With grown-ups like Dad and Mrs. Schwartz telling me that I would find out what happened in the war later, when I’m older, it made me wonder if I wanted later to come. But then later came—this year, sixth grade, when Mrs. Kirk showed us a newsreel about the concentration camps. And after seeing the pictures of bunks and ovens and barbed wire, I can’t forget them. They’re printed in black and white in my mind. And when those pictures flash though my memory, I smell chlorine. Just like the locker room at the YMCA.
Finally, Mrs. Edelstein turns to the three of us. Ben, Tony, and I practice reach and pull in the air while sitting on the side of the deep end. We practice like crazy, tipping our heads from side to side. Mrs. Edelstein goes over to the wall and grabs her long bamboo pole.
“Okay, you tree. Girl first,” she yells. I slip in the water and cling to the side of the pool like a baby hugs its mother’s leg. This is my second round of beginner swimming lessons. I know the routine. What I haven’t figured out is how to swim across the pool. When I see Mrs. Edelstein pick up her bamboo pole and start to walk toward my fingers, I take a deep breath and let go.
I forget reach and pull because I am too busy with splash and gasp—trying not to drown.
“Kick!” Mrs. Edelstein yells.
I do. I kick like there are pythons at the bottom of the pool. I kick and splash as fast as I can, until I start to choke and my legs won’t work anymore. I can’t breathe. Just when I know I’m about to die, I see the bamboo pole and grab hold.
I hug my freezing arms, sit on the side of the pool, and shiver through Ben and Tony’s splashing. Both of them finally make it across the pool without grabbing for the bamboo pole. As soon as I hear the whistle, I dash to the locker room, Mrs. Edelstein yelling after me, “No run, no run.”
Mrs. Edelstein comes into the locker room after class to talk to Mom. Mom’s sitting on a bench with her winter coat in her lap. I’m struggling to pull clothes over my ice-cold legs with shivery hands.
“This girl?” She points at me. “Too tin. She sink.” She picks up my arm and holds it out for Mom to check, then drops it. “Cannot teach.” She throws her other hand up and waves it back and forth like she’s trying to erase me from where I am standing.
Mom forces a fake smile. “Marjorie is quite healthy, thank you.”
“She’s not have enough meat on her bones to float. You feed her good and take classes in summer.” Mrs. Edelstein nods. “At city pool. You take her dare.” She turns, and exits, leaving me still standing with one leg in my corduroy pants and my arm hanging where she dropped it. Mom’s mouth gapes open. The fluorescent bulb frizzles overhead.
“Sorry,” I say to Mom after Mrs. Edelstein’s gone, the swinging locker room door swishing behind her.
“Just get dressed, honey,” Mom says. “It’s all right.”
But it’s not. I’ve just been kicked out of the library and swimming lessons in the same week.
CHAPTER 10
After school, I meet up with Carol Anne in the crush of kids in the front lobby. I wave at Artie and pass him a folder of homework for Bernadette, who’s still home with her earache. I see Inga talking to her mom. She comes every day to pick Inga up. Carol Anne immediately starts to pull me toward the door, but I pull back.
It seems natural to ask Inga if her mom would let her come over after school. Inga bounces on her toes as she turns to ask her mother.
“Go wait there.” I point Carol Anne to a not-so-busy area by the door. She goes over and leans her head against a window, making faces at the kids outside waiting for rides.
Inga’s mom stands in the lobby of the school, gripping her coat around her like it’s trying to fly away. Her face is surrounded by a black wool scarf stretched over her head in a triangle and tied tightly under her chin. Underneath, her hair is pulled back in a bun. Inga has to translate my invitation to her, and I can see that her mom is worried. Inga may not be able to read or speak English that well, but it’s obvious that her mother doesn’t speak a word of it.
“Stupid DP!” someone shouts as a group of boys knocks into Mrs. Scholtz as they rush for the door. Mrs. Scholtz catches her balance, grabbing Inga’s shoulder.
“Go back home.”
“Get out!”
“Nobody wants you here.”
Insults explode around us as the boys push through the front doors. I stick out both arms and try to protect Inga and her mom.
“Shut up!” I hear myself yell.
Inga attaches herself to her mother.
