“MISHA, GET AWAY FROM THAT window already,” Mother orders from the kitchen.
But I don’t. I can’t. Because it’s not every day that an entire army marches right past your building.
First there were actual tanks. Dozens of them. Their treads whirring loudly, their cannons pointing straight ahead. And then the motorcycles with their sidecars. How I’d love to ride in one of those. Just not with a Nazi, of course. But with Father, definitely.
Only he’s still in London, which is really unfair. Mother’s here, but it’s not the same, because she’d never drive a motorcycle. She did stand by the window with me for a few minutes, her hand on my shoulder, breathing deeply, like she was preparing to dive into a deep, deep lake. Then she shook her head and was gone.
Maybe it was when the people lining the streets started saluting the motorcycles. The way Germans salute. Even some people in the balconies across the way were doing it. Arm straight, hand open, fingers together. The whole thing shooting out diagonally from your chest. Almost like when you really want the teacher to call on you in class. I’ve done it myself, just to try it out. In my room, with the door closed. Because Mother and Father would kill me if they saw.
I can hear her now. In the kitchen with Christina, her friend from down the street. Now that they’ve turned off the radio, I can hear that they’re whispering about something. Even with all the noise from below.
And where is Marietta? Probably in her room reading. She acts like every other big sister, like she doesn’t care about anything. But how can you not care about this? An entire army, probably the strongest one in the whole world, right outside our window.
Here come the soldiers. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Marching in perfect rectangles. Seven soldiers across, and probably twenty from front to back. Twenty at least. Giant marching rectangles. Too many to count. And just like everyone’s arms when they salute, their legs are completely straight. The knees never bend. All their feet come up together, toes shooting straight out, the same foot at the same time. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. Feet shooting out past their round metal helmets, which are dark, dull green. Almost gray even. And they don’t seem to move, their helmets don’t. Just like the guns resting on their shoulders don’t move.
“Leci,” I call her name, because I can hear her straightening out the living room, even though it’s already clean. There’s not much work for our nanny this afternoon, since I can tell Mother was straightening up nonstop from the second I went off to school this morning.
“Yes, Misha?”
I point down to the street. “What are those?” She comes over, bringing her Leci smell with her. Sugar and soap and something else I can never figure out.
“Those?” she asks, her long, thin face completely still.
“The shiny things sticking off the top of their guns. What are those?”
“Bayonets,” she says. “Attached to their rifles, Misha.”
“They look like knives,” I say. “But why would you need a knife if you already have a rifle? Can you shoot with them attached like that? Do our soldiers have them too?”
Only she doesn’t answer. She’s gone. The soldiers keep marching down below. More and more people are saluting, like they’re happy to have this huge army in our city. They’ve even stretched this giant red flag—I guess it’s a banner—across part of the crowd. All red except for the white circle with the black swastika in the middle. It’s a cloudy, cloudy day, but the red, it’s still so bright. The Germans must be pretty organized if they remembered to bring flags and banners with all this other stuff, too.
“Misha,” Leci says, back again, “have some.” And she hands me a small plate of cookies. Stars and moons and swirls. I bet she could make a swastika-shaped cookie, not that I’d eat it. So weird, just handing me a plate of cookies like that. She knows I’m not allowed to eat out here. She’s told me so herself a thousand times. Not that I’m about to say anything.
Then she’s gone again. The house is so quiet. Did Christina leave? It would be weird if she did, because she always kisses me on both cheeks whenever she leaves, her light blond hair covering my entire face while she bends over. Mother must have gone to her room. That’s okay, more cookies for me.
When will this parade end? How can there still be more soldiers coming? But no one outside is going anywhere. Not even the people in the balconies. And what is that one couple doing? Why are they standing on the outside of the railing? Even Jarek, the bravest boy in our class, wouldn’t do something that crazy. Not five stories up from the street he wouldn’t. No way.
They’re holding hands. Which leaves them only one hand to keep hold of the railing. My mouth opens to call out for Mother, but something keeps me from making a sound. And it’s not the half-eaten cookie in my mouth.
Only the edges of their feet are still on the balcony’s ledge. What are they doing? Why don’t they get down?! C’mon, don’t be stupid, get off of there already!
They jump.
They jump!
Or did they just let go? Doesn’t matter, because now they’re in the air, his hat flying off immediately, her dress opening up. Like a parachute. Only it’s much too small. It’s not going to save her, and she’s not going to save him. They’re falling so fast, even though their bodies slowly turn to the side at the same time. They’re falling!
I push my face right up to the window to see, but my breath immediately fogs up everything. So I run around to a different window, on the other side of the couch, only I trip on the edge of the coffee table. My elbow hits the floor hard, and suddenly I get this feeling that I made the whole thing up, because why would anyone jump off a balcony? Even if the Nazis are really mean, how could you just decide to jump, because what could be worse than jumping straight to the ground from that high? My eyes must be fooling me.
So I get back up, but I can’t decide where to go, because the smart thing to do would be to go get Mother. Especially if that couple really jumped, especially if they’re lying flat on the ground right now. I don’t want to think what will happen if I look and see them there, maybe with blood coming out from wherever blood would come out when you hit the ground that hard.
But if I get Mother and it didn’t happen, and I really, really, really hope it didn’t happen, then that’ll be bad too. Mother will look at me like I’m crazy, or get mad at me for even imagining such a thing, or will tell me, again, that I’ve been going to sleep too late since Father has been gone. Then she’ll make me go to sleep early, which would be the worst, because even if it didn’t happen, I already have a feeling I’m not going to be able to fall asleep tonight for a long, long time.
I stand there not knowing what to do, but soon that doesn’t matter. Because I see it. Them, actually. Out of the corner of my eye. The couple. Facedown, still holding hands, their bodies in the shape of a crooked V, which is barely five feet away from the marching soldiers. Who barely seem to notice. I don’t see any blood, but that doesn’t make me feel any better, not at all.
I take a few slow steps to the window and call out, “Mother,” but the word doesn’t make much sound. Dozens and dozens of soldiers are marching right past them, like that crooked V is nothing more than some sheets someone left outside by mistake. I try calling Mother again, but my throat won’t work.
What kind of army trains you not to notice people falling out of the sky? What kind of soldier marches perfectly straight even when he’s marching right past a crooked, dead V?
And that couple, did they know something the rest of us don’t? Is there a chance they weren’t just crazy? Like, I don’t know, maybe they were in Germany a couple of weeks ago and saw what it’s going to be like here. Maybe they were barely able to escape from Germany and thought they’d be safe here. Maybe they’re not crazy at all, because they know there’s nothing worse than living where the Nazis are in charge.
I know it’s not nice to think this, but I sure hope they were just crazy. Even if that means being crazy enough to jump like they did. Because if they weren’t crazy, if they knew exactly what they were doing, well, then I don’t even know what that means.
Suddenly I feel like going to my room too. I grab another cookie, but I have a feeling I won’t eat it. Mother walks out of the bathroom when I reach the hallway. My mouth opens to tell her what I just saw, but then it decides not to say anything. Maybe it thinks that if I don’t say anything, it still might turn out to be something my eyes made up.
Mother leans over to kiss my head, but I make sure not to slow down. I hear her say something about me practicing my violin, but I ignore it. Next thing I know I’m sitting on my bed, staring at a star-shaped cookie, one of its points broken off, the whole thing ruined by all that sweat in my hand.