Stolen Child (6 page)

My eyes were still red from crying when I got back to school. The first bell had rung and students were just forming into lines. Some of the kids in my class looked up at me, then quickly turned away. Maybe Miss Ferris had said something to them. But then I heard Eric mutter, “The Hitler girl’s back.”

I stepped in behind Linda. “Good to see you!” she whispered.

I sat down in the same desk and tried to act as if nothing had happened. As Miss Ferris droned on with her lessons, I tried to sort out my recent memories. Why was it
all coming back to me now? When we were in the DP camp, I just pushed my thoughts out of my mind. I tried that on the ship, and it mostly worked. But when we got to Brantford, the nightmares started up and the memories came back. Why wouldn’t the sadness leave me alone?

Once we were all seated, I stared at the back of Eric’s head a few seats in front of me. Why did he call me the Hitler girl? It was such a mean thing to do. I noticed that his brown hair was carefully trimmed short around the ears and was left a bit longer on top. He probably hadn’t combed it since the morning, but it looked perfect. I was sure that it was a barber who had cut it, not a soldier. Had he ever had his hair hacked off for lice? Could he even imagine such a thing? How dare he judge me.

I looked up and down the rows of children in front of me. Each boy and girl looked well-fed and clean. No one was dressed in rags. They probably all had parents. My heart ached with jealousy. How I wished I lived a simple life that had never been touched by war.

I knew that Mychailo was the only other Ukrainian student at Central School, but I didn’t see him until afternoon recess. He was tossing coins against a wall with some other boys and caught my eye. He nodded and went back to his game.

I saw him later walking home about a block behind me. I waited for him, but he was with some other boys. He walked right past me as if he didn’t know me, so I walked the rest of the way home by myself.

Since I was the first one home, I began to peel some potatoes for supper. I had just filled a pot with water when there was a knock on the front door. It was Mychailo, a sheepish expression on his face.

“So, suddenly you know who I am?” I said.

“Come on,” he said, shuffling his feet. “You didn’t expect me to talk to you when I’m with a bunch of guys, did you?”

“I don’t see why not.” I left the door open, but walked back to the sink. He followed me in and sat down on a kitchen chair, watching me peel the potatoes.

“Want to go to the library?” he asked.

I did want to go to the library, but I was still angry, so I didn’t answer.

“Are you going to cook them on low while we’re gone?” he asked.

I shook my head, but still didn’t say anything.

“You are going to go with me, aren’t you?”

I liked that. It sounded a little like an apology. I finished peeling the last potato, rinsed them all off and put them in a pot of water. I didn’t turn it on. Marusia had told me never to do that.

“I can go to the library for a short visit,” I said. “I’ll boil the potatoes when I get back.”

Mychailo was silent for the first few minutes of our walk, then he said, “Sorry for not talking to you before.”

I didn’t say anything. I knew why he didn’t talk to me. He didn’t want to be teased. But it felt awful to have him treat me like a stranger.

When we got to the library, Mychailo went right to a trolley of books that were waiting to be re-shelved. “I discovered this a few days ago,” he said. “All the best books are right here on this trolley.” His eyes lit up as he pulled out a dog-eared novel called
Black Beauty
. “You’d like this,” he said. “I read it last year.”

I took it from him and flipped through it. All text and no pictures. And the text was small. “I can’t read this,” I said. He should have known. I had only taken out picture books so far.

“It will take you a while to read it,” he said, “but I think you would like the story.” He grinned at me then, and said, “It’s a girly book.”

“But you liked it.”

He blushed a little bit at that, then shot back with, “It’s got good action too.”

He shuffled through the other books and found one on hockey, one on rocks, and another novel.

“What’s the novel?” I asked, grabbing it out of his hand. It took me a bit to sound it out, and even once I did, I couldn’t understand it. “
Freddy Goes to Florida
? What does
Freddy
mean?”

“Freddy,” he said, “is a name, like Mychailo or Nadia. This particular Freddy is a talking pig.”

“A talking
pig
?” That made no sense at all. “And what is
Florida
?”

“It’s a place,” he said, as if he couldn’t understand my confusion.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Pigs don’t talk and pigs don’t go places unless they’re taken by humans.”

Mychailo rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should read one,” he said. “Then you’d understand. They’re hilarious. And
Freddy Goes to Florida
is the first in the series. I’ve been trying to borrow this one for quite a while.”

