Laura shifted uncomfortably as her mother continued talking to her on the drive to Mrs Mandelcorn’s place.
‘It may be difficult to understand this lady at first, but you’ll get used to the way she talks,’ her mother said. ‘It’s just like my Aunt Yvonne. These days, I hardly notice her German accent at all.’
Her mother had insisted that she drive Laura over to the apartment where Mrs Mandelcorn lived, even though Laura had wanted to take the bus, or ride her bike. A long bike ride would have helped clear her head and prepare her for this meeting. But her mom had not let up. Laura finally gave in.
The less her mother became involved in this project the better, thought Laura again. Not that she wasn’t grateful for the things her mom did. Laura’s mom was the car pool queen, transporting Laura and her friends whenever and wherever they wanted to go, often rearranging her own schedule to fit theirs. ‘Sometimes I feel as if I was born with a steering wheel in my hands,’ she often joked. Laura enjoyed hanging out with her mother. The two of them loved going to those sappy girly movies that her dad never wanted to see. And her mom was great to talk to – usually – just as long as she didn’t get over-involved in things. And just as Laura had feared, her mother was beginning to turn this twinning project into something bigger than Laura wanted it to be.
‘I’m only going to visit this lady once,’ Laura had insisted after she had explained everything to her parents and showed them the information from Rabbi Gardiner. ‘Maybe she’ll have a story about a child from the Holocaust that she can tell me. Then I can combine it with some stuff from my last year’s project.’ And that would be that – simple and straightforward. But Laura’s mother had other ideas.
‘It would be fascinating if we could do some research on my family tree,’ her mother had said enthusiastically. ‘I have distant relatives in Austria and the Czech Republic – cousins of your late grandmother. They and their parents were survivors of the Holocaust. I realise now that we haven’t talked enough about that time with you. No one from our immediate family was involved. Your grandparents were born here and never went through the war in Europe. But I realise that this history is so important to all of us. I haven’t been in touch with those relatives in years, but maybe if you wrote to them and explained what you were doing, you could write something about them along with this new story — ’
‘Mom, stop!’ Laura had insisted. ‘My Bat Mitzvah is only a few weeks away. And this is just one visit!’
‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ Laura’s mother said now, as she pulled into the driveway of a small low-rise apartment building. ‘I’m going to take Emma to the mall and get her some new shoes.’
Laura’s little sister squealed from the back seat of the van. ‘I want running shoes with lights on them.’ She had a mop of dark curly hair that bounced up and down each time the car hit a bump in the road.
Laura smiled. ‘Pink ones, Em?’
Emma nodded enthusiastically. ‘Pink and yellow. And ice-cream after.’
‘Only if you’re good, Emma. That’s our deal,’ Laura’s mother said wearily. ‘Is this the right place?’
Laura glanced down at the sheet of paper. ‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Number 250 Morton Street, apartment 301.’ It was a modest apartment building in a quiet part of the city.
‘Should I come up with you to make sure?’ her mother asked.
Laura shook her head. ‘It’s the right place. I’ll call you if there’s a problem.’ Laura hated it when her mother became so overprotective, treating her as if she were a child, like Emma.
‘Just remember to be polite,’ her mother said. ‘And patient, even if you don’t understand everything she is saying at first.’
‘I know, I know.’ Laura wished her mother would park the car, stop talking, and let her get on with this.
‘And remember to thank her at the end for taking the time to talk to you.’
‘Goodbye, Mom. Have fun, Emma.’ Laura grabbed her backpack and got out of the car. She waited until her mother had pulled out of the driveway before approaching the door of the building. Laura glanced at the names on the board before pressing the buzzer beside apartment 301. A few seconds passed and then a small voice crackled out of the intercom. ‘Yes?’
‘Uh … hello? Mrs Mandelcorn? I’m Laura Wyman. I called you yesterday.’ Another few seconds and then the buzzer sounded.
The door to Mrs Mandelcorn’s apartment was open when Laura got off the elevator on the third floor. No one was there. Laura paused and then knocked on the open door. ‘Hello? Mrs Mandelcorn? Um … it’s Laura.’ What now, she wondered, cautiously poking her head into the apartment and glancing around.