“Over here,” I point to a place by the wall where we can stand and talk without being mowed down. And then I yell in the direction of the boys, “Stupid … stupids.”
I don’t know what to call them. Not one of those boys could frighten me on his own, but they seem scary as a group. Even to me. Inga’s mom’s hands are trembling, her fingers covering her mouth.
George Jacobi sticks his head back in the door and yells, “DP, go home.” I can hear the other boys laughing on the outside stairs. I take a step toward the door, and bellow, “SHUT UP!” at the top of my lungs. They all take off like a flock of squawking pigeons.
“DP” stands for a displaced person, someone who lost their home in the war and came over on the boat to start a new life. Mom says I shouldn’t call anyone a DP in case they might take it the wrong way. Dad says it’s not like calling an Italian a dago or an Irish person a mick. That kind of talk can get you punched in the nose, or at least pushed over on the playground. There’s no meanness attached to the term DP, according to Dad.
“Don’t pay any attention to those dumbheads.” I say, wanting to take the hurt look out of Inga’s eyes. She may not know perfect English, but she knows get out. And she must have heard the term DP before.
In my neighborhood we have DPs from Greece, Ireland, Russia, Italy, Hungary, Poland, Slovakia, and now wherever Inga’s family really came from.
Mrs. Scholtz pulls a hankie out of her coat pocket to wipe her eyes as Inga guides her to the side wall, taking small steps. DP may not necessarily be a mean thing to call someone, but there was no mistaking the meanness in how those boys had pushed Inga’s mom. It sure punched the breath out of me.
I stand facing Mrs. Scholtz. She looks small and lost.
I’m pretty sure what Dad would call Inga’s mom. He’d call her a German. I continue to wait and watch as Inga talks to her mom in hushed words I can’t understand.
Meskcovic. Jablonski. DeMarchi. O’Brien. Papadopoulos. I can think of plenty of houses in our neighborhood where the families speak another language at home. Mrs. Kovacs, the Hungarian woman who comes and helps Mom wash floors the right way—on your hands and knees—only speaks about four words of English. Mom says it doesn’t matter because Mrs. Kovacs knows how to speak the language of cleaning like nobody’s business.
Her grandson, who comes to the door to walk her home, is as American as me. I never met her son, but he probably talks in broken English like a DP. That’s how it goes with people who come to this country. Some things get passed down—like how Mary Virginia’s orange hair and freckles were passed down from her mom—and some get passed up.
Speaking English? That’s something that gets passed up. Little kids who came here as babies or were born here, they teach English to their parents and grandparents, the ones who came here in the first place. It takes having kids for DPs to catch up with talking American.
A three-year-old could tell that Inga and her mom aren’t from here. Their shoes, coats, the confused looks on their faces. As much as I like reading about other countries and dream about visiting them, I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a DP in some country where you don’t know the language or how to dress. I wonder if I would change my name to fit in better, like how Henry Finklestein’s dad changed their last name to Eaton when they started going to the Episcopalian church. Or how Milinko changed his own name to Mike. For sure I would change my shoes if they laced up to my ankles like Inga’s.
As Inga and her
mom whisper, I recognize two words that sound like nine and yah. When they finally settle on yah, I write my phone number and address on a piece of notebook paper and give it to Inga’s mom. Mrs. Scholtz also makes me write down my father’s name and Stewart’s Drugstore, the place where we will meet up at 5 p.m.
I grab hold of Carol Anne just as Mrs. Scholtz takes Inga’s mittened hand in her red, scratched-up one. I try not to notice as we all walk out of school together. Holding my mom’s hand in front of the whole world is something I outgrew as soon as I started school. All I have ever heard about Germans is that they are mean and dangerous. That doesn’t seem to fit Inga and her mom.
At the corner of Coolidge and Catalpa Road we stop and wait for Billy to tell us when we can cross. Billy wears his gold safety patrol captain’s belt and stands with his hands out, holding us back from the curb. I stare at my shoes and telegraph mental signals to make Mrs. Scholtz let go of Inga’s hand, but instead she bends and grabs mine, too. I’m already holding Carol Anne’s hand. We look like we are about to crack the whip. Billy waits, checks the traffic both ways, and then steps to the side to let us pass. I quickly pull away from Mrs. Scholtz, but not before Billy sees.
