Pastel Orphans (2 page)

C
HAPTER
3

1935

We are going to Reuben and Marian’s for dinner. I look forward to seeing them again because their apartment is very big, and Zus and I run around and hide in all the bedrooms and no one gets angry.

But they have a new place, which is nothing like their old apartment. It is farther out of the city in a large building, where there are lots of buildings, and they have to share a kitchen with the other people who live on their floor.

Zus tells me that some men came to the door and gave his father a note. They were told that their old apartment was needed by some important people and that an expulsion to other accommodation was necessary.

“What is
expulsion
?”

“Vacation.”

“You mean a holiday?”

“No, not a holiday. Like a temporary placement.”

Reuben is a lawyer and said this thing they are doing, this expulsion, is not legal but they were told that the instructions came from the Führer himself, that it is for Reuben’s protection that they do this. Zus tells me that the Führer is making lots of new rules and they must do what he says.

But Zus tells me that he likes it at his new temporary placement because there are many others just like him there, and they get to run around the building together. He also tells me that his parents don’t seem to mind who he spends time with. Here he can play with whomever he wants. I am feeling very envious.

At dinner, our parents toast each other and Reuben says a prayer to thank God for the families they are blessed with. Then we gorge ourselves on soup with dumplings, salted fish, pancakes, and pastries that are sticky on top with seeds and mushy fruit inside. They are delicious and Marian says we can have two.

After dinner, our parents instruct us to play outside the apartment for a while. We run down the corridors, chasing each other, and Greta can’t keep up, and Mama comes out to say that I must look after Greta, that I must not let her out of my sight. I promise, because Greta is my obedient servant now and I am her master. We run up and down the stairwell. Some people sit at the bottom of the stairs smoking cigarettes and they tell us to be quiet. We do this and then we forget and make noise again, and then Greta falls over and cuts her knee and wails and Zus and I carry her between our arms, like a swing, up three floors to the apartment.

Mama applies a damp cloth to Greta’s knee and Marian gives her some sugar lollies, which stop her crying almost instantly. Marian says that sugar is the best medicine. Mama carries Greta to the couch and Greta falls asleep on her shoulder while Zus and I go to his room to talk. It is small and his big bed fits between the walls, as if the space was made for it.

He shows me his collection of stamps that he has been saving for two years. His father brings home many envelopes from work. He has clients from all over the world who send him these for Zus. There are colorful stamps from France, Poland, America, and even one from Australia that has a picture of a bird on it. Zus tells me this strange fat bird with a big head is called a kookaburra. I say the name and Zus laughs. And we both keep saying the name and laughing until we run out of laughter. I say that one day I will go to Australia but I have no idea where it is. Zus shows me a map and tells me that it takes months to get there by boat. We decide that we will go there together. He says that the sun always shines there and the beaches are softer than his mattress. We bounce on his mattress to see how soft it is, and I find it hard to believe that anything could be softer.

Mama comes to tell me that it is time to leave. I ask if I can stay the night with Zus, and Mama looks at Papa, who says nothing. He is staring at his shoe. Then Papa and Mama look at me wearily and neither responds. I don’t know why but I do not ask again. It is as if they are both asleep when they look at me.

Greta is asleep and Papa carries her down the stairs to our car.

Mama and Papa hug Reuben and Marian and tell them to take care and that they shall see them soon, but they are not joking and smiling like they usually do when we part. I do not want to leave and tell them this, and for some reason, when I get in the car, I start to cry—silently so that Mama and Papa don’t hear. They say that I have to be strong. They are not looking and so do not see that I am already crying, that I am not strong.

Greta lies across me on the seat. She is sucking her thumb and looks like a doll. One of my tears falls on her cheek.

My parents take us for a picnic to the park by the lake, which is outside the city. It is warm and beautiful and we take lots of food. Frieda has baked shortbread and we also take a loaf of bread and slices of beef and some lemon soda water. Greta runs with me in the park and we find other children there to play with. Papa hires a boat to row and we put our hands over the sides and splash.

We are walking towards the tram that will take us to the train station when suddenly there is a lot of noise ahead. People in the streets are yelling and several bottles are smashed on the road. A man is lying in the gutter while another one kicks him in the stomach. His groceries are scattered across the street—broken bottles of sauce and pickles. There are several people around him stomping on his purchases, busting open the brown packets. Food squirts out the sides.

