by Liza Wiemer
“Oh Ma, that’s awful.”
Mom brings over a box of tissues. Nana motions for me to continue, and I fill them in on how Grandpa found Yankel hiding in the barn and how Grandpa’s mom said Yankel couldn’t stay. “They bleached Yankel’s hair, gave him a cross and a Bible, and told him which Catholic prayers to memorize.”
Nana fixes her gaze on Mom. “Yankel was given Warclaw’s identification card. Warclaw, your pa. Yankel became Warclaw.” Her eyes narrow, as if she’s saying, Are you listening? Have you heard every word?
“So Yankel became Warclaw,” Mom confirms.
Nana nods. “There’s something important you need to know.” She clings to my hand, motions for Mom to come close. She sits next to me.
“What you don’t know is what happened to that boy, Yankel. He barely survived. For over three years he slept in farm fields or in the forest or in barns—any place he could find a little shelter. He lived in constant fear that the Nazis would find him. Through rain, through the heat of summer, and worst of all, the bitter cold of winter. He ran, hid, and somehow managed to survive. He clung to life, even as death chased him. During his third winter, he was sick and exhausted, but most frightening of all was what happened to his hands. His fingers were so frostbitten that he was certain they’d snap off at the slightest touch. He prayed for a miracle.
“The next day, he spotted a woman washing clothes in a stream. His first instinct was to stay hidden. If she turned him in to the Nazi authorities, there would be a good chance they’d closely examine his ID and wonder why he was so far from home. Even if he said that he was an orphan, the Nazis could easily check, and then they’d know he was an impostor. Warclaw was terrified. He didn’t know what to do. He looked down at his hands and his blackened fingers. And that’s when he heard a small voice. ‘You can trust her,’ the voice said. ‘She’ll help you.’ Reluctantly, he walked over to her. He held up his hands, not in surrender, but to show her what had happened to them.
“Warclaw saw sympathy in her eyes. Carefully, she examined his fingers. And then she asked him if he was Jewish. For three years Yankel had been Warclaw. For three years he had hidden his true name, his true identity.
“That small voice said, ‘It’s okay. You can tell her.’ He said, ‘I’m Jewish.’
“The woman’s expression changed from pity to sorrow to compassion. She said, ‘I will help you. We’ll say that you’re my nephew. But you have to promise me you will never speak of this to anyone. You can never tell anyone you’re Jewish. It’s not safe. Do I have your promise?’ And he did.”
Tears track down Nana’s cheeks and I wipe them away.
“It was too dangerous to bring Warclaw home then, but she promised to return after dark and instructed him to wait for her in the shelter of trees near a cornfield. He waited and worried. Hours and hours passed, and then the cold day became a bitter night. Nearly every minute he questioned his decision to wait. His thoughts would teeter between hope and fear. What if she brought Nazi soldiers? But that small voice came to him again, reassured him, comforted him, promised him that the woman would help.”
She pauses, lowers her eyes, and loosens her grip on my hand.
A minute passes, two. Then Nana lifts her eyes, breathes deeply, and continues.
“The woman returned, reminded Warclaw that he couldn’t tell anyone that he was Jewish. She brought him to her house, fed him, gave him a bed, bartered home-churned butter for salve, and nursed Warclaw and his hands back to health. During those weeks, she shared a few things about herself. She was a widow and her sons had been taken from her, forced upon pain of death to fight for the Nazis. For six weeks he stayed with her. Her hospitality was second to none. She was kind and generous and nurturing. A guardian angel. Just like the boy who had given Yankel his name. For six weeks, Warclaw had a safe home….”
Nana holds out her hands, stares, and flexes her fingers like Grandpa used to do. She takes my hand, turns it palm up, then folds her fingers over mine. She then scoots back, asks Mom to sit on her other side, and folds her other hand into Mom’s. Desperation fills Nana’s eyes, like she’s pleading for us to understand.
