Okay, for now I’m going to keep this secret between Great-Grandma Anna, me . . . and Madeline.
It was so hard to keep the diary hidden from my family, but I had no choice. I initially brought it with me in the car, but there was no way to even take it out without everyone seeing and getting curious, so I transferred it to my bag in the trunk when we stopped at a rest stop in New Jersey. By the time we got home, I was dying to get back to it. Madeline texted when she saw our car pass her house, asking if I could hang out. I wanted to see her, but I couldn’t wait another second to look at the diary again, and I was itching to share this discovery with someone anyway. So I brought it with me.
In her basement, Madeline turned the diary over in her hands and gingerly flipped through the pages. She said, “This is so. Freaking. Awesome.”
“I know, right?”
“What do you think this language is?”
“I don’t know, but she translated it into English as an adult,” I said. “See how the dates are the same on all those entries, and then she put a new date underneath? I think that t means ‘translated.’”
“Look at her handwriting,” Madeline said. “It’s like the sample handwriting in cursive books.”
“Seriously. This is the first time I’m actually glad I can read cursive.”
Madeline started reading the first English page. I watched as her eyes ran across the page and zigzagged back down, reading the words that my great-grandmother wrote. I had the urge to reach out and snatch the book back. This wasn’t Madeline’s story to investigate, for the radio or anywhere. I didn’t even know if it was rightly mine.
“Did you know that your great-grandma was a twin?” Madeline asked.
I didn’t. I wondered if my mom knew, or even Grandpa Fred.
“I wonder what happened to her family,” Madeline said. “All those siblings she left behind. Can you imagine growing up somewhere, not knowing what happened to your family? Your twin? Your parents? You’d probably be always wondering, forever.”
I looked at Madeline, waiting for it to sink in. That I could imagine it, very well. That she was right: You’d always be wondering, forever. Maybe I did have a right to this story after all.
I saw Madeline get it, an invisible lightbulb dinging on above her head. She handed the diary back to me. But what was I going to do? Make my best friend sit there and watch me read? I opened the diary and held it between us so we could both read together.
23 August 1941
t. July 1950
Dear Belle,
I am aboard a ship called the S.S. Mouzinho. It is a big and fat thing that by the strange beauty of science can float. You are at home I suppose, with a whole bed to yourself now. You are the only 12-year-old in our family. I am jealous. Yet you are jealous of me, I know. I wish we could be jealous together.
Everything happened so quickly, I still cannot understand it. Twins are not meant to be apart. We are, and it is done for now, but I can barely add 2 and 2 without you beside me, reading my mind and telling your own. That’s why I’m addressing this journal to you. Paper and ink are no substitute for my twin sister, of course, but until you follow me to this new life, what choice do I have? I cannot mail these letters, not with the war and the censors. But addressing them to you, pretending I am telling you everything as we lay side by side in our bed . . . it’s the only way for me to try and make sense of it all.
Just two weeks ago you were sitting on the floor of our room with your legs stretched out long as you painted your toenails red. (Ever since the occupation, we’ve had little bread and only powdered milk and that horrid black soap, but you, Belle, have enough polish to make your nails a different color every day until the Germans surrender.) I was standing in our doorway watching the adults have one of their late-night conversations. I am imagining them now, hunched over the table, rubbing their temples and whispering in Yiddish. I can still smell that odd combination of grass and herbs Grandfather has been putting in his pipe since the tobacco ran out. I was straining to hear them but could make out few words. (What they wanted, of course. Speaking in Yiddish means their words are not meant for “die kinder.”) No matter, we both knew what they were discussing . . . the war, the Nazis, our miserable life in occupation. How the Nazis were taking apart the Great Synagogue stone by stone. How we needed to get out. It is all they’ve talked of for months, ever since Rabbi Serebrenik was attacked and not even Papa and his rosy glasses could ignore what was happening.
Do you remember what I said to you that night, just two weeks ago? I said, “Where do you think we will go?”
You guessed France, to Mama’s family. I said, “It’s even worse there,” and you said, “Belgium, then.” But we both knew Belgium wasn’t safe either.
Then Oliver came into our room. He was wearing his pajamas . . . the ones that were once Greta’s, pale blue with dots of pink hearts . . . and dragging his bear along by one paw. He knew where we were going . . . America.
Maybe Oliver could hear better from his and Kurt’s room, but he can’t know more Yiddish than we do. He was likely just being Oliver . . . picking up on all the small clues the rest of us missed. I had no doubt he was right. Neither did you . . . I could see stars in your eyes. You said, “I hope we go to Georgia, like in ‘Gone with the Wind.’ Or Hollywood! That’s even better, because that’s where they made ‘Gone with the Wind.’” You said (remember?), “Golly Anna, we could be discovered!”
I get a stone in my throat now, to think of it, my movie star sister.
You said, “We must practice our English!” very slowly, in English.
Is this why Papa has always spent the money on our English lessons, a language so useless in Luxembourg, except at his university? Why we kept up the lessons even in secret, after the Nazis insisted on nothing but German? Was he preparing us for America all this time? Is this why I was sent away, because I take more naturally to languages? You must practice, Belle. No one knows Luxembourgish outside of home, and you will not be able to use your beloved French in America. You must teach Oliver too. It should be an easy task. Our clever Oliver can likely learn to pass for an American in a few short weeks.
We talked a bit about America that night, the three of us. When Oliver gave a big yawn I noticed the time, 10:30, so late. I took his hand and began to walk him down the hall. That’s when I heard Mama say “Anna.” Looking back now, it was the very first sign of what was to come. Papa cut in, hissing in Yiddish, so fast and fiery his words were like steam from a kettle. The only thing I could make out was “Belle.”
Oliver pulled on my sleeve, his face a portrait of worry. I held him close and touched the soft curls of his hair. I did not want him to be scared. The adults kept arguing, talking over each other, as we tiptoed to the boys’ room. Kurt was spread all over his bed, fast asleep. Oliver climbed into his own bed and snuggled with Bier on his pillow. I pulled the old blanket up to his nose and tucked the sides under his small body (I hope you remember, since I am not there, that he likes to be wrapped tight like a bug) and kissed him good-night.
I was back in the hall when I saw your head out of our door. You were listening to the adults and put a finger to your lips. Mama and Grandmother were still talking, but very softly now . . . calm. All I knew then was that their argument was settled.
I heard Mama say “Anna” again. Then “Anna un Kurt.”
Believe me, Belle, at that time I did not know the question, but I knew the answer was Kurt . . . and me.