“HOME FREE!” cried Vera, as she ran past Paul and touched the staircase. She bounced up and down, dancing around her brother as she shouted, “You’re it again!”
“Where were you hiding this time?” demanded Paul, a frustrated look on his face. “I searched everywhere.”
“Now, why would I tell you that?” teased Vera. “I might want to hide there again.” She could see how annoyed her brother was, but it was fun to taunt him this way.
“Aw, no fair, Vera. There are too many places to hide in this house. I don’t want to be it all the time.”
Vera and Paul were at their grandmother’s house. Their parents dropped them there every Sunday before lunch and came back to pick them up before supper.
Their grandmother lived in an old house in the centre of the city. She often complained that the three-storey house was far too big for one person. There were too many staircases, too many out-of-the-way rooms, too many nooks and crannies. But for Vera and Paul the house was a perfect place for hide-and-seek.
“Let’s see,” said Vera. “I hid five times and you only caught me once. Let’s play one more time, and then go get something to eat.”
“Okay, once more, but this time — YOU’RE IT!” Paul knocked her on the arm and ran off, shrieking with delight.
“No way! I won the last round! Paul, you’re a cheater,” shouted Vera chasing after her brother and grabbing him by the shoulder.
At that moment, their grandmother appeared in the kitchen doorway. She had been baking and her hands were covered with cookie dough and held up in front of her, as if she were a doctor who had just scrubbed for surgery. Her apron, a gift from her grandchildren, was splattered with flour, sugar and other ingredients. Its pale blue and red flowers were coated in a dusting of icing sugar that trailed from her shoulders down to the top of her knees, where the apron ended. Using the back of one hand, she carefully pushed her glasses back up on her nose.
“Vera! Paul! So much noise! This is not a playground. The neighbours must think there is a circus going on in here.” Although her voice sounded harsh, Vera and Paul knew that she wasn’t really annoyed. She was never angry with them — at least, not for long.
“Babichka, Paul is cheating,” began Vera, still holding her brother by the arm.
“I am not,” interrupted Paul, struggling to free himself from his sister’s grasp. “You’re the one who won’t play fair!”
“Children, children, stop! You both know better than to fight like this. I was just coming to tell you that I have poppyseed cookies and walnut cake coming out of the oven. But if you would rather stay here and argue, I’m sure I can find someone else to eat them.” Her eyes twinkled as she tempted them with their favourite treats.
“Forget fighting,” said Paul. “I’m hungry!” Both children laughed as they followed their grandmother into the kitchen, the argument forgotten.
It seemed as if their babichka’s kitchen always smelled of good things. Sometimes there were mealtime smells like veal, roasted with whole potatoes and carrots. But on Sundays there were usually dessert smells like the ones now coming out of the oven. Vera and Paul watched as their grandmother carefully cut the walnut cake and placed a slice in front of each of them with a glass of milk. Cinnamon and raisins oozed from each piece. The children wasted no time in polishing off their servings and asking for seconds.
“Mmmmm, this is the best,” said Vera with a sigh.
Gabi Kohn gazed lovingly at her grandchildren. Having them visit every Sunday was the highlight of her week. She always looked forward to baking, playing games and sharing stories with them. At seventy years of age she was attractive and always beautifully dressed, with her silver grey hair pulled back in a neatly combed bun. She had always been short, and was rounder than she had once been, but she carried herself with dignity and elegance. Her bright green eyes and lively manner still made her seem young.
“I’m glad you like the cake, my darlings. And now that your stomachs are full, tell me what on earth you were fighting over.”
“Well, it’s simple,” began Paul. “The problem is, this house has too many hiding places. Every time Vera goes to hide, I can never find her, so I have to be it over and over again. It’s impossible to find anybody in this house.”
Their grandmother looked thoughtful. “Did I ever tell you about the very special hiding place that I once had?”
Vera and Paul smiled, sensing a story. Their grandmother told wonderful stories, and they loved to spend their Sundays listening to her. Sometimes she read them stories from books, and her voice would change with each new character. She could sound old and spooky like the scariest witch, or as young and playful as a child. She could even do voices for different animals.
Often she invented magical stories out of her own mind. She made up stories about enchanted, far-off places with people who had exciting adventures but always managed to live happily ever after.
But the stories that Vera and Paul liked best were the ones she told about her childhood. These stories were about real people, and adventures that actually happened. Through their grandmother’s stories, Vera and Paul had been introduced to family and events they had never known. It was like looking through a window into their own past.
“Did you play hide-and-seek when you were little?” asked Paul. “You know, when you were growing up in Czecho … Czechos …”
“Cze-cho-slo-va-ki-a,” Vera said carefully. She was ten years old, two years older than her brother. She could often remember things that were difficult for him.
“Yeah, Czechoslovakia,” said Paul, frowning at her interruption.
“Well, I was close to your age when I had my hiding place. But this was a time when I was not playing,” replied their babichka, as she closed her eyes and sat back in her chair. Vera and Paul knew that she was thinking about her childhood. Often, when she started a story about her homeland, she would pause, as if her thoughts had drifted, many years and many miles away. She had always been honest with them about her life in Europe in the 1930s and 1940s, even about how her family and others had suffered as Jews. Vera and Paul waited patiently for her to start talking again.
“Come with me, children,” she said abruptly, as she rose out of her chair. “I’d like to show you something.”
They followed her as she lead them out of the kitchen and into the living room. In the centre of the room was a wooden dresser. The children had never paid much attention to it before — it was just there, like any other piece of furniture in the room. Now they watched as their grandmother ran her fingers lovingly across the top of the dresser. Its wood, though cracked in several places, was polished to a soft shine that made the dresser glow in the afternoon light. The outside of the dresser was carved with elaborate decorations. On its top, on hand-embroidered doilies, sat two crystal candy bowls, a porcelain statue of two children sitting on a park bench and a photograph of Vera, Paul and their parents. Their grandmother reached into one of the crystal bowls and drew out an old metal key. She bent and unlocked both doors of the dresser.
“This dresser sat in the dining room of the house where I lived when I was a child,” she began. “My mother kept beautiful things inside. She kept her fine crystal, perfect white china with a gold rim, and silverware that was polished until it shone, that we used only for special occasions.”
“Those are just like the things you have in there now,” interrupted Paul.
“Let Babichka tell her story,” protested Vera.
The old woman paused as the children settled comfortably on the couch. “Yes, just like me, my mother kept beautiful things in the dresser. But there was a time when all these lovely things were taken out and put away. Then the dresser was used for something different. This dresser was my secret hiding place.”