Touched by Fire (17 page)

As I cut and stitch the fabric, I think about my lost friend … how we played together when we were small … how happy we were to find each other again.

A month has passed by – it is almost the end of April. Mama will be here soon. I cross off the days on the calendar. Rosie starts work in a bakery on Hester Street next week. Now that my hands are better, I have enrolled in a class for shorthand and typing. Beckie is joining me. Papa tells me not to worry about the money. He has finally been promoted, and, as a cutter, his wages are much better.

Tonight it is Rosie’s turn to make supper. I set the table. Papa has returned home from work. He changes into the shirt I had washed and pressed for him earlier. There is a knock on the door. This is a strange time for a visitor. It won’t be Marco. He told Rosie that he is working nights this week.

I open the door. I just stand there, unable to speak. Then I scream for Papa.

“Mama, oh, Mama, you are here at last!” There is pandemonium – laughing, crying, kissing, and hugging – as she and Devora come inside.

“Sam, without your beard, you look so young,” Mama says. “Different, but handsome too.”

“My Sara, you are just as I remember you.”

A small hand tugs at my skirt. I look down at my sister. How beautiful she is with her dark eyes and curly hair.

“Who are you?” I say, pretending not to know her.

“I am Devora, and I am three.” She holds up three fingers.

“I cannot believe it. My sister is only little, not a big girl like you.”

“It is me. Look.” She shows me the doll I gave her before I left.

I pick her up and twirl her around. “I have a present for you, Devora. After supper, I will give it to you. Look, here is your papa.”

She runs to him, not a bit shy. He carries her to his chair and holds the tiny girl on his knee.

“Tomorrow, Papa will take you to play in the park. I will buy you an ice cream! Would you like that?” he asks.

“Don’t start by spoiling her, Sam,” Mama says, but she is smiling.

“A little spoiling doesn’t hurt, Sara. I must make up for the three years I have missed.”

There is another rap on the door.
Is it Yuri, who has been hiding to surprise us?

“May I come in?” a deep voice says as I pull open the door. It is Kolya, arriving with the rest of Mama’s luggage. He sets it down.

“You have grown up, Miriam. I have thought of you so often.” I blush, tongue-tied.

Rosie comes in, carrying a huge plate of spaghetti. Now she sets a place for Kolya. She and Mama are already talking together like old friends.

We eat and share our news. Mama says, “Yuri will come when he finishes school. He will be fourteen then, and this time he will answer the emigration officer’s questions, I am sure. Bubbe and Zayde send so much love. Who knows, they might change their minds and come with their beloved Yuri.”

Kolya leaves after supper. He is boarding with an old friend, who lives nearby on East Fourth Street. Mama invites him for Sabbath night dinner.

On Friday night, when Mama lights the candles, the flames cast a special glow on the faces around the table. The candlesticks gleam on the best white tablecloth, which Mama brought with her. I did not think I could ever be happy again, but I am.

I will never forget you, Malka. I will remember you, not consumed by fire, but reaching for the sky
.

H
err Ludwig has set our class a composition. The title is
My Family and I
. We have to hand it in tomorrow. I’ll begin by writing my name and age.

I am Peter Schmidt, and I will be ten years old next month, on May 3, 1933
. Herr Ludwig told us to write truthfully. If I do that, I’d write that my stepfather looks at me as if I am an unwanted dog. He makes me feel like a stray that has wandered in from the gutter. When he’s at home, I do my best to become invisible. I’d better not say that!

I can write that my stepfather is an officer in the SS and describe how tall he looks in his black uniform. I can write that Maria, our maid, has to polish his boots every night. She spits on them to make them shine. If I said that I think she does not really like cleaning them, it might get us both in trouble.

My stepfather is considered to be very handsome. He has blond hair and blue eyes. My four-year-old half sister, Helga, looks just like him. She’s a nice kid, and it’s not her fault that she’s his pet. He tells everyone she is Hitler’s ideal, a pure-blooded German child. When he lashes out at whatever doesn’t please him – often me – my mother lowers her eyes and says nothing. I hate him. I can’t write that. I’d be kept in for a week or get caned for being disrespectful!

Today is April 1, 1933, the day the nation has been told not to buy from Jews. My stepfather reminded us of the boycott at breakfast, but I forgot all about it. I had a five-pfennig coin burning a hole in my pocket and planned to buy a chocolate bar after school. I remembered the boycott when, on the way home, every Jewish shop I passed was plastered with yellow stars and slogans:
GERMANS, DO NOT BUY FROM JEWS. THE JEW IS YOUR ENEMY
.

I often buy chocolate from Herr Friedlander. He is nice and sometimes gives me a treat for Helga. When I ignored the warnings and opened his shop door as usual, suddenly someone grabbed my collar. He spun me round and threw me down on the cobblestones. “Not learned to read yet? Get home before I give you something to remember.”

The Brownshirt kicked me, smirking at a few passersby, who looked the other way. I picked myself up, grabbed my satchel, and ran home. Maria screamed when she saw the
blood trickling down my knees. As she cleaned me up, I had to listen to a lecture about not fighting, but she gave me a big piece of cake with my glass of milk. Maria has been our maid forever. She is very kind to Helga and me, especially me.