A policeman comes and yells at the angry group. My father starts to go and help but my mother holds his arm. Someone else helps the man up.

“It’s all right now. It’s over. Don’t get involved,” says Mama.

We turn down a side street, taking a different route to the station. Papa says we will walk and catch the tram from a different stop. This way is longer and I complain that my legs will give up if we have to walk any farther, but Mama and Papa ignore me. They have gone very silent.

Mama walks me to school, which is only two blocks from our apartment.

I have friends. Their names are Rudolf and Fritz. I do not like the lessons as I do not understand what the teachers write on the board, and I am too afraid to tell Papa, who, Mama says, is a very intelligent man. Mama had my eyes tested to see if I am having trouble seeing, because I don’t understand many things, but my eyes are fine. She thinks that I am too easily distracted.

At lunchtime, Rudolf and Fritz and I play pirates but soon the game turns sour. They gang up and say that because I am a Jew, I have to be the one who dies first.

I say I am not a Jew, that they are making this up. Though I don’t understand why, if I was a Jew like my friend Zus, it should make any difference.

Rudolf announces: “My father says that Jews are not allowed to learn things anymore, that they must stay stupid for the good of the German race.”

I punch him in the chest, knocking him over, and then I punch him again. A teacher sees this and tells my mother, who comes to collect me. Mama does not wear any kind of look in her face. It is blank, as if there is no one living inside of her.

She holds my hand but I pull away from her. I am very angry with Rudolf but I don’t want to go home yet. I want us to stay friends.

The next day, when I get dressed to go to school, Mama is still in bed and Greta is in the kitchen eating bread on her own. She says that Mama won’t get out of bed.

I creep into Mama’s room, which is in darkness because she has not pulled open the curtains.

“Mama, I have to go to school now,” I whisper.

“You will not be going anymore.”

“But I have to go. I have to learn mathematics and history.” Not that I think you need those to become a solider, but I want to see my friends. I want to apologize for punching Rudolf.

“You cannot go to that school anymore. It is too dangerous. We will find you a new school.”

“But I can fight, Mama.” I am shaking with anger and frustration. They cannot just send me away like that. “What about my friends, Rudolf and Fritz?”

I kick the wall and there is now an indentation.

“They are not your friends,” she shouts. She is sitting up now and I notice that she has not taken her makeup off from the night before, and her hair is sticking out like straw. There are black smudges around her eyes.

I start to cry and she reaches towards me but I shrink back from her touch and run down the hallway to my room and slam the door behind me. I pull closed my curtains, climb under the covers, and slide Robin underneath with me. She is curious at first, sniffing my bed, and then lies sideways to sleep.

I do not understand why everything has to be so complicated.

I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes, my mother has entered the room. Her hair sits neatly around her face, which has been cleaned. She is wearing a dress I have never seen before. She is holding a plate of food: sausages and cabbage and onions. She says I can eat in bed if I like.

“Riki,” she says, “I am sorry for shouting and I am sorry for school. The truth is, the teachers are not being fair and a lot of children are not going there now. We will find you another one where the teachers are better.”

I do not mention my friends again.

When Papa gets home, he comes in and touches the top of my head.

“It will be all right,” he says. “There are other schools.”

“But Papa,” I say, “it was only one fight. They are my friends. We will make up.”

“Henrik,” he says solemnly, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. I notice that he is thin in the face and his eyes are circled in gray, as if he has been wearing Mama’s makeup, which has smudged. “It is not the number of fights . . . it is the cause of the fight which is too great this time. And this is just the start. That school does not discourage the violence by some children or the views they bring with them from home.”

“Why did they call me a Jew?”

“Because they are ignorant and their parents are ignorant. Because they don’t know any better.”

“Why are Jews different?”

“They aren’t. All people are all the same.”

It has been a week since I last went to school and it is very boring at home. Greta is constantly coming to my room looking for company but I send her away. It has been months since I have seen Zus.

In the kitchen Mama is shelling peas for dinner.

“Where is Frieda?” I ask. It has been days since she has come.

“Frieda is finished here now,” she says.

“Who will do the work?”

“Me,” she says.

“Why can’t Frieda come?” I ask.

“Because new laws have been made and she is not allowed to work here.”

“What new laws?”

