The Earth Is Singing (18 page)

“Get rid of that bloody thing,” she says to Omama. My grandmother is trying to pack her contraband radio into a pile of blankets. “You’ll have us all killed.”

Omama pulls a face but with reluctance she takes the small black radio out again and puts it in the kitchen cupboard.

We finish the packing and tidy up all the things we have left behind. Mama cleans the kitchen even though she will not be using it again. It is just something to do with her hands to stop the nerves.

I return to the window like a magnet. I can’t keep away. I don’t want to see what is happening but another part of me needs to.

The column of men including Janis is forced to stand at the corner of our street for six hours in the cold and snow. I strain to see if I can see him but all the men are wearing brown caps and it is impossible to distinguish one from the other. At the head of the line stand two distinguished members of our Jewish Council. Dr Michail Eljaschew, chairman of the
Judenrat
, wears his black fur coat with the blue and white ribbon identifying him as our council member. Next to him is the Chief Rabbi Mendel Zak with his long grey beard and long dark coat.

At one o’clock on the dot the men are barked at to start moving and they disappear from view.

Max has been watching with me. I see him swallow hard, because his Adam’s apple moves up and down, but he says nothing.

There is nothing to say. I can’t offer him words of hope because I don’t really know if there is any hope to offer.

We wait.

And we wait some more. It gets colder. I huddle in my coat on the window sill, peering through the chink in the curtains.

Mama passes me a cup of hot water because we have no coffee left.

I sip it and watch the steam make patterns on the dirty glass of the window.

We are all very tired from not sleeping the night before but nobody dares to go to sleep now.

Mama paces up and down the main room, chewing her fingers and arguing with Omama over trivial things which don’t really matter. They snap and bicker for hours.

Max sits with Sascha on the floor and tries to make up games to divert her from the bickering.

I sit on the window sill and watch the streets.

At seven o’clock columns of armed Latvian police march into the ghetto.

Some of them can hardly walk straight.

“
Mein Gott
,” says Omama, following my gaze. “The bastards are drunk.”

It begins to get dark.

Shots start to ring out from around the ghetto.

I feel a sour rush of acid come up from my stomach into my mouth.

There is the sound of pounding footsteps in the hallway and several Latvian police burst into our apartment.

For one crazy moment I think that one of them is Uldis and that he has come to save us. The man has similar fair hair and high cheekbones.

But it is not Uldis.

They grab hold of Omama and lift her up.

Mama screams and tries to get hold of Omama’s arms.

“You should not be in here, old woman,” says one of the men, pushing Mama aside like a piece of rubbish. “There is a home for people like you.”

Mama drops to her knees and clasps her hands together, staring up at the man.

“No, she lives with us! Please don’t hurt her! My mother is elderly and unwell!”

But it is no good. The police drag Omama out of the door and down the stairs before we can think what to do. Another policeman stops Mama from following by pushing his gun across the doorway.

Max holds Sascha close to him. She is shaking and whimpering with fear.

I am trembling from the top of my greasy scalp right down to my broken leather shoes. I can’t believe what just happened.

“Out! Out this minute!” shouts the policeman when he is sure that Omama is gone. “Line up five abreast outside!”

We put our knapsacks on as Mama has told us to.

Then we run downstairs.

Outside on the street there is chaos. The whole of
Ludzas iela
is thronging with people. Some are screaming, others are sobbing quietly. The Latvian police are whipping and shoving people into line.

There is a frost this evening, a crackling frost that bites at our noses and faces.

We stand in lines which are five people wide and we press up against the shoulders of our Jewish brothers and sisters just to keep warm.

Mama is sobbing. She keeps twisting her head right round, her eyes sweeping the streets for signs of Omama.

I am numb with shock.

The wind makes our eyes water and our skin hurt but we stand there for nearly two hours without speaking.

The police disappear.

“Quick,” says Mama. “Go back to the house.”

I stare at her in astonishment but I know not to argue. I am so cold that the idea of going back to number 29 sounds like Heaven.

We steal back to our apartment building and go upstairs. Other people, strangers, follow us in because our house is close by. We stand about upstairs in our coats, expecting to be ordered outside again but hour after hour passes and nobody comes.

Some people start to sleep standing up, packed together like a box of dominoes.

I am leaning against the wall with Mama’s arm around my waist. Max is sitting by the window still holding Sascha.

At some point I must have fallen asleep because I am woken by the shout of a drunken Latvian voice.

“Everybody out! Out!”

The people in our room shake themselves awake and look at one another, eyes blurred by a short sleep. It is seven o’clock the next morning and still dark outside. We go back outside in complete confusion and are told by another policeman that the people on
Ludzas iela
will not be leaving to be resettled today and that we can go back inside to await further instruction.

“These damned Nazis,” says Mama as we go back again to our apartment. “They can’t even get our evacuation right!”

She sounds just like Omama.

I can’t imagine our lives without Omama.

I already miss my grandmother so much that it hurts.

We get no sleep.

As soon as we have put our heavy bags down and heated up some water to drink with our hard bread, a commotion starts outside again.

It is getting light so I can see the long, winding column of people being marched by outside. There are women the same age as Mama and some older ones like Omama. There are children, little girls even younger than Sascha and there are young boys, too, all gripping their mothers’ hands.

“Where are they going?” I say. By now we are all peering down at the column of people, desperately trying to see if Omama is amongst them. It grows ever longer and is heading back towards
Maskavas iela,
which leads out of the ghetto.

Mama is about to reply but there is a flurry of gunshots and instead she raises her hands to her mouth in horror.

An SS man has a machine gun. He is firing point-blank into the crowd.

Bodies begin to drop out of the column and crumple into the snow. People trample the dead in their panic to get away from the gunshots. Some of them throw down their bags of precious belongings in order to run faster.

