infection.”

“Is it bronchitis?” she asks.

She does not wait for my response.

“Mama had that last year and with special medicine she was better within a week. There is none here but I can forge a note from my father and take it to the infirmary.”

Henrik looks giddy with excitement but I am too tired to be grateful.

“By the looks of things,” says Emelie, “another week and you will be dead without medicine.”

Henrik is alarmed by this. “Surely not.”

“That is the trouble with men,” says Emelie matter-of-factly. “They do not notice when women are troubled. If you can wait till tomorrow, I will bring what you need. I cannot come back tonight but tomorrow everything will be delivered, and then I will ask around about the children.”

I wonder if her questions will arouse suspicion, and pray that her bright and talkative personality, along with her position, will quell any doubts. It is perhaps a blessing for us, for once, that we have found a possible ally in someone whose father is a favorite of the Führer.

C
HAPTER
26

It is a bad night. I am feverish and Henrik can’t sleep because he is worrying about me. He creeps outside to wet a piece of linen in the snow. He holds this to my forehead. My head feels as if it might explode each time I turn it. Everything hurts.

I keep apologizing for being a nuisance and he reminds me that it is good that he can repay his debt. Though it is he—he says—who should apologize, for not realizing that I was so ill.

Some light comes through the window but I cannot make out his features. I know that he is sad, though. I can sense it.

It is late morning when Emelie returns. Her mother and sister have left the house. She is carrying a basket full of bread and cheese and pastry filled with egg. And there is medicine. I have to swallow tablets with water and this is difficult with my throat so dry and tight.

Henrik does not look at the food even though his belly is empty.

“Will your sister say anything?”

“No,” says Emelie. “I have threatened her with death.”

There is something I trust more about the younger one. I think Emelie may only be helping us because this is the most exciting thing that has happened to her in a long time, lonely and bored in a place far from her true home.

Emelie touches my coat.

“We need to get her out of these damp clothes and bathe her. Then we will cover her with blankets because her hands are frozen but her head is hot.”

Emelie disappears and reappears with gray woolen blankets and a pillow. I am stripped down to my underwear and wrapped in blankets that are coarse and smell. I think perhaps they were once used for the horses but I don’t care. I lie down and put my head on the soft pillow.

“It will probably take a couple of days before you notice any difference. I will be back to check tomorrow.” She leaves. She is not hard, but she is not warm either. She is honoring a fake promise by a boyfriend who did not feel the same way she feels, and that alone is cause for us to be grateful.

Henrik breaks off some pastry and hands it to me but I do not take it.

“I will save some,” he says.

I can tell that he is ravenous. He climbs down the ladder. I know he does not want to eat in front of me. When he returns, I smell pastry on his skin.

Over the next two days I get worse and then get better, and then worse again. Henrik is beside himself with worry. I tell him that perhaps he can leave me while he searches for his sister, but he won’t leave my side.

One night it is raining hard and there is a storm. Every time there is lightning I see his face. I shiver hard. Henrik wraps me tightly in the blanket to keep me warm and then rests me in his arms while he leans against the wall. Together we watch the lightning outside the window.

I don’t know why, but suddenly I am crying. Perhaps it is the very goodness of him that makes me cry. Perhaps it is the way he cares for me. After Mama and Papa died, I thought there would never again be anyone to hold me when I was sick. Kaleb and I were close, but we were drawn closer because of war; before the war we were different. We lived different lives. He loved his books and discussions with friends and I loved being at home, baking with Mama and listening to her sing. It was Mama who was the musical one, not me.

I begin to talk. I need to let it all out, to tell someone. To record the life I had, before it is lost forever when I am dead. I had a journal once but it was probably dumped or burnt. I tell Henrik everything.

The night my parents were killed, we had been living in the attic for seven weeks. We would sometimes come out and eat with our hosts, the Steiner family. They were kind and had children of their own. At first, it was difficult for the Steiners, knowing the danger they had put themselves in, and having to find extra food, but then they got used to us there and took pity on our plight. It was cramped. We had my two small cousins living with us also, but we made the best of it. We had mattresses on the floor. Being too tall, Papa could not stand fully. Sometimes, there would be a knock at the door and we would have to remain silent in the attic. We could not move. The Steiners had friends who called on them unexpectedly. Some of the friends had contacts in the SS. There were times when we had to stay still for several hours. Mama’s legs would cramp up and Papa would go red in the face from anger. There were no windows, only tiny vents, and we craved fresh air.

