Pastel Orphans (21 page)

“Your girl here is smart, yes?” says the owner to Henrik.

Henrik looks at me as if I am suddenly more valuable.

“Who are the people who stay here?” asks Henrik.

“British, French, Dutch, many others—from ghettos or battlefields, or from the resistance. People move east or west from here, wherever they think they will be safe.

“You both can stay the night here. There are beds and a washbasin behind this wall.” He slides the wall open to reveal a secret bedroom. “But you will have to share it with these two for tonight.”

Henrik and I listen as the man and woman talk about the conditions in the ghetto, about how several families are squeezed into one room. How the Germans took away the doctor and people never saw him again. How there is a secret tunnel by which some people have escaped, but there are some who are too afraid to leave and believe that it is only a matter of time before they can return to their old homes.

Gottfried says that he has heard a rumor that the ghetto will soon be closed completely and all inhabitants forced into the camps. I wonder then about some other cousins there.

“Did you know the Rozenweig family?”

The couple remembers the name but describe the place as chaotic and say it is difficult to know if people are still there; so many have been sent to the camps and others have been taken away for reasons known only by the Gestapo. The woman describes how sometimes people are taken to another part of the town and shot, their possessions stolen. “The bastards are doing it for sport,” says the man. These words fill me with hatred and hardness, leaving no room for sadness.

“Are we losing the war?” asks Henrik.

“No,” says the woman. “The Russians are standing firm in Stalingrad. The Germans have lost battles in other parts. They are not as victorious as they report on the radio and in the newspapers. The Western allies will not stop, and the resistance will not give up. Do not lose hope.”

Henrik explains to Gottfried why we have come to the city.

“I know more about the stolen children,” says Gottfried. “I know they are not only orphans, that many were taken from their families.”

“You do?” This has Henrik’s full attention.

“Yes.”

The café owner is quiet for a moment.

“I know of a small orphanage. It is a house with a fenced yard. Children being brought there were anywhere from babies to the age of ten. I remember that they were all pale haired. One of the women who worked at the orphanage brought a couple of them in here one time. She said she was a nurse but she acted more like a prison camp supervisor.”

Henrik asks him to describe the children.

“They were two little girls, around the age of eight, I guess.”

Henrik doesn’t flinch. This information seems more solid, more truthful, than the leads from Emelie.

“The woman said that the girls were being given a special education. They had lost their parents and were being taken care of. They would then be adopted by suitable German couples who had come to colonize Poland, or perhaps they would go back to Germany.”

“And the other orphanage you spoke of . . . where is that?”

“It was a larger place but it has closed down now. The children are all gone. Many were Jewish.”

Henrik explains that he has spied on many homes of newly arrived Aryan families who have several children.

“Can I have the address of the small orphanage you mentioned?”

The owner writes the address down and describes where it is.

“You will see nothing now. The children will be asleep. You would have to look in the morning, but that is not wise either. Not after what you’ve told me. The Germans will be on alert.” He pauses to think. “Perhaps I can ask. I have had to deliver food there before. Maybe I can see if they require anything and then have a poke around.”

“Would you?” Henrik sounds eager.

“Of course,” says the café owner.

C
HAPTER
28

Gottfried is up early making dough. He boils some meat for the stew that is to be served at lunch. We eat freshly baked bread, steam rising as we break pieces apart. The bread is washed down by more coffee.

“I’m not always a baker . . . in case you were wondering.” And he casts a look at the other couple, who seem to already know his secret.

“The Germans have stolen much art and coin and many jewels from their raids and from their prisoners, but they are not so clever that it is hidden from dexterous hands such as mine. I am experienced in black market activities. My contacts tell me of recent plunders and I steal from the German looters who are looking to get rid of their spoils quickly. It does not sound like an honest living but before you judge me you should know it is my way of helping those it was stolen from. I use the money to buy food and keep this business profitable and then sell food to the Germans. They pay me and I use the money to house those who need help. You know, not all Germans are bad people. Look at me: I am German also.” He looks at me to see if I might question this.

“Helping people sounds very honest to me,” I say.

“I like this girl!” he announces to the air, and I am suddenly embarrassed that I have been so forthright.

“Where do you keep all these goods?”

“That is information which is best kept my business, dear Henrik, but before the items change hands, they are kept safely stored away from here.”

“Do you have any family here?” I ask.

“My wife left me years ago when I was a fat, poor baker. My son is dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is because of this turn of events that I am doing what I do now.”

The young woman speaks up. “You have saved many lives. I will be sure to tell England what you have done.”

“Just wait until you get there, though,” he says, and laughs deeply.

“Who is the girl who works for you?” I ask.

“She is the daughter of a friend of mine. She brings messages that tell me when to expect someone and at the same time gets paid well for serving in the café. She sees nothing.” Gottfried covers his eyes and grins. “It is best that way, should she ever be questioned.”

“Is Gottfried your real name?”

“Of course not.”