“Laws which tell people where they can work and where they can’t.”

C
HAPTER
4

1938

I sit at the window. It is raining outside and the sky is pale gray, the color of my coat. The organ grinder is playing his music across the road today. Sweet and lively music that makes me want to dance. Each day he is somewhere different. Sometimes he plays several blocks away from here.

Mama puts a coin in a cup at the front of his machine whenever we see him, and he smiles at Mama and winks at me out of his dark brown face. Papa says that he is a beggar, but his coat is nice and he wears a nice hat. Sometimes he has his little daughter with him. She sits beside him with her chin in her hands and watches everyone pass, with her dark eyes below black brows. The daughter is not there today.

The sound of an engine drowns out his music, and I look down and see that a shiny black car with a long bonnet has parked across the road from us. On the bonnet of the car is our country’s new flag. It reminds me of two bent or broken walking sticks lying on top of each other.

Two officers get out of the car. One is short and the other is tall. They wear black, buckled jackets; long, shiny black boots; and hats. They look very smart and I think that it would be good to be a policeman and wear clothes like that with badges on the front. The short one has many badges. I think that it is a shame that their nice clothes are getting wet.

I watch them instruct the music man to get into the backseat of the car. The man shakes his head and raises his arms. The officers speak to him for several minutes. They are saying things that I can’t hear because their voices are too low. The organ grinder shakes his head again, looks back along the street, then climbs into the back of the car.

The tall man climbs into the driver’s seat. Just before the short man gets in on the passenger side, he looks up at me and waves. I wave back. I am thinking that it is an important job to be a policeman. I would very much like to be one when I grow up.

They drive away and leave the man’s machine on the sidewalk. Every now and again I go to the window to see if it is still there. I set up a chair to face the window and read a book so that I can see who comes and collects the organ. Maybe it will be his daughter and I will invite her in for bread and tea. She needs to know that her papa is with the police. Someone needs to tell her.

It grows dark and I am tired and Mama tells me that it is time for bed. I tell her about the music machine, which is covered in rainwater now. She looks down at the street below and shrugs.

“Two men came and took him.”

She looks back at me with fierce eyes, as if I have just said something bad, before she turns back to the window to pull the curtains together. She walks away.

In the morning, I wake up and remember the organ grinder. When I look outside the window, the music machine is gone.

I am woken by the sounds of smashing glass outside and yelling, and I see people run down the street with fire torches. I am scared and run to Mama and Papa, but they are already up and watching from the window. Greta does not wake. She can sleep through noises.

“What is happening?” I ask.

Mama takes me in her arms and pulls me into the armchair.

“It is a riot,” says Mama in a weak voice, like she is talking from far away.

The yelling is louder now and there is more smashing. I peek over the windowsill. Several people throw bricks through the glass window of the bookshop, which had been painted with a yellow star.

Papa is pacing up and down, running his fingers through his hair and fiddling with his glasses, taking them off and putting them back on.

“What is a riot?” I ask.

“People who complain in a violent way.”

“What do they complain about?”

“They are jealous and don’t like that some people have shops.”

It sounds a very silly reason to complain. I tell Mama this but she is not listening. She is stretching her long neck even longer to look over the window ledge.

“I can’t stand by and watch this. Where are the police?” Papa says.

“They are there,” says Mama. “But they are pretending they can’t see.”

I have decided that I will not be like those policemen, who stand idle at such events. If I were a policeman, I would hit those vandals with a baton.

“I am going out,” says Papa. “I have to help.”

“No,” says Mama. “There is nothing you can do. One man against a dozen.”

Though it is clear there are more than a dozen. I can hear more destruction and yelling happening farther up the street.

Papa ignores Mama and grabs his coat to go outside. Mama pushes me to one side and rushes towards him.

“Emmett, no!”

But Papa has gone and slammed the door behind him. I am suddenly very scared for Papa and wishing that he had listened to Mama. I feel tears welling in my eyes and attempt to wipe them away before Mama sees.

Mama comes back to me, and she has seen.

“It is all right, Riki. Papa will return.”

Suddenly whistles are blown. Cars come screeching down the street and the people with torches vanish down alleyways and around corners.

Mama takes me to the kitchen to make me milk with chocolate. I keep staring at the doorway, waiting for Papa to enter. Mama says I can stay up till Papa gets back.

