My Family for the War (10 page)

The ones who did stop were the elderly ladies. They looked at me sternly and were more than a little irritated, although I hadn’t spoken to them at all. They exchanged a few words, of which I understood just one:
committee
. Then they marched in through the gate. It was clear that I was about to get in big trouble.

I stole a glance around the gateposts and saw that I wouldn’t have long to wait. Two minutes later, both women came back out of the house with Miss Werner between them, speaking to her, the only German volunteer at Satterthwaite Hall, authoritatively. Even from this distance I could tell that Miss Werner was extremely angry as she strode across the lawn in my direction.

Survival plan! I dove down behind the nearest car, where my ever-dependable brain cells, well trained in running and hiding, got to work at once. If I could lure Miss Werner away from the gate, I might be able to sneak back in and act as if I’d never been away. I squatted down and ran, all bent over, around the cars, keeping both the gate and Miss Werner in sight. She had started looking underneath the vehicles. I was sure she had no chance of catching me as long as I stayed hidden behind the tires. So I was quite surprised when a loud bang brought my retreat to a sudden and painful end. A passenger door swung open and hit me squarely in the head. The next thing I knew, I was lying facedown on the asphalt with a view of two pairs of big feet in black shoes, and asking myself if that sound was really birds chirping.

The owners of the old Rover were sitting in the car with the motor turned off discussing whether they should look for a younger or older boy. They hadn’t yet come to an agreement when they stepped out of the car, only to discover that they had knocked out a girl. Careful hands turned me over onto my back. I opened my eyes and saw the friendly, worried face of a man about Papa’s age wearing a big, black hat.

“You look child?” I croaked.

A second face appeared above me. Now I was sure I must have injured my head, because boys this beautiful simply didn’t exist. He looked to be sixteen or seventeen, with dark hair, and bright green eyes that looked down at me over a nobly arched nose. I blinked, and blinked again, but he didn’t disappear. He was real!

“Ziska, for heaven’s sake!” All at once I heard a cry of horror and I saw my two English people disappear left and right from my field of vision as Miss Werner forced herself between them, filling the space above me. “Did they run you over?”

I shook my head. The English people were discussing something. “No, she can’t get up,” said Miss Werner testily, in German. “She will lie right where she is until the doctor arrives.”

“No need doctor,” I murmured, heaving myself into a sitting position and leaning against the wheel of the car. There seemed to be something working its way out through my forehead from the middle of my skull. I poked around in the general area and, my heart sinking, discovered a bump the size of an egg. No one would pick me today with this on my forehead!

The older Englishman spoke a sentence directly out of chapter two of our English grammar book. “I am a doctor.” He crouched down in front of me, felt my head, and moved his index finger from right to left in front of my face. Finally, he pulled my eyelids open and seemed pleased with the annoyed expression he saw there. “She’s much better already,” he concluded.

“You look child?” I asked desperately.

Miss Werner looked down at me, enraged, while apologizing to the English people for the trouble I had caused them.

The Englishmen exchanged a glance. “Well,” said the older one, “we were indeed… looking for a child.”

Considering that we had barely exchanged a word, it was unbelievable how quickly we came to an understanding. By the time I had gone to the dormitory and packed my things, they had already taken care of all the necessary formalities. I had only just shaken hands with Miss Werner to say good-bye, and there I was following my saviors, Dr. Shepard and his beautiful son, Gary, to the gate, accompanied by the envious looks of the other children. It was only as we drove through London that I was able to get everything straight in my head: My goal was not to find an English family, but to bring my own family to England! The nice Shepards in the front seat of the car just didn’t know it yet.

I saw the famous red double-decker buses that made their way through the streets in such great numbers that London appeared to be colorful, narrow, and entirely chaotic. When we stopped at an intersection, to my dismay, a little boy shouted directly into our window. He wasn’t in any danger;
he just stuck a newspaper through the opening and was given a coin in exchange.