And we all laugh.

The next day, the baker, true to his word, leaves the café on our behalf, taking some pastries with him. He returns with news.

“Many of the children have been transported, mostly the very young, because they are more in demand. There are two older ones there.”

“How old?”

“Around seven or eight perhaps, maybe a little older: a girl and a boy.”

Henrik stands up as if he will run.

“Calm down, Rik. There is no guarantee that it is your sister. And there is no point to going there now, unless you want to get caught.”

Henrik rushes from the room and returns with his drawing book. He hurriedly finds a picture of Greta and holds it up to Gottfried.

Gottfried leans in to examine what it is that Henrik so desperately wants him to see.

“Is this your sister?”

“Yes,” says Henrik. “Did you see her?”

Gottfried squints. “It is difficult to say . . . I only caught a glimpse.”

“I must see them. I must know.”

“Yes, and you will, but there is a thing called timing. Bad timing has wiped out armies. It has killed those who are too impatient, too desperate for answers, who use their hearts instead of their heads. You will always get your moments, but you have to measure them carefully.”

I like this man the more he speaks. He is as wise as he is kind as he is sharp.

“Tonight they will have their evening meal around six o’clock. I found this out from the charming housekeeper, who seems to have an eye for me. Not that I like to boast.” He winks. “So wait until then. You must go alone and leave the girl. She will only draw attention.”

Henrik nods.

“Go to the left side of the house. There is a dining room there. You can peer in and see if your sister is one of them.”

All day Henrik paces the room. The other couple is leaving that night. They are heading west. Gottfried has another contact in the place they will travel to. It seems he is part of a wide network of underground traders and resistance workers.

Henrik is back from the orphanage and now lies on the bed staring at nothing. He does not speak. Gottfried is out serving customers and the couple has left.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“I already did.”

“You said that she wasn’t there, but did you see anything else?”

“I would have told you if there was anything else!”

“You don’t have to snap at me. We are on the same side.”

“I know,” he says more softly, his chin resting in his hand. “But . . .” He is thoughtful for a moment. “There were only a couple . . . younger than Greta. The boy was crying and eventually a woman came in and took him out. The girl was left to finish her soup on her own. The look on her face showed that she was terrified. I could tell she didn’t like the place. When the woman came in, she jumped. I know that Greta wasn’t there. She would be looking after these younger ones if she was.”

Gottfried comes in. He has already heard.

“Sorry you didn’t find her,” he says. Gottfried then tells us that many people have been transferred from the ghetto to a labor camp farther south, to work in the quarry and factories.

“Maybe she is there in the camp,” I say.

“The camp is for workers,” says Gottfried. “Many from the Podgorze ghetto are taken to work there—families, children. But those from outside Cracow are sent elsewhere.”

“Where are they sent?” says Henrik.

Gottfried seems reluctant to answer and scratches his head anxiously as if regretting the telling.

“There is another camp called Auschwitz not far from here where many Jews and other prisoners are taken.”

“I have heard of this,” say Henrik. “I have heard they perform experiments on the prisoners.” He explains what he learned on his mission with Eri.

“It is not a good place,” says Gottfried. “I do not think anyone should go there if they don’t have to.”

“But what if she is there? What happens to the young children? Surely they are cared for!”

“I have heard stories from the guards there . . . The conditions could be better.”

“I must go. How do I get there?”

Henrik doesn’t see it—perhaps he doesn’t want to—but I do: there is something Gottfried is holding back.

“It is difficult. You run too great a chance of being caught. You will not get very close. It is too well guarded.”

“I will go, regardless.”

Gottfried pauses. “You can’t go there.”

“If it was your child or sister, would you go? If you were me, would you go?”

Gottfried closes his eyes and does not say anything for many seconds.

“I can’t stop you,” he says finally.

“Can you help us?”

“I don’t know.”

Gottfried says he needs to think.

Gottfried comes into our hidden room.

“I am not sure you will find your sister there.”

“But you are not sure that she isn’t there.”

“No, I can’t say. But I can get you to the town near the camp. That is all.”

“You will do that?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “I can tell that you are determined, Rik, that you are the type of person who would rather die trying than not try at all.”

Gottfried is right. Henrik does not give up anything easily.

“I can drive you most of the way to the camp and hide you in the back of my truck. I can leave you on the outskirts to spy but you won’t be able to get close. There are thirteen-foot fences and barbed wire. There is a spindly birch forest where you can spy from but it will be dangerous. I do not recommend you do this but I can see that you will go no matter what I say, so I can be of some help. You will need binoculars.” He slaps his thighs, something he does often when he is thinking. “And then what if you do see her?”

“Then I will think of something.”

Gottfried shakes his head gravely.

“I think you will get yourself killed.”

“I am coming too then,” I say. “I can help.”

“You, even more than him, should not go near that place.”

“I have to go.” For Henrik, I have to go.

