YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO,” Mother told us, “unless you want to.”
“We’ll go,” Ruth said quickly. She had nodded to me as soon as Mother mentioned the camp that the rabbi had suggested. It was just an hour outside Zurich, and we would be able to visit Mother and Annie sometimes.
“Do you want to go, Lisa?” Mother asked me, watching my face intently.
I didn’t want to go at all to this camp for refugee children, even though Mother spoke of having playmates there and said it was a chance for us to get away from our crowded little room.
“We’ll go,” I said. “It will be fun.”
“No it won’t,” Annie shouted, bursting into tears. “I don’t want you to go! I’ll be all alone!”
“We’ll come to visit you,” I told her. “Maybe we’ll come every week.”
“Lisa, don’t go!” Annie cried, flinging her arms around me. “Take me with you.”
“It’s just for older children,” Mother tried to explain. “Someday you’ll have a chance to go somewhere, too. Lisa and Ruth would like to make new friends and see other places.”
“Let Ruth go, then!” Annie cried.
“I want to go,” I told Annie. “And somebody has to stay with Mother to keep her company.”
“That’s right,” Mother said quickly. “Think how lonesome I’d be with all my girls gone. Now you’ll be the one to help me cook, Annie, and we’ll go to the park together where you can play with other children.”
“I don’t love them. I don’t want them. I want Lisa!” Annie sobbed.
I picked her up and put her on the sofa bed. “Lie down,” I told her, “and I’ll tell you a story. I’ll tell you Cinderella.” This time when I told of the wicked stepmother, Annie began to sob again, and I hurried through to tell about the king’s ball, the glass slipper, and the prince coming to take Cinderella with him to his castle, where they lived happily ever after.
“It’s not true,” Annie said drowsily. “Things like that don’t really happen.”
“Yes they do,” I said firmly. “Good things happen all the time. Now go to sleep!”
I wanted Annie to believe in the fairy tale, just as I wanted to make myself more cheerful, as I had promised Papa I would be. I glanced at Mother and saw for the first time how thin she had become, how loosely her dress fitted over her body. She was darning our socks again, patching our pajamas, making do.
The rabbi had told Mother that he would speak to the agency personally, that they must help us. But help would be slight; there simply wasn’t enough money for everyone. Mother just couldn’t afford to keep us with her, but I tried not to think of it that way.
“At least we’ll be together,” I whispered to Ruth, when we lay in bed. “We might each have been sent to a separate family.”
“I wouldn’t want to live with another family,” Ruth whispered back. “I’d feel like a stepchild.”
“I guess it will be nice at the camp,” I said.
Ruth didn’t answer. I realized how accustomed I had become to the little room. It was, in a way, home, and the thought of going to a strange place, sleeping in a strange bed, gave me a fluttering feeling in my stomach.
That feeling of dread was with me still in the morning when Mother took us to the agency office. This time we saw a different clerk, a pretty young woman who smiled and took Mother’s hand and told Ruth and me that the cook from the camp would come to the agency to meet us. “He’s a nice old man,” she said. “He used to be chief cook at the Hofstaader Hotel in Vienna.”
He came at last, limping slightly as if one leg pained him, but he was tall and stout and robust and wore a white shirt and white trousers. His head was completely bald, except for a few bristling white hairs along the back of his neck.
“What a sweet little one!” he exclaimed, seeing Annie, and he bent down close to her. He asked us our names, then nodded to Mother. “I’m Emil Wagner,” he said, “but the children all call me Pop. I’ve almost forgotten my other name,” he chuckled.
“Come along then,” he said, taking up our suitcases. “Two more for dinner. It’s a shame we can’t take this little one too, but …” he seemed to have forgotten his train of thought. “Come along. We must hurry. There is supper to prepare. Ah, there was a time when supper was truly an event—fourteen main dishes to cook, hot rolls, pastries, glazed fruits. Everybody who was anybody came through those doors at the Hofstaader Hotel—dukes, counts, even princes, yes.”
