Pastel Orphans
Authors: Gemma Liviero
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 Gemma Liviero
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477830147
ISBN-10: 1477830146
Cover design by Patrick Barry
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922225
To the many who were lost, and the many who were left to continue without them.
C
ONTENTS
PART ONE
H
ENRIK
C
HAPTER
1
Mama tells me that Opa has died. I am not sure if I should cry, because death has never been discussed before, and Mama has to explain that Opa is now in the earth. The discovery of death is shocking, and I picture my grandfather lying alone in the ground, his ears full of soil. Death is too close—as close as the thinking chair for bad behavior. I can’t see it from where I’m standing, but it waits for me quietly in the next room. It knows I will come eventually.
I don’t know Opa. I don’t remember meeting him, though Mama says I did. Mama never talks about him, only to tell me that he is on top of the piano. In the photo he has a mustache and baggy trousers. I do not like looking at the photo before today because the face with the angry mouth and one long eyebrow tells me that I am not welcome to look at him.
But death has made him kind. I cry immediately when I see that Mama’s eyes are filled with tears and when she tells me that I will not meet him again until I am in heaven.
Today I am still crying so my mother tells me a secret. She says that when you die, all the angels make two straight lines on either side of the stairs of gold that lead to the gates of heaven. Such perfect creatures, with bow lips and costumes of white, stroke your shoulders with hands as smooth as petals. Trumpets sound majestically as you approach the top step, and the tall gates open magically to reveal a lace-covered table topped high with cakes filled with chocolate, apple, and cream. To receive your reward, it is important to say three Hail Marys just before entering, in honor of all those you have left behind.
I stop crying because suddenly I have a picture of death in my head and it is not as bad as I thought, not like the one of Opa lying in soil.
Emmett, my father, is so tall that I have to tilt my head right back to get a good look at him. He is leaning against the sink in the kitchen in our first-floor apartment. He has dark blue eyes that shine black at night.
“Karolin,” he says softly, shaking his head, “enough of that.” He tells Mama that she is filling my head with nonsense, though he does not sound annoyed, and his eyes have wrinkled as he watches us over his round glasses.
When I go to bed that night, I think about the stairs and trumpets and golden gates, but I have added to Mama’s secret: I walk through the door and eat all the creamy desserts. My stomach aches with emptiness until I fall asleep.
It is Christmas morning and I have woken early to go sit by the tree. Mama was up late in the kitchen with Frieda, our housekeeper. Frieda has the day off because she has her own family to celebrate with. I have never met her family. They are not our friends, says Mama, they are people we know.
Mama has put onto the shelves little painted statues of the baby Jesus and Joseph and Mary and lambs and a cow, and gold stars hang from the ceiling. Under the tree there are lots of presents wrapped in red-and-silver paper. I pick one up to shake because it has my name on it.
Mama and Papa come out of their room. Papa has his arm around Mama. Mama picks me up and says, “Merry Christmas, Henrik.”
Soon every one of our friends arrives, including Reuben and Marian and my friend Zus. Our apartment is full of people, and songs play on the gramophone. Mama drinks a lot of the wine that Reuben has brought with him. She is laughing through her shiny red lips and her small teeth, which have gaps like fences.
I open my presents: a wooden dog with wheels, books, and a toy gun.
The table is covered with plates of food that everyone brings. There is baked lamb and chicken and stuffed peppers and pickles and fried-onion tarts and potato and pumpkin pies and sticky potato pancakes and sauerkraut. For dessert there are sweet pancakes, jam baked in dough, tarts, and biscuits in the shape of stars with icing, and there is sticky fruit pudding and cheese. I eat so much until I feel sick.
Everyone is happy today, especially when Mama and Papa dance in the living room. By the afternoon I am so tired, I fall asleep on the couch while everyone is talking around me.
Sometimes I crawl into the space between Mama and Papa in their bed and Papa wraps his arms around me and squeezes my stomach; then I roll over and snuggle into Mama’s back.
Sometimes we walk to the markets and my father whistles a tune.
Sometimes Mama plays on the piano and Papa hums along and makes me do it too.
Mama reads to me at nighttime. I like stories about puppies and soldiers.
1931
Mama says that inside her belly is my little brother or sister. I am wondering how a small person has been able to get in there and ask her this.
Papa laughs so hard he cries and Mama says that they prayed so hard to God that he sent one of his angels.
“Will my brother have wings?” I have already decided that it will be a boy.
“Hopefully,” says my father.
“Stop it, Em,” says Mama, with the smile she uses when we are playing a game. “You are playing with his head.” She turns to me with her serious face. “Not really an angel. It is just an expression. A baby is a gift.”
“Will he like the same things as me?”
