When I finished the page, I glanced at Madeline to gauge her reaction and make sure she wanted to keep going. She didn’t even notice me looking at her, she was so sucked in to the story. Good, because I definitely wanted to keep reading. I wanted to know what Anna’s parents and grandparents were whispering about in Yiddish, what secrets they were keeping from their children and grandchildren. It made me think of my own parents and the big secrets about my past that they’re keeping from me. They don’t stay up late having conversations in a language I can’t understand—as far as I know, anyway—but they are keeping information from me. Things I’m dying to know but can’t find the courage to ask.
“You ready?” Madeline asked.
“Huh?”
“Can I turn the page?”
“Oh. Yeah,” I said. “I want to see what happens.”
24 August 1941
t. July 1950
Dear Belle,
The sea is rough today . . . many people have taken ill. My stomach is as rolling as the water out my tiny window. (“Porthole,” I am told it is called.) Am I so ill from the sea or from missing home? I cannot say. I cannot stop thinking about my last days at home. I did not appreciate it enough, and you and I barely talked . . . forgive me, I was just so worried about the future.
After I heard Mama say my name that night (with Kurt’s), you fell asleep right away but I did not. I could not fathom what was to happen to me and Kurt alone. Everything we do, we do as a family . . . so much, it’s often embarrassing. Everyone came to watch me in the school science contest, even Grandfather and Grandmother. The 9 of us took up the whole front row at your ballet performance. Remember, before the Germans came, when we would go to the symphony? All of us except the baby, in our finest clothes. Mama will not even allow us to go to the Luxembourg Fair with our friends, we have to attend as a family instead. I blush even now to think of it . . . 10 people, 2 of them identical, 2 of them elderly, walking as a group through the Schueberfouer. We might as well be on display in one of the tents. With all this togetherness, what could Mama possibly mean by just “Anna un Kurt”?
I close my eyes now and imagine us there in bed that night. One of your feet was sticking out the bottom of the blanket. I could see the fresh red paint on your toenails despite the darkness. You sighed in your sleep and a pleasant feeling washed over me . . . you must have been having a nice dream.
This I will miss the most, Belle . . . the way we connect as twins in our sleep. It is as though our deepest minds are connected by an invisible yarn, the way we used to tie string between paper cups and whisper secret messages. With an ocean between us, will we still have the same dreams? Will we still wake in the middle of the night, trembling from a shared nightmare?
I do hope so. That string is all we have until the rest of you join me for a happy, safe life in America and all 10 of us once again do everything the way we’re meant to. As a family.
I must stop here for a moment. I am becoming sick.
26 August 1941
t. July 1950
Dear Belle,
I spent most of yesterday terrifically ill. I was not alone in the infirmary . . . many people were in horrid condition due to the waves. At home, the nice part of being ill was staying home from school and having Mama all to yourself. And the little treat Papa used to pick up on his way home from the university “for the patient” . . . remember when we both had chicken pox and Papa brought us dolls with red spots on them? How sad and lonely it is to be sick by yourself.
That night in our bed, the night of “Anna un Kurt” . . . you with your happy dream . . . believe me when I say that was my last happy night. I woke up before you (as usual), and I never gave you a full account of what happened that morning. Oh Belle, it was dreadful. I went downstairs in my nightgown and saw Mama looking weary. Papa was home (no work to be found that day, again) and said he needed to talk to me and Kurt. I said, “Should I wake Belle too?” and Mama had a big sob, and Papa rubbed her back and said, “Just Kurt for now. Let Belle sleep.” That’s when I knew for sure it was about the argument . . . just Anna un Kurt . . . for what do you and I do apart?
Grandmother pulled the little ones out the door. (Of course Greta insisted she was not a little one and she should stay, but Grandmother gave her her sternest look, and they all left.) Nervous, I tapped on Kurt’s door until he stirred, and we all (Mama, Papa, and I) went into his room. I sat at the desk, Papa leaned against the bureau, and Mama sat at the edge of the bed, where Kurt was still lying down, his hair a sight and a pillow line running down his cheek. You were still down the hall in our bed, sleeping peacefully. (The only time I can think that we met like this, without the whole family, was planning Mama’s birthday surprise a few years ago. Remember how we giggled then, with the excitement of a secret? How different this was . . . even the air felt weighty.)
I understand your anger at being excluded. I thought you were furious at hearing the information after us, but now that I’ve been mulling it all these days, I realize that you felt lied to. You think Mama and Papa didn’t give you all the information . . . that they gave more explanation about their decision to me and Kurt that morning, keeping you in the dark. But Belle, it’s not true! I know only as much as you, and if I could change places with you then and most certainly now, I would in an instant!
Here is a record of our secret meeting, and you must believe this is everything.