Nana sniffles. Her accent is thick and heavy with emotion. “Grandpa was the Jewish boy. He was Yankel. He’s the one who took Warclaw’s name, survived in the wilderness, was helped by the widow, and was eventually found by Jewish partisans who took him in. They fought against the Nazis. Sometime after that, Grandpa lost the Bible.”
Mom and Dad are speechless. My mouth drops open.
Nana continues. “I, too, am Jewish like Yankel. I, too, lived in that town. I survived Gross-Rosen concentration camp, and that twelve-year-old boy, the last to die on the gallows? That was my youngest brother, Michoel. Michoel is Hebrew for Michael.” It sounds like she’s clearing her throat when she pronounces the middle part of her brother’s name.
Nana take a deep breath, looks at Dad. “Adam, would you please go into my top dresser drawer? You’ll find the cross that Grandpa received from his kind friend.”
Dad shifts and opens the drawer. When he turns around, he holds up a cross dangling from a silver chain.
Nana looks from me to Dad to Mom. “Mikayla, I was afraid. I didn’t want anyone to know we were Jewish. Your pa would have chosen differently. He stayed true to himself, silently. He was proud we had survived and grateful Hitler had lost the war. He lived every day seeing the bright side of life. I appreciated that. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what I would have done. He loved me so much he agreed to keep our secret. You have to understand. We lost everyone—our parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, and aunts, uncles, and cousins. We lost our friends and neighbors. Everyone. It was too much for me.”
Nana’s sobbing.
Mom’s sobbing.
I’m sobbing.
Tears stream down Dad’s cheeks.
After several minutes, Nana regains her composure. “When we first came to America, we lived in Brooklyn. We thought it was a safe, wonderful community with lots of other survivors. But one day, I witnessed thugs spitting at an old Jewish man. They knocked him down. They kicked him and called him awful names. They said Hitler should have turned him and his filthy family to ash. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“I’ve seen those ashes.” Nana lets out a soft moan, then says, “I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I was so scared. I begged your pa to take me away. I thought we would be safe in Riviere, where no one would ever know, a place without Jewish families to abuse. I thought we could have a fresh start. We wanted a family, but as you know, I miscarried so many times. Then you came along. Our miracle. I couldn’t bear any more loss, Mikayla. I needed to keep you safe! When we were invited to attend church, I thought that would be one more layer of protection. I believed it was the right thing to do.”
My lips tremble and tears pour down my cheeks. I shove a knuckle into my mouth, bite hard to keep myself from crying out.
Mom sucks in the biggest breath. “Oh, Ma,” she sobs, and buries her head in her hands.
Not until I drive out of Riviere and onto the one-lane highway do I fully realize exactly where I’m heading. I need Dad.
The moment I enter his lecture hall, he turns away from the whiteboard and looks up. I know he’s surprised because he does a double take. He sets his marker down and addresses his students. “I have an important appointment, so today you’re dismissed early.”
Immediately, the room sparks into action—notebooks and laptops close, seats spring up, backpacks unzip and zip, phones ping. I move to the side. When there’s a break in the stream, I head down. Dad meets me halfway. “What is it, Logan? What’s wrong?”
The floodgates open. He pulls me in and runs his hand over my hair, murmuring that it’s okay. I’m not sure exactly what’s okay, but it’s the tenderness that gets through and helps me breathe again.
Let
ting go, I sit on one of the auditorium seats. Dad shuffles into the row below me and sits on the edge of the upholstered chair behind him. I tell him everything that happened from the moment Cade and I walked into school this morning until I left without my coat.
“I’m not naive, Dad. But I didn’t expect us to find swastikas plastered all over our lockers or have Mr. Lane deliver a nasty lecture.” Was Mr. Lane right? Did we destroy our school’s reputation? Was there something else we should have done? These are the questions swimming around in my head.
He hasn’t said anything and I really, really need him to respond. I look up at him. He seems lost in thought. I mumble, “Well, that’s it.”