I am already starting to worry what my brother will be like, and if he will like me.
Since the day my sister came home from the hospital, things have changed. Everything outside has gone quiet, as if all the noises have been trapped inside. I wonder if it has something to do with my sister’s arrival. I do not like her. My parents spend much time with her, as if she is the older one, as if she deserves more attention. There is no point to her, lying there in her crib with nothing to say. She does not look at me when I speak to her; she does not even open her eyes. And she is always crying, always wanting, always greedy.
Mama and Papa rush to her whenever she makes a noise like a lamb. Sometimes I take a book to where my parents are sitting—since they no longer come to me—and I read my practice words in front of them. Though some words are hard and I use another word to fill in for the ones I don’t know. I am trying to distract them, to turn their attention onto me, but they look like they are thinking of something or
someone
else. Mama tells me to lower my voice and her eyes dart towards the hallway as if she is waiting to hear my sister breathe. I want to scream at them that Greta is a tiny nobody, that she does not need so much attention, and she does not deserve it.
Papa is spending more time at work and does not always join us for dinner. Mama still checks on Greta, but now I notice that she frowns if she is disturbed during her afternoon rest.
It is then I make a plan. If Greta cries more, she might not be so loved. One day I break off a thorn from the roses that Papa brings home for Mama, and I put it in Greta’s nappy while she is sleeping. This wakes her up. Mama drags herself out of her resting chair. She picks up Greta to feed her but still she cries. It is some time before she finds the barb. Mama thinks it has somehow got into the washing. Another time, I sneak into Greta’s room to shake her crib, to wake her up, and then I sneak out. I have to do it again because Mama is very sleepy.
Mama does not smile when she comes to nurse Greta this time. It seems my plan to take back some of my mother’s love has worked.
Later, I enter Greta’s room and see that her eyes are open and she is not crying this time, which is something new. She is just lying there without noise, staring at a picture on the wall; it is a picture of a teddy bear kneeling at his bed, saying his prayers. When I put my head over the crib, she turns her head. Her eyes are big and blue and round. Then she smiles, despite what I did. This makes me feel guilty, and I touch her little fingers and tell her that I am sorry about the thorn.
C
HAPTER
2
1933
I have found a use for Greta. The other day I spilled milk on Mama’s very expensive red-and-gold rug in the living room. I say that Greta did it and I do not get in trouble, and Greta is too young to get in trouble. Another time, I am sliding up and down the hall in my socks and I hit the small table at the end. A glass vase smashes on the floor. I say that Greta did it. Greta hears me tell this lie and she doesn’t say otherwise. She doesn’t understand what I am doing.
It is Greta’s birthday and she is two, but I am seven and therefore I am wiser. She follows me around the apartment, copying everything I do. I march up and down the hallway and she does the same behind me, but her steps are out of time with mine, and when she turns too quickly at the end, she stumbles. I tell her that she is not very good, that her legs are too short and that she will not be a soldier like me.
My sister has stolen my secret. After we have eaten Greta’s birthday cake and Mama sits down to drink her coffee, Mama talks about the gates of heaven and the angels, and how more cakes are there. My sister is too young to understand this. I am burning with so much anger I want to explode, and I quote my father: “Nonsense!” I am shocked when my father taps me sharply on the back of the head.
“Be quiet, Henrik,” he says in his low, even tone. “Never speak to your mother like that again.”
This confuses me. Why is it that my father can say what he wants and I cannot? When I am a soldier, he will not be able to tell me what to do. I stop myself from saying this out loud. I have said it before and the result will only be the same. His neck will go red and then I will be sent to the thinking chair without dinner.
My father asks me why the sullen face and I tell him that things are different and I do not like my sister. He looks across the table at my mother but no words are spoken. They do not tell me that I am bad for saying these things. After that, my father brings home small gifts wrapped in brown paper.
One day, he brings me a book called
Robin Hood
: a large colorful picture book. Robin is handsome and has many followers. He rides horses and stops carts filled with strange-looking people dressed in bright clothes and wigs, to take their money to give to the poor. For days I pretend that I am Robin, and Greta sits in a box—she is playing the victim I steal from. I take her bangle as part of the act and she cries—not tiny cries but screaming, screechy cries, which send our housekeeper out of the kitchen to see what is happening.
“Bangle,” says Greta. Mama comes out of her room and tells me to give it back. I tell her it is just a game but Frieda is “fed up.” She doesn’t like me, I can tell. She has mean eyes that narrow every time she looks at me, as if I am bad. Frieda says that I must be punished but Mama defends me and says that I am just energetic and excitable, that I am just having fun and need more things to occupy myself.
