Replacement Girl

by Ann Beaglehole

  ‘My darling Kiwi granddaughter, about to marry an English boy! Douglas…Douglas.’ My grandmother repeated the name several more times. ‘Am I saying it right, Eva? The proper English way?’

  She was looking for a photo to show me in the album, kept in the top drawer of the bureau. ‘Here it is, Eva. My wedding day.’ Peering at the camera was Imre, looking dashing. My grandmother, young and pretty, was gazing rather anxiously to the side at Imre.

  We pored over the photos. After the wedding ones, there were holiday snaps and pictures of my mother as a baby.

  ‘You know, Eva, when I wake up in the morning,’ my grandmother said, closing the album, ‘before I move my aching shoulder or stiff back and before my eyes adjust to the room filled with this harsh New Zealand light, I almost feel like a young woman. Perhaps it is Sunday and I have a day out with one of my boyfriends or with a girlfriend to look forward to. Perhaps we will all go swimming or cycling or just spend the afternoon sitting in one of our favourite Danube-side cafés. When I am at last forced to wake up and face the day because your mother is standing by my bed with the coffee, the mystery that strikes me is how I, a little Hungarian girl from Budapest, have ended up thousands of miles away from home with a Kiwi granddaughter about to marry an English boy.’

  On Saturday afternoons the circle gathers. At the Kunzes, as soon as possible after the exclamations, kisses, hugs, and pinches on cheeks, we children escape to Tomi’s room. As Zsuzsi is the bossiest, she usually decides what we will do.

  ‘Let’s play the acting game! Please, please Zsuzsi,’ I beg. Zsuzsi is writer, director and costume mistress. She allocates all the parts. If anyone objects or has different ideas, she refuses to continue. We let her get away with this because she makes up good stories.

  ‘I need a blanket, a bowl, rope, and pen and paper,’ Zsuzsi says.

  ‘Can’t do it today,’ Tomi says.

  ‘What?’ says Zsuzsi.

  ‘Come on Tomi, it’s the doctor game,’ from me.

  ‘You can’t have those things, not pen and paper. It’s the Sabbath.’

  ‘What?’ Joe says, staring at Tomi.

  ‘It is the Sabbath.’ Tomi glares back at Joe.

  Not again! Tomi has been getting fatter, and more and more religious. First a yarmulka appeared on his head. Then he started worrying about whether it was pork in that sandwich or something else. The last time he came to my place, the problem was my feet: ‘You must not wear socks without shoes in the house. It will cause bad luck because being without shoes is a sign that someone has died,’ he said. To show how ridiculous this was, I slid around the linoleum floor in my socks. But Tomi is stubborn. There was nothing I could do to dent his beliefs.

  Not wanting to write on Saturdays is something new.

  ‘I’ll get pen and paper from my father,’ says Joe.

  He and Tomi do not get on. They are always competing about silly things – who does the longer music practice, for example. Joe learns the piano, Tomi the violin.

  ‘You’re not writing on the Sabbath in this house,’ says Tomi fiercely.

  Joe looks as if he is about to hit him, but gets up and leaves the room. In a few minutes he is back, without pen and paper. No one wants to involve the adults, not even Tomi, who is afraid his mother might be reminded to make him play his violin in front of the visitors.

  ‘Zsuzsi, please, make up a different story, without pen and paper,’ I suggest.

  ‘OK. We’ll play “Dares” instead. I dare someone to blow out the candles in the kitchen.’

  No one says anything. I shiver with excitement. Tomi’s parents, like mine, Joe’s and Zsuzsi’s, regularly light candles to remember those who have died in the war. The candles in the kitchen are burning for Sándor and Klára’s dead first son. This is by far the toughest dare Zsuzsi has given us yet.

  ‘I’m not playing,’ Tomi says.

  Silence again.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Joe says.

  ‘No you won’t,’ mutters Tomi.

  But before Tomi can stop him, Joe is in the kitchen. By the time we get there, the deed is done.

  Tomi’s face goes white. He searches the cupboards for matches to light the candles again. None are to be found. In any case, it is forbidden to light matches on the Sabbath.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I try to comfort him. ‘Your parents won’t realise what has happened. They’ll blame the wind.’

  Tomi looks as if he’s about to be sick.

