Pastel Orphans (9 page)

She raises her left arm across her body to touch me, but her right arm lies idle. She cannot open her lips to speak. Then she closes her eyes again and does not respond to any more questions.

Femke calls me from the room and shuts the door. Her eyes are wild and crazy.

“Listen, you need to see Mr. Lubieniecki. Tell him to get the doctor.”

“The doctor has gone. He was taken to the camps.”

“Just do it,” says Femke. “He is hiding in the house.” I am amazed that Femke knows this and that I don’t. I am amazed at how much adults know. I look at her, mouth open. I know that if the doctor is found he will be taken to the camp.

“Don’t stand there,” she says. “Go! Run!”

I run from the house and across the field to our neighbor’s house. I run fast. I know it is fast because the teachers at school often commented on my lean sprinter’s legs, and I have two “first” ribbons from our school sports day, which happened just before the Germans came.

Erek Lubieniecki is a farmer also, though he has no livestock left. When they died, he could not afford to replace them. Now he grows lettuces.

I knock on the door and Jana Lubieniecki answers. She is the farmer’s daughter. She never liked me at school. She used to say that I was a show-off, that I liked myself too much.

“What do you want?” she asks. There is just a hint of hostility in the question.

“I need to speak to the doctor.”

Jana blinks several times quickly and her lips work back and forth soundlessly. “There is no doctor here. Only my father and mother.”

“But my aunt says the doctor is here. He is hiding.”

Mr. Lubieniecki’s large frame suddenly fills up the space in the doorway. I believe he has already heard our conversation but pretends he has not.

“What do you want, Henrik?” he says softly, carefully. He is a gentle man, and I have never heard him say a loud word to his wife or daughter or even the animals on the farm. Behind him is a small dog, which follows him everywhere. As I go to speak, a large sob escapes my mouth instead, followed by a flood of tears.

“There, there,” he says and he is soothing, like Papa. His hand is gentle on my back as he leads me to the living room. The furniture is old and the windows are covered with newspaper instead of curtains.

“Jana, fetch a glass of water,” he says. Jana turns reluctantly and returns with a glass as I finally compose myself. I am ashamed that I have broken down, that they have seen me like this, but I am also relieved that I have not done this in front of Femke, because she would call me weak.

“Tell me everything,” he says. And I do. It all comes out. All the sadness, missing my cat, Robin, Papa dead, Greta taken—though I stammer sometimes, and speak too quickly. My words pour out like water, even the fact that Papa was a Jew—everything—and finally about Mama, about her cut, about her lack of speech. And then I have run out of breath and Mr. Lubieniecki is watching me intently, and I am suddenly fearful that I have said too much, that perhaps Aunt Femke is wrong and there is no doctor.

“It is safe,” he says. “Not a word will be spoken about what you have said. You have my word.”

He reaches forward to pat me on the shoulder and I find I can breathe again. He tells me that we both have secrets that we need to keep, that by sharing our secrets, we are bound as brothers. I nod.

“Now, go home and tell your aunt that the doctor will come tonight. I will make sure of it. But not now. It is not safe in the daylight hours.”

I nod again.

When I get home, Femke is sitting on a chair. She has her head in her hands. She tells me not to disturb Mama for a while, but I open the door to look at her. She is still sitting, but her head is turned and her mouth is open in sleep, drooping, spittle on her bottom lip.

“Femke, I must take the truck to the town. I must find Greta.”

I have been learning to drive the truck around the paddock. Femke has taught me so that I am more useful, so that I can deliver things down the road. More and more lately, her back has been giving her “difficulty.”

“No, you don’t,” she says. “You will not get her back. They will shoot you if you try.”

“But I have to.”

“No!” she shouts. “Do you want to get yourself killed? And then your mama loses both her children.”

I do not want her to see me cry and I go to my room and slam the door. I lie on the bed and cry into the pillow. I cry harder when I smell Greta’s hair on the linen: tangy, like rain on grass.

I have no appetite. When I come back out, the rest of the house is in darkness. There is an empty vodka bottle on the table and Femke has fallen asleep with her head resting next to it. I wonder where she has got the bottle from, where perhaps she keeps others, since the local distillery has been closed for many weeks.

There is a knock at the door. It is so quiet that I think at first it is nothing, a creak in the wall. Then I hear it again. When I open the door, the doctor is standing there. He wears a long dark coat, too warm for such a night, and a hat.

Femke wakes up groggily, and then she sees him and is suddenly alert. She pulls the curtains closed before igniting a lamp.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I have learned the circumstances from Erek. It must have been terrible.” But he says this remotely, as if he has said it many times before. He has probably seen worse things.

Femke waves him inside the house. I remember him. I remember that he has been to our house before, how he treated Greta for a cut to the foot that was infected. And then the Germans came and he was not allowed to practice anymore. That was the last time I heard about him. We thought he had gone. Well,
I
thought he had gone. Femke knew. I now wonder if there are others also hiding whom she has not told me about.