After we had said good-bye to Mother and Annie, and Ruth and I climbed into the cab of the battered old truck, Pop continued as if he had never left off remembering. “Six cook’s helpers in my charge,” he murmured, “and two underchefs. There will come a time again. Yes, it will be so again.”
We bumped along the streets through the city, then up into the hills. The truck swayed so violently that I could hardly speak. Ruth and I looked at each other, and suddenly we both began to laugh; I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the sudden freedom of a truck ride though the country. Maybe because, inside, we were lonely. And for reasons of his own, Pop laughed with us. At last he wiped his bald head with a handkerchief and mopped his face, sighing, “Ah, such memories!”
Ruth and I sat silent. The old man was, somehow, transported into another time. At last Ruth asked him timidly, “How is it at the camp?”
“You will see,” he replied. He did not speak the rest of the way, until after he had maneuvered the truck over a series of terrible ruts, he pointed past the trees to a small clearing. “There it is. We’re home.”
The air was sultry and heavy when we stepped out of the truck and hurried behind Pop, who carried our suitcases.
It occurred to me that travelers are always following their suitcases, always in fear that they will be lost or stolen. The suitcase is the last and only familiar thing.
But even as I hurried, I glanced about. There was only the one old wooden building, somebody’s forsaken barn, perhaps, but all around it stood huge pine trees, and I could smell a deep scent of sap and pine needles, mingled with the dust from the road and the odor of earth that is damp even before the rains come.
I’m not certain what I expected. I had read Jane Eyre, and perhaps from this I dreaded an institution of any sort, and expected severe mistresses and hard little cots all in a row, with lists of rules posted on the walls, and children marching uniformly to lessons or gymnastics.
We walked through a large hallway, and I could only make out dull brown shapes of furniture in a room to one side, the kind that people give away when it is long past use. On the other side was the dining room, with three long wooden tables, and again I had the feeling that this place must once have been a stable.
Pop put down our suitcases and pointed to a door. “Just knock,” he said. “Frau Strom is inside.” He disappeared through a swinging door that must have led to the kitchen.
“Who’s Frau Strom?” I whispered to Ruth, and Ruth replied, also in a whisper, “Probably the director.”
Ruth’s knock sounded loud and bold, and I wanted to crouch back into the shadows, but the door swung open. “Yes—yes, come in.”
The voice sounded hurried, flustered, and as we entered Frau Strom gave us only a darting glance and continued to patter back and forth, plucking up an object here and there, searching aimlessly and with “tss-tss” sounds of despair. And it was no wonder that she couldn’t find anything. I had never in my life seen such a mess, powder spilled on the dresser top, clothing draped over chairs, and every little space crammed with bottles and boxes and half empty cups of tea.
She snatched her curling iron from the hot plate, which was beginning to give off a bitter smelling smoke, and, holding a bit of hair tightly between the hot iron, she turned to us.
“So you are the new girls.” She turned to the mirror, released a tight little curl and gave it a pat. Her face was marked with ruddy places, from little blood vessels that had burst, and her eyes were never still, her tone a little breathless, as if she had been rushing all day.
“Did you bring sheets?” she asked.
I shook my head, and Ruth answered aloud, “No, we didn’t. We don’t have any.”
“Same old story.” She began another curl. “They said you would come at noon.”
“We waited for the cook,” Ruth explained.
“Now I’ll have to make out a new list,” Frau Strom said accusingly. “They want it alphabetical. Why does everything have to be alphabetical? What is your last name?”
“Platt,” I said.
“Our mother is in Zurich,” Ruth supplied, “and our father is in America.”
“I’ll show you your beds.” She went to the door and motioned for us to follow.
We went up the stairs, and I wondered at the silence. Where were the children? She led us into a room with eight beds, all different, but beside each was an identical unpainted low cabinet with half a dozen cubby holes where the children kept their things.
“You can sleep here,” Frau Strom told Ruth. “It’s the only bed available. Your sister will be in the next room. It’s just as well. When sisters are together they usually fight.”
In the next room a girl about my age was sweeping the floor, her long straight hair half falling over her face. She looked up briefly when we came in, then continued with her work.
I glanced around. All the cabinets were filled, except one that stood beside a crib. I looked at Frau Strom.