‘Yes, hello,’ a voice called out from another room. ‘Please come in. I’m afraid I’m not quite ready yet. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Why are people always late? Laura wondered as she sighed, stepped over the threshold, and gazed around. The apartment was densely furnished with sofas, chairs and a carved oak dining table and sideboard. But besides the assortment of furniture, the apartment was filled with wooden sculptures, a collection of vases and flowerpots, porcelain statues and figurines of all shapes and sizes. It was like walking into one of those antique shops her mother loved so much – overflowing with odds and ends. Two enormous bookshelves dominated one corner of the living room. They sagged under the weight of dozens of books – hard and softcover, leaning and toppling onto one another like passengers in a crowded subway. An old upright piano sat in another corner, adorned with family photographs in silver, gold and wooden frames. Similar photographs covered the walls of the apartment, along with paintings and pencil sketches. Laura paused in front of a particularly beautiful one of a sunset by a lake. It dominated one wall.
‘I’m afraid I am a collector of tchotchkes.’ Laura spun around to face the small elderly woman who had entered the room. ‘I’m so sorry to be late – a bad habit, I’m afraid. I’m so happy to meet you, Laura.’ Mrs Mandelcorn was dressed in a stylish pair of black pants and a red sweater. Her shortly cropped hair was neatly brushed behind her ears. From the voice on the telephone, Laura had pictured a weak and frail old woman. But Mrs Mandelcorn appeared strong and vigorous, even if she was short. She had a warm smile that moved all the way up her face to her twinkling eyes. ‘Do you know this word, tchotchkes?’ she asked, sweeping her arm around the room.
Laura shook her head. It sounded as if Mrs Mandelcorn had said ‘theese vord’. She was going to have to pay close attention to understand what this woman was saying. Mrs Mandelcorn laughed softly and her dark eyes crinkled into soft folds. ‘Ornaments. Little playthings. I didn’t have many things as a child, and I’ve more than made up for it now.’
Laura glanced back at the photographs on the wall. ‘My children,’ said Mrs Mandelcorn as if reading her mind. ‘My son and my daughter are both married, and I have five grandchildren,’ she said proudly. ‘They don’t visit me often enough, but I’m not complaining. I’m blessed to have them. Come sit down, Laura.’ When Mrs Mandelcorn said her name she rolled the ‘r’, prolonging the sound like a soft musical note – Laurrrrra. It was lyrical and sweet.
Mrs Mandelcorn pushed aside a knitted shawl that had been casually thrown over the sofa and invited Laura to sit down. ‘I’ve made you some chocolate cake. Every young person likes chocolate, right?’
Laura nodded and smiled, and accepted a slice of cake and a glass of lemonade.
‘I love to bake, but I don’t have the opportunity to do much these days. How much cake can an old woman like me eat?’
Laura glanced around. ‘Do you live by yourself?’
Mrs Mandelcorn shook her head. ‘My husband, Max, died many years ago. That’s when my younger sister came to live with me. She’s not here right now,’ she added.
‘I have a younger sister too,’ said Laura, struggling to make conversation. ‘She’s only five.’
Mrs Mandelcorn smiled. ‘My sister is my best friend. I can’t imagine my life without her.’
Laura frowned. There were days when she wished she were an only child and Emma wasn’t anywhere in her life. Her little sister was cute when she was on her best behaviour, but at other times she was whiny and demanding. She had one of those beautiful porcelain faces that everyone loved. And she used her adorable charm to her advantage whenever she could. It infuriated Laura when her parents gave in to Em.
‘You have lots of books,’ Laura said, trying to make small talk. ‘You must love to read.’
Mrs Mandelcorn’s eyes lit up. ‘There are not enough hours in the day to read everything I would like. I was a teacher once, you know? I learnt English as a child – mostly from books – and taught it to adults like me who had come from Europe after the war. Can you imagine me, with my accent, teaching English?’ Mrs Mandelcorn laughed again. Laura was beginning to warm up to her.
‘Were you in the war too?’ Laura regretted the question as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Mrs Mandelcorn fell silent and a small shadow passed across her eyes. Her shoulders slumped and she turned her face away, gazing for a moment into space. Clearly this was a sensitive topic.
‘Well,’ said Laura, struggling to break the silence. ‘As I explained on the telephone, Rabbi Gardiner gave me your number and said you might have some information for me. You see, I’m supposed to do this project —’
Mrs Mandelcorn raised her hand. ‘Yes, Laura. I know why you are here and I have something for you.’ Without another word, Mrs Mandelcorn stood up and left the room. Laura wished she could leave as well. This woman was sweet and very kind. But there was sadness in her. She reminded Laura of her mother’s Aunt Yvonne, who had never been the same after her husband died. She cried whenever someone mentioned his name. Mrs Mandelcorn seemed like that. She tried to cover her sadness with her smile, but Laura could feel that ever-present sorrow and it was intense.
