Stones on a Grave

by Kathy Kacer

  Sara had rarely thought about leaving the orphanage and had never talked about it with her roommates, except for one conversation she had had with Dot in the common room months ago, and long after the other girls had gone to sleep.

  “Really? You’d leave here? I’d be so scared to be on my own!” Dot had said. It was common for Sara and Dot to meet up in the common room after the others had gone to sleep, either poring over the latest style magazines or experimenting with a newfangled stitch or dress pattern. Dot shared Sara’s passion for sewing.

  Sara had smiled at her roommate. It was no wonder that Mrs. Hazelton referred to Dot as a “young seventeen.” She still seemed naïve and uncertain.

  “Try a zigzag stitch on the outside, Dot. That’s what they’re showing in Seventeen.” The magazine was their bible for clothes, hairstyles and dating advice. Sara walked over to the sewing machine where Dot was laboring over a half-finished blouse—a deep-green muslin number that Sara knew would look fab against Dot’s pale skin. “Just think about it. How are we ever going to become famous designers if we stay here?”

  “But Miss Webster says we should be happy learning to sew for our future husbands and children,” Dot had replied, as if she were reciting an oath. Their home economics teacher was proud of the accomplishments of her two finest sewers, but she never intended for the girls to actually pursue this as a career. She believed that marriage was a woman’s highest calling. Teaching and nursing were fine careers for a young girl, Miss Webster reminded them. But dress design? Maybe for those folks down in Hollywood, she’d said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. It was a frivolous ambition as far as their teacher was concerned—a hobby more than anything else.

  “I’ve got to dream bigger than that, Dot. And you should too. You’re too good at this. I want to go to New York one day, or Paris.”

  “Paris! That’s crazy.”

  “No, it isn’t. Just because we’re orphans doesn’t mean we can’t do something important with our lives.”

  Sara thought about that conversation as she approached the front door of Mrs. Hazelton’s cottage. It had all been innocent talk at the time. Throwing out a destination like Paris was as ridiculous as imagining that men could walk on the moon! Sara had been living in this protected place for so long that it was nearly impossible to imagine another life. But the fire had shaken her deeply. The orphanage was beyond repair—that was clear. So where was she going to go? Another orphanage? That was impossible, given Sara’s age and the fact that all orphanages across the province were in the process of closing down. Meeting with Mrs. Hazelton was a good opportunity to talk about her future. But what was that going to be? Something with Luke? That was beginning to seem less and less likely as well.

  The transistor radio had been playing softly in the background the night she talked to Dot in the common room, Sara recalled. She and Dot had each doled out some money for the radio, and it provided the perfect rhythm for the sewing needle as it bobbed up and down on the machine. Sometimes they abandoned their sewing completely and just danced to the tunes, doing the Twist and the Mashed Potato. Sara could have cried when she thought about how much she and Dot laughed together as they flew across the floor, hoping Miss Webster or one of the Littles wouldn’t hear them. That night, their favorite tune had played in the background, a song called “Runaway.” Part of the first verse looped in Sara’s mind.

  …I wonder

  What went wrong

  With our love,

  A love that was so strong…

  Recently Luke had been pressuring her to go all the way. Well, the truth was, he had been pressuring her since the day they started going steady. But lately he had been pushing her more and more to do it, declaring that he loved her—only her—that she was more beautiful than any girl he knew, and that it would be so special to be together that way. And then he would say stuff about guys having “needs” and if he didn’t get them met with her, there were plenty of other girls who would be happy to show him a good time.

  Sara hated it when he said those things. It wore away at her willpower. And sometimes, though she didn’t want to admit it, she suspected that he might be getting his “needs” met with other girls in town. She didn’t want to let go of Luke. She had even promised him, if he just waited a little longer, that he would be the one—her first. He seemed to like that and had said he’d wait—not forever, just for a little while. But she knew, deep down, that she didn’t want to lose her virginity—not to Luke. For some reason, that didn’t feel right, no matter how many times he told her that she was his special girl. And she certainly didn’t want to find herself like Vivian Patterson, the girl who had left town mysteriously the previous spring to visit family in Toronto.

  She left in disgrace, Miss Webster had whispered, almost as a warning to the other girls.

  On top of that, Sara was still troubled by the conversation she had had with Luke that morning in the diner. The incident with Malou was not the first antic that he had been involved in. His bad reputation was something that Sara had refused to acknowledge. Just pranks, she used to say when Dot criticized Luke. He’s really not a bad guy. Just rough around the edges. She’d told herself that maybe her roommate was just jealous because she had a boyfriend and Dot didn’t. But then there was that rumor that he had been stealing goods from the shelves of the local grocer, Mr. Chin—the only Chinese man who lived in their community. Nothing was ever proved. When Sara had tentatively asked Luke about it, he’d shrugged it off. Why do you care what happens to him? He shouldn’t even be living here—takes away from the decent people of the town.

