The Old Brown Suitcase (8 page)

Walking behind me was a large group of boys and girls. They were all from my class. Why were they following me? What did they want? I started walking faster. Then I heard them calling, “Liar, liar!”

I started to run. I ran towards the house and around to the back and jumped into my hiding place. The gnarled branches of the tree tore my skin, but I gritted my teeth. I pressed myself against the earth, hoping desperately it would save me. As it had done before …

(ZALESIE, POLAND, 1943)

I AM TEN
.

Autumn has arrived in Zalesie clothed in plumes of yellow, orange and red. The trees bow, heavy with ripe fruit, and the golden fields are in harvest. The village becomes noisier. People trade potatoes for flour, fruit preserves for lard, and bargain for all the other things they will need for winter.

I know my way around by now, but I’ve been told not to talk to strangers and to be seen by the villagers as little as possible. Most of the time I don’t come across anyone in my wanderings, and when I do they pay no attention to me. There seem to be very few children in Zalesie.

One day I wander off across a field to the other side of the village, following a path through the tall grass. At the edge of the field I hear a rustling noise and stop. By the roadside, holding a little dog in her lap, sits a girl slightly older than me.

“Hello there,” she says pleasantly.

I say nothing, but she smiles and says, “My name is Irka. What’s yours?”

“Nina,” I reply. Then I remember that my new name is Irena.

“That’s a lovely name. I don’t know anyone called Nina,” says the girl. “Come on over to my house. It’s just down the road.”

Irka has an angelic face, with blue eyes like forget-me-nots, and white-blond hair. I feel shy. With no one to play with for such a long time, I don’t know how to act. Besides, I was told not to talk to anyone. But she seems so friendly.

“Come on, don’t be afraid,” says Irka. She gets up from the ground and takes my hand. Wordlessly, I follow.

Her house is white on the outside, and has white lace curtains in the front windows. It’s the nicest I have seen in the whole village, and is surrounded by a garden. They even have a clump of sunflowers growing in one corner.

Irka pushes open a heavy oak door and we step into a large foyer. The floor is covered with a ruby-flowered rug.

We go straight to Irka’s room and sit down at a little white table. In the centre of the table stands a miniature china tea service for four. It is the most delicate thing I have ever seen.

A plump maid with flushed cheeks rushes in with a tray. She has a crown of braids on her head and wears a black dress with a white lace apron. She asks Irka whether she wants to serve the lemonade and cookies herself. Irka nods and gracefully pours the lemonade into the china cups.

Out of the corner of my eye, I busily examine her bookshelf, and discover that she too has the Polish version of
Princess Dzavaha.
I take it off the shelf.

“Have you read this?” I ask.

“No, I haven’t,” replies Irka. “You can borrow any of my books you like.”

Wonderful! at last I will be able to read new books. But how will I explain them to Babushka?

“What’s your last name?” asks Irka.

There it is, the question I was dreading. My new last name! What is it? I try to think of it, but it won’t come.

“Dzavaha,” I reply hastily.

“But that’s the name of the book you have just shown me,” says Irka looking very surprised.

How can I get out of this mess? I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Well, there is another volume of the book called
Second Nina.
After the first Nina disappeared, there was another child born in the royal family, and they called her Nina also. It’s a true story about my family.”

“You mean … you are a princess?” Irka asks in a whisper

“Yes,” I say, my heart beating like a drum against my ribs. It isn’t a complete lie: there is a book called
Second Nina
, and I can see that Irka doesn’t have it on her bookshelf.

“I escaped from Russia to come and live here,” I continue. “But you mustn’t tell a soul because if my guardians find out that I told you, they will punish me severely.”

“I won’t tell, I promise,” Irka whispers, her blue eyes shiny as marbles. “I have never read the story. Would you tell it to me,” she asks with a mouth full of cookie.

“Well,” I start uneasily, “it’s a long story. I was born in the Caucasian Mountains in Georgia, south of Russia. I rode wild horses at the age of six, and when I got lost in the mountains, I survived by hiding in caves. My father, the prince, eventually found me and brought me home. Soon afterwards, my father was threatened by a group of bandits. So he sent me to Poland to live, until it was safe to return …”

I don’t know how to finish it.

I am getting deeper and deeper into the lie.

“I must go now. Remember, it’s our secret,” I say.

“Will you come again tomorrow to the edge of the field?” asks Irka.

“Yes,” I answer, feeling terribly uneasy.

I borrow
Little Women
and walk home. I feel guilty but at the same time I am happy to have found a friend. With the book hidden inside my cardigan, I enter the house and sneak it under my pillow, then I read it half the night by candlelight.

The next day I go back to the edge of the field. Irka is waiting.

“Tell me more,” she says.

I begin to create more details, continuing the first story. I make it very exciting, full of captures and escapes. It’s easy, and so much more enjoyable than my life here in Zalesie. And besides, it stops Irka from asking questions.

A week later, on my way to our usual rendezvous, I see five children crossing the field. I didn’t know there were this many children in the village. They sit down under a tree and wait for my approach. As I come near, Irka jumps up, claps her hands and shouts, “Here she is. You’ll see for yourself who she is after you hear the stories.”

I feel frightened. Wasn’t the story-telling supposed to be a secret? On the other hand, being popular all of a sudden is exciting. One of the children cries out, “Are you really a Georgian princess? Can you speak Georgian?”

“We spoke Russian in our household,” I reply, and sing to them the happy Kalinka song that Babushka has taught me. I dance and clap my hands, then make them clap theirs. The children laugh, and seeing their delight, I don’t feel so guilty anymore.

“The children promised not to say a word to their parents,” says Irka after they all leave. It is useless now to rebuke her.

