Kanada (3 page)

“Don't worry … I'll make you an even nicer skirt when the war is over. I promise.”

“I know you will. It's just that it's so pretty … Let me help you cut out the stars.”

“I'll help too,” Mama said.

“Why don't you both help by bringing me the clothes you want me to put stars on,” said Grandmama.

We piled up sweaters, jackets, and dresses beside the sewing machine. Mama even took out Papa's and Dezso's clothes so Grandmama could get them ready for their next visit home. When we were done, Mama sat down at the
piano. The plaintive notes she coaxed from the ivory keys seemed full of fear.

I wandered around my room aimlessly. It felt strange not being at school. The lace curtains cast dappled shadows across my things. I walked over to the bookshelves above my desk and picked up a straw doll. I straightened her skirt. Next to her on the shelf was a music box Mama had given me for my birthday. I cranked its handle and a Mozart lullaby filled the room. The Canada book was on the top shelf. I picked it up and started leafing through it. I looked at the pictures of Indians in tall headdresses, cowboys on horseback, and people in old-fashioned clothes driving covered wagons. I was most interested in the pictures at the back of the book: the photographs of tall buildings, streets full of cars and masses of people. As far as I could see, there wasn't a single uniform in sight, nor was anybody wearing a six-pointed star. Although the people in the photographs seemed to be in a rush, many of them were smiling, despite the falling snow. It looked clean and orderly and peaceful so peaceful.

I stood in front of the window, staring out at the empty street. I decided to do my assignment for Miss Szabo's writing contest. I knew that if I gave it to Klari, she would take it to school for me and ask Miss Szabo to mark it. Who knows? I might even win the prize.

I sat down at my desk, opened up my notebook, dipped my pen into a bottle of ink, and began to write. The words flowed from my pen so rapidly that I didn't have time to stop and think. It was as if the words had been stored in my
soul and were pouring out of me onto the paper. I wrote about how I wished with all my heart that I lived in Canada, because it was a country where nobody had to wear a yellow star; where fathers and brothers did not have to leave their families for forced labor regiments; where girls like me could go to school; where I would meet Indian chiefs with colorful headdresses; where the streets were paved with gold (although I had to admit that I wasn't sure if this was true).

When I finished my composition, I could barely keep my eyes open. The feather comforter and pillows on my bed looked so inviting that I stretched out on top of them and closed my eyes. The neighing of a horse startled me. I was no longer lying in my bed but in the back seat of a beautiful sleigh pulled by two white horses galloping across a field of pure white snow. The snow was so blinding that I could not see where the blue sky began and where the white field ended. I was shivering despite the rays of bright sun high in the sky, so I pulled the hood of my parka over my head. Mama was sitting next to me. She took my hand.

“You look so pretty with the fur framing your face,” she said.

“She certainly does,” said Grandmama from my other side.

Papa and Dezso were in the front seat. Papa held the reins. Dezso turned around. “Do you want to go faster?”

I nodded. Papa pulled in the reins, and the horses began to gallop at top speed.

“Look!” Mama cried. A figure on horseback was silhouetted against the field of snow. “There is a cowboy on his horse!” As we passed, the horse reared up and the cowboy tipped his hat.

“There is somebody else behind them!” Dezso said. “It's an Indian chief!” The man's tall headdress displayed the colors of the rainbow. He, too, waved to us, and we waved back.

I spied three small figures in the distance. As we approached, I recognized Miri, Klari, and Tamas. They were jumping up and down, waving their arms, yelling for us to stop the sleigh. I called to Papa, but he did not seem to hear me. Nor did Dezso. I leaned over Papa's shoulders and grabbed the reins out of his hands. I pulled on them hard, but the horses would not slow down.

Suddenly, somebody was shaking my arm. It was Mama. She was leaning over my bed. Her eyes were red.

“Wake up, lazy bones,” she teased. “We still have time for a piano lesson before lunch.”

Thursday, April 6, 1944

T
he next morning, I sat down at the piano to practice.

The ordered notes soothed me. Later, I rewrote parts of my essay about Canada for Miss Szabo and copied it out in my best handwriting. By the afternoon, I was suffering from cabin fever. We were the only family with a phone, so I couldn't call Miri, but I knew she must be home because her mother wouldn't let her go to the shops. Like Mama, Mrs. Schwarz felt that it was too risky for a Jewish girl to leave the house on her own while bands of Arrow Cross men and German soldiers were patrolling the streets.

