Pastel Orphans (3 page)

C
HAPTER
5

I ask Mama if we can go and see Reuben, Marian, and Zus.

She shakes her head and keeps cooking, and Papa is ignoring me, as if I don’t exist.

“Can’t you hear me?” I say louder. “I want to go!”

Mama starts to cry and runs from the room. Papa sits at the table, staring at an empty plate which awaits his food.

“Papa,” I say. “I want to go. Why does that upset Mama?”

He pulls me to him and squeezes me, and his body is shaking and his face is burrowed in my neck. Then he makes a strange howling sound and I realize that he is crying and I start crying too.

I pull away from him and watch his face, which is a new face he has not worn before. “Papa, I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“Henrik, you have done nothing wrong. It is just that Zus is no longer living there. They have moved far away, where we can’t visit them.”

“Why?” I feel my throat get tight as I choke back tears.

“Because they are Jews and the Führer is afraid of people like Reuben who speak freely.”

“Is it another expulsion?”

Papa’s face is wet with tears and he nods to his lap.

“Where is their new place?”

“Somewhere else, where the Führer cannot look at people who are smarter than he is.”

“Why can’t we visit them there?”

“Riki,” he says wearily. “No more questions.”

I walk away and Mama returns to Papa, her eyes dabbed dry, and I hear her say under her breath, “For God’s sake, Emmett. He has to be told.”

“No,” he says firmly. “For his own sake we cannot tell him anything.”

“And just keep him here in the apartment?”

“If we have to.”

I go to bed and have nightmares that there are monsters outside our apartment. They are crawling through our windows and underneath the doors. They are carrying Mama and Papa away and I am screaming for them to come back.

I wake, my face wet with tears, and I run into my parents’ room and find the safe space between them on the bed, not caring that I am too old now for such behavior. There I stay and sleep in the crook of Mama’s arm.

Mama is teaching piano today. Hilda is her last pupil. All the other ones no longer come because they have moved away or their parents have decided that it is best they no longer bring their children here for lessons. I miss the children. I miss the sounds of music being played—sometimes well, sometimes not—and I miss the conversations with other children now that I am schooled at home by Mama and Papa. I am to start another school next year, far away, and I can’t wait to make new friends.

I ask Mama where her music students will be taught now. Will they be in the same place as Zus? She says, yes, many of them. I think how lucky they must be to get to play with Zus.

When Hilda is leaving, I ask her if she will ever come back, because I like her, though I don’t tell her this ever.

“I have a new teacher,” she says brightly, her pale red curls in two tails on either side of her head.

“Why do you have to go?” I am so disappointed. After Hilda there is no one else to come.

“Because Mama is taking me to another music teacher whose whole family is Aryan. But if you like I can write to you.”

“That would be splendid,” I say, though it is not. I want to see her, not write to her. I do not ask her what an Aryan is because it sounds like something I should know, perhaps something that is taught in school, and I ask Mama later when Hilda is gone.

“It is another kind of German.”

“Do Aryans have their own teachers?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She does not answer but closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Riki,” she says. “But I am tired after the lesson. I need to lie down.”

She lowers her eyelids over her wide gray eyes, and I watch her walk away. She has a straight back and her hair is pulled up into a pale bun at the base of her neck. I have never noticed this before but my mother is very pretty.

Mama is at the sewing machine stitching the hem of one of Greta’s dresses. Greta is playing with an empty cotton reel at Mama’s feet, rolling it across the floor for Robin to chase. Robin chases after it, her paws making the softest of thuds on the shiny wooden floor as she bounds after it. She runs too fast for her own legs, sometimes sliding for several feet and then hitting the wall.

I go to the sitting room, where the curtains are always closed now. I open them up to let in the dusty light. I look through the bookshelves, trying to find something to read. Mama has given me some tasks to do today: some word writing and some chapters to read. Papa makes up mathematics task sheets and when he comes home from work, he asks me questions like: What is twelve times twelve? What is one fifth of one hundred?

Today, though, when Papa comes home, he doesn’t ask me any questions. His forehead is covered in sweat and he tells Mama he is not hungry.

The next day he doesn’t go to work at all, or the next day after that.

Papa tells me that he is no longer going to work, that he has lost his job. Papa is an architect. He designs buildings. He has designed a synagogue and a museum.

“Will you find another job?” I ask.

“I do not think so,” says Papa. “Not in this city anyway.”

It is very cold and Mama and Papa only put the heating on in the afternoons and turn it off before bed. They say that they have to be careful with money now that Papa is not working and Mama has no more pupils.