“Hey,” he says. A single word from Billy is enough to make my tongue knot up and my legs turn to stone. Inga and her mom start to cross. Inga looks over her shoulder at me just in time to see that I’m stopped and my face is on fire. She smiles.
“Go,” Billy says and points to the crosswalk. I hurry across, pulling Carol Anne like a wagon.
“That boy, you like?” asks Inga when we reach the curb on the other side of the street.
“Let’s go,” I don’t even pause to say good-bye to Mrs. Scholtz as I turn my burning face towards home. For someone who doesn’t speak English, Inga sure understands a lot.
CHAPTER 11
Inga and I make a quick stop in the kitchen when we arrive at my house. I explain my favorite snack, and together we spread peanut butter on graham crackers and quickly make a break for my room just as Frank comes in.
“Hurry,” I say.
“Who is?” she whispers as I push her up the stairs.
“He’s not my brother, but he thinks he can boss me around anyway,” I say. Inga looks confused. “He just lives here.” Frank’s too hard to explain to someone who barely speaks English.
And Inga would be way too hard to explain to Frank.
Frank hates Germans.
I use my hip to slam my door closed and immediately start to study my bookshelf for a book to begin Inga’s reading lessons. Does she like horses? But Black Beauty might be kind of hard for a beginner. Little House in the Big Woods? That’s easier, but what does a German girl know about prairies? There’s always Nancy Drew. The Secret of the Old Clock? While I’m trying to make up my mind, she wanders over to Carol Anne’s shelf of picture books.
“Georges le petit curieux! J’adore ce livre!” she squeals.
“You talk French?” I ask her, surprised.
“Oui! Ce livre, c’est mon préféré.” She’s hugging the book, and even though I don’t understand French, it’s not hard to tell that she loves Curious George.
“You speak French and German?”
“Oui.” Inga nods. “But I come here from Canada,” she insists. “Yah?” She waits for me to agree.
“Sure,” I say.
The sun coming through the window makes Inga’s braids practically glow. I wonder how this German girl bounced to Canada and then to Homer Elementary School. All I have ever heard about the non-Jewish kind of Germans is that they are Nazis and the worst people who ever lived on the planet. Watching Inga flip through Curious George, I decide there must be different kinds of Germans: the Nazi kind and the Inga kind.
Inga bounces with excitement. She studies each page like it’s a scrapbook of favorite memories. Then she passes it to me. “You read in English?”
Curious George, Inga, me, and the man with the yellow hat. I read a line and she repeats it, pointing to each word. Sometimes she beats me to the punch and says the line first in French. But we still read every word in English.
After we finish, I pull Curious George Rides a Bike from the shelf. Grandma Mona gave it to Carol Anne for Christmas. Inga’s never seen this one. She strokes the cover of the book like it’s a pet cat. She nudges me to read it all the way through. When the monkey gets his job back at the animal show, riding around in circles with his stupid little bugle, Inga’s enjoyment runs through me. My fingers tingle as I turn the pages. My voice is breathless, as if I’m reading an action adventure instead of a baby book.
The book is new to both of us since I don’t make a habit of sitting around reading Carol Anne’s books. Inga studies every drawing as I read. When I finish, she motions me to go back to the beginning. We sit reading Curious George until the sun’s no longer coming through the window. I glance up at the clock and jump straight in the air.
“Hurry!” I slap the book closed. We tear downstairs to pile on coats and mittens and grab our hats. We make it to Stewart’s Drugstore just in time. Inga’s mom is waiting outside on the corner. She spots us and takes a bare hand out of her pocket to wave.
We come up to her, and she reaches out to stroke one of Inga’s braids. Both of us are holding our hats in our hands. Inga’s mom makes a tick tick sound with her tongue. Inga flops her hat on her head. Mrs. Scholtz then tips her head at me and raises her eyebrows.
I smile at her. She stares back.
“Hut.” Inga taps her head. And then she corrects herself. “Hat.”
“Oh!” I pull my hat down snug. “Okay?”