He takes his black bag into Femke’s room and checks Mama’s heart while she is sleeping. Mama murmurs slightly but she does not appear to wake.

“Out,” says Femke.

The doctor does not turn but says, “The boy can stay if he wants to.”

He shines a light into Mama’s eyes.

“She should be in a hospital,” he says. “She has had a stroke.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a brain injury. It means that there is a blockage somewhere, stopping blood to the brain.”

“We can’t go to the hospital,” says Femke.

“She is not a Jew. They will probably admit her.”

Femke explains that race is not the issue in this case, that she and Mama have kept hold of the farm because they are useful. The sick have to be hidden, she explains. The sick are not part of the German plan. If the Judenrat knows there are now only two people—Femke and me—working our farm, they might put in a larger German family to fill up the space.

He nods to show that he understands. “But she needs rehabilitation and full-time care.”

“How bad is it?”

“She may have full recovery but it could be some months. Or she could get worse. Brain injuries are complex and often difficult to cure. Sometimes they repair themselves over time, sometimes they don’t. Has she said anything?”

“No,” says Femke.

The doctor shakes his head, then takes a small packet out of his bag. He explains that it is sulfa powder. He opens the packet and spreads the medicine across the wound on her face. Mama doesn’t move.

“Do you have any iodine?” asks the doctor.

“Yes,” says Femke.

“You need to apply the powder again tomorrow and the next day, and then after that, iodine every day. I am sorry I have nothing else. You may need to try the pharmacy in town. Purchase some aspirin . . . say you have bad headaches. They will help too.

“You should encourage her to talk . . . Talk regularly to her to keep her mind stimulated. You also need to bend her legs to exercise them, and take her out into the sun.”

Femke follows him to the door.

“I will come back tomorrow night to check on her. I’m sorry . . . there is nothing else I can do.”

Femke pushes a banknote into his hand but he shakes his head. She puts some bread and cheese in a bag and he takes this, nodding appreciatively, as if he is the one in debt. Femke turns off the light before he leaves.

After the doctor is gone, Femke tells me that he is hiding in the Lubienieckis’ cellar, under the stairs, with his young wife. Femke tells me that our barn doors are open and says to go and close them.

When I return, Femke’s bedroom door is shut and I listen through the wall. Femke is whispering to Mama about how much she loves her, and I can hear the tears in her voice. She is telling Mama to remember how the two of them played in the fields and rode horses when they were younger.

It is the following day and Femke has Mama propped up on pillows. Mama has her eyes open but she does not say anything—just stares miserably, vacantly.

“Hello, Mama,” I say, and hug her, but she does not hug me back. It is as if someone has stolen her life and left a sack of cotton in its place.

I notice that there is a silver object on the table. Femke explains that the Germans must have dropped it. I look on the side of the lighter and see the initials “DW.” I flick it on and a tall flame erupts.

“Can I have it?”

“I suppose,” says Femke with disinterest. “I don’t want anything which belonged to those bastards.” I am fascinated by the lighter and despise it at the same time. I also feel attached to it because it is a link to my sister. I keep it in my pocket and try to guess the owner’s name.

C
HAPTER
15

Over the next few days Femke and I take turns looking after Mama. We mash her food so that she can swallow it better and we dab her wound with iodine. I grab both ankles and, while she is lying on her back, I bend her knees up and down, like she is walking or cycling. When Femke washes Mama, I am not allowed to be in the room.

I read to Mama some of my books from Germany. Sometimes I make up my own stories. I show her my many drawings. There is one I have drawn of Rani sitting on the fence. He is looking in the distance, his hair catching the breeze. I stop at this one and study it, remembering. Then I get to one of Greta. She is sleeping, her hair strewn upwards across the pillow, her lips pouting even in sleep, her little nose curling at the tip, and her fingers gripping the pillow as if it is going somewhere and she must stop it.

There is another one of Greta. She smiles in this one. I remember I made her sit still and she watched me while I drew her, her large, round eyes curious but calm. There is a slight smile on her lips, as if at any moment she will burst into laughter at something I say. I am remembering a game where I say a word to her and no matter what I say, no matter how funny it is, she is not allowed to laugh. I say “bird” and she bursts into laughter every time. She never gets past the first word.

I go to turn the page to the next drawing and suddenly Mama grabs me with her good arm; her fingers are tightly gripping my wrist.

She is looking at the picture of Greta. There are tears coming out of her eyes. Femke has said not to talk about Greta, has said that it upsets Mama, but I want to talk about her. I pin the picture up on the wall so that Mama can see Greta whenever she wants.

I remind Mama of games that Greta and I used to play and tell her of things that she didn’t know we did. Mama wants to hear these things and she stares expectantly, hanging on to every sound from my mouth.

Femke tries to get Mama to talk. Mama’s mouth twitches but she won’t speak. The scar is a thick scab across the center of her face. Sometimes it hurts me to look at it.