Dad loosens his tie, unbuttons the top button of his oxford. “Mr. Lane said he expected better from you?”
I nod.
“Well, I expect better, too.” He sees my shock, then quickly adds, “From him. Not you. I’m so proud of you! Don’t ever doubt that. You can’t let Mr. Lane knock you down or cloud your judgment. Who does he think he is? You’ve done everything you could to be reasonable and respectful, and when you needed guidance, you sought out expert advice and followed it to a tee. Right now, the only thing that could disappoint me would be if you backed away from this challenge. Don’t let this other nonsense distract you and Cade from the task at hand.”
As agonizing as this experience has been, it feels so good to have my dad. I smile.
“How come you’re smiling?”
“ ’Cause you’re right. And because you’re my dad.”
“Whew. That’s a relief.” He mock-wipes his brow. “This parenting gig isn’t so easy, you know.”
My smile turns into a laugh. “You’ve done good.”
“Thanks. Do you want me to call Mr. Lane? Because I will. I’d love to give him a big piece of my mind and tell him where to shove his self-righteous expectations.”
I shake my head. “Probably not a good idea.”
“Probably not. I doubt he has any sense to listen to me anyway. You need to get in touch with the woman at HPJ. Tell her what happened today. You need her professional advice.”
“Thanks, Dad. What I really need is pizza. White sauce, garlic, and cheese. And Cajun fries. This day needs fries, too.”
“You make the call to HPJ. I’ll order the food and we’ll eat it at home.”
Grandpa and Nana—Jewish. Mom’s Jewish? I’m Jewish? How can we be Jewish?
Dad isn’t Jewish, but I am. What does that even mean?
Looking around, I suddenly feel like I don’t belong—my bed, my clothes, everything feels like it belongs to someone else.
I walk over to my dresser and pick up the photo of Grandpa and me. I loved him, respected him, but did I really know him? All these years, how did Nana and Grandpa endure keeping their true identities a secret? I close my eyes and imagine Grandpa as a starving, terrified boy wandering alone in the wilderness. And Nana forced to watch her brother hang from the gallows. To stifle my cry, I bite my bottom lip hard. I lay the photo facedown, sit on the edge of my bed, and stare out my window. I had my whole life mapped out, proud to carry on my grandparents’ legacy. But what is that? How could they have hidden something so BIG and important?
I need to get out! This room. This apartment. This inn!
Nana is in her room and the TV is on. I go in search of my parents and find Mom sitting at the reception desk. Gross-Rosen concentration camp is on the screen. Mom gets up and hugs me. “I didn’t know or even suspect,” Mom says. Her eyes flick to the screen. “My entire life—lies.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He needed some air. He’ll be back soon. I think.” She clasps the locket dangling from its thin gold chain—the one Dad gave her when I was born.
“Can I borrow your car? Logan needs my help with the assignment.” She doesn’t, but I couldn’t come up with another excuse that would guarantee my freedom from this cage.
She glances at the time. “Nana wants to bake tomorrow and needs a few things from the grocery store. I was planning on going in a few minutes.”
“I’ll go,” I say. “I’ll stop before I head over to the Marches’.”
“That’s fine. Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
She shakes her head. For several long beats neither of us says anything. What’s there to say? She holds my hand, then gives me the list. It takes every ounce of self-control not to run out the door.
* * *
—
I’m adding bags of flour to my cart when I hear someone say my name. I look over my shoulder. At the end of the aisle, two women are standing with full shopping carts. They’re not talking to me. They’re talking about Logan and me, the assignment, and the article in the Lake Towns Journal. I don’t recognize them. Blue Coat has her back to me. The other is angled away. Her bracelets clang together as she talks with her hands.
“Those kids humiliated this town,” Bracelet Lady says.
“Personally, I agree with them,” Blue Coat says. “That assignment is ridiculous.”