I notice that Greta has a button missing off the top of her dress and wonder why Mama does not fix it. She is spending more time lying down now, when she is not making meals. The rest of her time she spends with Papa, listening to announcements on the radio, which sound very dull. When I ask if we can go to the park, they say it is too cold. I look out the window and see that other children walk along the street wearing heavy coats and hats.

I promise Mama that I will keep my hat and coat on and I won’t complain about the walk, but she still says no.

I walk to Greta’s room. She has begun reading my books now and I help her with the words. Mama doesn’t read to Greta anymore so it is up to me to teach her. Greta loves words. She finds so many new words and comes to me for explanations. That is what I must be. I think I will make a fine teacher, though I haven’t given up on being a soldier either. I wonder if I can do both—if I can soldier on the weekends and teach during the week.

“All right, children,” says Papa. “We are going out today to see a film.”

We both scream and laugh and run around in circles. Greta asks if Robin can come too but this request is refused.

Mama takes time to dress Greta and braid her hair. Mama has ironed my best shirt and Papa has shined my shoes. Mama does not wear a new dress but one of her “old favorites.”

She puts a scarf around Greta’s neck and ties up her ankle boots. Greta is pink in the face from smiling, as if she might burst.

On the bus, we pass large Nazi flags hanging on the front of buildings, and we cross a large square and there are hundreds of people dressed red or gray or black, with laced black shoes and boots, and scarves and hats.

We get off the bus and walk into a café where we can order food from our table. The ceiling is high and there is a large mirror at the back of the room. There is a counter where people order from too, and I can smell coffee, burning sugar, and dough. We take a table in the corner. It is round and there are wooden chairs around it. Greta rushes to take the chair closest to the window. We make funny faces at the people who walk past the window. Greta pulls out her ears.

“Stop it,” says Mama. “Don’t encourage her to do bad things.”

Papa orders soup and bread for him and Mama, and cakes for Greta and me.

When we are finished, we walk another block to the cinema. It is a beautiful building with a large stone archway. On top of the archway, there is a big poster of the actors from the film. We enter the cinema and then walk down some stairs into a large room with golden columns. At the front there are red curtains. After we sit down, the curtains open and people burst onto the screen. It is the most exciting moment of my life.

The film is called
Captains Courageous
. It is the best story ever told about Harvey, a boy who becomes a seaman, and the friends he makes. It is terrifying in parts and Greta squeezes my hand when Harvey falls overboard, and then she screams when Harvey’s close friend is caught in ropes and swallowed up by the sea. Mama takes her on her lap and Greta puts her head on Mama’s chest. Several people have turned around to look at us. When Harvey is finally reunited with his father, I have to hold back my own tears and pretend that my forehead is itchy to wipe them away.

At the end of the film the screen goes black and no one is leaving. A loudspeaker in the cinema says that there is an important announcement: there is another film about to start.

It shows the Führer, the leader of Germany, speaking to a group of people. He is shouting at them as if they have done something wrong, as if they can’t hear properly.

Papa whispers to Mama that they have to go but Mama shakes her head and whispers back, “It won’t look good. We must stay.”

The film continues for many minutes.

When it is over, Mama and Papa take our hands and drag us from the cinema, and Greta and I nearly trip over our own feet, we are walking so fast.

“It is a disgrace,” says Papa.

“Hush,” says Mama. Several people walk past us and stop to look at Papa.

We get on another bus which will take us home. When we sit down, Mama says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Papa says nothing.

“I liked the film,” I say. “Can we see it again?”

“I did too,” says Greta.

“No you didn’t! You started crying,” I say.

“No I didn’t!”

“You’re a liar.”

“Stop it, children!” says Mama.

I look around and there is hardly anyone on the bus, but then I notice someone in the corner who is looking at us. It is a woman. She was in the cinema also. She wears a dark coat and is staring straight at me. I wonder why she looks angry, what it is that she doesn’t like. Papa looks at her too and then taps me gently on the head with his hat.

“Don’t stare,” he says.

I look away but still feel her eyes boring into us. When we get off the bus, she is watching us from the window.

That night, I cannot stop thinking about the film. I stand on the bed and I am Harvey, and my bed is the ship, in danger of sinking in the stormy sea.

Suddenly the light goes on and Mama is standing there.

“Go to sleep,
Harvey
,” she says with half a smile. “Tomorrow you can sail the sea.” She is not angry, just sad and tired looking.