“We are overcrowded,” she said. “The agency doesn’t seem to understand that I can’t make room. I have asked for more beds, but do they send them? Well, you’re not so very tall. You’ll fit. Put your things in the shelf, then. Emma, did you sweep under the beds?” she asked the girl.
“Yes,” the girl said softly, pushing back her hair.
“Here, then.” Frau Strom held out a chocolate bar, and the girl took it quickly. “Unpack your things, Lisa!” Frau Strom said, and I was surprised that she knew my name.
As soon as Frau Strom was gone, Emma began eating greedily, taking large bites of the chocolate.
“When is lunch?” I asked her.
“You missed it.”
I began to unpack, and Emma watched me, still eating.
“I’m Lisa Platt,” I told her, not at all sure that she cared.
“How do you do,” she said with some sarcasm. “I’m Emma. Emma, the housemaid.”
“What do you mean?”
“My wages,” she said, holding out what was left of the chocolate bar. “Would you like some?”
“No thanks.”
“Take a little piece, Lisa.”
I accepted, and immediately longed for more, but it was gone. “Where are the others?” I asked.
“Out playing in the woods, I guess,” Emma said. She fixed her keen blue eyes on me intently. “There’s nothing to do here, you know.”
“But what about Frau Strom?”
“What about her? She doesn’t do anything either, except curl her hair and go out shopping. It’s like a jail, you see. The worst thing about a jail,” she said, pushing back her long hair, “is that there’s nothing to do. We’re all just waiting.”
“For what?”
“Oh, different things. Some are waiting to leave Switzerland. I’m waiting to be adopted. Big chance—people only want babies. What are you waiting for?”
“To be with my father in America,” I said.
“Ah well, that is something worthwhile, at least. You won’t mind it here,” she said, smiling slightly. “The other kids aren’t bad. Say, do you play the piano?”
I shook my head. “I dance, though.”
“There’s one boy here, Werner, who plays the piano. He won’t do it anymore, though. Too many keys are stuck on that old thing in the parlor. We call Werner the professor. There’s nothing to do, but he’s always busy. He studies things, like bugs and flowers and rocks. I wish I could be that way,” she said wistfully. “I’m too restless.” She began to pace, as if to prove her words, and by her attitude it seemed that the only thing lacking were bars on the windows.
Ruth came in, looking as confused as I felt, asking, “Where is everybody?”
“Ruth, meet Emma,” I said, still unpacking my things.
“What’s that crib for?”
“Me.” I felt a lump rising in my throat.
“You can take the mattress out,” Ruth said at last, “and sleep on the floor.”
“No,” Emma said briefly. “There are mice.”
I couldn’t look at either of them. I dreaded the night, and when it came and the little room was noisy with girls all settling down into their beds, I climbed up into the crib. All talk ceased suddenly, and it seemed that everyone avoided looking at me. “Hey!” I cried out, unable to bear their silence, “look at me!” I clung to the bars and scratched violently and made faces like a monkey. Now there was laughter all around me, and they cried, “Oh, Lisa, do it again! That’s the funniest thing I ever saw!”
“Quiet now!” came Frau Strom’s voice from the corridor. The lights went out, and I curled up into sleeping position, the top panel of the crib pressing against my head.
I awakened ravenous. Supper the night before had consisted only of oatmeal and crackers and half an apple for each of us.
“When do we eat?” I asked Emma, climbing out of my bed.
“Never,” she replied. “Never enough.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“We get oatmeal and beans, oatmeal and crackers, oatmeal and apples,” Emma said, her jaw firm with anger. “Oatmeal is cheap, you see.”
“I do not see!” I cried, feeling faint from hunger.
“You will,” Emma replied.
As Emma had said, oatmeal appeared unfailingly at each meal that day and the next and the next. There was only one helping for each of us.
“Nobody complains,” I said to Ruth incredulously.
“Maybe they’re used to it,” she answered. “But I’m not!” Her face had that look of angry determination I knew so well. “Come on,” she said, yanking my arm.
