I shiver at the foot of our bed, my arms wrapping around my knees for warmth. We layer our clothing, but the cold always seeps through. We have one threadbare wool blanket that is too worthless to barter for food. I tuck it lovingly around my baba, but her lips are still blue. Lida walks into the bedroom holding a chipped bowl in her hands. It contains what we like to call soup, but we both know there is little nourishment in it: water, faint flavour from bones boiled dozens of times, scraps of potato or cabbage, and anything else we can find to put in it.
She sets the bowl down on the nightstand and props up Baba’s head and shoulders with a pillow. Baba’s eyes flicker open. She looks at me and then at Lida. “My granddaughters,” she says. “Don’t waste this food on me. I am not long for this world.”
Lida and I both know what Baba says is true, but how can we not try to save her? She is all the family we have left. Tato was taken by the Soviet police in early summer, like so many of the other Ukrainian men. Weeks after that, Mama was taken by the Nazi police. Old people and children don’t get ration cards. Baba’s hoarded bits got us through the fall. But now that it is the dead of winter, we are desperate. We have burned most of our furniture for warmth and bartered our precious books. Even our beloved lilac bush has been hacked to pieces and burnt as firewood.
Lida leans on the edge of the bed and offers a spoonful of soup, but Baba refuses to open her lips. Lida sighs. “What if we share?”
Baba nods. “You eat first.”
We pass the spoon around, sharing the watery soup one sip at a time.
Once Baba falls back to sleep, we go out to the street to beg. First we sit in front of the bakery. When Sarah and her parents were alive, they would always find something for us — even if it was just a stale bun. But they were among the first that the Nazis took.
The woman who comes out now speaks German. She pushes us away with a broom. We sit on the steps in front of the boarded-up church, huddling close together for warmth. I remember a time when we could go inside. Mama and Tato were still with us. The smell of incense made me feel safe. But people don’t come here anymore. Besides, there are too many beggars and not enough food. We are given not even a crust of bread.
I notice that a snaking lineup of children has suddenly formed outside the gates of what used to be the synagogue. Whenever a line forms, we know to run to it. Does it matter what is being given out? It will be better than nothing.
When we get closer we see two women dressed in brown suits with white collars and cuffs. “Maybe they’re nuns,” I say hopefully.
Lida looks at me with surprise. “The Nazis got rid of the sisters long ago.”
One of the women writes notes in a black leather book. The other dips her hand into a large paper bag and brings out candies. My stomach rumbles at the sight. I cannot remember the last time I have eaten anything other than maggoty bread or watery soup.
I stand on my tiptoes and see that Sofia from down the street is talking to the brown sisters now. She does a little whoop for joy when she gets candy. Finally it is my turn. Lida stands behind me, her hands resting on my shoulders.
“What lovely blond hair you have,” the woman says to me in German. She crouches down until her face is level with mine. “And blue eyes.”
I smile politely. My blond hair often helps when begging from Germans.
“Girls, are you sisters?” the woman taking notes asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Where do you live?” she asks.
“In that house.” I point to our whitewashed cottage at the end of the street.
“Is she telling the truth?” the woman asks Lida with a smile.
“Yes.”
The other woman reaches into her bag and draws out three candies. She gives all of them to me. The look of hope on Lida’s face crumbles. The woman reaches back into the bag and draws out three more sweets. She holds them just under Lida’s nose. “Tell me how old you are and how old your little sister is.”
“Larissa is five,” Lida says. “And I am eight.”
The woman grins. She puts the three candies into Lida’s palm.
Lida grabs my hand and we run back home, giggling. Baba is asleep when we get there. Lida and I each put one of our candies on her nightstand, and then we sit together, leaning against our cold hearth, and savour our candies.
The three of us sleep together in the big bed for warmth. Usually Baba hugs us tight and sings the kolysanka. But since she is already asleep, Lida and I sing it softly to ourselves.
When I first hear the banging, I think it is a dream. I know it is real when Baba sits up in bed and wraps her bony arms around us. “Do not open the door,” she hisses.
The three of us sit in the dark, clinging to each other and praying that whoever is on the other side will go away. But the banging continues. The door bursts open. A beam of light darts through the main room, then finds the bedroom. The doorway fills with the silhouette of two soldiers; one holding a flashlight and the other pointing a rifle at us. When my eyes get used to the brightness, I see a third person — the woman in brown who gave us candy.
She comes to the bed and grabs me roughly by the arm, but Baba won’t let go. The woman turns to the soldiers. “Take her.”
Baba holds on with such strength that I have bruises on my ribcage for days after, but in the end she is no match for two armed men. One throws me over his shoulder. The other does the same with Lida.
“Baba!” I scream as they carry us out the door.