A moment later, Mrs Mandelcorn returned. ‘I think everything you want to know is here.’ With that, she held out a small book. Laura reached out to touch it and then quickly withdrew her hand. There was something here that made her uneasy – she didn’t know what.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Mrs Mandelcorn, noting Laura’s hesitation and pushing the book toward her. ‘Take it.’
Laura took the book and turned it over in her hands, holding it as if it were a fragile piece of glass. It was bound in a deep brown soft leather cover that was shiny in some places, and worn down and rough in others, as though someone had held it in exactly the same way for years. Laura unwound the string that encircled the book, opened it to the first page, and gazed at the youthful handwriting. It was written in a foreign language, but underneath the title page was printed in English, The Diary of Sara Gittler, Warsaw Ghetto, 1941– 43.
‘Whose is it?’ asked Laura.
‘It belonged to a young girl,’ Mrs Mandelcorn replied. ‘It was written in Polish, but I translated it into English a long time ago. The English I learnt as a child came in handy, no?’
Another mystery, thought Laura. ‘I don’t quite understa—’
‘Take it home with you,’ interrupted Mrs Mandelcorn. ‘The rabbi told me you were looking for a story – a child from the Holocaust to remember. Perhaps you will find something here that will help you.’
Shortly after, Laura said goodbye and left the apartment. Her mother was waiting outside when she emerged. Had a full hour really gone by? It had felt like minutes. Laura was quiet on the ride home. Her mother tried to ask some questions, but Laura wouldn’t respond. In the end, Emma made up for both of them; she chatted happily about her new running shoes all the way home. For once, Laura was grateful to have her little sister as a diversion.
Once at home, Laura disappeared quickly into her bedroom, closing the door behind her and sinking onto her bed. In the background, she could hear Emma making a fuss about going to bed. Her mom was talking to her, probably trying to make some kind of deal – two stories, three hugs, a glass of water, and then lights out. But Emma would have none of it and continued to wail until her mom’s voice rose sharply. Laura’s phone rang – probably Nix or Adam calling to ask about her visit to Mrs Mandelcorn. But Laura ignored the ring. She tried to block out all the sounds and distractions in her home. She stared down at the leather book.
What was her hesitation in opening it? It was the same feeling of uncertainty she had had when Rabbi Gardiner had first talked about the twinning project and when Adam had talked about his grandfather. And Laura was beginning to realise that it wasn’t just about feeling stressed and being overworked. The truth was, she always had lots of activities, thrived on them. That wasn’t it. The thing that was preventing her from diving into this project was here, between the pages of this book – a fear growing in the pit of Laura’s stomach that she was going to find something inside that might be more than she could bear. Was she really ready to jump into this when it felt as if she were leaping from some high place without a net?
Laura shuddered. She had to shake this feeling. If Adam were here, he’d tell her to snap out of it and stop being so melodramatic. He’d quote some Beatles lyrics about taking a sad song and making it better, or something like that. Adam always said that Laura worried about stuff way too much, while he could sum up life in three words – ‘no big deal’. At that thought, Laura smiled and finally opened the leather book. She thumbed through the pages, stopping periodically to stare at the script. The girl who had written this had perfect handwriting; the letters were evenly formed and painstakingly executed. There was hardly one scratched-out word. Dates were written at the top of several pages, and in the margins there were hand-drawn simple pictures; a small cat, what looked like a loaf of bread, and an armband with the Star of David, the symbol of the Jewish religion. Finally, Laura turned to the back of the diary and to the typewritten pages that Mrs Mandelcorn had added. Taking a deep breath, Laura began to read.
I love to write. I think I have been writing my whole life – stories, poetry, songs. Whenever I’ve been excited by a birthday party or a sunset, I’ve tried to write down how I felt about it. Whenever I have been angry with my parents or teachers, I’ve turned to writing as a way of expressing those thoughts that are too difficult to say out loud. But here’s the thing – my life has become so awful in the past few months that I haven’t felt like writing at all. I’ve avoided my diary. But the truth is I could never stop writing forever. And if there were ever a time when I needed to write things down, now is that time.