These meetings continue into October, when it starts to rain. The children disappear but my friendship with Irka continues. We meet almost everyday, even when it rains. Babushka becomes suspicious, and asks where I go. I tell her that I just need some fresh air.

One morning, Irka doesn’t come to the edge of the field, so I decide to go to her house. There are many people milling about on the road in front.

I hear crying and screaming coming from the window upstairs. I poke my head through the doorway and see two bodies covered with white sheets, lying on the ruby-flowered rug. Someone is saying that Irka’s parents have been murdered.

For a moment my own parents flash before my eyes. I must go to Irka. I must help her!

I am about to step inside the house through the crowds when I see two German soldiers coming down the stairs. I make up my mind to wait behind the open door until they come out and then make my way to Irka, when suddenly I am pulled from behind, lifted up and carried away. It is Vlad. He carries me in silence.

At home Babushka is waiting at the window. Vlad tells her where he found me.

“Why were you there?” she asks.

I tell her about my friendship with Irka.

Babushka collapses into a chair with a moan. She is terribly pale and has her hand on her heart.

“You are going to kill your grandmother,” says Vlad angrily. “How dare you stray from home and make such friendships behind our backs? Irka’s parents are
Volksdeutsche
, German Poles, and her father informs to the German soldiers on Jews in hiding. Also on partisan activity. In fact, everything that is happening in the village. Now the soldiers will search the whole village. Did Irka’s father ever see you?”

“No, I was only to her house once; no one was there except the maid. Irka doesn’t know that I am Jewish.” The words barely squeeze through my lips. I feel as though I am to blame for everything.

Both Vlad and Babushka are silent for a moment.

Then Vlad says to Babushka, “Get some blankets and water and food. Slava goes into the hiding place tonight. I don’t want her here when the soldiers search the house.”

Babushka does as she is told. I wait at the window, hidden by curtains. Each passing moment is filled with the same dread I felt before I left the Ghetto. Through the curtains, I see two people walking quickly down the road. It’s Irka and the maid, carrying their belongings. Irka is crying loudly. I want to run out and comfort her, ask her where she is going. But one look at Vlad’s face makes it clear that I can’t.

“Get back from that window,” says Vlad angrily.

I tell myself that Irka can’t keep a secret, or she wouldn’t have told the other children about me. I am glad that I didn’t tell her the truth about who I really am.

For the rest of the day Vlad works in the far back of the garden. Is that where he is going to hide me, right next to the outhouse?

Babushka has a bundle of things ready. She dresses me warmly, sighing the whole time. Then she hugs me at the door as I leave with Vlad. It’s dark and chilly outside; there isn’t even a moon to light our way. I follow Vlad down the path to the end of the garden. He stops not far from the smelly outhouse.

“This is your hiding place,” he says pointing to a hole in the ground nestling in the heart of the thick raspberry bushes. Vlad places a blanket at the bottom and says, “Get in.”

I lower myself into the hole. Vlad throws in a bottle of water, more blankets, a pillow and a paper bag containing my book, paper and a pencil. Then he places thick tree branches across the hole, with moss and grass on top.

“Keep warm with the blanket, and try to sleep. I will check on you from time to time. If you hear the soldiers approaching, just keep still and quiet.” Vlad’s voice from above sounds muffled. I hear his heavy footsteps leaving, and then nothing.

I snuggle up to the pillow trying to sleep. But I begin to imagine all the things that might happen if the Germans find me. They will kill me, and then Babushka and Vlad for hiding me. Or maybe they will take me to those work camps on the cattle trains that Father talked about. Now and then

I hear a voice, a door slamming, barking of dogs. The normal sounds of a sleepy village. But mostly there is silence that isolates me from everything.

I wake to the rustling of grass. Sunlight trickles in through the branches and the moss. Babushka with a kerchief on her head and a rake in her hand bends over the hole. Pushing aside some of the branches, she lowers a bulky linen-covered parcel from underneath her apron. How wonderful it is to see dearest Babushka out in this wilderness. The parcel contains bread with strawberry preserves, and milk. It all tastes so good. I eat while Babushka pretends to rake the garden.

“Baba,” I whisper, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Babushka passes down a jar. “Here, use this so no one will see you getting out.” I do the uncomfortable thing and remember that first morning in the Ghetto.

“I’ll be back for lunch, Slavenka, I know how hard this must be for you, but be brave. Just like the princess Dzavaha,” says Babushka and goes back to the house.

The hole feels damp and so does my bedding, and the stench from the outhouse nauseates me. I place a corner of the blanket over my nose, pick up my pencil and paper and begin to write my stories about a child lost in the desert.

Later that day Babushka tells me that I must spend one more night in the hole.

This nightfall is even more ghastly than last night’s. I hear the shrieking of cats, the howling of dogs, owls hooting in the trees. I envy the people inside their warm little houses, keeping each other company.

I wake up in the morning to the sound of vehicles. The German soldiers must have finally arrived to search the village.

I bury my stories in a small hole I have dug out. Covered in my blankets, I wait silently, expecting the worst.

I hear footsteps approaching, and German voices. They are nearing the hole, pushing the bushes away with sticks. They are almost standing right above me.

I lie shivering while the soldiers examine the outhouse, all the time talking. I can see them through the branches, plugging their noses. One looks down at the hole and kicks one of the branches. But someone calls from the road, and the soldiers turn away. Minutes later, the vehicles drive away. I want to climb out of the hole, but Vlad orders me to stay there a little longer as a safety measure.

At night, Babushka and Vlad come to take me back to the house. When I crawl out of the pit, I can’t straighten out for three days. Vlad explains to me that Irka’s parents were killed by the Polish Underground for being informers. I never see Irka again.