  The whole thing had left Sara feeling sick. But, again, she’d never pushed it. And that was beginning to make her feel even sicker.

  Malou was just leaving Mrs. Hazelton’s study when Sara walked into the living room of the cottage. Malou carried a brown manila envelope in her hands, and she had that look in her eyes like she was a million miles away, even though she was standing right in front of Sara.

  “Malou? Are you okay?” Sara repeated her name one more time.

  “What? Oh, Sara.” The two girls hugged tightly before Sara stepped back.

  “What’s going on? What did you and Mrs. Hazelton talk about?”

  Malou shook her head. Sara was beginning to wonder if this had anything to do with Luke. Why else would Malou look like something had just spooked her?

  Just then Mrs. Hazelton appeared in the doorway of her office. “Sara. Good, you’re here. You’re the last of the Seven to meet with me. Come in, please.”

  Sara looked at Mrs. Hazelton and then stared back at Malou.

  “Sara?” Mrs. Hazelton stepped to one side, motioning for Sara to enter her office.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  But just as Sara was about to walk toward the matron, Malou grabbed her by the arm and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “We all need to say goodbye. Find me, okay? Before you go anywhere.” With that, Malou brushed past Sara and left the cottage.

  Goodbye? Whatever was Malou talking about?

  Mrs. Hazelton cleared her throat, and Sara turned her attention back to the matron. She entered Mrs. Hazelton’s office, and the door closed softly behind her as she sank into the large leather chair directly across from the matron’s desk. It always startled Sara when she entered Mrs. Hazelton’s private sanctuary. It was almost like the feeling she had had seeing her matron in her nightgown—like glimpsing a personal side of Mrs. Hazelton that Sara wasn’t really aware of or never thought about. Yes, she knew that Mrs. Hazelton had never married; the girls called her Mrs. as a show of respect. But beyond that, there was little Sara knew about the matron’s life.

  Mrs. Hazelton settled heavily into her chair and reached for the half-empty cup of tea, draining it completely before setting it down and leaning forward. It was only then that Sara recalled another piece of personal information she knew about Mrs. Hazelton. Their matron was not well. She had told the girls so a few months earlier, though she hadn’t reveal
ed the nature of her ailment.

  “How are you, Sara?” Mrs. Hazelton was out of breath. Her face was pale and there were bags under her eyes like two small stuffed pillows. Had the smoke from the previous night’s fire aggravated whatever condition she was suffering? Had she lost weight? Why hadn’t Sara noticed any of this before?

  “Fine, thank you, ma’am. Just trying to get back to normal.”

  Mrs. Hazelton paused. “Normal…yes, we’d all like to return to the way things were.”

  “I’m not complaining though. Everyone was really nice to us at the church. I guess we’re all just wondering what’s going to happen now.”

  “Yes, there are decisions to be made.”

  Sara was trying to be patient, but all she could think about was that the orphanage was going to close down and she had no idea what was to become of any of the girls. Malou’s final words—we all need to say goodbye—rang inside Sara’s head. She put her hand on her stomach, as if doing so would quash her growing anxiety. Mrs. Hazelton was speaking again.

  “First of all, I want you to know that I have spoken with our board of governors, and we are trying to find homes for each of the younger girls. We have more calls to make, but rest assured, the children will all be taken care of.”

  That was a relief to Sara. At least the youngest orphans would have temporary homes in other orphanages or, better yet, with real parents and perhaps even siblings. But that still didn’t account for the Seven. Sara perched on the edge of her chair, anxious to hear what Mrs. Hazelton was going to say next.

  “So that leaves you—my special seven.”

  It was no secret that Mrs. Hazelton had a soft spot in her heart for the seven oldest girls, those who had been there the longest. She didn’t always show it; Mrs. Hazelton took great pains to appear detached and proper. But the girls knew. Sometimes, in those quiet moments when few people were around, she had referred to them this way, as her special seven, like a blessed number or a good-luck charm. Sara had never felt particularly lucky.

  Two envelopes were sitting on Mrs. Hazelton’s desk. The matron nudged the larger manila envelope toward Sara. She looked at the envelope and then back up at Mrs. Hazelton. Malou had been holding a similar envelope when she left the office.

  “I’m going to tell you something that you probably already know,” Mrs. Hazelton began. “The seven of you—my special seven—will never find homes in families the way the younger ones have.”