The first thing Papa said was, “Luxembourg is no longer safe for Jews.” (I already knew that plain, of course, but to hear it from Papa? Papa, who is filled with endless faith in good things . . . he never even takes an umbrella, he is so hopeful about nature!) Papa said he and Mama had secured papers for us to move to America. He said our cousins Max and Hannah Schoelstein will sponsor us.
I got excited (this seemed like good news) but Kurt said, “Max and Hannah? Who are they?”
Something odd happened then, Belle . . . I think Papa caught Mama’s eye before answering. It was a strange look, but so quick I couldn’t decipher it. I cannot say, even now, and there is no one here to help me analyze it. But it makes me anxious . . . these are the people I will live with until the rest of you arrive. Mama and Papa could not share much about them. Here is everything they said they know. (You know all of this already, but I am writing it here anyway, for I wish we were here together, reciting these facts in preparation for meeting them together.)
Max is Papa’s second cousin. They played together when they were children.
Max moved to America long ago, before any of us were born.
Mama and Papa have never met Max’s wife, Hannah. They only remember her name from a wedding announcement years ago.
Papa found their address and wrote to them about our situation. They were willing to sponsor us. (That must be good, yes?)
They live in New York, in a place called Brooklyn. (I know your disappointment at this . . . not Georgia or Hollywood . . . Could there be even a trace of glamour in a place called Brooklyn?)
After learning this, I said, “But this is all good news. Why is Mama so sad? Why can’t we tell Belle?”
So Papa talked about how difficult it is to get out of Europe now, even with papers and sponsorship. It is not impossible, he said, but it is very dangerous. Mama added (of course) that it is expensive. The papers . . . the train to Lisbon . . . the boat to New York . . . She also said what she always says when discussing something expensive: “There are a lot of us.”
I remember that Papa moved from the bureau and took my hand in his. His palm was warm and wet. He said, “We have been saving money. Grandmother and Grandfather too. But now that Rabbi Serebrenik is himself in America, there is only one man who is willing to take Jews along that route to Portugal, and his price is very sharp. More than a year’s salary for each person, and as you know, I have not had a consistent salary in some time.”
Mama said, “We think it’s best to get some of our family out now, before things become worse. The rest of us will follow when we have saved more money.”
“How many will go now?” Kurt asked. He was sitting up now, with his pillow propped against the wall.
Here, Papa closed his eyes for a long time. When he opened them again, they were fixed on the desk. He answered, “Two.”
Kurt could not believe it (nor I). He said, “Two! Only two?”
Mama said, “Right now. The rest will follow,” and Kurt asked, “So, who?”
It seems so obvious when I write it now, how the discussion went. Surely, I should have realized before this moment who was going. But I’m telling you truthfully, Belle, I did not know it until right then . . . about half of one second before Papa spoke it aloud.
“You two,” he said.
Oh Belle, I was in terrific shock! The unfairness of it all. Why did any of us have to go at all? Why not you? Why not us, together? I felt so lonely then, Belle, without you in the room.
Kurt could not believe it. He said surely an adult would go.
Oh, Belle, if you could have seen Mama’s face. It broke my heart in two, and then the pieces dropped down into my belly . . . plonk, plonk, like stones into water. Mama was in terrific pain as she said, “We can only afford to send two right now. We decided to send the two eldest children.”
How absurd! I’m older than you by 9 minutes! How can 9 minutes determine that I must leave behind everything and everyone who matters, while you must stay?
Trying to sound resolute, I said, “Let someone else go in my place. I’ll stay and help with the little ones.”
Kurt said, “I don’t want to go either. I’ll wait until we can afford to go together.”
I said, “Yes, I’ll wait too, at least for Belle.”
Mama looked as if we’d convinced her . . . as if this was all she needed to change her mind and let us stay! But Papa was firm. “We’ve made a decision. You two will go now, and the rest of us will follow as soon as we can.”
I cried, “But I don’t want to go!”
Now Papa was becoming angry, and you know what that means. He banged his fist on the desk, and his voice became quiet but hard. “Do you think Mama and I made this decision lightly? Do you think we want to split up our family? Do you think we want to send two of our children away? Do you think we want to leave anyone here to face Hitler?”
That’s when you opened the door and said, “What’s happening?” How can I describe my flood of feelings at that moment? Anger, fear, and . . . guilt to be caught having this conversation without you. I suppose it was the first of many, many (how many?) things I will have to do without you until you arrive. (I can hear you protest that you must do everything without me too. But you are not alone, Belle. Not like I am.)
You know the rest, of course. And you now know that what Mama and Papa told you is really the same as what they said before you arrived, about why they chose who they chose. But it wasn’t until you asked (through your rage, through your tears) when we would be leaving that Papa began to blink away tears himself.
He said, “Tomorrow night.”