“It doesn’t matter if you agree with them or not,” Bracelet Lady says. “The publicity has ruined our community’s reputation. How are we going to sell real estate if outsiders see us as racists and antisemites? Imagine the type of people who will want to move into Riviere. This could destroy our town. I could strangle those teens.”
“It isn’t their fault. That’s not how I want my kids educated. Put the blame where it belongs—on Mr. Bartley. That teacher should be fired.”
“Why? The damage is done.” Bracelet Lady looks over, and in a blink her expression changes. Does she recognize me? Blue Coat turns around. I sprint in the opposite direction, dodge people and carts, and dash through the exit.
Within a half block I realize I’m in no condition to drive. I’m trembling so badly that I can barely keep my hands on the steering wheel. I put on my blinker, turn onto a side street, and pull over.
What did we do? What if she’s right? Have we destroyed our town?
I slam my fist against the dashboard, angry with myself for running away, angry for not defending us, angry with Bracelet Lady for blaming us, and angry with Mr. Bartley and Principal McNeil. This is all their fault!
How is it that doing the right thing can be so devastatingly wrong?
* * *
—
My cart is where I left it. I push it aisle to aisle, looking for the women, but they’re nowhere in the store. I check out, disappointed, frustrated that I didn’t have the opportunity to speak with Bracelet Lady.
If it had been Logan—Logan! I completely forgot her meeting with Mr. Lane. I check my phone. No text. I pay for the groceries, put them in the trunk, and call her. It goes straight to voicemail. I text and get no response.
* * *
* * *
Twenty minutes have passed since I parked across the street from Logan’s house, waiting for her and Professor March to come home. I sit with my regrets, drumming my fingers on the door armrest, staring out the window at the Marches’ Victorian. It’s dark, but the streetlamp and bright white snow cast enough light to outline the house.
Logan, where are you?
And just as I’m about to call Logan again, someone raps on the passenger window. I drop my phone and nearly leap out of my skin. A burly man rests his forearms against my roof, leans down, and peers at me. I start the engine and crack the window.
“You’ve been sitting in this car for a long time. You need help with something?”
“No. Just waiting for my friend.”
“And who might that be?”
“Logan March?”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“Logan. I’m sure. She lives right over there.” I point across the street.
“Your family owns the Lake Ontario Inn. Your dad is Adam
Crawford—one speeding ticket—and your mom is Mikayla Crawford—no traffic violations. You’re Cade. How are you holding up? No troubles from those online trolls?”
“You’re Officer Sullivan.”
He laughs, clearly enjoying this exchange. “That I am. It’s nice to finally meet you. How was Friday night? Did you get the information you needed from the Safe Haven Museum?”
I nod, wondering if Logan told him or—
“My wife, Wendy, is on the board. She made the arrangements. You do know that in exchange for the keys and full access, Logan promised to volunteer at the museum’s fundraiser, right? It would be nice if you’d join her. Wendy could use the help.”
To my relief, Professor March’s SUV turns into their driveway. Logan is right behind him in her own car. Officer Sullivan straightens. I drop my sweaty hands from the steering wheel. Officer Sullivan heads toward Professor March. I roll up the window, shut off the engine, and get out.
“You know this guy?” Officer Sullivan asks Logan. There’s humor in his voice. “He’s been waiting for you for a while.”
“Really? Everything okay?” she asks, scanning me from head to toe.
“Yeah, everything is fine.”
She swings her backpack over her shoulder and fills her hands with an extra-large pizza box and a greasy white bag balanced on top.
I take off my jacket and drape it across her shoulders. “Where’s your coat?”
“I left it at school.”
While Professor March talks with Officer Sullivan, I follow Logan to their side door. She hands me the pizza box, pulls her keys from her pocket, and lets us inside.
I want to tell Logan about Nana, but the thread I’m holding on to is so thin, I’m afraid it’ll break. So I ask, “What did Mr. Lane want?”