Boycott Jewish business day?
I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Mother has our shoes mended at Herr Israel’s shop, Boot and Shoe Repair. With a name like Israel, of course he’s a Jew.
Who cares?
I am one, too.

It’s almost dinnertime. I’d better get started on my homework. Some of what I write will be the truth.

My Family and I

My stepfather has forbidden me to reply to my American relatives. He refers to them as “those Jews.”

Maria sounds the gong for dinner. I’ll finish my homework later. I have only a bit more to write, about my favorite sports, which are skating and swimming. I am saving up for a bicycle. I remember to wash my hands before I go downstairs, as my stepfather always inspects my hands.

Tonight, we’re having boiled tongue, cabbage, and mashed potatoes – my stepfather’s favorite. The smell is as bad as the taste of the pink meat, which makes me feel sick.

His “jokes” are worse than the meal. “I wonder whose mouth this tongue came from,” he says. Or, “Why so quiet? Has the cat got your tongue?” I can’t bring myself to laugh, like Mother and Helga. The jokes weren’t even funny the first time I heard them. Now he repeats them every time the boiled tongue appears. His laugh is the loudest.

Tonight, he cuts me the fattest slice. On purpose, I bet. I eat some potato and a bit of the cabbage. When he has stopped paying attention to me and has turned to Mother, I hide the tongue under the cabbage. Maria removes the dinner plates, including mine, and brings in dessert. It’s apple strudel and vanilla sauce. I think I’ve got away with it this time, but no such luck!

“Do you think I’m blind and stupid, boy? Maria, Peter will not be having dessert, today or any other day, until he has finished his food. You will serve it to him at every meal until he has done so. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Maria curtsies and goes out.

Helga starts to cry. Mother takes her on her knee. “Papa is not cross with you, darling,” she says. “Peter is the naughty one, wasting good food.”

“Now see what you’ve done – upset your mother and your sister and ruined the meal. You are a first-class troublemaker, like the rest of your kind. Don’t you understand how lucky you are, a little Jew, allowed to live in my house? The situation is becoming intolerable. Elsa, my coffee, please.
I have a meeting tonight, concerning the Jewish problem. Damn it, boy, leave the room.”

Mother bites her lip. Her hands shake as she pours my stepfather’s coffee. I get up and, without looking at him, slide my chair under the table, fold my napkin, and go upstairs.

I wait until I hear Mother say good-bye to my stepfather in the hall and the front door shut. My bedroom window overlooks the street. Almost every building displays the Nazis’ red and white flag, with its black swastika. A sleek black car draws up in front of our house. The SS chauffeur gets out. My stepfather walks down the steps, and they exchange the Hitler salute. The car speeds off.

What a relief!
Now I can close my bedroom door. The only time I have any privacy is when he’s out of the house. My stepfather has forbidden me to shut my door.

“If your son has nothing to hide, why does he need to close the door?” he once said. Mother did not reply, as usual. However, she ignores my closed door when he is out. I decide to write to my relatives tonight. I can buy a stamp on my way to school.

On my birthday, I watch for the postman. No card arrives from America, so my letter got there in time. Now I can enjoy my birthday dinner of roast chicken and chocolate cake. Mother gives me five marks towards my bicycle fund, and Helga gives me a tin of peppermints. I ask Maria to wrap a piece of cake for my friend Simon Frankel. He told me his father, who is a professor of mathematics, was fired from his position at the University of Berlin because he is a Jew.

Since then, Simon has not joined in the Hitler salute. Now that Adolf Hitler is chancellor of Germany, all students must greet their teachers with “
Heil Hitler
” and salute the leader’s portrait. Simon finds all kinds of ways to get out of joining in. He comes in a few minutes late with some excuse, or pretends to have a coughing fit or a sudden need to blow his nose, or bends down to tie his shoelaces.

Simon sits at the end of the back row, and as I sit in the middle, I can see him out of the corner of my eye. Today he doesn’t even pretend but stands up straight, mouth closed, arms by his side.

Herr Ludwig explodes: “Frankel, I have had enough of your willful disobedience. Come here.” Some of the boys
snicker. The teacher raises his cane and brings it down hard, five times on each hand. Simon winces but doesn’t cry. I wish I was as brave as him. By recess, his fingers are red and swollen. I follow him into the washroom and run the cold tap.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why? You’re all right, nice and safe with a father in the SS.”

I want to punch him. Instead, I warn him, “Don’t ever say that again. He’s not my father, he’s my stepfather, and you know it. My father and my grandparents were Jewish too.”

Simon blows on his hands to dry them. “If you swear not to say anything to anyone, Peter, I’ll tell you a secret.”

“I swear. I can keep a secret.”

“This is my last day at this rotten school. My father has been offered a job at the Sorbonne, in Paris. We’re leaving tomorrow. He’ll be teaching again, safe from the Nazis. They can’t do anything to us in France.”