We’ve been here in the ghetto for six months now, but it feels more like six years, six decades, forever! When the walls were finished and everyone was moved inside, we were lucky to find a small apartment for the six of us. Some families have to share with strangers. That’s what happened to my friend, Deena, and her parents. They are living with an old couple and Deena says the old man snores and barely even speaks to her. Deena says they are all jammed together the way her grandmother used to bottle pickles – one next to the other until there was no space left in the jar.
At least we’ve been able to stay together. And by we, I mean my parents, my brother, David, my little sister, Hinda, and my grandmother, Bubbeh. There are six of us crammed into two small rooms here at Wolynska Street number 28, close to Zamenhofa Street. I share a room with Bubbeh. Hinda stays with Mama and Tateh because she’s the youngest. David sleeps in the tiny kitchen. He has a cot by the stove. But many nights he isn’t there at all. He goes out and no one knows where he goes.
David is sixteen years old. He has sunny blond hair and blue eyes just like Mama’s. But his face is full of clouds. That’s what Tateh says when I ask him why David has stopped speaking to me. Tateh says, ‘David’s disposition is like a cloudy day with rainstorms on the horizon.’ He says David’s anger will pass and ‘his sunny temperament will reappear’. Mama says it’s just a stage he’s going through, that most sixteen-year-old boys go through a time when they become silent and distant. But David has been angry for years, ever since things became worse for Jews in Warsaw. The worst day for David was the day he was no longer allowed to go to school. That was at about the same time as when they changed the name of Pilsudski Square in downtown Warsaw to Adolf Hitler Square, and declared it off-limits to Jews. I don’t think David’s anger is going to let up soon at all.
Hinda is only six. I doubt she can really remember a time in her life that was different from the way things are now. She has always lived with rules about what she can and mostly can’t do. She has only known a life where she must be afraid of being Jewish. Hinda has an imaginary friend whose name is Julia. Julia takes Hinda to the zoo and to the park, and places we all used to go to before they were forbidden to Jews.
And then there’s me. I’m right in the middle – twelve years old. I’m short – too short, if you ask me – and I have brown eyes and dark wavy hair. I know I look like Tateh and I don’t mean to complain, but I wish I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my father. He is gentle and loving and strong. But I do wish I looked more like Mama. Everyone says she is pretty. She has soft delicate features. Even though her hair is dull these days and she has lost so much weight, I still see how beautiful she is.
No one says that about me. They say I’m smart, and I am. I used to stand first in my class, when I was still allowed to go to school. Tateh tells me I’m beautiful all the time, but that’s just because he’s my Tateh. My features are sharp. My mouth is wide and I have annoying freckles across my nose and cheeks that are even more noticeable when I am in the sun. Just once, I wish someone besides Tateh would tell me I was beautiful.
It’s funny. When Hitler was deciding who would be part of his perfect race, he decided that it would only include people who were Aryan – those with blue eyes and blonde hair, which is how many Germans look. If you had dark features like me and Tateh and so many Jews, you couldn’t be part of Hitler’s perfect race, and you were targeted for discrimination. But here’s the thing.
Adolf Hitler had dark hair and eyes.
Mama and David are blonde and delicate, while Hitler has dark eyes and a large nose. I’ve never seen him in real life but I’ve seen his picture on posters. So, in that perfect world that Hitler has imagined, Mama and David should be included while Hitler himself should be left out! I know it’s not that simple. I know it’s not just about how we look. I know it’s about who we are – Jews. And Jews don’t belong in Hitler’s perfect world. But it is ironic, don’t you think?
So that’s us – David, Hinda and me. We are so different – in age, in how we act and how we look. But in the end, there is something the same about the three of us and that is that we are all trying to escape this prison in some way. David escapes the hard times by becoming silent. Hinda escapes by using her imagination. I write my thoughts down. I guess we all need our own escape.
August 12, 1941
Deena Katz is my best friend. We’ve known each other forever, even before the ghetto. We grew up in houses next to each other and we used to be in the same class at school. Thank goodness she’s here in the ghetto. I can’t imagine being here without a friend.
We look nothing alike, Deena and me. Just like my brother, David, Deena is tall and blonde. But my Tateh says we could be sisters – twins even. We finish each other’s sentences as if we know what the other one is thinking. Deena is an only child, so she loves telling everyone that I’m her sister. People stare at us, wondering how two such different-looking girls could be related. And then Deena just laughs and walks away.
