Call Me Hope

by Gretchen Olson

  I pushed up the left sleeve. With a blue marker, I wrote #8726 on my arm. I pinned on the yellow paper star and looked in the mirror. My heart clenched. I stared at the tired reflection, the drab striped dress, the yellow star. I wavered between past and present, between barbed-wire fences and playground swings, between Nazi guards shouting and Mr. Hudson singing, between brick chimneys and springtime daffodils. Was I coming or going? In Eola Hills or Auschwitz? Fear and relief swept through me at the same time. I shivered with an idea.

  Pulling open the restroom door, I stuck my head into the hall. Noelle was coming back from the office with a stack of papers. “Noelle,” I whispered loudly.

  She paused. “What?”

  “Could you bring me a pair of scissors?”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “I guess.”

  When she returned, she stood in the half-opened doorway, staring at my dress. “Geezuz, Hope, what are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She handed me the scissors and left.

  I returned to the mirror, took one last look, then grabbed a chunk of hair against my scalp.

  With a gray scarf tied tightly around my head, and my clothes in the bag, I walked back to the classroom. My throat was dry and my hands were wet as I opened the door. Anne Frank said she was petrified to go outside. I was petrified to go inside. Mr. Hudson looked up from his desk and the kids around him stared.

  “Halloween’s not till October,” Peter snickered.

  “Knock it off, Peter,” said Brody.

  But it was the whispers and giggles that almost sent me back to the restroom.

  “That’s enough.” Mr. Hudson stood up. “It takes a lot of courage to talk in front of your peers, so let’s give Hope our respect and attention.” The whispers stopped, everyone sat down, and I slowly walked to the front of the room gripping my book and notes.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice shaky. “My name is Anne Frank. I was born June 12, 1929. On Monday morning, July 6, 1942, I went into hiding with my mother, father, and sister. We left our home forever because the German Nazis were rounding up Jewish people like us and taking them to concentration camps and death camps where most of them died of hard work or disease or were killed in gas chambers. We lived for two years in a ‘Secret Annexe,’ which were some rooms hidden behind a bookshelf in my father’s office building. Four other Jewish people lived with us.”

  I glanced at my notes and cleared my voice. “We had to do many hard things not to be discovered, like not talking and tiptoeing everywhere. Sometimes we couldn’t even go to the bathroom.”

  My voice calmed and the words came easier. “I was scared most of the time. Scared we’d be discovered, scared of the bombs, scared for our friends taken away to work camps where their heads were shaved for lice and their arms tattooed with ID numbers.” I pulled up my sleeve and showed my blue-numbered skin.

  “It was hard for us to get along with each other, living day after day so close together. People argued over silly things, like the best way to peel potatoes. My own mother made me feel bad, saying things that hurt my feelings. Soon I decided I had only myself to rely on.” I glanced at Mr. Hudson, leaning against the back wall. “I chose to be strong. The Nazis had stolen my dignity, and hiding from them stole my few remaining freedoms — to talk and laugh when I wanted, to look out a window and smell fresh air, to eat a decent meal. All I had left was what was in here.” I pointed to my head. “I could think anything I wanted without anyone knowing. Without anyone stealing it. And I wrote a lot of it down.” I held up Anne’s diary, then turned to one of my Post-it note pages.

  “I wrote this Thursday, November 19, 1942.” My eyes swept the classroom and I was surprised how everyone was paying attention. “‘I feel wicked sleeping in a warm bed, while my dearest friends have been knocked down or have fallen into a gutter somewhere out in the cold night. I get frightened when I think of close friends who have now been delivered into the hands of the cruelest brutes that walk the earth. And all because they are Jews!’

  “Anne Frank hid for two years before getting caught and sent to a concentration camp. She died seven months later of a disease called typhus. That was over sixty years ago, but we remember her today because of what she said.” I set the book and my notes on a table.

  “Life is really unfair sometimes and it’s hard to wait for good things to happen, but Anne Frank had courage. She played lots of little games to feel in control, like pretending that something was delicious when it was really disgusting. I wish she was alive today so she’d know how important she is.”