I will never know why the German officers chose the town house to raid. I think that perhaps one of the Steiner children may have mentioned us accidentally. But the knock we heard at the door that night was different than previous ones. This time it was hard and sharp. Only my brother and I had time to climb back into the attic. My papa pulled the ladder away and shut up the hole. He and my mama didn’t have time to climb up themselves or push our cousins through, who were playing in another room.

Kaleb and I listened as Hitler’s men burst impatiently through the door, ultimately breaking it. They yelled in German. Our benefactors were shot first. We heard the men ask some questions, and then I heard Mrs. Steiner die, and then Mr. Steiner. I heard the Steiner children whimper and tell the intruders that they had people, my parents and cousins, in a back room. They did not have time to tell about the secret room above their ceiling. There were more bullets and then no more sounds from the Steiner children.

Then I heard their steps. I can never forget the sound of their boots on the wooden floor. It is something I will hear forever. My father begging them to take him and allow my mother to live instead. My mother sobbing, then screaming as the children, my cousins, were being dragged from another hiding place. And then the round of gunfire and the silence that followed. I heard them smashing furniture and tearing doors off wardrobes to check elsewhere, and finally the German voices giving orders to leave. They did not think of the attic. It would have been considered uninhabitable. In another time, we would have agreed.

Kaleb and I stayed in the attic for hours. We lay on our stomachs holding hands, staring at each other, and praying silently. Kaleb was the first to open up the hole, to climb down into the horror. I climbed out also and fell into his arms.

In the dark we could see bodies on the floor, some lying across one another. We did not dare turn on any lights but Kaleb shone a flashlight across the room. He tried to cover my eyes but it was too late.

We saw the Steiner children first, who were directly beneath us. They never even had the opportunity to point at the ceiling, so quickly were they killed. The girl was still gripping her mama’s skirt, the boy beside her. Mama and Papa had both fallen forward. They had been on their knees, I think, when they died. They had fallen across each other, and our tiny cousins—Mila, four; and Sarah, two—had multiple bullet wounds. Mama’s eyes were still open.

Then I started to cry and threw myself on my parents. Kaleb pulled me away; we had no time to grieve. I followed Kaleb into the sewer, a place he had discovered as a boy, and we followed that across the town. Once outside the sewer we did not stop running until we reached a forest. Kaleb thought our best chance was to head east. We had no plan, no clothes, no food. That was when we met Tobin, who showed us the manor house.

I cry now for my parents. Lying in Henrik’s arms, I am able to grieve. It feels good to tell someone, but not just anyone. It feels good to tell Henrik, who is someone with the ability to understand.

I feel that death is hovering. At one point I don’t think I will recover at all. And at another point, I don’t care.

Henrik tells me that he loves me, that he doesn’t want me to die, and I squeeze his hand in reply.

Then one morning I wake up and the aches are almost gone, and I can breathe out and hold this breath longer than before. I am hungry, so hungry. I eat bread until I cannot fit any more in, and sip some milk.

Henrik and I stare at each other. I am slightly embarrassed that I was so open with him during my convalescence, but not regretful. He holds my hand and then kisses my cheek. There is no need for words. I belong to him and he, to me.

“It is my birthday today,” he says.

“It is mine in three days,” I say.

And we laugh because it is good to feel good again.

My breathing is still labored each time I exert myself. Each night, Henrik disappears to search the town for his sister in locations, identified by Emelie, where new Nazi families have arrived. He spies in windows and at schools, watching, hoping. We have been in the loft a month now.

Both daughters come to the barn to collect food, sometimes when Henrik isn’t there. Maud has been told not to talk to us, but she can’t help it. Sometimes she climbs the ladder just to say hello. She is more sensitive than her older sister. There is something wiser and deeper about her. I wonder what she has been told about us—I sense some fear in her also. I wonder if this has come from Emelie, to keep her away.

“Are you still sick?” she asks in German.

“Better,” I say.