“You can’t come, Rebekah. I do not want to put you in such danger. You have done enough to help me. You must stay here.”

“No, Henrik. I will not.”

He meets my eyes and knows, like me, that we are joined now in this quest to find Greta. That no matter what he says I will follow him.

“Is this true? You are going too?” says Gottfried.

Henrik turns away.

“Yes,” I say.

Gottfried shakes his head solemnly, sadly.

“I will drop you both off, but I can’t stay with you, even for a minute. Any unexplained activity is considered illicit. Everyone is guilty until proven otherwise.

“It will be four days before I can return. If I come back sooner, any guards who see me pass will query. I can pick you up at the same point I leave you but if you are not there, then I will keep driving back. Do you understand all this?”

Today we stay hidden in the secret room. Gottfried has told us that the police have stepped up personnel, have added more checkpoints, and are searching more homes. Several policemen come into the café. Henrik and I are frozen with fear while the police are there. I think that at any moment they will enter our hidden sanctuary. My chest hurts from the tension.

The visitors are not keen to discuss their work at first. They prefer Gottfried’s cakes and light banter. Though, as the policemen leave, they ask whether Gottfried has seen any suspicious persons in his café or on the street: in particular, teenagers. Gottfried volunteers that he did see several children come into his café. They stood for a few minutes inside the door as if they were hiding, and he overhead them talking about the Ukrainian border. He tells the officers that they looked scared and says that he gave the teenagers the bread they ordered but they then ran out without paying. He says that he ran after them but they were too fast. He thought he saw them get in a vehicle, a truck, at the end of the street. Had he known there were children on the run, he would have given them more cake to keep them here and then sent a message to authorities straight away.

Gottfried is so convincing that I start wondering if it is true, until he walks into our little room and winks at us. “Stupid krauts believe everything I say.” And there is that laugh again, the one that is so infectious that I am now smiling with relief. Though, I notice that Henrik isn’t. The war is changing him. Once upon a time, I think, he might have fallen over from laughter. But at least he is drawing again. At least he is still in there somewhere. Finding Greta is just as much about saving Henrik as it is about saving her.

That night, after the café is closed, Gottfried unlocks a cabinet and pulls out several maps, including one of Auschwitz. He marks places such as the heavily guarded areas and where the women and children are housed in the camp. He points on the map to a place where many of the prisoners congregate: a central point where they are chosen for certain duties.

“How do you know it so well?”

“The guards there love to talk, to boast. I have an agreement with some of them. They pass me loot and I sell it and return half the money to them. Although rarely is it half—I keep most for me. I tell them: ‘The black market, it is not as lucrative as it used to be.
’
” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his eyebrows as if he is reliving those conversations. “They can’t say anything. They can’t prove anything and they wouldn’t dare try. They would be imprisoned themselves.”

“You could get caught,” I say.

He laughs off the suggestion. “And miss out on such enjoyment as to swindle a German who is swindling a Jew?”

His run to the camp is scheduled for the following day. His cover is that he will deliver fresh bread and cakes for the camp commander, which he will bake during the night. Before it is daylight, we must go outside and hide in the back of his truck.

Gottfried is experienced at smuggling people. He has designed some crates with a false bottom a foot above the floor of the crate and openings at the base on either side. With several placed together, they are long enough to hide a person. He fills the empty cavities above the crates with bread and pastries, cleverly concealing the person hiding underneath. We are to lie still in the hollows for an hour, over bumpy roads. Gottfried says that he has never been inside the camp where the prisoners are; instead, he drives into a rarely used barn in one of the rail yards outside the camp. There he can load up with goods: dresses, jewelry, leather bags, and other belongings that the guards have brought in sacks. He hides these underneath the crates, just as he is hiding us. There might also be a silver frame, clock, or watch. Small things. Gottfried says that he only takes the best clothes: only silk dresses and shirts, or tailored suits and new shoes.

Then he hands over to the guards the money from the items he has already sold. After this he drives farther up the road to deliver cakes to the soldiers who meet him at the entrance to Auschwitz, but he does not go inside and has no desire to do so. Something about the place suggests permanency, he says.

Or a doorway to the afterlife,
I think.

“Have you ever smuggled people from this place?”

“It isn’t like the ghettos, where smuggling is easier. The camps are more difficult. Once people are in the camps, I can do nothing more.” Then he remembers Henrik and what he plans to do and lifts his tone slightly. “Though, of course, that isn’t to say it can’t be done. Perhaps you will be the first after all.”

He points to an area on the map that is west of the camp. “This is a wooded area where you can hide. There is a small white house and barns which will help to block you from view. As far as I know, no one lives in the house. Many residents nearby were told to leave when they began work on the camp.

“The area around the camp is heavily policed. The people still living there are employed by the Germans, or they have special documents that allow them to live there. It will be a miracle if the guards don’t see you and an even greater one if their dogs don’t.” He pauses to see the reaction from Henrik, who is undeterred. He will not give up his quest.