  ‘This is a boring game,’ Zsuzsi says. ‘Let’s go to the park and play “Murder in the Dark”.’

  It will not be dark for ages; but never mind, it will get us away from the house. We run off, Tomi trailing behind.

  By the swings, Joe grabs Tomi’s yarmulka. For a few minutes, Zsuzsi and Joe toss it back and forwards, then Zsuzsi flings it into the murky pond. Joe scoops it out and throws it in the bushes. I try to make Joe find it, but he refuses.

  Zsuzsi and Joe run back to the house. I walk back slowly, upset about Tomi. Nothing seems to go right for him. I’m just about his only friend. He has told me that when he walks to violin lessons other boys smirk, call him names and sometimes pelt him with stones.

  A short time later Tomi returns. He pauses in the doorway. His trousers are streaked with mud, his eyes red. The yarmulka is back on his head. Joe and I are playing chess. Zsuzsi is reading a magazine.

  I look up and see the stone in Tomi’s hand.

  I yell out. Joe screams. Blood spurts everywhere.

  ‘Can I have the next game with you, Eva?’ says Tomi.

  Our new doctor, Dr Steiner, speaks Hungarian. He sends Joe to hospital to get stitches in his head.

  ‘Thank God he is not seriously hurt. I don’t know what got into Tomi,’ Klára says. She takes his temperature straight away. The mercury rises just above the normal mark and Tomi is packed off to bed.

  Joe swears he will teach Tomi a lesson he will never forget.

  ‘Just as soon as I get the chance.’

  Mrs Shapiro from the Welfare Society calls round again. My parents are first on her list.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she says. ‘Do you like the country now? Do you think you will ever really integrate here?’

  My mother opens her mouth and shuts it again.

  ‘My advice is the great New Zealand outdoors. Your best bet is to send the child to Habonim camp.’

  ‘Camp?’ My mother goes very still.

  ‘Kati, Kati, kis anyám, she only means a pioneer camp.’ My father tries to reassure her.

  ‘She will love it.’ Mrs Shapiro continues. ‘It is at Lake Karapiro this year. It will show her our healthy outdoor way of doing things in this country. All in a Jewish setting, of course. Fully kosher at all times.’

  The others in the circle receive the same advice. Mrs Shapiro is adamant. The foreign children must go to camp.

  ‘Joe can’t possibly go! He has to keep his hands for the piano,’ says Vera Farkas.

  ‘’Diculous, Mrs Shapiro, ’diculous idea,’ mutters Klára Kunz.

  Maria Ranki says that there is only one thing that interests Zsuzsi these days and that is boys. Can she trust the New Zealanders to look after her?

  As for my mother, she is pacing up and down the room, jabbering to the relatives on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Of course you’re not going.’

  Later I see her crying and my father comforting her. She has read in the newspaper about risks that the others do not seem to have thought of, such as insect bites, southerly gales, flooded rivers with swift currents and poorly marked walking tracks. But in the end Mrs Shapiro prevails and Zsuzsi, Tomi, Joe and I find ourselves at camp.

  There are three chaverim, which means comrades, in my tent. One of them is Sarah Weinstein, who is supposed to look after me as this is my first camp. Sarah is proud of being strictly kosher, which means that she cannot eat meat pies, sausage rolls or corned beef sandwiches – all the things that other children at her school eat.

  ‘I don’t
mind being different, because Jews are special,’ she says.

  When Sarah grows up she is going to marry a Jew and do her duty to ensure the Jewish race doesn’t die out.

  ‘It is better to marry for love,’ I say. I’m thinking of my own love, the bold, heroic Scarlet Pimpernel. ‘I would go out if a non-Jewish boy I liked asked me.’

  ‘Dating non-Jews is playing Russian roulette.’ Her voice is full of foreboding.

  The food at camp is odd: Weetbix and porridge, white squashy bread, sausages, baked beans, tinned spaghetti and pudding in different colours – strawberry, lemon, caramel and chocolate. The leaders, who wear blue shirts, have suntanned faces and arms.

  At first, my head is full of my mother’s list of things to be careful about: getting wet, getting cold, getting dirty, getting hurt, getting lost. It is all bewildering. There are big trees at the camp. Some of the children are climbing them. Will they fall? There are big black cows in the paddocks. They look scary, especially when they move suddenly. Do they hurt people? The stream in which we are supposed to swim and wash is full of fish. Do they bite?