Mama is standing now and walking a bit. Though it is more of a shuffle than a walk. She can walk to the kitchen and she picks up things that weigh very little. Gradually, over days, she begins to help Femke in the kitchen. She does not talk. Although she has tried, her speech is slurred. Femke tells me not to encourage her to talk anymore, because she is embarrassed that she cannot make full sounds. What comes out is half a word, as if it has suddenly frozen halfway through while she is speaking. When she doesn’t talk, her face looks normal; however, when she tries to move her lips, half of her face is motionless.

It is this that the doctor says might be permanent or could become better over time. Sometimes at night, I can hear Mama sounding out words in the dark, where no one can see her strange face. But it is not just this change to her face that is most noticeable about her. It is that the light from her eyes has gone, as if their color has been stripped away.

Mama can use the peeling knife with her good hand and hold the potato in her bad one. It takes her several minutes to do each one.

One time when I enter the house, Mama is standing at the sink in front of the little window, washing lettuce. I can see her profile and with the light shining behind her, she looks perfect, as she did before the accident. She is dressed plainly in a black skirt with a cream-colored blouse. She is tall and slender, her pale hair pushed to the back of her neck with a silver clasp. I imagine for a moment what my father must have done when he first saw her. He would have stood mesmerized, like I am doing now.

Two weeks pass and I become restless. After my chores, I wander around the fields until I am at the Lubienieckis’ farm. Mr. Lubieniecki asks if I want to help him plant some crops. His last crop was completely taken by the Germans.

It seems a waste to spend so much time, knowing that all the crops will be taken again. I say this.

“I live in hope,” he says. “Besides, as long as we grow something, they think us useful and we don’t have to leave.”

I nod in agreement solemnly. It is like that for everyone. After we finish this task, I come back and do odd jobs. He does not pay me but feeds me, and I think that this is good: there is more food now for Mama and Femke since I won’t take as much.

One day in the forest behind our farms he teaches me how to shoot a rifle. He draws targets on the trees and I have to aim. I miss for the first few lessons and then one day I fail to miss at all. He says that I am a fast learner. He pats my head and I remember that Papa used to do that too. Mrs. Lubieniecki is also kind but their daughter still doesn’t like me. She says that I was a clown in class and does not like that I come around so often.

At dinner with Mama and Femke, it is always silent. I am not allowed to talk about Greta. Femke says that it is part of the healing and that Mama must get better physically before she is mentally strong enough to talk about her absent daughter. I do not understand this. Femke does not understand that Greta, Mama, and I were together before she became part of our family.

One time I feel so mad towards Femke when she tells me that I am a silly boy for dropping a plate.

“It was an accident,” I say.

“It does not change the fact that you are a silly boy.”

I hate her at the moment. I think she is mean and tell her that I wish the Germans would take her away in a truck.

Mama looks wide-eyed and shocked. I walk from the room and look for a photo of Greta in a shoebox full of photos from our past—a past that did not include Femke. I take out a photo of Mama and Greta beside a lake. In the photo Greta is laughing at something Mama is whispering to her. I go to show Mama, but before Mama can reach for the picture, Femke snatches it away.

“No!” Femke shrieks, and tears the photo down the middle.

Mama stands up to defend me. She puts her hand up to silence Femke. “Stop it!” she says, which comes out as if it is one word and without the sound of the “t” at the end. But this all happens in a second and in the next Mama has lost her footing, her feet slipping out in front of her, and she falls back hard on the floor on her tailbone.

Femke rushes over to her while she continues to shriek at me.

“See what you have done!”

I want to say that it isn’t my fault. But it is. Tears well up in my eyes and I fight hard to keep my emotions under control. Before they spill over, I run out the door, leaving it open, and head into the fields. I kick at the palings of our fence until they split and until my rage subsides.

It is as if Femke wants to erase the memory of Greta. How can anyone forget? I weep for my mother but also for my little sister: loud, fleshy sobs. I miss her so much and there are so many tears it is as if the grief has filled me to the top of my head and is now overflowing. I miss the way Greta would follow me around. I miss the way she tried to copy everything I did and often failed. I miss the way she would tell my stories as if the events of my life were her own. At the time I would get angry at her about this and call her a liar to make her look ridiculous. I would give all my stories and adventures to her now if she would just come back.

After the tears have ended, I return home. There are no lights on and I let myself in through the back door, where the lock is broken. I hear snoring coming from Femke’s room. Mama is back in the room with me.

I flick the German’s lighter to see if my mother is sleeping. She is lying awake, her eyes staring out at me curiously, childlike. In her hands, she is clutching the two halves of the torn photo. Her face is pink and her eyes are puffy. She puts her arm out to me like she would always do when I was a small boy waking in the night after a bad dream. I climb into bed beside her, my back nestled into her body, and she places her good arm around me tightly. I am enjoying the warmth of her—my body is cold from the night air. I fall asleep and we stay like that into morning.

When I walk into the living area the next morning, I know that Femke has seen us. She doesn’t say anything, and I feel pity that she will never fully understand what it is to be loved and forgiven, then loved even more.