  I reached behind my head, untied my scarf, and slipped it off.

  A gasp went through the classroom.

  “I gave her the scissors,” Noelle said loudly.

  Everyone started talking.

  “Quiet,” said Mr. Hudson, stepping forward. “I don’t think Hope is finished.”

  I waited until they’d settled back in their seats.

  “I cut my hair in honor of Anne Frank and the six million victims of the Holocaust.”

  Everyone started clapping.

  “Way to go,” whispered Brody as I walked past his desk.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Last Link

  I set the rosebush on the kitchen table. Then I stepped back and studied the smooth tight buds pushing up from the thorny branches.

  “It’s believing in roses that makes them bloom,” Mr. Hudson had said while handing out the extra-credit surprise. “A French proverb that speaks to having a dream, a goal, and working persistently and courageously to achieve it.”

  When I got my rosebush, he said, “I got the idea from your concentration camp map. I hope you’ll take good care of it because that, too, will make it bloom.” Brody got one for his report on the underground resistance — people who tried to secretly fight the Nazis. There were extra-credit maps, science experiments, and special displays, but no other acting.

  I leaned my extra-credit grade against the flowerpot. It was on a three-by-five card with these words: “Remembering Anne Frank by Hope Elliot — A+.” It looked good. No, great. Mom would have to change her mind about Outdoor School once she saw the rosebush and my amazing grade. Then I remembered my hair and my heart sank. I fingered the stubby ends and wondered if Ruthie could salvage what was left.

  “I’d never have the guts to do that,” Jessica had said after my presentation. “Are you going to dye it, too?”

  I almost told her “no,” but quickly changed it to “maybe.”

  “My mom would never let me do that,” she said.

  “Mine said she didn’t care if I dyed it green with purple stripes.”

  “Your mom is way cool.”

  My bedroom door opened and Mom leaned against the doorway. “What’s with the farm girl look?”

  I touched the red bandanna scarf tied around my hair. “Nothin’.”

  “Who’s the rosebush from?” She seemed in a good mood. Probably because I was grounded.

  “From Mr. Hudson for extra credit. You like roses, don’t you?” I held my breath.

  “I don’t have time to grow a decent lawn, let alone rosebushes,” she said, taking off her shoes. “Why don’t you give it to the neighbors?”

  “I’m supposed to take care of it myself.”

  Mom’s eyebrows shot up like I had no business taking care of anything. Like I had no clue how to plant, water, fertilize. Maybe she was right. Maybe not.

  She turned and walked out. From the hallway came: “Good job on your report.” Good job? My heart skipped, but my brain interrupted: Don’t get so excited, heart. D.D. probably didn’t mean it. Don’t set yourself up for disappointment.

  Saturday morning. The phone had rung five times by nine o’clock and someone had knocked at the front door. I hoped the calls weren’t from Grandma. That would really put Mom in a crappy mood.

  I lay on my closet bed and stared at my hanging clothes, then turned over and buried my head in my pillow. How could I have thought th
at extra credit and a rosebush would change Mom’s mind? Maybe I was hopeless. But then I heard Mr. Hudson’s voice: “You’re not a victim. You have choices.”

  Right. I have choices. Just like the Goodnight Moon bunny, I can look at the ceiling or the walls or my comb and brush. Great choices. I can choose not to go to Outdoor School. My mind went blank and I nuzzled deeper into my flannel pillowcase. But, once again, Mr. Hudson’s words intruded: “You can choose to be strong or choose to give up.”

  I wanted to be strong, but I didn’t want to be like Anne Frank, working so hard, hoping things would get better, then losing everything in the end. The Jews should have known it was only going to get worse. They should have escaped at the first signs of trouble.

  I sighed. I felt like the sad hum coming from my radio, the singer sending her heartache into my closet. Just what I didn’t need, but before I could change the station, the heartache hum turned to heartfelt words. “Broken One, I see you hang your head in shame. Broken One, I see the tears fall like rain, as you try to hide your pain.”

  I tensed. Who was that? And where did she find those words?