  On about the third day, as I am crossing the paddock, keeping as far as possible away from the cows, I have a stunning thought. No one at camp is worrying about me. This is so comforting that it makes me brave. I venture nearer the cows. To my surprise they go on eating the grass as though I am not there. Close up, their eyes look sad. The next day, I try putting my feet in the creek. It feels deliciously cold and, to my astonishment, all the fish just melt away. Suddenly it is marvellous to be away from home, wonderful to be utterly removed from my parents’ worrying.

  Every morning we have Hebrew lessons, followed by a discussion about what being Jewish means. I do not care for this, and prefer the walks and games in the afternoon. The nights round the camp-fire are the best.

  ‘Tsena, tsena,’ we sing, dancing in a circle.

  ‘Erev shel shoshanim,’ croon the leaders as we sip our hot cocoa.

  My favourite song is in English and is about the Negev Desert in Israel:

  Both left and right

  There’s only sand

  Yellowing sand o’er restless land

  The caravan glides quietly by…

  There are some good things about being Jewish after all, I think.

  At times I wonder how Zsuzsi, Joe and Tomi are getting on. I hope that the lesson Joe is expecting to teach Tomi will not be too bad. I catch glimpses of the two boys in the distance. They stand out in their thick jerseys and trousers instead of the shorts and tee-shirts worn by the other campers. I see Joe climbing up one of the big trees, Tomi by his tent reading a book. Zsuzsi saunters by with various boys – one has curly black hair, another has glasses. She too stands out in her brief, tight shorts and a jumper that shows off her breasts.

  I meet Tomi and Joe in the dining hall.

  ‘It was so cold last night in my wet sleeping bag. My trousers and shirts are wet too,’ Tomi says in a whining voice.

  Joe winks at me and I understand that this is his revenge.

  ‘And then in the morning, one of the blue-shirts pushes me into the river. I smell, he says, and he will make sure that I have a wash if it is the last thing he does. I want to go home now. I don’t like camp.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Joe says. ‘That is what our parents said would happen. Think of the camp as a test. Don’t be a baby. What’s wrong with a little cold water?’ Joe shows us his swollen hand. He has hurt it climbing a tree. ‘But I’m not complaining, I’m not talking about going home.’

  ‘In two days’ time it is visitors’ day and after that the camp is almost finished,’ I remind Tomi.

  The next day, the younger children, who include Joe, Tomi, Zsuzsi and me, are supposed to go on an all-day hike. I run into the others outside the dining hall, and Tomi tells me that the blue-shirt chucked him in the river again.

  ‘I’m not going on their stupid hike. Eva, stay behind with me and play gin rummy.’

  ‘But I want to go on the hike.’

  ‘I’ve got my period,’ says Zsuzsi in a loud voice so that a leader standing near us hears her and goes red. ‘I can’t go.’

  It’s so annoying when Zsuzsi shows off about having her period. And I can’t help worrying that there is something wrong, because mine hasn’t started yet.

  ‘They make everyone go on hikes,’ says Joe.

  Before we set out, they divide us into separate groups and count all the children. Zsuzsi has disappeared; but Joe, Tomi and I are placed in different groups, each with its own leader. It is not until all the groups stop at the meeting place for morning tea that I have the chance to see how the others are getting on. I look around but cannot see Tomi anywhere. When I tell Joe, he yells out all the rude Hungarian words he can think of.

  ‘I don’t care where he is, why should I?’

  When we stop again at lunch time, Tomi is still nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Someone has to go back along the track to look for him,’ I say to Joe.

  ‘Not me. He deserves everything he gets.’

  ‘Come on, you’ve had your revenge. If you don’t look for Tomi with me, I’ll tell your parents what you’ve been doing to him at camp.’

  Joe scowls and agrees to help. When the blue-shirts aren’t looking he and I slip away and walk back along the track, every few minutes calling out Tomi’s name. When the track divides into two, Joe goes one way, I another. Alone on the track, the dark, thick bush frightens me. It will not help Tomi if I too get lost, I think, as I run back hoping to find Joe or Tomi or someone. I run and run and eventually reach one of the hiking groups.

