My Canary Yellow Star (10 page)

“The man said the Schutz-Pass protected him. It made him into a Swedish citizen. Neither the Hungarians nor the Germans can touch him. The policemen on the street-car were about to let him go when the rest of us ran away,” I explained. “Peter is going to find out from his father about this Mr. Wallenberg and how we can get his Schutz-Pass to protect us.”

“But, Marta, his father –”

“Don’t worry! You can trust Peter. He won’t tell his father that we asked him to get this information for us.”

For the first time in a long time, I saw a glimmer of hope in Mama’s eyes.

“Marta! Come and help me set the table,” Mama called from the kitchen. “Your guest will be arriving in half an hour.”

I adjusted the collar of my blouse and gave my hair a final pat in front of Aunt Miriam’s old-fashioned dresser. As I stood in the kitchen door, I heard Mama and Aunt Miriam arguing.

“What were you thinking of, Nelly? Why in the world would you invite Peter here?”

“Miriam, it means so much to Marta. Nothing we do seems to matter anyway. She might as well have an evening to remember.”

When they saw me, they stopped talking. Grandmama was at the stove, bent over a large cast-iron pot, stirring a mysterious concoction.

“Yummy smell! Are you finally going to tell me what we’re having for dinner?” Although I’d begged and begged, my grandmother had refused to tell me in advance what she was planning to cook for Peter’s visit. She said she wanted to surprise me.

“Come, have a taste,” Grandmama said, dipping her wooden spoon into the pot.

The surprise turned out to be my favorite casserole, made with slices of green pepper, rice, onions, tomatoes, and salami. Of course, there was no salami. But Grandmama had somehow managed to get the vegetables at the greengrocer’s and had made a secret substitution for the meat. It tasted exactly the same as when we were still able to get all the ingredients. I was certain Peter would like it.

My mother was standing at the kitchen counter, stacking up the dishes I was to use to set the table. Grandmama always insisted that we use our best dishes on Shabbos, and the kitchen table was already covered with Aunt Miriam’s second-best tablecloth. I snuck a furtive glance at Mama as
I piled the crockery into my arms. To my relief, she forced a smile and winked at me when she noticed I was looking at her. I knew I had been forgiven for the night at the Casino.

“Hurry up, Marta!” she said. “Your guest will be here in a few minutes.”

I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. The kitchen table was crowded, but it looked beautiful. Aunt Miriam’s white-and-gold Rosenthal china, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery sparkled in the rays of the setting sun. Two heavy, ornate silver candlesticks graced the center of the table. I folded snow white linen napkins into the shape of fans and set them behind each plate. They gave the table a festive air. I kept praying under my breath: “Please, God! Let everything go smoothly.”

All at once, the doorbell rang.

“Peter’s here!” Mama called. “Get the door, Marta!”

I took off my apron and, after a last-minute glance at my reflection in the window, went to let him in.

Peter was standing in the corridor, a large package under his arm. I was glad of my white blouse and black skirt when I saw his eyes flicker over me and his smile grow even broader.

“You look very pretty, Marta,” he said. “I missed you,” he added in a soft voice that the women in the kitchen couldn’t hear.

“Me too,” I whispered. “You look nice too,” I said in a louder voice. And he did, in his gray pants, white shirt, and
green necktie. It made him look older – at least eighteen.

“Any problems getting here? It’s a real nuisance that you have to sneak around to visit us.” I had warned Peter that if our building’s nosy super stopped him, he should say he was visiting Mrs. Kocsis, a Christian lady on the fourth floor.

“No problems at all. I didn’t see anybody. Here, this is for you.” He handed me the package he was holding. “I couldn’t get you flowers, so I brought you this instead.”

The parcel contained a large loaf of black rye bread and some butter. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had butter with my bread. Peter must have been saving his ration coupons for weeks to obtain such a rare commodity. Both Mama and Grandmama were suitably impressed, and Mama’s guarded expression relaxed slightly.

