Pastel Orphans (27 page)

I imagine that he must have gone to Munich immediately after the war. It was many months before we returned to Germany, his letter eventually discarded like so much else, human and other.

The family was appreciative and I stayed with them for a while before I left Germany. After several months, Otto’s sister Gretchen and I became good friends.

A long story later: Gretchen is in Australia with me now and we have two children, Rebekah and Otto. Gretchen said that we should name our daughter Greta but there has been something telling me that you are out there somewhere, that to give someone else your name is somehow wrong while you are alive.

And now you must realise from the previous paragraph that Rebekah didn’t make it. She was chosen to be killed in the buildings we called the killing chambers. She was dying, her chest failing her, and I remember her face on the last day as she walked past our camp quarters. She had given up. She was resigned. Her face haunts me still, though now at least my little Rebekah’s face appears alongside hers in my mind—justification to continue with life.

I will not recall the details of the camp. I will only say that the pain was so enduring it became normal, and for many months just prior to our salvation I thought that I did not have the strength to go on. But thinking of you and Mama and even cranky Femke gave me the strength. And then during a death march from the camp, the British came and I walked free, first to Zamosc and then in the direction of Germany, until I was picked up by Australian journalists. They took me to Germany and friendships were forged, and it was their description of their home that got me to thinking.

Then I arrived in Germany and saw the destruction there. I went on to Otto’s to recover, to rebuild, and to begin to believe again.

I tried to contact an old friend of mine, Gottfried, who had helped me look for you after you were kidnapped. I sent letters to the café until I received a letter to say there was no one by that name or description there, only that the café had been empty since the end of 1943.

I put the letter down because the tears are blinding me. The joy of discovering that Henrik is alive; the sadness of discovering Rebekah is gone. I only spent several nights and days with her, but the heartfelt kindness I felt from her touch had a profound effect on me over the years—the portraits of her that I kept, always a reminder. When my eyes are clearer, I continue reading:

You must write to me at the newspaper and you and Mama and Femke can come and live with us.

I see you there, your head bent over this letter, for you always were the one to study things—you were always the patient one and I am sure that hasn’t changed. Little Rebekah is wild and crazy like me but Otto is studious. He has your calm.

You must come here. You must! You can raise your own children here if you have any. Mama would be sailing on the Sydney Harbour if she had half the chance, for she always said she wanted to live beside water.

People ask me why was it that you were chosen by the Germans that day, why you were stolen. I tell them, “If you knew her, if you could see her, you would understand. Everyone wanted her.”

Dearest Greta. Now it is a time for children.

Riki.

I stand up and take a look at Zamosc for the last time. If I run, I will make the last train to Warsaw.

E
PILOGUE

G
RETA
, S
PRING
1943

Henrik and I are behind one of the houses when we hear a baby cry.

We crouch low and Henrik is listening. We hear an order given in German and some shots in the air and the sound of a large truck pulling up. He pulls me into the forest and we crawl alongside the first row of trees till we stop at another side of the small village. There we hide behind brush to spy.

“Where is Rebekah?” I ask, suddenly fearful.

But he throws his hand over my mouth to prevent me from talking any further.

Then he releases me and puts a finger to his lips. I remember the times we would hide together in “hide-and-seek.” I trusted him then and I trust him now.

We peer between the breaks in the trees. I can see that there are soldiers in high black boots, like Dieter in their smart uniforms, though these soldiers wear round helmets, not smart hats.

A number of people stand in a group, their hands on their heads. The women look frightened and the children are crying. The men say nothing. I wonder what it is that they have done and remember what Rebekah told me previously, how cruel and mean some people can be.

The soldiers point guns at these people and wave them towards a truck that is coming their way. Several more soldiers appear from around corners. They hold guns to other villagers, rounded up from elsewhere, perhaps discovered in their homes. One woman has fallen on the ground beside a man and she is told to get up or she will be shot.

I cannot look anymore and put my face into Henrik’s shoulder.

Then I hear Henrik whisper Rebekah’s name, which makes me look up. One of the soldiers has a rifle against her shoulder blade and pushes her into the group where the others are huddled and fearful.

I want to yell that they have made a mistake, that she is not part of this group, and I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood.

Henrik watches the soldiers march the people to the back of the truck, which looks large enough to hold cattle. I notice there are many people already in there and that it is crammed. I do not think that they can fit any more people in.

Some of the soldiers get into cars now, while others continue to shove more people into the back of the truck. These people are poor. I can tell from their clothes. I do not understand why they can be treated this way, and suddenly I am hating Dieter Wolff and my adopted mama and her housekeeper, the mean Mrs. Fromm. I am hating all those people who take people away from their homes and families they love.

Henrik turns from the spectacle and sits a moment. He appears to be in pain at first, rubbing his temples, but then he hits at his head with his fist.

“No, no, no!” he says.

I am suddenly frightened for him. There are tears in his eyes and he keeps turning back to look at the truck, willing Rebekah to come back out. I touch his arm. He stands then and paces. This makes me start to cry because I think he will be seen.

He stares at me with large eyes, and then looks at the truck, and then grabs my hand and takes me farther into the forest.

“Greta, do you remember when we played hide-and-seek?”

I nod.

“Well, I want you to play that game now and go deep into the forest where no one will find you.” He puts his compass in the palm of my hand, and holds my hand in his own to steady it. He explains which way the arrow points, and the way I must go.

“Are you going to follow me?”

“No.”

I cry some more.

He leans down to me, because he has grown very tall, and he holds my arms.

“Greta, if you follow the direction I have pointed to on the compass, it will take you through the forests to Mama’s house. If you walk fast, you will get there before nightfall. But you must follow the compass and if you can’t hear the river, then you are going the wrong way. Do you understand me?”

I nod.

“Once you are at the edge of the forest, you wait until it gets dark, then you run across the fields to the roads that will take you home. Do you remember them? Do you remember the stables and the factory? Do you remember our house just up the road from there?”

I do. Henrik cycled those every day with me as his passenger.

He pulls out his notebook of drawings. Some of the pages are loose.

“I want you to keep this safe and give it to Mama. She will understand much from this.”

“But I want you to come too, and Rebekah.”

“I have to get Rebekah first, do you understand?”

“What do I tell Mama?”

“Tell her that I will come back.”

The truck has started its engine and Henrik looks in that direction anxiously. I see that there are no more tears in his eyes, and that he is calmer—much calmer than I remember him to be.

I am trying to fight back more tears but it isn’t working. They rush out in rivers.

“Greta, tell Mama and Aunt Femke that I love them and that I have one more thing to do, and then I will come home. And when you get back to Mama you can have all my books.”

“Even
Hansel and Gretel
?” I ask curiously. This book was kept in a drawer. He had let me borrow it sometimes, but I always had to return it, and he would check the cover to see if I had left any smudges.

“Yes.”

“But . . .”

“Yes?”

“But I don’t want your book.” And tears keep spilling.

“Greta, I love you. Look after Mama. She needs you more than you need her.”

The truck has started to leave.

He kisses me and then he is gone.

I stay hidden in the bushes and watch Henrik run towards the truck, waving his arms.

I hear one of the soldiers shout in German to stop.

I watch Henrik climb into the back of the truck and I stay there until there is no one left, until there are just the sounds of the forest.

I wipe my tears away and walk home.

THE END

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Gemma Liviero holds an advanced diploma of arts in professional writing, and she has worked as a copywriter, a corporate writer, and a magazine feature writer and editor. Liviero is the author of two gothic fantasies,
Lilah
and
Marek
.
Pastel Orphans
is her first historical novel. She now lives in Brisbane, Australia, with her husband and two children.