She nods, appearing happy with this response, before retreating quickly. We never see the mother, who Emelie says prefers to stay indoors. Sometimes the housekeeper comes to collect food when Maud isn’t home. At these times we have to grab our things and hide in the stalls.

Emelie brings another lead when she delivers food, reporting that there are several homes where some senior officers are housing children. She has found this out from a friend of her father’s, an officer, whom she met in the street. The officer also told her that the war is going well, that Germany will take over Russia, though it is a tough fight. Stalingrad is resilient but it will soon weaken. Germany will win the war. She sounds almost proud when she says this but, of course, we cannot say anything. We are indebted to her.

“What if you do find your sister and this officer is right about the war? What will Jews do?”

We have not considered this. We have not thought about the future of Jews if Germany should win. Some of the hope leaves Henrik’s face for just a second. I think of Eri and his band of partisans.

When she leaves, I wonder also what Jews will do.

“It is propaganda,” says Henrik. “The Germans make up stories. My papa used to recite the things Hitler and his dogs would say so that the people would stay on their side. He used to read articles in the newspaper. It was full of lies, told to twist the thinking of weaker-minded Germans . . . Germans who want to believe anything.”

Henrik always has a positive view.

Emelie has drawn a map of where she thinks some of the children are housed. She has been told of a family with adopted orphans. Their home is not far from where we are.

Henrik has previously shown her the lighter but she still has not heard of any general with those initials.

I offer to come even though Henrik says no. But I insist. I am desperate for fresh air. Finally, Henrik agrees.

“You will need better clothes,” suggests Emelie.

She comes back with a dress and a shirt and trousers. The dress is oversized but it will do. It is woolen with long sleeves. She also has brought me tights and shiny shoes. The clothes are expensive. The shirt and trousers fit Henrik well; he must be the same size as the girl’s father. Then the girl pulls out a wig. It is fair and curly. She studies my reaction.

“She looks too Jewish.”

Emelie pulls my hair tightly back and pins it to my head, then puts the wig over the top. She holds up a small mirror so that I can see. The wig makes my face look small. It is too much hair.

Henrik laughs and I love the sound. It is soothing. It is as if we are simply playing dress-up and this is not about life or death.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes,” says Henrik. “You must look Volksdeutsche.”

“But what do we say we’re doing if we are caught?”

“You can say that you are visiting your cousin,” says Emelie. “Use my name if you have to. They won’t check. My father is important and he is never around.”

“But that is dangerous for you.”

She shrugs her shoulders. Danger hasn’t really occurred to her.

“If they come and knock on the door to check, then I will say I have no idea who you are. That you must have broken in and stolen our food.”

She is direct and sure of herself. I wonder then, as grateful as I am, whether perhaps she would have been the right girl for Otto, who seemed more sensitive and questioning. She has been raised a good German. She would make a good fighter because she is unemotional. She is doing what she has to, but at the same time enjoys the risk. Perhaps she is like her father; God forbid we ever meet him. I wonder whether to her we are just a game or a distraction—a way to pass the time to dispel the boredom, as if the war is not going on, as if life will always be good for her.

Henrik agrees with her idea.

I am still weak from illness but my chest no longer rattles.

Outside the air is cool and fresh. The sleet is thinning. We carry baskets with food as if we have come from the grocers, though we look odd without shoes for snow. Several vehicles pass us by, and Henrik waves and nods at the occupants. The more confident we appear, the better it is. We must not look down.

Another vehicle passes bearing the Nazi flag. I feel my heart racing again and clutch Henrik’s arm. I see that the men inside wear uniforms with insignias on their collars. Henrik waves again and they do not stop.

We find the address where some of the children have been taken. Outside is a garden with children’s swings. The ground is slippery from the melting crusts of snow. We wander past a couple of times until we hear laughter. Henrik stops to listen. We walk slowly past again. There are four children, all around the age of six. None of them are Greta.

We go to the next address but there is no one home.

“We will come back tomorrow,” I say.

We go back the next day and there is still no one there. Henrik creeps towards one of the windows. “There is no one living there.”

“We will go back to the other house,” I say. “Perhaps the older children were inside.”

“We can knock on the door and I can ask for a name and then say I have the wrong address.”