“This is very generous,” she said, looking at Peter’s gifts on the kitchen counter. “So generous that we mustn’t accept it. I can guess how many of your coupons you must have saved up to buy the butter, not to mention the bread.”

“Please, enjoy both the bread and the butter. It’s for you.” Peter’s ears were bright red. “I didn’t need the coupons. I found someone who … I mean, I traded some coupons with him. That’s all.”

Mama’s face softened. She patted Peter’s arm. “You’re a good boy,” she said. Both Grandmama and Aunt Miriam were smiling. I knew then that everything would be all right.

“Well, then,” Mama said, “thank you. We’ll enjoy your generous gift tonight.” She cut thick slices from the bread
and transferred the butter into a pretty little dish. Then she put both the bread basket and the butter on the kitchen table.

Although my family was not terribly religious, we lit Shabbos candles every Friday night. Ervin and Gabor put black satin yarmulkes on their heads. My mother, grandmother, and aunt covered their hair with silk scarves, but my own head was bare, since I was the only unmarried girl at the table. We all crowded together while Grandmama lit the candles. Her hands moved over the dancing flames as she chanted an age-old Hebrew prayer: “Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who sanctified us by His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath light.”

I murmured the prayer along with her, praying for the war to be over, for Papa to come home. For my Gran and Grandpa to return. For Uncle Laci to come back. And for Peter to like me – a lot.

Soon Grandmama was dishing out her casserole and Mama was handing around slices of the bread Peter had brought. We spread it sparingly with butter. For a while, we concentrated on our food, but Mama’s words broke the silence.

“So how have you been keeping? How are your parents?”

“Mother and Father are very well, thank you,” Peter said. “Father’s been busy …”

“He works side by side with the Germans?” Mama asked.

“I am afraid so,” Peter replied, his eyes fixed on his plate “I myself would not, but Father won’t listen to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mama said, patting Peter’s hand.

A sudden silence engulfed us. I couldn’t think of a single word to say to ease the tension around the table. Finally, to my great relief, Ervin broke the silence.

“How often does your Levente troop meet? Do you know how to use a rifle yet?” He tried to sound casual, but he kept cracking his knuckles, a sure sign he was nervous.

“We meet three times a week for an hour, right after school. Mondays and Wednesdays we practice marching and athletics, and learn the rules of guard duty,” Peter said. “There is also a meeting on Fridays for target practice.”

Ervin’s expression reflected the envy he was feeling.

“Friday is also the day for political discussions,” Peter added with a grimace. “They’re compulsory.”

Ervin shot Gabor a quick glance. “We couldn’t join the troop at school,” he said. I recalled the black eyes my brother and cousin had sported after they’d tried to take part in this paramilitary training. “I don’t suppose we could join your troop?” His hands were fidgeting.

Peter’s ears turned a brilliant shade of crimson. “There is nothing I’d like more,” he said. “But I don’t think … I can’t …” His voice trailed off miserably. He took a deep breath before continuing. “The truth is that several boys
in my group are also in the Arrow Cross. They ganged up on poor Alex Schwartz when he tried to get in. I don’t know what would have happened to him if my friends and I hadn’t stepped in to help.”

The warmth around the table vanished. Peter was glumly examining his plate. Ervin, staring at him angrily, was clenching and unclenching his fists. Gabor was biting his lips, not looking at anyone.

“Well, if you don’t want us to …” Ervin began in a challenging voice. I knew it was time to interrupt him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not Peter’s fault you can’t join the Levente. In any case, this certainly is not the time to discuss it!”

“Marta is right. Let’s talk about more cheerful topics,” Mama said.

Ervin nodded reluctantly, although I could sense that he was still angry.

“How is school? What are you planning to do after you graduate?” Aunt Miriam asked Peter in a bright voice.

“Go to university, then join the diplomatic service, if they’ll have me,” Peter said modestly. “What about you, Marta? What do you want to do?”

“I just want to go dancing,” I told him. Peter glanced at me, then looked down at the table. I bit my lips to prevent myself from laughing when I saw that his ears had turned bright red once again.

