Isabel’s War (18 page)

Mr. Jeffers looks nervously around the room, which is becoming hooligan-like with Friday-afternoon hilarity. He clears his throat. “Of course, if on the other hand
Miss Frankfurter is planning to relocate her address, that becomes the responsibility of the school in that district.”

“Oh,” I say, bobbing my head up and down with certainty, “I'm sure Helga will be back in class on Monday.”

Then an important thought connected with Helga's absence comes to me. “About her missing school this past week,” I add, “I wouldn't get too excited. You know she didn't go to school in Germany for years because the Nazis burned down all the schools where the Jewish children were sent. Then, when she arrived in England as a refugee on the Kindertransport, the schoolchildren in the village threw stones at her for being Jewish. So she didn't go to school there either.” I pause to let my message sink in. “Excuse me for asking, but what do you think of that, Mr. Jeffers?”

Mr. Jeffers' giraffe-like neck is about all I can see of him. His eyes are fixed on the boys at the back of the room, who are slamming books over each other's heads. Just above his shirt collar, Mr. Jeffers' Adam's apple appears to be working itself up and down faster and faster. Then he raises the yardstick in his hand. It goes flashing past me and comes down on the lip of his desk with a resounding smack.

I jump back in alarm.

Silence follows and Mr. Jeffers turns to me once again. Even though it's pretty chilly these December days, indoors as well as out—because the entire country is
being asked to conserve coal for the war effort—Mr. Jeffers' ghostly face is coated with a sickly film of perspiration. As a teacher he's both stern and ill at ease, and it's hard not to feel uncomfortable with him. Yet I can't help feeling a little sorry for him. I've noticed that the boys in class act up a lot as a way of challenging him, probably because they suspect his draft card says 4-F, unfit for service.

“You were saying, Isabel...”

With that, the dismissal bell rings. Pandemonium breaks loose in the classroom again and everyone goes charging out. Even Mr. Jeffers, briefcase already clutched in his hand, appears to be on the run.

“Oh, nothing,” I murmur. It's doubtful that he can even hear me over the din. “I'll, uh, tell Helga what you said...about bringing in an absence note on Monday.”

It's Friday evening and I'm alone in the apartment, which has been feeling strangely empty anyhow this week without Helga. I poke around absently, going from room to room. I stare out the window. I turn the radio on and turn it off again.

The brush-off I got today from Mrs. Boylan about the Kindertransport has left me feeling totally frustrated. And then there was my failure to get Mr. Jeffers interested. I'm afraid that even if I can get his attention the next time I talk to him, he's not going to care much about the victims of the Nazis all over Europe who are doomed to be part of the Final Solution. He's much too busy trying
to keep order in homeroom.

Stubborn thoughts keep nagging at me, though. Maybe I do have one more hope.

A couple of months ago, Mrs. Brody in English assigned an essay,
How My Life Has Changed Since Pearl Harbor
. I wrote about blackouts, rationing, turning in metal scrap and rubber, and even saving up cooking fats to be made into glycerin for explosives. I wrote about my brother enlisting in the Air Force and I wrote about Helga coming to live with us. But I hardly knew anything about her at the time, only that she was a refugee from Germany by way of England.

Now, I find myself haunted by the picture of Helga's family that I saw in the box marked
Schokoladen
that morning at Moskin's, when she went off on her pre-breakfast hike. I want to look again at her father and mother and their three little girls at a time when all of them were so much younger and life appeared to be carefree and happy.

And, if I took another look, what else might I find inside that box, aside from the letters written in German by Helga's
Mutti
? More photographs, Helga's picture as a Kindertransport child, other evidence of her life haunted by the Nazis?

If this is snooping, I tell myself...so be it. The reason for it is important. Suppose it could in some way save the lives of others.

I enter our bedroom, find the chocolate box easily (Helga hasn't even gone to much trouble to conceal it), sit down on my bed with it on my lap, and carefully raise the cover expecting to once again see the picture of Helga's family on top.

To my astonishment, a folded blue air letter flies out and gently floats to the floor. I snatch it up breathlessly. I can see at once that it's not one of Helga's many letters written in German, with a foreign stamp and postmark and addressed in polite, slanted penmanship. The handwriting is large and scrawling and the letter is addressed to Helga at her aunt and uncle's house in Westchester.

Roy! Even before my eye falls on the government post-office return address, which is now used to send mail to members of the armed forces, I know that the letter had to have arrived after Helga left Shady Pines. Most likely it was sent from the ship to which Roy was assigned for duty in the Pacific, after his furlough.

The envelope has a rough tear in it. Maybe Helga herself did this in the excitement of receiving the letter. Beyond the torn edge, a single page is begging to be unfolded.

But I absolutely must not and cannot do this. Finding the chocolate box so I can look for more pictures or other evidence of Helga's life in Germany is one thing. But reading a letter as private as this one is something I definitely must not...

And yet...and yet...

Dear Sweet Helga,

So you're feeling better I hope. Boy, I can't forget the way you were crying that night, especially when we said goodbye. You told me it was because it was the first time you heard anyone speak your own language to you in three years
.

So it reminded you of how much you missed your home and your family. Yeah, well like I told you, my grandmother raised me and she and I still speak the language when we're together. And that's how I keep in practice
.

I can't tell you much about my life in the Navy. Censorship and all that, you know. But it's okay out here and I'm making some good pals. No women around, so you're perfectly safe, you sweet kid
.

Sure hope things work out for you in your new life in the U.S. But you seemed so scared and not sure you would be able to stay with those people who brought you over. So remember what I told you if you ever get in any kind of trouble. I showed you where the key is hid
.

