CHAPTER 8

The room went dark. I screamed and grabbed Madeline’s arm. The lights flicked back on, and I heard laughter from the top of the stairs.

“Henry!” Madeline shouted. “Knock it off!”

I exhaled and released my grip on Madeline, relieved it was just her brother playing with the lights. My heartbeat was still fast, though. It had sped up when I’d learned the meaning of “Anna un Kurt.”

Henry flicked the lights again. “I didn’t even know you guys were down there,” Henry said from the top of the steps. “You’re so quiet. What are you even doing?”

“None of your business,” Madeline called.

I heard the stairs creak, because of course Henry now had to make it his business.

“What are you doing?” he asked again. His blond hair was all wild, like he’d been experimenting with electricity.

“Nothing,” Madeline said.

Her little brother stared at us for a second, then walked over to the TV and turned it on.

Now it was Madeline’s turn to say, “What are you doing?”

“Playing Xbox,” he replied.

“No you’re not,” Madeline said. “We’re down here.”

“But you’re not doing anything,” Henry said, all fake innocence. He grabbed a controller and squeezed between Madeline and the arm of the sofa, even though there were tons of other places to sit. I took the diary from her and marked the page with the green ribbon. Then I held it to my chest protectively.

“Dad!” Madeline called.

The video game started, and Henry turned the volume up really loud.

“Dad!” Madeline shouted again.

No response. Madeline stood up from the couch—making sure to squish Henry as she did—and pounded up the stairs. I stuck my tongue out at him and followed.

“We were down there,” she was telling her dad in the kitchen, “and Henry just barged in and started playing Xbox.”

“Well, what were you two doing? Hello, Imani.”

“Hi,” I said.

Madeline glanced at me.

“Reading,” I told Mr. Winter.

“Reading?” He almost laughed. “You can do that somewhere else, can’t you?”

“But Dad—”

“The Xbox is only in the basement,” he said. “But last I checked, a book can go anywhere.”

Madeline gave the biggest eye roll I’ve ever seen. “Dad.”

Video game sounds wafted from the basement. Henry shouted, “Yes!”

“What are you reading?” Mr. Winter asked casually.

“Nothing,” Madeline snapped.

I put the diary behind my back. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to your room.”

“This is so unfair,” she grumbled. “You always take his side.”

“Yes,” Mr. Winter deadpanned. “Because Henry’s my favorite child.”

“Ha-ha,” Madeline said as she stomped down the hall. I stomped too, in solidarity. Their eco-friendly bamboo floors were great for stomping. Nice and loud, but still soft on your feet.

Once in her room, Madeline slammed the door behind us, and I gave her some time to calm down.

“Sorry,” she said finally.

I shook my head. “Whatever. Henry started it. And parents shouldn’t joke about having favorites.”

“I know, right?” She sighed and collapsed onto her bed. I sat down at the edge of the mattress and pulled the diary out from behind my back. “Keep reading?”

27 August 1941

t. July 1950

My dearest Belle,

Two more days have passed here on the Mouzinho, though it is difficult to keep track. I have been sleeping-sleeping-sleeping, all night and for long stretches during the day as well. Is this what it is like to be you in the morning? Sleeping so late, not hearing Mina’s squeals or Greta’s loud voice or Oliver pulling that silly toy duck along the floor? I never understood how you could sleep so heavily, but now, Belle, on this boat, we could be attacked by pirates and I wouldn’t wake! My sleep is so deep, I have not had a single dream. This saddens me too, for it is in dreams that our connection is strongest.

I can’t stop thinking about what you said on my last night at home. I didn’t have the right words to say to you then. It was all such a shock, and so rushed. And you were so huffy, refusing to help with the preparations. (Not that there was much to prepare. I could bring so little . . . why, it took less time than packing for a week in France!)

I was not trying to be aloof, Belle. I wanted desperately to talk together all day, but how do you begin when there is too much to say, and none of it will make one ounce of difference? Then bedtime . . . the two of us lying next to each other in heavy silence. Oh, the thoughts that were in my head. I was thinking many of the same things I continue to think every moment of the day now: How long will it take to save the money for the rest of you? What might happen in Luxembourg before Mama and Papa are able to save enough? I was also thinking: Why Kurt and me, truly?