I pull the blankets up over myself and dream of the sea.

C
HAPTER
6

Papa doesn’t leave the apartment anymore, only Mama. She goes to the market on Tuesdays and Fridays. She does not cook as well as Frieda and when I tell Papa this he says: “She is doing her best under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“When I was a younger man, before you came along, I promised your mother that I would take care of her always. That she would have new dresses made by a dressmaker and she would have a cook. I have not honored my promises. Your mother does all that now.”

I go to the kitchen to see Mama. There are saucepans steaming on the stove and she is concentrating on her tasks. Her apron is covered with flour. I tell her that she is a wonderful cook—better than Frieda.

Mama smiles and kisses me on the head. “You are a good boy, Riki. I think you will be a fine man like your father one day.”

Dinner is awful that night. Mama has burnt the bread and the sauerkraut is missing any flavor. Papa once said that it is impossible to make sauerkraut without flavor. I do not say anything but Greta blurts out the truth.

“Yukky,” says Greta.

I look from Mama to Papa. They are silent and don’t even look up from their meals. I frown and shake my head at Greta, who has put down her fork and is pouting now with arms crossed.

Papa is fixing a broken heating radiator. He has pulled it apart and is scratching his head. I lie on the floor on my stomach to watch him. Greta copies me to do the same. Her elbows are on the floor and she balances her chin in her tiny hands on her tiny arms, but they are not strong enough to hold her head steady, and it wobbles instead. Mama has not brushed Greta’s hair today. Some of the strands are knotted and bunched at the back like a nest.

Sometimes Papa curses but he no longer worries that we will hear this.

Papa suddenly grabs his chest and stops working.

“Are you all right, Papa?” I ask, and Greta asks the same.

He pauses. “I’m just catching my breath.” Then he commences work again.

I look at Greta, who is squeezing her lips together, trying to understand what he just said. I don’t know why but her expression makes me laugh.

I get up and run down the hallway and then we are galloping like wild horses.

“Not too much noise,” my father calls. “You will wake your mother.”

Papa is spending more and more time inside his bedroom. The radiator is still in pieces—pipes, nuts, and screws—though it has been moved to a corner of the room so that no one trips over it.

Often Papa will come out still in his nightshirt. I notice that he is very skinny, that his collarbones protrude above his shirt. When Greta comes to see him, he does not pick her up and swing her around like he used to. Sometimes he does not even notice that she has entered the room.

Mama and Papa continue to sit by the radio, listening to speeches. Sometimes they say things: “How dare they?” “Other nations will be watching.” “They can’t get away with this for much longer. Social injustice is not acceptable in the Western world.”

Sometimes they just listen—still, like statues—when they can’t find anything to say.

One night Papa leaves and does not come back until morning. Mama says he is out looking for a job at the factories, but I can tell now when Mama is lying, because she talks slower, more carefully, as if she is thinking harder.

A week later, a man comes to our door. He wears a big coat and fake hair. I know that it is fake because on one side I can see his real hair underneath, which is a different color, and the false hair does not sit correctly at the front, almost like his scalp has lifted.

He brings with him an envelope and pulls out some papers which he gives to Papa. The man is not young. His face is heavily lined. When he pulls off his gloves, his fingers are covered in black-and-purple ink.

He notices Mama, who has entered the room.

“I can see where your daughter gets her good looks.”

Mama doesn’t smile at him but leaves the room again. The man turns to me, smiles, and pats me on the head.

“But this one is a lot like you,” he says to Papa. I cannot tell if this is a good thing or not.

I am sent to bed because Papa, Mama, and the man have to talk business.

It is the day after the visit from the man with the wig. Papa does not come out of his bedroom. Mama is at the market. I sneak around Papa’s office. I have seen where he hides the key to his desk drawer and I open it to investigate the envelope.

Inside are three cards and some other papers. I open one of the cards and see that it has a picture of Mama—not one of her better ones, because she is not smiling. The next card has a picture of Greta and the third photo is of me. I remember this photo being taken by Papa several weeks ago. There is no card for my papa. I am about to put them back in the envelope again when I notice the mistake.

They have got my name wrong. Instead of Henrik Hansel Solomon, it is Henrik Hansel Klaus. Of course I cannot say anything because I am not supposed to know where Papa hides his key or what is inside the envelope.

Papa does not come out of his bedroom at all for two days, and a doctor arrives to check on him. He places several bottles of medicine on the table.

“It is a shame,” he says to Mama, “that such things happen to good people.”