  At the afternoon tea stop, Joe and Tomi are both missing. I tell the leader, who does a headcount. Panic! Where are the two Hungarian boys?

  ‘Were you idiots not listening when you were told that the first rule of hiking is keeping with the group?’

  He tells my group to start walking back to camp with one of the leaders. The two other leaders will stay behind to search for the missing boys.

  When we arrive at the camp, we find Tomi in the tent, tucked up in his sleeping bag with a supply of biscuits reading The Scourge of the Swastika.

  More blue-shirts hurry away to look for Joe. I sit alone outside Joe’s tent, hugging myself to keep warm, swatting the sandflies, watching the sun go down behind the paddock. When it is dark, one of the leaders lights the lamp. Moths scramble to fling themselves into the flame. There is still no sign of Joe. Tomi sits down beside me and together we wait for Joe. At last comes someone, limping and shivering. It is Joe. When he bends to crawl into the tent, we see his face is streaked with tears.

  At visitors’ day, everyone is talking about the trouble the Hungarian children cause. We are soft city children, very spoilt and difficult. They hope we have learned a lesson.

  Our parents are furious.

  ‘Look at the poor child’s hair.’ My mother points at my head. ‘Hasn’t been brushed for a week.’

  ‘Look how dirty he is.’ Klára points at Tomi’s muddy knees.

  Vera is aghast at Joe’s swollen hand; Maria upset by Zsuzsi’s brief, tight shorts. How can she have her period and still wear such shorts? I wonder.

  They announce that we are going home at once.

  Joe is ready enough to escape the camp after the humiliation of being lost. I also have had enough. But Zsuzsi is adamant she’s not going home. Surprisingly, Tomi asks to be allowed to stay.

  ‘Why?’ I ask him, when our parents have gone off to look for Mrs Shapiro to tell her exactly what they think of her camp.

  ‘I want to find out more about the kibbutz and Israel,’ he says. ‘There’s a lot I’m now starting to understand. One of the blue-shirts has given me a really good book about the causes of anti-Semitism.’

  In the end, our parents insist that we all leave the camp. Even Zsuzsi doesn’t get her way.

  ‘It is not just the lack of safety,’ Klára says, looking suspiciously at the blue flags with Stars of David, twisti
ng and turning in the wind. ‘They are trying to turn our children into Zionists. I’m not having Tomi sacrifice his life to make the desert bloom.’

  ‘It is all a bit too Jewish,’ my mother says. She is watching with a puzzled expression as the leaders in their blue shirts join hands to dance the hora.

  ‘That camp turned Joe into an anti-Semite,’ says Vera Farkas to Klára Kunz at Tomi’s Bar Mitzvah party. ‘You know what he said to me last night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jews are all money grubbers. Can you believe it? Jews are all money grubbers! And in the morning he announces that he isn’t having a bar mitzvah.’

  ‘Ladies, have you heard this story?’ Rabbi Rosenblum, a short fat man with a long grey beard, waddles into the conversation. ‘About two Martians who landed in New Zealand and happened to run into each other?’

  Vera and Klára shake their heads.

  ‘“What’s your name?” asks the first Martian.

  ‘“4286. And yours?”

  ‘“3359.”

  ‘“That’s funny; you don’t look Jewish.”’

  Vera is listening intently with her mouth open and nodding energetically, while Klára is covering the rabbi’s shoulder with steady pats and murmuring, ‘’Diculous, this English, ’diculous.’

  ‘Please excuse me,’ says the rabbi. ‘I must try the gefilte fish.’

  ‘Kati, dance with me.’ It is that silly man Paul Szép, leading my mother away.

  ‘I thank my mother and father for all they have done for me.’ Tomi rustles his crumpled speech notes.

  ‘Dance, everyone dance,’ says Klára when poor Tomi has at last finished speaking. She is blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.

  ‘I just heard your mother tell Tomi’s mother that you don’t want a bar mitzvah,’ I say to Joe as we foxtrot around the floor to a scratchy theme from Exodus, which all of a sudden turns into an even scratchier ‘Moon River’. ‘Hey, watch your feet. These are my new shoes. You don’t seriously believe your parents will let you get away with it, do you?’