Why? Yes, it sounds diplomatic that the two oldest would go first. But if it were so simple, there wouldn’t have been an argument the night before. There is a reason they chose to get rid of Kurt and me. Here is my best explanation:

Kurt . . . did they want to send Kurt because he’d been trying to break away too? Since he started high school, he’s turned inward . . . staying late at track and field, sleeping like the dead, ignoring his chores and us all. Do you remember when we were little, how we were close friends . . . you and Kurt and me? How we’d spend hours playing our favorite game, Super Hirsch? I smile to think of it . . . two of us would pretend to be starving, or crushed by an automobile, or hanging from a cliff, on the edge of death until . . . Super Hirsch to the rescue! Remember how we fought over who would get to be Super Hirsch? We hated taking turns because we all wanted to be the hero. How long ago that seems. Lately you and I joke that Kurt is becoming a machine . . . all muscle, no brains or heart. I feel a bit guilty about it now, because clearly it is not true. What happened with the passeur . . . either Kurt is a coward, or else (and this is the truth, I believe) he has more heart than we ever knew.

All of this was running through my mind that night, Belle, and has not gone away. That I am the twin they no longer want.

I am still shocked to think that you believe the opposite, that since it is so dangerous at home, Mama and Papa were sending their two favorite children to America, to survive. You said . . . and it hurts me to remember or write it down . . . you said, “It’s okay. I understand. What’s the point in saving me? I’m not as smart as you. My future’s not as promising. What would be the point of saving my life?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, the way my heart cracks to remember. You said, “It’s not such a shame if I don’t make it.”

Dear sister, how could you think such a thing?

What did I say then? Nothing adequate. How I wish I knew the right thing to say at that moment. But I do now, and here it is: It’s simply not true. You’d do better on your own. You’d view this journey as an adventure, not a nightmare. You’re better at making friends, people like you more, you’re so charming . . .

Oh, Belle, what a case of “l’esprit d’escalier,” or in this case, not staircase wit but ship-across-the-ocean wit, for I finally know the perfect thing I could have said to make us both feel better. When you said it is not a big deal if you don’t survive the war, I should have quipped, “It is not about our potential in life. After all, they are sending Kurt.”

Of course it’s not true, but think how we would have laughed! So full, we’d shake the mattress. Maybe then we would have done more talking, less lying in silence. Perhaps we could have planned one of those twin tricks you were always begging me to try. But we didn’t plan or laugh or even talk. We were still silent when Oliver appeared in our room . . . his cheeks were so wet, and his hand was gripping Bier so hard I’m surprised the stuffing didn’t pop out. You put on a good face and told him, “Anna’s going to find movie producers, so I can become an actress when we get to America.”

You are certainly the better actress. When I told Oliver he’d be on the boat right after mine, he only began crying harder. I’ll always remember how lovely it was when Oliver got in bed with us, though. I tucked the sheet under him, so that the three of us were packed tight, a triple cocoon. That was a nice way to spend our last night together in Luxembourg . . . the best way, really.

Until tomorrow,

Anna

28 August 1941

t. July 1950

Belle,

Do you remember, that awful night, when Kurt asked Papa if we could trust the passeur, and Papa merely said he hoped so? Despite the nasty change the passeur pulled at first, I now know the answer to Kurt’s question is yes. I can take comfort in that, at least, as I think of you making the journey soon. It is dangerous, yes, and scary, with lies and fake papers and blind trust in strangers. But it seems I was fortunate to get here as quickly and smoothly as I did, and with cars and trains . . . some people aboard the Mouzinho crossed the Pyrenees mountains on foot! (I daren’t record any details beyond that. There are so many pieces and people at risk, and I worry about this journal falling into the wrong hands . . . some speak of German spies even here, on the boat. That’s why I am writing in Luxembourgish . . . safer than French.)

Was your heart racing as the clock neared 8 that day? My body trembled all through my goodbyes. Oh, Belle, my goodbyes . . . they were terrifically inadequate. Grandfather wrapped me in his bony arms. His thin lips kissed the side of my head, and my nose was buried in the collar of his shirt, which smelled like his pipe. Grandmother . . . never one for kisses or emotion, as you well know . . . she clasped my hand with hers. Her skin was smooth but her grip was firm, and her hand was trembling. Oh, I was so anxious to get the difficult part over, I didn’t linger long enough! I should have realized that I will never see them again. I am certain of it now. Grandfather’s too frail to make this journey, and Grandmother wouldn’t leave without him. Could Papa bear to leave them, do you think, if it comes to that? What a horrid situation to be in, choosing to abandon one’s children or one’s parents. . . .

