Thousands of Belgian refugees, trying to escape the Nazi invasion, took to the Brussels–Louvain road, fleeing westward.
I didn’t realize how animated objects become in a house filled with people. Tea cups jiggle on plates. Chairs move forwards and backwards under the leaf of a table. Flowers arrange themselves with dignity in a glass vase. Peanut shells tumble into a flat hand, swept suddenly into a wastepaper basket. But without people, a straw broom becomes a monument, as solid and motionless as an obelisk. Shoes seem cemented to the floor. Pencils, books, umbrellas, shawls . . . they all seem to be dead.
Hava sat on the floor in her parents’ home, willing the silk robe to jump onto the warm shoulders of her mother, aching to see the little paper crown jump up and adorn the beautifully shaped head of her brother. ‘Where are they?’ Hava asked repeatedly.
‘Perhaps they’re with friends?’ I suggested again. ‘The Arnoffs, or the Bergmanns live near the synagogue. Perhaps they’re there. Sergeant De Waden said that the Germans were already across the border, heading this way into Brussels. We must leave!’
More planes marred the morning sky. The windows began to rattle under the thrum of their latest approach. I looked outside and saw an intermittent glow rise and fall over the northern section of the city.
‘Hitler is very close, Hava! Pack some clothes and come with me. We’ll go to my house. I need to collect some things as well. We can’t stay here. We’ll be killed.’. A German invasion was no longer a theoretical possibility. It was happening. People were dying in the streets. We needed to leave. But Hava wasn’t moving. She seemed to mirror the inanimate household objects. She didn’t look up at me. She didn’t move her hands. She just sat on the floor like a brass Buddha, immobile, expressionless.
‘Hava!’ I pleaded with her. ‘We can’t stay here! Hava!’
I slumped down beside her and spoke slowly and directly. ‘Hava. The Germans are coming. We can’t stay here. Find a bag and some clothes. Do you know if your parents have any money in the house?’
Hava finally looked up at me and said, ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps they’re with the Bergmanns. I know the Bergmanns. They sit next to us in the synagogue. We can go to their home and look for my parents.’
The windows rattled again, tormented by the blasts of the latest bombing raid. ‘Hava,’ I begged. ‘There’s no time. We must hurry.’