She half pulled me through the dim corridor, and when we stood in front of Frau Strom’s door, she knocked loudly. There was no answer, and she knocked again, harder, and we heard a shout, “Come in!”
The radio was blaring, and Frau Strom turned to look at us. “Well, what is it?” she shouted over the noise.
“My sister and I are hungry,” Ruth said distinctly. “We would like something to eat.”
Frau Strom stared at us, and her face turned redder still, as if she could not believe her ears. Deliberately she walked to the radio and turned it off, then faced Ruth. “What did you say?”
“We’re hungry,” Ruth repeated. “May we have something to eat?”
“I saw it from the first,” said Frau Strom, her eyes blazing. “It shows in your face. You are a typical troublemaker. Have you not eaten three meals every day since you arrived? Do you hear any of the other children complaining? At least they are not rude. At least they have some gratitude. Did you expect the Ritz Hotel? This is a charity camp. Charity!” She almost screamed the word, and my hands were trembling.
“It’s no good to give charity to some people,” she went on, breathing heavily. “They’re never satisfied. Well, I will tell you something, young lady. You will appreciate what you have here, and if you should dare to come to this room again asking for special favors,” her voice shook with anger, and she stepped close to Ruth, “if you should dare, you will be punished. In other countries children are starving and you—you—get out!”
We fled, the door slamming after us, Ruth sobbing while I tried in vain to comfort her. Ruth flung herself down on her bed, and I sat down beside her. At last Ruth looked up, her face red and tear-stained, and she said between clenched teeth, “She steals the money the agency sends for our food. She uses it to buy clothes.”
“Oh, Ruth,” I began, and then we heard Emma’s calm voice from the doorway.
“It’s true, of course,” Emma said. “She goes to town two or three times a week and comes back with boxes and boxes of clothes. She’s going again this afternoon. She had Pop get the car out for her. It’s our luck when she goes.”
“What do you mean?” Ruth asked, wiping her eyes.
“Pop will give us something to eat when she’s gone. He can never refuse us. He’s a nice old man, but a little bit …” she tapped her finger on her forehead, “you know, strange.”
As soon as Frau Strom’s car was out of sight, all of us as if on signal walked down to the kitchen, with Emma and Werner in the lead. For the first time the house rang with the noise of twenty-three boys and girls all talking at once, and there was a great deal of pushing and laughing as we crowded into the kitchen.
Pop turned from the sink, where he was washing a large pot. “Yes, my children, come in, little ones.”
There was laughter, for Werner, at sixteen was nearly as tall as the old man. “Do you have something for us, Pop?” Werner asked gravely.
“Well, chicken I do not have.” The old man smiled, his head bobbing. “Nor do I have eggs nor chopped livers. If you had seen the luncheon spread at the Hotel Hofstaader, the buffet filled, and on an ordinary day, without even any dignitaries …”
“Do you have some bread, Pop?” Werner asked gently.
Pop opened the pantry and took out a long loaf. “That I have,” he said, “and how about some applesauce on top?”
He cut a thick slice for each of us and spread it generously with applesauce. “It should have a touch of cinnamon,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “but there is none.
The agency doesn’t pay for frills, Frau Strom always says. A woman quite in a class by herself.”
We all laughed, cheered by the food, and Werner said, “Tell us more about the hotel, Pop.”
I couldn’t understand Werner’s interest or the eagerness of the other children as they crowded close around the stool where Pop sat and began dreamily to share his memories.
I noticed then finally that Werner turned and gave a slight nod to two of the other boys. I saw them take off their jackets and move slowly away from the group, circling toward the pantry. They slipped noiselessly into the small storeroom. When they came out, they moved toward the door, holding their jackets, now curiously lumpy, under their arms.
Now the group began to separate, and Werner said, “We’ll go outside now, Pop. Thanks for telling us. It sounds very exciting.”
“Ah, yes,” Pop sighed, nodding and mopping his face. “That was a time, a time to remember.”
Once outside, the boys began to run, and the girls, laughing wildly, followed. I was caught up in the excitement and ran with them, not knowing where we were going or why, thinking only how wonderful it was to be running in the sunshine through the woods, feeling the wind in my hair.