Papa came while I was taking one last look at our room. He wrapped me in his arms and pressed his lips into my cheek. If only I could freeze that moment and stay in it until this war is over.

I whispered into Papa’s ear, my voice breaking, “Can’t I just stay here?” and I felt his throat go up and down as he swallowed. Then he moved his hands to my head and held it arms’ length from his own. He said, “Be brave, Anna. You’re going to be brilliant.”

I tried to be brave. I said, “I’ll see you soon,” and he smiled sadly, forcing his chin up. “Very soon,” he promised.

The 7 of us stepped out the front door and onto the dark sidewalk. I held Oliver’s hand tightly. I wanted to walk close to you too, to link our arms together until we meet again, but Mama wouldn’t allow it, since twins are too likely to draw attention. You were carrying Mina, a bit behind . . . I listened as you sang softly to keep her content.

I tried to commit to memory the street as we walked . . . so many shops and sights I’d seen every day and might never pass again. The bakery, where we’d treat ourselves to a pain au chocolat for breakfast before school. The button store, where I once spent 20 minutes searching the small baskets for a button to replace the one that had popped off my jacket, only to finally ask the shopkeeper and have him find an exact match right away. The narrow alleyway where Kurt and his friends used to play soccer, “no sisters allowed” . . .

At last we found the man with a long coat and brown hat. He nodded at Mama, and she stepped close to him and spoke quietly. My blood coursed with anger seeing him for the first time. How dare he separate our family with his steep fee?

You stepped close to me then and threaded your arm through mine. Your gaze was straight ahead, but I could feel your blood racing as quickly as mine.

Do you remember what he said? His brisk voice . . . so serious. He said, “Who, then?”

Mama said, “Two. Kurt and Anna.”

You were the brave one, Belle . . . it was you who unlaced my arm from yours and gently pushed me forward. Oliver was still clutching my hand. I tried to catch Kurt’s eye, but he was staring straight at the man, his face stoic.

Mama handed the man a paper bag with the top folded over. She took Mina from your arms and spoke to the passeur very strongly. I am so proud of how she spoke . . . very sure and direct. She said, “I have six children, and our family in New York is willing to sponsor them all. Please, would you consider taking more?”

But the man opened the paper bag and counted the money. He shook his head, and my stomach knotted. The passeur said, “This won’t even cover two.”

Mama whispered loudly for him to count it again. She said, “I’m sure it’s correct. Enough for two.”

“Things have changed,” the man replied. “The Gestapo found Jewish children hiding on the train last week. They deported them. Killed the man helping them cross. A friend of mine.” The passeur looked down for a moment here, paused.

I realized then (and know so much now) that even though he was taking advantage of our situation, charging such a steep fee, he was risking his own life too. Even so, and even after all he did for me, what happened next broke my heart.

He looked up and all signs of weakness were gone. “My fee has doubled,” he said firmly. “This will only be enough for one.”

I gasp now, again, as I write it. How stunned we all were, how upset. How he put a finger to his lips and stepped closer to the wall, out of view. How he spat, “One. Quickly. Or no one.”

How Kurt said, “Anna will go.”

I tried to protest . . . did I try hard enough? I was stiff from fear. Kurt was insistent. He took a step to me, gave me a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

I remember Mama . . . holding Mina close, to calm her and muffle her cries. When she lifted her head, her eyes were wet but resolute. “Anna,” she said.

And so it was settled.

My goodbyes were a haze. I know I kissed everyone, exchanged words of love. I think Greta was crying. I know you held me the longest. I know Oliver gave me his Bier to take along. It all went too quickly. I was in such shock, I don’t think I even cried.

But here I am now, safe on the boat. Recording the story, all alone. If only you were here with me, Belle. Then you would know how my tears are coming, so many that the ocean is nothing but a wet, blue blur.

Missing you with all my heart,

Anna