Soon, we left the lively downtown and drove on far outside the city along tranquil suburban streets lined with rows of identical houses. There was one street with two-story, white duplex houses, and another with three-story brown ones, and a third that seemed to consist of a single, endlessly long building curving its way around a bend. When we finally came to a stop I saw little towers on the roof and tiny front gardens. The space between the houses was so narrow that an adult with both arms outstretched could touch the walls of each building.

“Our house,” Gary said proudly. A low step led to the front door, and a small canopy covered the entire entrance area. It looked pretty, like a toy house, but the biggest surprise was the itty-bitty mailbox attached to the doorframe! The glass tube, just six inches long, was decorated with incredibly delicate little ornaments. While they had been away, someone had apparently stuffed a small piece of paper with a message inside it. But instead of taking out the note and reading it, Dr. Shepard and Gary touched it with the fingers of their right hand as they walked by, then brought those fingers to their lips and kissed them.

I was astounded. English people kiss their mail! Right there and then I took the entire country into my heart. What a respectful, fitting gesture to make toward those who had taken the time to write to us!

Inside the house it was warm and smelled good, a mixture of coal fire, fresh-baked bread, and herbs, some of which sat in a vase in the entryway. A narrow, steep staircase led
upstairs. The living room was right next to it, but I didn’t have a chance to do more than glance at it quickly. We had only just stepped inside when a small, plump woman came toward us, smiling and drying her hands on her apron.

I liked her immediately, although I had not pictured her being quite so old. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Shepard,” I greeted her politely, as I had been taught to do.

Dr. Shepard and Gary broke out in ringing laughter. The small, plump lady had a dignified, though somewhat embarrassed, expression on her face. This was Millie, the housekeeper.

“And this is Francesca,” said Dr. Shepard.

Who?
I thought, baffled.

Millie also looked a little surprised. “That a boy?” she asked.

The Shepards seemed to be a cheerful family, for once again they laughed before replying “No,” whereupon Millie, full of anger and loathing, pointed at the bump on my forehead and declared, “Bloody Nazis.”

A flood of words followed, of which I was able to extract only one, the word
tea,
not one of my favorite things, after which Millie hurried back through the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Dr. Shepard said something to Gary that included my name. Since Gary then said, “Follow me,” I gathered that his father had asked him to show me my room.

I followed Gary up the steps, but soon fell a bit behind. The entire wall next to the stairs was covered with framed photographs. They featured Gary as a baby, as a toddler, in his school uniform, and wearing his yarmulke, in an embroidered prayer shawl and with a thick book in his hand. Gary
was obviously the focal point of this household, his parents’ pride and joy.

“Are you coming?” he called in English from one of the rooms upstairs. I was just about to take the stairs two steps at a time so that I wouldn’t keep him waiting when suddenly, at the top, one more picture caught my eye. It was the kind of image that made you stop and stare. There was Gary, maybe five years old, leaning against a chair with a knowing smile on his face, so thoughtful and deep, extraordinary, especially for a such a young child. His smile was paralleled exactly on the face next to his. That had to be his mother. She had the same eyes, the same nose, and the same beautiful, elegantly proportioned face, framed by dark hair. Her hand, emerging from a white tailored blouse, lay on Gary’s arm. A strange shiver went down my neck, as though my own arm could sense that tender touch.

“Francesca?” Gary stood in a doorway looking at me with a questioning expression. I hurried to follow him.

My future room looked out over the front garden. It had light blue walls that were decorated with delicate floral designs, a bed, bookcase, and a child’s desk in front of the window, which completely filled the small room. There could be no doubt that the Shepards were expecting a boy: Pictures of ships and airplanes hung on the walls and the bookshelf was full of wooden cars and model boats.

“All my old things,” explained Gary. He spoke very loudly, apparently so that I could understand him better.

There I was, standing as if rooted to the floor again. “Letter!” I said, enraptured, pointing at the doorframe, where a little tube hung, exactly like the one I had seen on the front
door. This one was made of metal, but no doubt about it, there was already a letter in there for me! I quickly took a step toward it, to turn the little tube around and extract the tiny note that I could just see through the small opening. Then it occurred to me that I had to kiss the container first, though that was a little embarrassing in front of Gary.