“I bet you don’t take those books to school with you.”

“You’re right about that,” he said. “The hockey book is for taking to school.”

I set
Black Beauty
down. It had too many words. “Can I try a Freddy book too?”

“Sure,” said Mychailo. “Let’s see if there are any on the shelf.”

There were a few, so Mychailo drew out a copy of
Freddy the Detective
. “This was the first one I read,” he said. “And it’s really good.”

I flipped through it. Even though it was a bit thicker than
Black Beauty
, the print was big and there were some pictures. Not quite a picture book, but not as daunting as
Black Beauty
. I breathed in deeply the wonderful scent of ink on paper and ran my hand across a page. Even the
feel
of this book made me happy …

I am in my four-poster bed in the German farmhouse. I should be asleep but I am woken by the rumble of voices from downstairs. I get out of bed. Shivering in my bare feet and thin nightgown, I slip down the stairs to see where the voices are coming from. The double doors of the library are open. Vater is seated with a brandy in one hand. Other men, their uniform jackets unbuttoned, sit around the table, telling each other stories and laughing. These are SS men. I know that because they have the very same badges on their collars as Vater
.

But that is not what catches my eye. After all, I’ve seen them so often — at rallies in the city, and here for dinner parties. What I notice this time is the room they are in. It is usually closed. This room is lined from floor to ceiling with books, mostly in German, but some in other languages too. Fat books, thin books, some with gold lettering on their spines. I love books. I long to hold them. But I am not allowed to touch these books
.

I walk back up to my room and pull out from under my bed the one book Vater has allowed me:
Der Giftpiltz.
I turn through the pages. The paintings are colourful and the print is large and clear. I want to love this book but I cannot. It talks about Jews and how they are poisonous toadstools but Germans are wholesome mushrooms. Something deep inside of me tells me this is wrong. I think of that girl
who wore the yellow star and my heart aches. I close the book and shove it back under my bed
.

“We should be going,” said Mychailo. “Don’t you have to put supper on?”

Suddenly I was back in the library in Canada. In Brantford. I looked at Mychailo, then up at the clock on the wall. We had been at the library for an hour.

We walked to the checkout counter, him with his three books and me with the one novel. I still felt a little bit like I was in a dream world.

An older boy who looked vaguely familiar from today’s recess was standing in line in front of us. He turned, caught Mychailo’s eye and nodded in greeting. He didn’t seem to notice me, and that was fine with me. A few more people stood behind us in line. I didn’t know most of them but recognized Linda. She was with a girl who was an older version of herself. It had to be her sister. Once my book was stamped, I waited for Linda and her sister to be checked through.

Mychailo tugged on my sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “I thought you had to cook the potatoes.”

“This will only take a minute.” I knew he didn’t want to be seen with me, but this wasn’t a boy from school, it was two girls, so what was the harm? He stood impatiently by my side as Linda and her sister had their books stamped.

“Hi, Nadia,” said Linda. She glanced at Mychailo, then back at me. “This is my sister, Grace.”

Grace was taller than Linda, but she had the same chocolate-brown eyes and glossy hair. “So you are Nadia,” she said, holding out her hand to me. “Good to meet you.” She smiled at Mychailo, then tilted her head so she
could read the spines of the books he was holding. “I didn’t know you were a Freddy fan, Mychailo.”

“You know each other?” I asked.

“Grace and I are in the same class.”

Grace noticed the copy of
Freddy the Detective
in my hand. “How can
you
read
that
?”

I looked at her in surprise. What had Linda said about me to her sister? I knew my English wasn’t perfect, but did she think I was stupid? “Slowly,” I said, forcing my lips into a smile.

We stood chatting for a few minutes longer. “I’ve got to get home and turn on the potatoes before Marusia gets home,” I said.

We walked up the half-flight of stairs together and out of the children’s entrance. Linda and Grace walked with us as far as Sheridan Street, where Mychailo and I turned and they continued. Mychailo dropped his library books off at home and then we both went back to my place.

Once inside, I turned on the potatoes. Then we went out to the backyard and sat on the cinder blocks.

“You have to remember to call Marusia and Ivan your mother and father when you’re talking to non-Ukrainians,” said Mychailo.

My heart skipped a beat. “I always call them that.”

Mychailo rolled his eyes. “You’re so stupid you don’t even know what you’re saying.”

I was about to yell at him, but I stopped. He was right. Didn’t I just use Marusia’s name with Linda and Grace? I would have to watch myself.