“Come on, Marta, be serious!” Ervin said. “I want to be a doctor like Papa!”

“Ah! How nice. Both of you boys want to follow in your fathers’ footsteps,” said Aunt Miriam.

“I don’t really care what I am studying, as long as I can go to school,” Gabor said. “I miss it.”

So did I. Although I used to complain about homework and our teachers, now I wished I could see my friends and even mean old Professor Feldman. I missed the excitement I used to feel when I learned something new. I even missed the scarred desks and the smell of chalk.

Silence fell over us once again. All of us were thinking the same thing. Papa became a physician like his father before him, and ever since he was a little boy, Ervin had been saying that he wanted to be a doctor just like Papa. Now Papa was somewhere in Yugoslavia digging ditches, and Ervin, Gabor, and I could not go to high school. The difference between Peter and us was like an ocean. He had a future; we did not. The unfairness of it all almost overwhelmed me. But it wasn’t Peter’s fault. I looked at my mother beseechingly. She and my aunt were on the verge of tears. When I turned to Grandmama, she squared her shoulders and nodded encouragingly.

“Well,” she said, “doesn’t anybody like my casserole? Why isn’t anybody eating?”

We laughed in relief and dug in once again.

The moment had come for me to ask. “Peter, did you speak to your father about that Swedish official, Wallenberg?”

“My father didn’t know much more about it than what you had already told me, Marta,” Peter said. “Papa says that Raoul Wallenberg is a low-ranking Swedish diplomat who arrived in Budapest last month. Mr. Wallenberg has been issuing Swedish passports at his embassy on Gyopar Street in Buda ever since he arrived. Father also said that Mr. Wallenberg has been giving these Schutz-Passes to Jewish people who have some kind of connection to Sweden – relatives there or business dealings, anything like that.”

Peter stopped for a moment to take a drink of water. The rest of us stared at him, our mouths open, forks suspended in the air. “Mr. Wallenberg claims that neither the Hungarian government nor the Germans have any authority over these people. Jewish people with Schutz-Passes are protected by Sweden. They don’t have to wear a yellow star.” He shook his head incredulously and chuckled. “What’s most amazing of all is that both the Hungarian government and the Germans are accepting these documents as completely legal. Any Jewish person who is given a Schutz-Pass by Mr. Wallenberg is safe for the time being.”

It took a moment for us to digest Peter’s words.

“We must get these Schutz-Passes somehow,” Mama said.

“But we don’t have any connection to Sweden,” Aunt Miriam protested.

“We’ll find one,” Mama said in a determined voice.

“My late husband, God rest his soul, was in the furniture business. I think he imported lumber from Sweden,” Grandmama said.

“Do you think that’s enough to get us our Schutz-Passes?” Aunt Miriam asked.

“It will have to be,” Mama said. The three women exchanged hopeful glances.

“Marta,” Mama said, “you’ll wear your white blouse tomorrow with your black skirt. I want you to look your best.”

“Are we going to the Swedish legation, Mama?”

“Of course we are. The minute the curfew is over.”

The next morning, Mama and I set out for the Swedish legation on Gellert Hill in Buda. We had to walk. The last car of each tram that went by was already crammed with star-marked men and women. The other cars were half empty, but they were forbidden to us.

It took us more than an hour to climb the steep hills to Gyopar Street. The Swedish embassy was halfway up the hill. It was a gracious honey-colored villa surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence with sharp spikes on top. When we reached it, we were caught up in a sea of frantic and shoving men and women with yellow stars. Desperate men were trying to climb the fence. Harried guards kept the iron gates locked, opening them a crack to let in a few at a time from the front of the queue.

Mama and I elbowed our way into the center of the
agitated, tense crowd. The heat and pressure of the bodies around us took my breath away. We clutched each other. A woman in front of me shrilled over and over again: “My uncle lives in Stockholm! Let me in!” Beside me, a man yelled at the top of his voice: “I export paprika to Sweden! I need a Swedish passport!” Mama was becoming so pale that I was afraid she would faint and be trampled.