Mrs. Scholtz nods. I guess it doesn’t matter what country you come from, moms seem to speak the same language when it comes to their kids’ ears hanging out bare-naked in the cold. I watch them walk away, hand-in-hand.
That’s when I start to worry. What will I tell Bernadette about Inga? For sure I can’t tell Mary Virginia that Inga can’t read. She’d announce it to the world and make her feel bad.
And then there’s Frank. Did he hear us talking? Did he hear Inga’s accent? Will we have to hear his whole rant again at dinner about how the only good German is a dead German? What will Dad say?
I turn towards home and jam my hands in my pockets, holding my worries in two closed fists.
CHAPTER 12
“I’m not eating it.” I clamp my mouth shut tight as a bear trap.
“Just a taste.”
“I tasted it before.” I hate liver and onions. I hate liver and onions more than beestings. Liver lasts longer, and it’s sickening. When there’s a liver smell in the house, I try not to breathe. Mom and I are in a war over liver. She tries chopping it up and sneaking it into the mashed potatoes. She tries scrambling it with eggs. Mom says liver creates red blood cells and that it builds strong bones. Just the word liver makes me gag.
“It—smells—so—bad,” I choke.
“Keep an open mind and taste it. You don’t know until you taste it.”
Holding my throat, I beg, “Please, Mom. I really can’t.”
“Let her go, Lila. She’s putting me off my feed here,” Dad says. He gives me a little wink and I gaze at him with gratitude pouring from my eyes.
“Her swimming teacher thinks we aren’t feeding her well enough and that’s why she can’t swim,” Mom explains.
“Don’t suppose liver’s gonna turn her into Esther Williams, Lila.”
Esther Williams was not only a swimmer, she was also a water ballet expert. I have seen her in old movies on TV. She just smiles her way along in the water, swimming on her back with one leg sticking up. I nod my head off. Nasty liver is never going to turn me into a movie star or make me dance in the water at the YMCA.
“Calf’s liver is very high in iron,” Mom says. There’s a hint of that pathetic tone in her voice, and I know I’ve won.
“Double vegetables,” Mom orders, which seems like a good deal to me even if my choice is soggy lima beans. Anything’s better than liver
.
Frank clears his throat like he’s about to make an announcement. “So, Marjorie. You want to tell your dad about your little Kraut friend that you had over after school?”
Dad, Mom, and Frank all stare at me. Even Carol Anne stops piling her mashed potatoes into the shape of the Empire State Building. “What?” she asks, shrinking in her chair before sliding to the floor and under the table. Carol Anne may be only a kid, but she can smell an argument like I can sniff out liver.
“Inga? Oh, she’s from Canada,” I say, cheery as Minnie Mouse. I reach for more lima beans like they’re chocolate cake and I can’t wait to dig in.
“Yeah. And I’m from China,” Frank snorts. He leans toward Dad and whispers, “Kraut.”
I turn to Mom. “You always told me if there was a new kid at school I should be friends with them, right?”
Mom nods, watching me take two heaping spoons of limas.
“Well, Inga’s a new kid, and it just so happens, Mr. YouThink-You-Know-Everything, she moved here from Canada.” I pop some beans in my mouth, my eyes returning Frank’s mean stare. “And for your information, she speaks French.”
“What’s the girl’s name, again?” Dad asks.
“Inga.”
“Inga what?”
“Inga Scholtz,” I answer quietly.
“What’d I tell ya,” Frank says. “Kid’s right off the boat. Old fashioned dress, ugly shoes. Got that Hitler-Youth look, blond braids and all.”
The dining room is quiet, no forks clinking on plates. No one lifts a glass.
Frank says to me. “I know a DP when I see one. I heard you two talking. She’s German.”
Mom starts. “Well, I’m sure she’s a nice little girl.”
“Nice kid of some nice little Nazi, no doubt. The Canucks opened the floodgates, and now look at what we have here. Not only Nazis in the neighborhood, but a Nazi right under your roof.” Frank’s all kinds of mad, and I can tell he wants Dad to be mad, too, since Daddy fought the Nazis just like Frank’s pop did. Only Dad isn’t mad. He just folds his napkin beside his plate and stands up from the table.
The Enemy Page 6