“Not everyone is perfect like you, Mr. Smarty-Pants,” I replied.

“This is serious,” said Mychailo. “I don’t know where you really came from, but if you want to stay in Canada, you had better get used to calling Marusia and Ivan your mother and father.”

I didn’t say anything to that. I knew he was right and I was surprised at myself for slipping up. At the DP camp, I never let my guard down, but now that we were safely in Canada, my past was forcing itself to be remembered and my thoughts seemed to get all jumbled.

Just then we heard a truck stop in front of the house and Marusia’s voice calling out a goodbye to the other farm workers.

“I should be heading home,” said Mychailo. “Don’t say hi to me at school, okay?”

I shrugged instead of answering. Maybe I would say hi to him just to get him angry.

A few seconds later Marusia came around to the back. She was carrying a heavy paper bag so I scooted over and grabbed it from her and we both walked inside.

She took the bag from my arms when we got inside and tipped it over onto the table, spilling out a few giant tomatoes, then onions, a small cabbage and some green peppers. At the bottom were half a dozen beautiful big apples. “I’ll make apple squares for dessert,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

She seemed to notice what I was wearing for the first time. “You’ve changed,” she said.

Then she looked at my unbraided hair. “And you took your hair down.”

We put the vegetables and some of the apples away in silence, and Marusia prodded the boiling potatoes with a
fork to see how done they were. “How was your first day at school?” she asked.

I took a deep breath and held it. I needed to tell her right now what had happened. To clear the air and not hurt her feelings, but I couldn’t get the words out.

Marusia’s forehead crinkled in a frown, then she took a paring knife from the drawer and began to peel one of the apples. I watched the peel of apple skin grow. I had seen her skin an entire apple by paring off a single long tendril. Ivan couldn’t do that. Neither could I.

The silence between us grew. I got the dishrag and wiped off the counter. I got out the broom and swept the floor even though it was already clean.

Marusia broke the silence. “I was telling the girls at the farm today about the outfit I made for you.”

I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so I caught her eye and tried to smile.

“They told me that students don’t dress like that in Canada,” she said. The apple was peeled, so she set it down on the counter and wiped her hands with a cloth. “Did you have trouble today?”

“I … I … love the new clothing.” I stared at the floor and couldn’t say any more. My throat was choked with tears.

Marusia stepped towards me, took the broom from my hands and set it against the wall. She held me tight. I exhaled. I could feel the tension and worry leave with that long-held breath. I rested my head on her chest and wrapped my arms around her waist, sinking into her warmth and the scent of apples, sweat and straw. I breathed in deeply, but I still couldn’t speak.

She rocked me gently and murmured, “It’s fine, Nadia. Don’t worry. You’re safe now,
Sonechko
.”

The words soothed me. And with them came an image of another mother holding me and soothing me. Another time I thought I was safe …

That night in bed, I tried to remember more about the other time and another mother, but it was like trying to catch my shadow. I couldn’t fall asleep, so I turned on my lamp, squinting at the sudden brightness. Once my eyes got used to it, I grabbed the Freddy novel and propped myself up on my pillow. On the cover was a pig wearing a cap, looking through a magnifying glass. Page one began,
It was hot
… That much I could read.

I tried to sound out more. The story seemed to be about two ducks looking at a house in the heat. It didn’t make sense. Maybe if I wasn’t so tired it would make sense. I set the book down and got
The Picture Dictionary for Children
. I had gone through the whole book four times, and each time I did I would find something new.

This time as I flipped through it, I kept on noticing the same couple of pictures that were used for various words. For example, the words
automobile
,
drives
and
parks
were all illustrated with a fancy car. It wasn’t coloured in, but in my imagination, it was a shiny black car. The picture for
burn
was a house burning down, and the same burning house was used to show both
destroy
and
fire
.

My nostrils filled with the memory of smoke. How many times had I seen burning buildings? It was so familiar. Yet who was I and where was I when these things had happened? This was yet another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

I closed the book and waited for my heart to stop pounding. I didn’t turn off the light.

I am in the back seat of a long black car, dressed in pink finery. The doors are locked and the windows rolled up tight
.

I look out the window and through the haze of smoke. Girls and women running from a burning building. One girl glances my way. It is like looking into a mirror. She calls something to me but she’s pushed away by a man in uniform. I pound at the window and pound at the door. Let me out, let me out!