  “Broken One, you are standing all alone. Broken One, is the pain deep inside or in your home?”

  My home? My heart paused, waiting for an answer. Yes, I wanted to cry into the radio. Yes, the pain is deep inside, in my home. Who are you, singing words wrapped in such hurt, yet sounding so sweet? Now her angel voice turned strong and the words sparkled. “I believe there is hope. I believe there is peace. I believe there is love to feel the depth of your soul.”

  My heart began beating hard as the words rang in my ears, swept past me, to the top of my clothes and out the closet, filling my room, urging me to get going.

  “Take my hand, and I will walk this road with you. Take my hand, and I will carry you through.” I sat up. Wide awake.

  “I believe there is hope,” came the chorus again. Yes! There is Hope. My insides shivered. I threw back my covers and sucked in a fresh start.

  “Broken One, let your story make you strong as you begin to sing your song. Broken One, find joy once again, and your new life begins.”

  Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t too tired to do one last thing. I pushed myself up and rocked back on my heels. I found Tyler’s sports bag in the back of my closet and opened it on my bed. I wasn’t going to lose everything in the end. I was going to Outdoor School. AND I WASN’T COMING BACK. There is Hope.

  My purple hiking boots went in the bag first. Then my two pairs of jeans and four T-shirts. Make that five. I tried to remember the list. Underwear and socks. Sweatshirt. That made sense. Toothbrush, toothpaste. I opened my door and crept down the hall, into the bathroom. Washcloth? Towel? I looked through the drawers and medicine cabinet. Band-Aids, sunscreen, mosquito repellent. Yes.

  Back in my room, I checked my drawers and closet for anything else. Pj’s and my yellow jacket. Flashlight — I needed a flashlight. I ventured out again, this time to the hall closet. The door squeaked.

  “Hope, is that you?” Mom’s voice came from the kitchen.

  “Yeah. I’m looking for something.”

  “I’m making blueberry pancakes.”

  “Okay,” I shouted back. I grabbed the flashlight, zipped back to my room, tossed it in my bag, and hid the bag in my closet. My knees shook, but I entered the kitchen totally cool.

  “What have you been up to?” Mom asked, sitting down across from me.

  I tensed. “Uh, cleaning my room. Putting things away.”

  “I mean at school.”

  I buttered my pancakes and poured syrup over them. Where was she going with this? “Getting ready for Outdoor School,” I answered carefully. “Learning songs, making these little stoves, stuff like that.”

  “Uh-huh.” She lit a cigarette. “Have you made some new friends this year?”

  Now she was making me nervous. I knew this wasn’t a friendly little mom-daughter chat. It was heading somewhere I probably wouldn’t like, but what could I do about it?

  “What about some kid named Brody? Weren’t the two of you swinging the other day?”

  My fork clanked onto the plate and my face turned roasting hot. How did she know his name?

  Mom grinned. “I think he likes you.” She stood up and walked over to the counter, picked up a round tin, and opened the lid. “Brownies.” She brought them to the table. “For me,” she said, pushing the lid back on. “He came by this morning. Said he’d heard you were grounded and wondered if the brownies would change my mind about Outdoor School. Made them himself.”

  Brody had that much nerve? Wow.

  “Pretty cute kid,” Mom was saying. “Dressed like he was going to play golf or something. And his mother, waiting for him in a silver BMW.” Mom tilted her head and eyed me. “You’ve got better taste than I thought.”

  “How come the phone rang so much this morning?” I asked.

  “Your fan club.”

  “Huh?”

  She puffed on her cigarette, exhaled a stream of smoke, then smashed the remains in an ashtray. “I goddamn don’t know what the crap’s going on, Hope, but I’ve had enough of this insane parade. First, your principal calls to tell me how important Outdoor School is and how much kids learn in just five days. Then she asks if I have any concerns about the trip.” Mom rolled her eyes. “‘No,’ I tell her. Then Mr. Hudson calls saying I should be very proud of you and your efforts at school. I tell him I’m not exactly proud of your stealing. That shuts him up.”