Baba falls back on the bed amid torn bedclothes, a trickle of blood on her cheek. Her arms extend towards us and the look on her face makes my heart crumble. Just before the flashlight clicks off, I notice the two candies sitting at her nightstand. Untouched.
Lida and I are thrown into the back of a truck. It smells like urine. Other children are weeping. Lida and I find each other in the darkness and clutch each other in fear and desperation.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Then a voice came.
“Nadia, are you okay?” Miss Barry.
I rubbed my eyes, blinked twice and looked around me. I was crouched in the corner of the novel room in the children’s department of the public library. In Brantford. I was safe. That girl was my sister. Lida. Where is she now?
I am not Nadia. I am not Gretchen. My name is Larissa!
I felt something warm cover my back and shoulders. “You’re shivering,” said Miss Barry. “Where is your coat?”
I looked at her but didn’t answer. My mind was still filled with images from the past.
“Let’s get you into the staff room,” she said. “There’s a sofa for you to lie down on.”
She gently picked me up and carried me into the other room. “I am going to get in touch with your parents.” I watched as her lips continued to move, but I didn’t understand anything more that she said. My mind had returned to the past …
I am in a large white room with bright lights. Maybe a hospital room, but the children are frightened, not sick. When it is my turn, the nurse makes me remove everything but my underwear. My face is hot with shame. I scream when she holds a metal instrument up to my face. “Tsk tsk,” she says, then in German, “This is a caliper — for measuring. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Her words do not comfort me. As she measures and takes notes, a different woman takes photographs of me — from the front, the side, the back.
What are they doing? What does this mean?
My nose is measured in three places. “Turn around,” she says. I feel the cold metal prongs dig into the sides of my head. She writes more numbers in her book. She measures my legs and my arms and waist. Throughout all of this, I stand there, too frightened to move.
When she is finished, she grips my left hand palm upward and I watch in fear as she carefully injects pinpricks of black into my wrist. Is this poison? When she’s finished, I hold it up to my face. It looks like a tiny mole.
She grabs my hair roughly and I feel a pinprick behind my ear. “There,” she says. “You are a Lebensborn.”
What is a Lebensborn? I know of the children who disappear. One day they are begging on the street and the next day it’s as if they never existed. Are they Lebensborn too?
Lida’s turn is next. She is measured and photographed, but isn’t marked with black.
When all the children are measured, we are sorted into two groups: those with black marks and those without. I am in one. Lida is in the other. Her group is marched to the door.
“Please!” I scream. “Let me go with my sister!”
“You are the lucky one,” says the woman in white.
“Lida!” I scream.
Lida turns and looks. Her eyes are filled with despair. She is shoved out the door. I try to run after her but they hold me back.
Days blur. Children marching. Children saluting the führer. We are given small rations of plain food. At first I gobble it down, but then I feel guilty that I can’t save some to give to Baba or Lida. The thought of eating this food makes me feel ill. I speak Ukrainian to one of the other children, but a woman in white slaps my face. “You are German!” she says. “Speak German.”
The next time I speak my own language, I am dragged away. They kick me down a flight of wooden stairs and I land on the dirt floor. It is dark and all I can see are the glowing eyes of rats. I clasp my arms around my knees and try to stay warm. When the women in white come to get me, the brightness from outside almost blinds me.
I take classes with the other children. A woman who does not smile teaches us the rules we are to live by. Ukrainians and Poles are sub-human. Those who are allowed to live will be slaves to the Aryans. “You are Aryans,” she tells us. “The people you think were your parents are thieves. They stole you from your Aryan parents and now we will give you back.”
I know she speaks lies.
“Jews are rats,” she continues. “None deserve to live.”
I think of Sarah and her parents. They were Jewish and they were taken away. Sarah’s mother had always found me bread. Sarah’s father never hurt a soul.
“You are wrong!” I cry.
I cover my mouth, but it is too late.
The other students regard me with round-eyed horror.
I am put in a truck and taken away from the other children. A soldier throws me over his shoulder and carries me up a tall set of white steps and into a mansion. I pound on his back and scream for my baba. I am locked into a bare white room and given no food or water. I pound on the door but no one comes. The next day I call in German. Someone brings water …
I was suddenly aware of the blanket that was draped over my shoulders. It had the faint scent of lavender and talcum powder. I snuggled into it, thankful for its warmth. The rush of memory faded and I looked around me. I was lying on a sofa in a room near Miss Barry’s desk. She sat on a stool in front of me, her hands gripped around a glass of water. All at once, the image of the school inspector filled my mind. “Please don’t send me back to school!”
“You’re safe with me,” said Miss Barry. “I phoned your father at the foundry. He asked me to sit with you until he can get here.”
She held the glass of water out to me. I took grateful sips. My mouth felt like sawdust. I closed my eyes.