Mama thanks him and he leaves.

“Is Papa getting better?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“Why isn’t he in the hospital?”

“He is not allowed,” she says. I can tell that she is only partially listening, that she is thinking of something else.

“Is it because Papa’s mother and father are Jews?” Mama twists her head sharply.

“Who told you that?” I have Mama’s full attention now.

“Zus.” It is something I remembered only recently. When Zus mentioned this about my grandparents the last time I saw him, it had not meant anything. Now I am wondering if there is a connection.

“Your grandparents have nothing to do with us. Don’t talk about things you don’t understand. The hospital is too full, that is all. There is no room for Papa.”

“Are
you
allowed in the hospital?”

“Yes,” she says.

“And me and Greta?”

She pauses and bites her bottom lip. “Yes, of course.”

“Because we’re not Jews.”

“That’s right. Because we’re not Jews.”

Mama gives Papa his medicine and takes some soup to feed him in bed. We are allowed to visit him in the evenings for several minutes, but that is all. Mama says it makes him too tired to talk.

We stand in front of his bed and he talks softly.

“How are you, Henrik?”

“I am fine, Papa.”

“And you, Greta?”

“Splendid,” she says. She has copied this word from me. “Can we go to the lake tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow,” says my father.

Mama comes back in.

“Time to leave, children,” she says, the corners of her mouth flickering and her voice rising slightly to sound bright. But I know she isn’t bright and cheery. I have seen her crying at night. She sleeps in another room now and has some wine before she goes to bed.

The weather is getting colder and I am so cold. Only the heater in Papa’s room is allowed on all day. The doctor comes back and also says that it is cold in our apartment.

He and my mama are in the room with Papa for hours. When they come out, Mama and the doctor have a drink and she feeds him some leftover wurst. He thanks her very much and she rustles in her handbag and brings out some marks.

The doctor shakes his head. He is not old and not young and when he wears his glasses, he reminds me a bit of Papa.

“You should think about what I said.”

Mama looks away. She is thinking hard about something.

Mama says that she has to go into the city and see a lawyer and then she will come back. She says that the meeting is about getting her property in order. The lawyer needs to contact Papa’s family. She says she has to leave us alone in the apartment and we are not to leave for any reason; she says that I am in charge.

“What if there is a fire?” I ask.

“Well, then you leave, silly.”

“Where will we go?”

“You go see our neighbors.”

“But Papa said he dislikes them. He says they don’t like children.”

“It is all right to go there if the apartment is on fire.”

“What if they don’t have time to help Papa?”

“Henrik!” yells my mama, who is frustrated. “It will be fine. It is only for a couple of hours.”

When Mama is gone, I tell Greta that I am in charge and that she must be very good; otherwise, I have to send her next door to the neighbors.

She nods gravely and returns to her room and shuts the door, and that is where she stays the whole time Mama is away.

Several days later a woman arrives. Mama introduces her as Papa’s cousin, Hannah. She looks quite severe and angry, though I don’t know why she is angry at Mama, who is being so nice and offering food. I have not met her before because Mama says that Hannah and my father had a falling-out after he married Mama and turned his back on the family.

She is staying for a few days.

I lie in bed and find that I can’t sleep, so I crawl down the hallway to take up my listening position outside the kitchen.

“You should stay till the end,” Hannah says.

“He doesn’t want that. There is nothing more I can do and we do not have enough money to look after all of us here. The identification documents cost most of our savings.”

“How do you know it is any better where you are heading?”

“You know why,” says Mama angrily. “Are you deaf and blind?”

“Of course not,” Hannah says, a little more softly and a little more sadly. “Every day we live in fear.” There is silence.

“We have a house and my sister will be there to help with the children. Emmett wants this. There is no other option. I have to think of the children now. I will die before anything happens to them . . . before they are taken away.”

I am worried. Who will take me and Greta away?

Christmas is small, as if our apartment no longer has the space for it. Mama does not spend much time in the kitchen but she and Greta make some biscuits in the shape of Christmas trees. They ice them in pink, then sprinkle them with more icing sugar, which looks like snow.

Mama says that our presents will come soon, that they have not had time to organize Christmas. Two of Mama’s friends come also. They are elderly.

“Poor little lambs,” says one of the ladies, eyeing us constantly, as if there is something wrong with us, as if we have a condition that can’t be named.

I wonder then if the reason we do not go out is that we have the same sickness as my father.

For dinner, we have sauerkraut and baked fruit, and the pink biscuits, which taste quite bland.