  She crossed her arms on the table. “You’d better stop this right now, young lady.” She stared. “You can pass the word that I’ve made up my mind and not even a mountain can move it.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Honest.” I tried to sort it out, but my ears interrupted, beating to my dancing heart, ringing in glorious disbelief: Did all those people really stand up for me?

  Back in my room, I tried to come up with a plan. I was going to Outdoor School, even if I had to walk. But where would I go after that? A crisis center? Teen runaway house? Abused women’s shelter? I’d heard about some places in McMinnville. Yes, that’s what I’d do.

  Relief rushed through my body, followed by a burst of energy. Lots to do if I was moving out. I started with my closet, throwing away stale saltines, hard Red Vines, and a jar of moldy green olives. I sorted a pile of clothes, folding, hanging, and tossing dirties in my clothes hamper. I washed the dress and scarf from Anita and ironed my new sundress.

  When I picked up my pillow to change the case, I saw my point system notebook, hiding there on my flannel sheet. I kneeled down and picked it up. I opened the cover. There was my code list and point values. I hadn’t entered any numbers for a while. I don’t know if I’d gotten tired of the system, or maybe it just seemed useless. I thumbed through the pages filled with dates and codes and points. At the bottom of each page I’d added the points, and at the end of each month, I had a final total. But I hadn’t done a grand total. Quickly I listed the months since it all began, starting in September. My throat tightened as I tallied the numbers: 6,485 in seven months. Pride brought a smile to my lips, pride in all those moments I’d stood silent and had quietly beaten down those hateful words, the dumb shits, the shoulds, the stares and glares. I’d won. Guido and Joshua would have been proud of me.

  My pride quickly faded, however, as I realized I had nothing to show for my hard work. No army tank. No blue ribbon. No gold star. No end to Mom’s abusive words. I’d won the game but not the prize.

  I walked over to the wastebasket and let my notebook slip from my hand.

  I sat on my bed, held Turtle in my lap, and gazed at the wastebasket. Would I yell at my children? Call them brat and stupid? I’d heard that bad things like yelling and hitting can go down through families just like a bad heart, from mother to daughter, to grandson to great-grandson. Was I going to be a link in that chain? If only I wouldn’t forget how the words hurt, how the sarcasm stung, and how the piercing eyes gagged my throat, burned my heart. I la
y my head on Turtle’s. Would I forget a year from now? Ten years from now?

  Slowly I stood up and moved to the wastebasket. I reached down and picked up my notebook. Beneath it was the yellow star I’d worn for my Anne Frank presentation. I looked at both for a moment, then found a glue stick, smeared the back of the star, and pressed it carefully over the black Lab puppy on the front of my notebook. I ran my fingers over the star, feeling each line and point. I wouldn’t forget. And I wouldn’t be a link.

  CHAPTER 29

  Saving Hope

  The phone didn’t ring Sunday morning and no one came to the door. Mom went to a champagne brunch with Lydia. Tyler was at a baseball tournament. I looked through my packed bag ten times, adding more socks and ChapStick and a pair of sunglasses. I wandered around the house, stared out the front window, sat on the couch, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and studied the orange juice carton.

  The telephone rang. I closed the refrigerator door and answered the phone. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Elliot?”

  “No, this is Hope.”

  “Oh, Hope, hi, this is Gabriela Feliciano. I’m at Eola High and I —”

  Her words faded as I tried to convince myself that it really was Gabriela Feliciano, League MVP and All-State Team — calling my house. And not a wrong number. She asked for Mom. But why?

  “It’s my third year as a counselor, so I’m hoping that will convince your mother.”

  “What?”

  “Convince your mother that she should let you go to Outdoor School,” said Gabriela. “I’m going to be your counselor.”

  NO WAY! “But we don’t find that out till the morning we leave.”

  “Counselors know ahead so we can make wood cookies.”

  I’d forgotten about our name tags, a competition among the counselors, who decorate the wooden circles with bright paint, tiny beads, and sparkly sequins in amazing designs, then string them on a leather cord. Cool sixth graders return to school wearing them for the next week or two.