Deena is one of the most talented people I know. She can draw better than anyone. She wants to be a famous artist one day and I bet she will become one. She can draw anything and make it look better than the real thing. Not like me; I draw sticks with circles on top, and I call those my people.
When we first moved to the ghetto, Deena told me that she brought her sketch paper and coloured pencils. It seems like each of us brought something special and personal into the ghetto – something to remember the life we once knew. I brought a few of my favourite books, like War with the Newts, written by Karel Capek, who is a very famous author from Czechoslovakia. The story is about a group of giant lizards that grow stronger and stronger until they are at war with mankind. I think I’ve read that book so many times I could almost recite it from heart. I’ve even learnt to speak a little English after using a dictionary to work my way through How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn. My cousin, Dvora, who lives in England, once sent it to me for my birthday. I love the sound of English words. That book is about a family living in Wales, the Morgans. There are seven children in the family; the youngest is ten-year-old Huw Morgan who tells the story. The family is poor and they struggle every day just to get by. But they love one another, and that’s what keeps them going despite their hardships. I can relate to both of those books and the stories they tell. The lizards are evil monsters, just like the Nazis, getting stronger and more dangerous each day. And my family is close and loving like the Morgans. Despite everything that has happened to us, we depend on each other now more than ever. I think that’s why I love those books so much. They are so close to the life I am living.
Tateh brings home books from time to time. He gets them on the black market, trading for them with a piece of Mama’s china or an old record. Mama always looks annoyed. She says, ‘Books won’t fill our empty stomachs.’ She wants Tateh to barter for flour, or vegetables, or even a warm scarf for the coming winter.
But Tateh always replies, ‘Books nourish the soul. And that, too, is important. I’ll go without the scarf to see my Sara read,’ he adds as Mama makes that ‘tsk, tsk’ sound and turns away.
But back to Deena. I know she is running low on sketch paper and her coloured pencils are becoming smaller. ‘I can only draw the most important things now,’ she says. ‘I can’t waste any paper.’ Deena stares at me from behind her glasses. She has to be so careful with them – they are the only pair she owns. And if they get broken, then Deena says it doesn’t matter how many coloured pencils she has. She won’t be able to see or draw a thing!
If you ask me, none of Deena’s pictures are a waste. Each one is beautiful. Deena has given me a few of her sketches – the ones I love most. There’s the one of the robin that she sketched when it landed miraculously in the courtyard a few weeks ago. I hadn’t seen a bird in so long and I almost cried out loud. But Deena shushed me, pulled out her sketchpad, and quickly drew the robin while it posed for her. But my favourite drawing of all is the one of the sun setting on a blue lake. It reminds me of the northern part of Poland by the Baltic Sea where we used to go for family holidays in the summer. I’ve told Deena that I’ll keep her drawings forever and when she’s famous, we’ll put them in an exhibition that everyone will come and see.
People bartered books and other things in the ghetto.
Sometimes Deena feels as if she has to hurry to draw. She says, ‘I have to create as many pictures as I possibly can before —’
‘Don’t say it!’ I shout angrily at her, knowing even before the words are out of her mouth that she is going to say that things in the ghetto are only getting worse. I don’t want to think of anything bad that might happen and I don’t want Deena to talk of these things. But deep down, I understand what Deena is trying to say, that there won’t be time to do the things she needs to do. Something is going to happen and we are all waiting for it. Even though we are locked inside these ghetto walls, we can’t forget the world that is outside. But the bits of news that reach us from beyond the gates of the ghetto are never good.
David tells me that there are ghettos just like this one in Kovno, Minsk, Bialystok and Lvov. We have relatives in all of those cities, and I wonder if they, like us, are living behind walls and gates with nothing to eat and nowhere to go. It sounds like the Nazi armies are getting stronger and more powerful. They have invaded other countries like Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. They have arrested Jews in Paris and other cities. We hear that information from people on the street. They spread the news to one another in whispers. I know there are radios in the ghetto even though it’s forbidden to own one. And sometimes, even though it scares me to hear the news, I force myself to listen. I have to know what’s happening. Maybe if I know, I’ll be able to do something – help in some way. Tateh says that things will get better soon, but I don’t think he is telling the truth. And if he isn’t telling the truth about that, then what else is he keeping from me?