Hesitating, I stopped and stood still, with Gary’s gaze following mine toward the little tube, and then he started laughing again.

I tried not to show how much that hurt my feelings. Gary stopped laughing, pointed at the tube, and said slowly, “This is a mezuzah. We… are Orthodox.”

“Orthodox?” I repeated, confused.

Gary laid his hand on the little tube and repeated: “Mezuzah. Inside it are two texts from the Torah. Do you understand?” he asked, seeing the baffled expression on my face. “You’ll learn. Do you want Millie… your suitcase?” he gestured.

I shook my head and he left the room with a “See you later.”

Orthodox! I would have to digest that piece of information. Something told me that my parents wouldn’t be overjoyed, although the Shepards wore neither long beards nor sidelocks and probably belonged to an entirely different sect than the Seydenstickers. I decided to wait a few letters before gently filling them in.

Happily, I looked around, taking in every last detail of my room. My room! It seemed like an eternity since I had last had my own room. There was nothing to do but take off my coat, scarf, and shoes and let myself fall back on the bed.

I closed my eyes and unexpectedly felt right at home, embraced by warmth and friendliness. The people who had set up this room must have been very excited about taking in a child. I could hardly believe my luck, even if it was only for a short time, until my parents could follow me to England.

“Francesca, tea is ready!”

Again I heard them call my strange new name. I slowly rolled myself out of bed, went down the stairs, and followed the voices, which came from the living room. Gary was telling a story, interrupting it again and again with his laughter.
“Whaaamm!”
he demonstrated explosively, probably reenacting my encounter with the car door to the amusement of all.

I recognized Mrs. Shepard at once from the photo, although she was visibly older and had cut her long hair into a dull, helmet-like style. She looked serious, almost a little intimidating. Still, when she saw me she let loose a spontaneous, hearty laugh. “What a lovely boy,” she said cheerfully. Her voice was warm and dark. Deep laugh lines ran up from the corners of her eyes like rays of sun. I stood frozen in the doorway. Mrs. Shepard was almost too beautiful to be true.

I saw the smile freeze on Mrs. Shepard’s face, and the atmosphere grew colder with every step she took toward me. She was staring at something, I didn’t know what it could be, but by the time she reached out her hand to me, I was already paralyzed with fear.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice now completely changed, toneless and nearly flat. I felt ice-cold fingers at my throat, and as she turned around to Dr. Shepard and Gary,
my tiny silver cross was in her hand. “We wanted to take in a
Jewish
child!” she said, appalled.

Dr. Shepard and Gary stood up as well and came closer to us. My head was pushed back as far as possible from Mrs. Shepard’s grip on my chain. Terrified, my eyes begged both of them for help. They were responsible; they were the ones who had taken me home with them in the first place! At the same time, it occurred to me that it wasn’t their fault. They couldn’t have seen the cross. I had worn my coat and scarf the entire time.

Both of them silently considered the problem that hung around my neck, then began to speak at the same time, Dr. Shepard in a calm and soothing tone, and Gary upset and reproachful. I heard him say something about “Herr Hitler” and it was probably this name more than anything else that forced an immediate reaction from me. A growl rose from my throat, my head shot forward, and my teeth clamped down on the tender cartilage and delicate knuckles of the enemy’s fist. My chain came free immediately and I stormed out of the room as if the Furies themselves were chasing me.

Mrs. Shepherd herself was so thoroughly shocked that it was two seconds before she let out a cry of pain. It was echoed in the kitchen, where Millie dropped all her pots and pans as I fled up the staircase. I threw open the door to my room and sprang into the closet. Trembling, I crouched behind the boys’ clothing in the darkness and heard my teeth chatter. I tried to pray, but it didn’t work. Again and again the same film played in my mind, with a crazed soundtrack playing in the background:
That can’t really have happened… not
Jewish… I can’t stay here… not Jewish… something is wrong with me… not Jewish.