Despite Mama's cautions, I slipped out of the house while she and Grandmama were busy and ran across to Miri's. Nobody answered the doorbell. I banged on the door loudly. No answer. I tried again. When the door remained closed,
I headed back home. The window of Miri's bedroom faced the street. As I passed it, the corner of the lace curtain twitched, and for a moment I was staring into Miri's eyes. A hand appeared, and the curtain was lowered. I ran back to the door and rang the bell and knocked as loudly as I could, but nobody opened it.

When I got home, Mama was reading and Grandmama was unraveling an old sweater so she could reuse the yarn. I told them what had just happened.

Mama and Grandmama exchanged glances. Grandmama turned to me. “Have you thought that perhaps Miri and her mother have decided to –”

Mama interrupted her. “Grandmama!”

My head swiveled from one face to the other. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Mama. “Absolutely nothing.”

“I guess you're right.” Grandmama stood up. “It's time to get supper started.”

The minutes crawled by. I tried to read. I worked on the cross-stitch sampler for Papa's birthday, but I was so restless that I kept making mistakes and had to unpick my stitches over and over again until the cloth was grubby. At long last, the cuckoo in the grandfather clock called out four notes. I knew that Klari would be home from school, and there was still an hour left before curfew.

“I don't want you to go out,” said Mama. “You might run into an Arrow Cross thug or one of the Germans and then who knows what would happen?”

“I've got to get out, Mama! I feel as if I'm in jail. Klari is just around the corner. I can't possibly get into trouble by going over to her place.”

“I understand. You want to be with your friends.” Mama faltered. “It's just that I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.” She paused. “All right. But promise me that you'll be careful and come right back.”

“I promise,” I said and left the room before she could change her mind.

The canary yellow star on my sweater made me feel as if the whole world were staring at me. I was careful not to look at any passersby and fixed my eyes on the ground.

I smelled a warm, spicy goulash as I knocked on Klari's front door. I hoped her mother would invite me to stay for an early supper. The door was opened a crack, and I saw Klari peering out at me with an expression I couldn't identify. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

“Let's stay here,” she said. “My mother is cleaning and doesn't want us underfoot.” I saw her glance at the star on my sweater and then quickly avert her gaze. She was chewing her lip, a sure sign that she was nervous.

“What's the matter with you?” I asked.

“I'm fine. I miss you and Miri.”

“How was school?”

“The same. Dull without you. I hope you'll be back soon.”

“Me too. It was so boring to be at home the whole day. Mama doesn't want me to go out.” I handed her my essay. “I did Miss Szabo's assignment. Can you ask her to mark it?”

“Of course I will.”

Tamas stepped outside. He was a Tamas I had never seen before, dressed in the green Arrow Cross uniform with its white armband with two arrows in the shape of a cross on it. I stared at this stranger, unable to speak. He stood there on the stoop, silent, staring back at me. Klari's nervous giggle broke the tension.

“Doesn't Tamas look stupid in his uniform?” she asked.

“Shut up, Klari!” He turned to me. “I'm sorry, Jutka,” he said. “I had no choice. Father made me join the Arrow Cross.”

“You did have a choice,” said Klari. “You could have said no!”

“Father would have been furious. He believes the future of Hungary lies with the Arrow Cross. He says that all true patriots should join the party.” He blushed a deep crimson. “Of course I don't agree with the party's policies about Jews, but we must take the good with the bad.”

Before I could reply, Mrs. Kohegyi opened the door and looked out. She was a kind-faced woman, like a second mother to me.

“Jutka,” she said, “I didn't know you were here! I am so sorry, but you've got to leave. Klari's father will be home any minute. He mustn't see you! Go away!”

Without another word, she pulled Tamas and Klari into the house and slammed the door in my face. I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door. Then I ran home, crying the entire way.

Late that night, a loud noise from the street woke me. I looked out the window without turning on the light. A jeep was idling in front of Miri's house. Two men climbed out. Though the street was dark and the night sky was cloudy, I could tell they were wearing uniforms. One of them reached for the rifle slung over his shoulder and shot the lock off Miri's front door. The lights went on inside. I heard a loud crashing noise and saw Mrs. Schwarz's ornately carved settee sail through a window. It was followed by chairs and a small desk. After the men got back in the jeep, loaded with the Schwarzes' possessions, they drove off. The street became quiet again, as if only the dead lived there.

I ran to Mama's room and woke her. She sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“What's the matter?”

I told her what I had seen.

She listened to me, motionless, her hands clasped together so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Don't worry!” she finally said. “They'll be fine.”

Monday, May 8, 1944

M
ama came into the kitchen wearing her housecoat, her face wan and her hair hanging limply. Grandmama and I looked at her in alarm. Mama was always dressed, her hair carefully combed, before she appeared at the breakfast table.

“What's the matter, Kornelia? Are you sick?” asked Grandmama.