Another day, I open more brown wrapping to find pieces of wood, glue, paints, and a picture of an aeroplane. My father shows me what to do and I have to complete the rest on my own. There are many pieces to put together and at night Mama has to tell me to put it away and get some sleep.
When all the pieces are glued, I paint the plane red and black and white. I watch it dry, willing it to do so quickly. While it is still sticky—I cannot wait another second—I take it out to show my parents. I cannot wait to see the surprise on their faces. It is magnificent.
I walk into the sitting room where the sun comes in like yellow sheets across the dark brown furniture. My parents have their heads bent, talking fast and low, and my mother is shaking her head in disbelief.
I stand at the door, waiting for them to see me. When they don’t hear me, I kick the floor with the tip of my shoe. They both turn with a kind of shock, and Mama’s eyes are red from crying, but this can’t be true because she smiles at me as if there is nothing wrong.
I show them my creation and Papa examines it, frowning slightly. “It is quite good,” he says. “But the wings are a little crooked. Next time, you need to take more time . . . not so rushed to get it finished.”
My mother says differently: “It is beautiful, Riki.” Though her words are in whispers and sound only half-true, as if she can only give half the joy, or half the love. Perhaps the other half she has to save for Greta.
Greta draws on my chessboard: pink dots on the white squares, which looks like a disease. She does not get in trouble because my parents say she is too young to understand what she has done wrong. She sometimes takes my toys and other things, and I often have to find new hiding places for them.
When I tell my parents what is happening, they tell me not to be so selfish, that she can enjoy those things too. But they are my things! They were given to me! How can that be selfish? I wonder this bitterly, in secret, seething. I put my red, black, and white plane on the floor and crush it with my foot. Afterwards I cry, wishing that I hadn’t done that, and put the cracked and smashed pieces in a small box to hide under my bed.
It is late when Papa comes home from work, and he calls me into the sitting room. He holds his arm firmly across the front of his coat. I think he has another present and I feel excitement about to burst from my chest.
“I found something as I was walking home today.”
Though the excitement is still there, there is now a sinking feeling in my chest also. It is perhaps not a present at all.
“Now, before I show it to you, you have to promise me something.”
“Yes,” I say, and he is telling me something about responsibility, but I’m not really listening. I am too busy staring at the small bulge beneath his jacket. I shift from one foot to another. The wait is almost unbearable.
“You have to promise me that you will always look after Greta. You will grow to love her one day and then you will appreciate her. You must also learn to be patient—you must not be so quick to act. Sometimes you need to be more thoughtful. Do you understand?”
I am not sure what he means but I remember that Mama has called me energetic and I nod, my eyes still burning a hole through Papa’s coat.
“But before you take care of Greta, I have someone else who needs your care.”
He lifts back his coat and I see a bundle of gray-and-white fur. It is a kitten. I go to take it but Papa puts up his hand.
“Be patient. This little kitty has very sharp claws. If it scratches you, you have to wash your hands straight away.”
He hands me the kitten so gently, as if it might break, and I stroke its soft fur and rub it against my cheek. It has bright blue eyes, like Greta.
“You have to think of a name,” says my father.
“Robin,” I say, “after Robin Hood.”
“But it is a girl, I think,” says Papa.
I think about this and decide that Robin is still a good name and it would be a waste not to use it, even if it is just a girl.
I take the kitten and show Greta, who squeals with delight.
“Give me!” she says.
“No,” I say. “I am responsible for its life and it might die if I don’t care for it. It also has weapons on the ends of its legs and if they scratch you, you could get a disease and die.” The seriousness of my words has much effect on Greta. She frowns and draws her hands back out of danger.
After a while, Greta cannot contain her desire anymore and she goes to touch Robin again. I let her stroke the soft fur and tell her that she must be patient.
Today, Mama and Papa do not talk to Greta or me. Greta is no longer the favorite one. We have been cast out of the kitchen because my parents want to continue their conversation in private. My father has been telling Mama it is a sad day, yet outside there are people celebrating in the streets. They blow whistles and run past our window. Children sit on the shoulders of their parents and clap. From the window, I watch my father leave the building and disappear into the crowd.
Later, when Papa returns, he slams the front door as he enters. He is not happy like the people I have seen passing below our windows. He carries a newspaper, which he throws down onto the table.
“Have you heard?”
“Yes,” says my mother. Because of that one spoken word, the air in the apartment has grown cold.
Papa sighs loudly as he slides angrily into a chair, making the legs squeak against the floor.
“Do you want something to eat?”
My father shakes his head and picks up the paper. “Listen to this,” he says, but he suddenly notices that my sister and I are standing near the table. His eyes are wide and wild, as if we have frightened him, as if we have appeared like ghosts.
“Children, you must leave. Your mother will call you to dinner soon.”