Hey kid, I still don't believe that was your first kiss. How could anybody stay away from you? So be good, now. Close your eyes and think of me
.

                    
Roy

Eighteen

Two days later I'm still reeling from Roy's letter to Helga. It's bad enough that I went ahead and read it. But what does it all mean?

Well, it's pretty clear that they kissed. Only once? More? Also, it partly explains Helga's tears, even after she came back to our room that night and pretended to be asleep. But what did Helga tell Roy about her fears and uncertainties? Why, at that time, was she afraid she wouldn't be able to stay with Mr. and Mrs. F.?

“Isabel, are you ready? Sybil is here.” My mother's voice breaks into my dithering thoughts and I rush out of my room, still panicky with guilt. No one must ever know that I read that letter. No one, not Sibby, not my parents, and most of all, not Helga.

I hardly know how I can face Helga later this afternoon, when we're driving up to Westchester to bring her home after her week with Mr. and Mrs. F. and her absence from school. Is that why I insisted that Sybil be invited to come along?

“It's only going to be a short visit,” my mother
reminded me when she finally agreed to take Sybil with us. “Don't even think about ice skating or horseback riding or any of those things Harriette Frankfurter mentioned when she was here at Thanksgiving. Her situation is very grave now, so this isn't a social call.”

Sibby has gotten pretty dressed up, though, almost as though she's going to a party. I guess it's because she's heard so much about the Frankfurters' elegant and spacious house set back on sweeping lawns and surrounded by tall handsome trees. Right now there's snow on the ground, so the place probably looks like a fairyland, and I won't blame Helga if she's sorry to leave.

We've had snow in the Bronx, too, as I once promised her. But the streets here look awful. The curbs are heaped with frozen mounds and high ridges of grimy, frozen stuff, the color of filthy rags, and the sidewalks are covered with sprawling patches of ice.

Sibby and I sit quietly in the back seat while my parents discuss the latest news from my brother Arnold, who has written that he's about to be shipped out but he still doesn't know where. My mother insists he's going to the Pacific to be shot down by the Japanese the first time he takes off from an aircraft carrier. “Then, we'll find out what really happened to those ‘heroes' of the Doolittle raids back in April,” she says bitterly.

“Don't get hysterical, Sally,” my father advises her, as he steers the car through the snow-banked streets toward
the outer reaches of the city. “The boy hasn't even been in an airplane yet. I say they're sending him to England for his flight training. You'll see that I'm right. I can just read between the headlines. That boy will be dropping bombs over Germany one of these days. Mark my word.”

Sibby flashes me a look and I flash one back. “You're so quiet, Izzie,” she remarks softly, as my parents continue their barrage of one another. “Is it about Helga? Don't you want her to come back?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I've been working so hard on the teachers at school? Once Helga's back in class, maybe I can get them to let her tell her story.”

“If she'll talk. Remember how worried she is about her family.”

“She'll talk. Sooner or later, she's got to hear about the Final Solution. And she's just the person to sound a wake-up call at Simpleton.”

But when Helga herself opens the door for us at the Frankfurter house, I can hardly envision her as the fearless spokesperson against Hitlerism that I've been grooming her to be. She has deep circles under her eyes, her face is expressionless, and she hardly seems glad to see us. The house behind her is hushed, except for Mr. F. who comes forward murmuring softly and immediately takes my parents off to another room.

“Are you okay, Helga?” I ask anxiously. “You don't
look well.”

There's a long pause as the three of us stand awkwardly in the entrance hall. At last Helga speaks. “She is dying.”

“What?” Sibby and I exchange terrified glances.

“Aunt Harriette is dying. It is only a matter of days, perhaps hours.”

I grab Helga by the shoulders. “Where is she?”

Helga waves a finger over her shoulder, indicating a rear portion of the house.

“Why isn't she in the hospital?” Sybil nods in approval of my question.

“There is nothing that can be done for her. She has cancer. There is a private nurse with her for medicine to relieve the pain.” Helga turns away from us briefly. “Oh, I am sorry. Come in. I will show you upstairs to my bedroom.”

We walk through the living room with its bright carpets and softly toned rich woods, a reflection of Mrs. F.'s tastes and her preference for pleasing earth colors. There is a cozy-looking den with bookshelves and a fireplace off to one side. We follow Helga up a curving polished staircase to the floor above and past several doorways to her own room It's charmingly decorated in flowered chintz and white organdy without being too frilly.

“Wow,” Sibby exclaims. “This house is gorgeous. You are so lucky to...” Her words come to an abrupt halt and she claps the back of her hand to her mouth.

“Sit down, please,” Helga says, without appearing to react to Sybil's inappropriate remark. Helga indicates a pair of white wicker chairs with flowered seat cushions.

I remain standing at the window, looking down at the snow-covered shrubs in the garden below. I've been to the Frankfurters' house before, with my parents. But this time there is so much to absorb. How could Harriette Frankfurter, of all people, be dying? Only a few months ago at Moskin's, she was her bright and peppy self, colorfully and attractively dressed, brimming with energy, and patiently—ever so patiently—trying to teach me to knit.

“Maybe,” I say hesitantly as I slip into one of the pretty chairs, “she is only going through a bad spell, a...a crisis. You hear about these amazing recoveries.”

Helga is sitting stiffly on the side of her bed. “No, no. I am sorry, Isabel. There is no use lying to me.”

Helga's use of the word lying makes me feel like I've been stabbed. The things I've done to Helga fill me with guilt. I've envied her, snooped around among her personal belongings, resented her coming to live with us, read her letter from Roy...

“Well, you still have a home with us,” I say as warmly and reassuringly as I can. “It was really lonely this week without you, Helga. And there was stuff happening at school that I...I needed you for.”