They are whipped by the Latvian police who keep shouting at them to go “Faster! Faster!” They brandish the whips over their heads.

And still the column of people grows and grows.

There are trucks pulled up outside and some of the elderly people are thrown into them. They are piled up on top of one another and then driven off in the same direction as the marching column.

“Hanna,” hisses Mama. “Get away from the window unless you want them to shoot you too.”

But I cannot move.

Something inside me is whispering that I am watching a dreadful event unfold and that I must remember it. Some part of me has detached from what I am seeing. It’s the only way I can keep on watching.

Papa’s face flashes into my mind. He is smiling his kindest smile and he has his white shirtsleeves rolled up to show his strong brown wrists and long-fingered hands.

“I wish Papa was here,” I whisper through a thick haze of tears.

Mama wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me away.

The march goes on until midday.

Then the streets outside fall silent.

There are bodies strewn everywhere. The elderly, the handicapped, the sick and the very young, all murdered for not being able to keep up the pace of the march.

Mama and I sit huddled together, crying. We do not speak much. It is hard to find words to talk about what we have just seen.

When Mama does speak, it is in a whisper.

“Perhaps Omama has been resettled in a better camp,” she says. “That is what the rumour was. She will be there now and we will join her soon.”

I nod, even though I do not know what to think.

Max looks outside from time to time. I know he is wondering if his papa, Janis, is still alive in the Small Ghetto which is now just down the road.

At lunchtime Mama puts out a piece of hard sausage that she was saving for our resettlement journey. She cuts it with a blunt knife into four pieces and we each chew on a bit, but the sausage is full of rancid fat and too hard to swallow with ease so in the end we just eat a small piece of bread each and have another cup of water boiled in a saucepan.

“I am so hungry,” I say, almost without meaning to say it. Then I flush with shame. There are people outside lying dead in the streets and Omama is missing and I am thinking about myself. It is hard not to think about food, though. Food haunts my thoughts from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to bed with my stomach trying to eat itself and feeling sick.

Mama does not tell me off. She just gives me a weak smile and passes me a small piece of her own bread. I pass it on to Sascha.

There is the sound of sweeping and voices outside so I go to see what is happening.

There are men from the new Small Ghetto in our street, clearing up the bodies and the bloody mess left behind. They tip the bodies onto barrows and carts and wheel them off in the direction of the old Jewish cemetery.

Max strains to see if he can see Janis but there is no sign.

The clearing up of the bodies goes on for most of the evening.

It is December the next day.

We wake up stiff with cold but glad to still be alive and together, even though we miss Omama every minute of every day.

Outside the roar of an engine announces the arrival of the SS. They drive through the streets of the ghetto in their open-topped car, inspecting the blood which has frozen in puddles on the white snow. They must be satisfied with what they see because they disappear and the ghetto falls into an uneasy, heavy silence for the rest of the day.

We do not dare venture out, but Max risks it later on and comes back grey in the face. He says that a huge open grave has been dug in the Jewish cemetery. One of the gravediggers told him that seven hundred corpses had been rounded up from the shootings and thrown into this communal trench. No prayers were allowed and nobody was permitted to visit.

Mama shakes her head with a violent gesture, like she is trying to shake off a giant fly.

Then she sits down on the box in the middle of the room and begins to pray again.

There are others still hiding in
Ludzas iela
.

At lunchtime the next day, Mama is delighted when Zilla and her mother poke their heads around our apartment door.

“Come in!” she says. “Although I am afraid I cannot offer you much to eat.”

Mrs Petersohn shakes the snow off her coat and produces a small parcel wrapped in linen and tied with a piece of string.

There are several slices of black bread stuck together in a lump. Zilla puts a beetroot and a couple of carrots with them.

Our faces must have lit up with disbelief and joy because Zilla and her mother burst out laughing and look proud of their food gift.

“The stores are open again, Kristina,” says Mrs Petersohn. “And now you do not need your ration cards. Sure, most of the produce is mouldy but there is plenty of it if you have a little money left.”

Mama has already got her coat and scarf on and is halfway down the stairs.

“Stay here, I won’t be long,” she calls back up from below.

She is not just going to buy food. She is going to look for Omama.

Mama comes back distraught.

She has not been able to get near the old people’s home in the ghetto to find out if Omama is still there. Jews are only allowed to pick up their rations and then go straight back home.

Over our lunch we talk about what has happened.

“I hear that they might have been taken to a new work camp at Salaspils,” says Mrs Petersohn. “At least they may get some food if they work.”

“Hmm,” says Mama. “Or maybe they were taken further east.”

“Did you notice though?” says Mrs Petersohn. “Many of the people in the columns were those who were sick and elderly, or very young. How could they work?”

We are silent for a moment. Of course I had noticed that but I don’t want to worry Mama any more than she is already worried.

We all know that if you are unable to work, the SS cast you aside like mouldy carrot tops.

“Perhaps we will be marched like that soon,” says Mrs Petersohn. “To join the others in the camp. We should try to train up for it. Stay strong. We do not want to be the weak or sick ones on the journey.”

There is a general consensus that we should indeed try to build ourselves up a bit for any forthcoming march which might be heading our way.

So for the next couple of days we make a point of walking up and down the stairs and round the rooms, trying to build up the dead muscles in our wasted thighs and calves.

I put my leg up on the window sill and begin to do my dance stretches and warm-ups again, even though I am too weak to do any actual dancing. A lot of the time I am starting to do my dancing in my imagination instead. In my head I am still strong and supple and have hard muscles in my calves. In reality the skin is starting to sag and hang around the backs of my legs.

Max watches me in silence.

His dark eyes start to make me feel strange, but I do not stop. A part of me likes him watching as I bend over my stretched-out leg, showing the arch of my spine and the curve of my buttocks.