My sister and I leave, but I pull on my sister’s hand to sit back down outside the doorway to listen. Greta is obedient to me as always and sits down beside me. But she is prone to make noise, like shuffling her feet. She cannot sit still. If she makes any noise, I will have to send her to her room.
I hold my finger to my lips and she nods, agreeing to be quiet. It is at that moment that my feelings change. I feel like we are the same, not only joined in our plot to listen, but that we are one person: that we share the same spirit, which God has put inside us.
Also in that moment I notice many things about her: like the fact that she is patient, not like me, and that she is quiet and brave, and that she adores me. She has a small upturned nose and her hair is very blonde, much lighter than mine, and soft, like feathers. This all comes to me in a rush, and I wonder how I did not see these things before. I give her a smile of encouragement to show that she is doing the right thing and I will not fail her.
I turn back towards the doorway to the kitchen, where my parents are having a serious discussion. My mother is telling my father that it is only temporary, that people will see him for who he really is.
Who, I am wondering, are they talking about? Whoever it is has upset my father.
“He will make things bad for all of us. He will change things. Look at the people! They would see the end to us.”
“Things won’t change,” says Mama. “You have done nothing wrong. It is your blood only. You and the children are more German than those fools in the street.”
I can hear the clinking of pots as my mother washes them in the sink. I hear the clicking sound as she lights the gas for the stove, and the shuffling sound as my father turns the pages of the newspaper.
“Listen to this,” says my father, agitated still:
“. . . he who dares to injure or insult honest German work with the spirit of a Jewish-Marxist worldview that brought Germany to its grave will be judged by the people.”
“It is propaganda. The intelligent ones will take no notice. It won’t be tolerated.”
My father reads some more from the paper but they are words that make no sense. I do not understand why such words are bad enough to upset my father, or anyone. They sound very dull. I grab Greta’s hand and we creep down the hallway. One of the floorboards creaks under my step and we run the rest of the way to my room. She sits on my bed, waiting for my instructions, but I am suddenly bored with her company, and with the talk of my parents, and decide to read. I send her away.
Later, as my father tucks me into bed, I ask him why Germany is dying.
He looks confused as he thinks about my question. “I do not understand you, Henrik.”
“You told Mama today that Germany was brought to its grave.”
His eyes widen then, and he smiles and nods that he understands. “You have been eavesdropping. What have I told you before, hmm?”
“Why are people happy in the streets? What are they celebrating? Who were they?”
“Fools. Just fools who have very small brains.” I picture their brains like I have seen in a medical book, and feel almost sorry for the people. My father continues: “It is not something that you need to worry about, and by the time you are grown, you will never see the things that I am seeing. Enjoy your childhood, little Riki. There will be time enough to be serious later.”
He kisses me on the head and tells me that life is a good thing and we will celebrate it in our own way.
“Tateh, why can’t I go to school yet? Zus goes to school.”
“Henrik, do not call him Tateh. You must call him Papa.”
But Zus calls his papa Tateh and lately, because of Zus, I have been calling my papa Tateh. Zus’s tateh and my tateh have been friends since before I was born. They met at university. Reuben wears a strange little hat and has the kindest eyes I have ever seen. His hand is so gentle on my shoulder, and he is always very happy to see me. He and my father hug when they see each other, but sometimes they argue too, and one time I heard him ask my father why he no longer comes to their meetings.
“I am Catholic now.”
“Like hell,” says Reuben.
And the two of them laughed hard, and my mother and Reuben’s wife, Marian, laughed too. It wasn’t funny. Parents’ humor is rarely funny, except when Reuben does a little dance while Mama plays one of her tunes on the piano. Greta finds this more funny than I do but she finds me funny too. I copy Reuben’s dances and Frieda’s strict high voice: “You must do this for you are a naughty boy, Henrik.” This has my sister rolling on the floor laughing.
Sometimes I pretend that Teddy is talking to her in this voice too. Teddy also dances, plays the piano, and sings. Sometimes he has the voice of Papa. One night, Greta is laughing so loudly that Mama has to come in and tell us to keep it down, that Greta needs to sleep.
“No,” says Greta, “Riki is so funny.”
“Yes,” says Mama, “he is funny but he is also keeping you up and making you as excitable as he is.”
Today I saw the strangest thing. As Mama and I were walking to the markets, with Greta in the stroller, I saw a giant yellow star painted on the window of a dress shop.
As we walked along we saw another one on the front of a café. A woman and a man were scrubbing at it with brushes.
Today is Saturday and it is quiet outside. When I say this to Papa, he raises his head and stares out the window, as if he has seen something that I can’t. This quiet, my father says, is like the gray silence before the storm.