Mama forced a smile. “I'm fine, but I have a terrible headache.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “This should help.”

“A migraine?”

Whenever Mama had one of her headaches, she felt so ill that she spent the entire day in a dark room with a wet compress over her eyes.

“My head aches terribly, but don't worry about it,” she said. “I have to go to the store. We still have a coupon left, and Janos told me that he'll be getting a few kilos of cheese today. He said he'd try to put some of it aside for us, but there is only so much he can do with Kicsi looking over his shoulder. If I don't get there early, the cheese will be gone.”

Mama had signed over the ownership of Papa's grocery store to his longtime clerk, Janos Nagy, after it became illegal for Jews to own a business. Janos tried to help us whenever he could. Ever since the Germans had occupied Hungary, we got fewer food ration coupons than Christians. And because of the curfew, by the time we got to the shops, the shelves were often bare. We depended on Janos's kindness for the bare necessities. But his helper, Istvan Kicsi, was a member of the Arrow Cross and spied on Janos. I knew he was waiting for the chance to denounce him.

“Kornelia, you cannot possibly go out,” said Grandmama. “We'll manage without the cheese.”

“We can't, Grandmama. Only three half-rotten potatoes are left in the pantry. I have to get us something to eat or we'll starve.”

Grandmama said nothing. The grocery store was too far for her to walk.

“Grandmama is right. You're too sick to go out, Mama. I'll go to the store for you.”

“Absolutely not, Jutka. It's not safe.”

“I'll be careful. I promise. We have no choice. We need food, and you are in no shape to get it.”

“The child is right. There is no other way,” said Grandmama.

An hour later, I was on my way, a burlap shopping bag in my hand. I searched the streets for Arrow Cross or German soldiers. My luck held until I turned the corner to Papa's shop. A hooting crowd was clustered in front of the store. They were watching four Arrow Cross men beat up a man with a long beard. The garish yellow star on the poor wretch's jacket was visible even from a distance. I turned to go home, but a group of German soldiers was coming down the side-walk, blocking my way. I lifted up the shopping bag and held it in front of my chest to hide the yellow star on my blouse and started back toward Papa's shop. When I got closer, I could hear the taunts of the Arrow Cross men as they kicked and punched their victim. The forlorn man raised his head. It was Rabbi Friedman.

I inched my way toward the open door of the shop, my bag still clutched to my chest. One of the Arrow Cross men grabbed Rabbi Friedman's long beard and yanked it with all his might. The rabbi fell to his knees. The Arrow Cross man looked up in triumph. It was Tamas. He saw me the instant I saw him. Our eyes locked. He opened his mouth and then closed it wordlessly. He looked away. I slipped into the grocery store.

Janos had been watching through the window. He pulled me behind the counter and pushed me down. Kicsi was in the crowd, but he hadn't seen me.

“Stay here! The bastards will soon be gone.” Janos returned to his post by the window. I crouched on the wood floor, barely daring to breathe. Tamas's face, full of hate, swam in front of my eyes. I tried to think of something else. For an instant, I remembered how I used to play with my dolls in this exact spot when I was a little girl, while Papa waited on customers above my head. Then the image of Tamas was back again.

“They're finally leaving,” Janos said, “and they're taking poor Rabbi Friedman with them. Come out from there, Jutka, before that lazy, good-for-nothing Kicsi remembers that he is supposed to be working here.”

By the time Kicsi returned to the shop, I was standing in front of the counter, the block of cheese safely stowed in my bag.

“I am sorry, Jutka,” said Janos loudly, making sure that Kicsi could hear him. “I sold all the cheese this morning.”

“I couldn't come earlier because of the curfew.”

Kicsi smirked.

“Not like the old times, is it?”

“Leave the girl alone!” said Janos. “You know as well as I do that her father was a good boss, always fair to us!”

Kicsi snorted and walked into the storeroom, slamming the door behind him. Janos pushed a loaf of bread into my hands.

“I'm sorry, but this is all I have left,” he whispered.

“It's more than enough, Janos.”

“What have you heard from Mr. Weltner and Dezso?” he asked.

“We're worried. They've stopped writing. Mama says they must be digging ditches in a place far from a post office, or perhaps they aren't allowed to write letters any longer.”

Loud noises came from the storeroom. “You better go now, Jutka, before he comes back,” said Janos. “Please give my regards to your mama and grandmama.”

I ran all the way home. I was lucky. Nobody stopped me. Mama and Grandmama were standing by the window, waiting for me.

“Any problems?” asked Mama.

“Everything is fine. Janos sends his regards.”

That evening, as we feasted on jacket potatoes with melted cheese and toasted rye bread, I remembered again the expression on Tamas's face.