It is some time later when there is commotion outside the door and lots of talking. I hear the key in the door and Papa enters. Behind him are several people. There is an old couple: a man who looks like Reuben, but older, with a long beard; and his wife, who is trembling and looks very ill, her scarf wrapped tightly around her yellow face.

After them, a younger woman enters, and she is carrying a baby. The baby is sleeping in her arms.

“Karolin,” says Papa. “Get some blankets and warm some milk.”

Mama doesn’t move straight away. Papa takes her arm, and I follow them into the kitchen.

“We don’t have that much milk,” she says quietly, so the visitors can’t hear. “Why are they here? Who are they?”

“It is not safe for them. Their shop is completely smashed, and their apartment behind it. They have nowhere to sleep tonight.”

“All right,” says Mama. “But no more. We don’t have the room.”

Mama puts a blanket around the old lady known as Mina. She and her husband, Isaac, will sleep in my room.

I want to complain about this but remember about the people in the street who were complaining by riot and know that this is not the right thing to do. That sometimes complaining can hurt people.

The younger woman will sleep on the lounge, and Mama pulls out the crib, which used to be mine—and then Greta’s—for the baby to sleep in. The baby’s mother is so grateful that she holds my mama’s hands, and Mama’s face is no longer hard. She smiles and drops her shoulders, then hugs the woman.

I yawn because I am so tired now. It is after midnight. When I wake up, I am on a mattress in Greta’s room and don’t remember how I got there. I can hear talking down the hallway.

When I enter the kitchen, everyone is sitting around the table. Greta is sitting on the old man’s knee and he is singing a song very quietly in her ear in a language I don’t understand. I wish I could sit on his knee also, but I am too old for that now.

“This must be Hansel,” says Isaac.

I am confused and he sees this.

“Don’t you know who Hansel is?”

“No,” I say.

“Why, he is the brother of Gretel,” he says, pointing at Greta. I frown and nod because I am frightened of looking stupid, like I sometimes did in class.

“No matter,” he says. “You will know eventually.”

Mama pulls up another chair at the table and I have some porridge made with water, not milk, and some tea. I like that there are so many people here. It makes the place warmer. It reminds me of Christmas as it was before.

Papa has to go out and see about some building materials to fix the man’s shop. The man is too frail to walk so Papa must go alone. While he is gone, Isaac asks me if I play chess. Of course I do. Papa has taught me but it has been a while since we played. Papa has been very busy “in thought” lately, says Mama. He has much to think about.

I take Isaac’s pawn with my knight and then his knight with my castle. It is going well but the game suddenly turns and Isaac has taken both my bishop and my castle and then he takes my queen and checkmates with his other castle. I am shocked that I have not foreseen this move. This game is far more difficult than when I played with Papa. I am suspecting that Papa has not been playing at his best.

Isaac claps his hands. He says that he enjoyed the game and congratulates me on my moves. He says that I am a very good player for someone so young, that I am a “strategist” in the making.

I cannot find the word in my spelling dictionary so I ask Mama what it means. It seems that I will make a good policeman or soldier after all, and someone who can plan ways to protect shops from being broken into.

Mama spends most of the day with the two women and the baby. Greta won’t leave the baby alone. She shows off some of her toys and shakes things in front of the baby’s face to get him to look at her.

Papa comes back in the afternoon. He says he has boarded up the front of the shop and arranged for a glass repairer to come the next day.

I am happy that our visitors will be spending another night. Mama goes to the market for more supplies. Papa and Isaac drink some brandy that night. Papa used to drink this only on special occasions, but these days he seems to be drinking more of the Christmas drinks. And Mama is not afraid to use the good cutlery.

The next day I am sad to say good-bye to our visitors, and Papa says they are welcome to come again.

Late afternoon, a package arrives addressed to me. Inside is a picture book and the title is
Hansel and Gretel
. It is the most beautiful book. It has a golden spine and the pictures are shining with color.

I read the whole book over and over again and then I read it to Greta, who clings to me afterwards.

“It is all right,” I say to her. “It is just a story. Things like that don’t really happen.”

Today we pass Isaac and Mina’s bookshop and there is another yellow star painted on it. Papa knocks on the door but there is no answer.

Mama says that they have probably left to live with their relatives outside the city, where it is safer.

The organ grinder is not anywhere anymore.