  There it was. Mrs. Hazelton had finally spoken aloud the words that everyone, including Sara, already knew. It was the opportunity that Sara was looking for.

  “I’ve been thinking about that myself, ma’am. I’m glad you asked to talk to all of us—to me. You see—”

  “But you mustn’t despair about this.” Mrs. Hazelton jumped in before Sara could finish her sentence. “You’re no longer a child, Sara, and you should have left here when you turned eighteen. I didn’t insist on it then, but now, with everything that’s happened, it’s time for you to make your way out into the world on your own.”

  Mrs. Hazelton had jumped the gun and said the very words that Sara was about to blurt out.

  “I’ve been keeping some things safe,” continued Mrs. Hazelton, “until it was the right time to give them to you and the others. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly. But with the fire and all…” She took a deep breath and pushed the envelope across the desk to Sara. “We’ve never talked about where you came from and the circumstances of your birth. I think it’s time you knew.”

  Five

  THE ENVELOPE SAT in the space between Sara and Mrs. Hazelton until Sara tentatively reached for it. After years of living at the orphanage, she had stopped thinking about the fact that she had come from anywhere. She simply was. Was that the source of her constant anxiety? The fact that she had no history? No roots?

  “I don’t know everything,” Mrs. Hazelton continued as Sara stared down at the envelopes, “but what I do know is all here.”

  With that, Sara picked up one of the envelopes and turned it over in her hands. Her name, Sara Barry, was written on the front in Mrs. Hazelton’s perfect handwriting. With a quick intake of breath, Sara opened the envelope. Three things fell out onto Mrs. Hazelton’s desk. The first two looked like documents or certificates. Sara glanced at the first one. It was written in English under a letterhead that said United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration—UNRRA. Her gaze shifted to the second document. It looked like a doctor’s note, written in a language that she couldn’t identify. But it was the third item that drew her attention. It was a thin gold chain, and on the end was suspended a gold star. But this one had six points instead of the usual five. And there was some writing across the front of it in letters that were also unfamiliar to Sara.

  “It’s a Star of David,” said Mrs. Hazelton. “A Jewish star.”

  Sara nodded. She knew what a Star of David was. Not that she knew anyone who was Jewish, but she had seen pictures of these stars in books. And she had learned a little about the Jewish faith from Reverend Messervey. Mrs. Skelton, their head teacher, once spoke about the Second World War and the Jewish people who had been persecuted in Europe. What did any of this have to do with her?

  “I believe it was given to you by your mother,” said Mrs. Hazelton gently.

  My mother!

  Sara knew that she must have had one, of course. But, aside from the fantasy about Coco Chanel, she had stopped thinking about a mother years ago. Some of the other girls obsessed about their birth mothers and who they might be. Dot had concocted a whole make-believe world about her beginnings. She even wrote letters to herself on the fancy stationery she’d received one Christmas, signed by fantasy mothers like Queen Elizabeth or Sandra Dee! But not Sara. In fact, in some strange way, when she thought about what a mother—her mother—might have looked like, it was Mrs. Hazelton’s face that materialized in front of her. That was really the only motherly image she knew. For a moment, Sara’s vision went out of focus, and she felt her head begin to swim. She clasped her hands together, beginning to rub them in slow motion, and then stopped, trying to steady herself and breathing deeply. Mrs. Hazelton remained silent, watching Sara as she struggled to compose herself. Finally, Sara picked up the English document and began to read. It was short and to the point.

  This female child, born December 20, 1945,

  in Föhrenwald, Germany, of undetermined

  nationality, is fit to travel to Canada.

  Underneath were two smaller lines. The first one read:

  Mother: Karen Frankel

  And underneath that:

  Religion: Jewish

  Sara looked up. “Is that her name? My…mother’s name?”

  “I believe so.”

  Sara’s head was still reeling. “And she was…is…was…Jewish?”

  Mrs. Hazelton pointed to the name of the place where Sara had been born. “I’m not sure how it’s pronounced—perhaps Fur-en-vald, or For-en-vald. It was a camp for Jewish refugees who survived the horrors under that monster Adolf Hitler.”

  Sara nodded. Yes, she knew a little bit—not much—about Adolf Hitler and what he had done to the Jewish people of Europe.

  “I believe the second document explains more,” added Mrs. Hazelton. “You see, I was told that your mother was imprisoned in a concentration camp and was liberated there at the end of the war.” She went on to tell Sara that at some point her mother had contracted TB—tuberculosis—a terrible lung infection that was rampant in the camps. “You were born with the disease, passed on from your mother, after the war ended. You weren’t allowed onto the plane when the UNRRA workers wanted to bring you to Canada. Our government was so afraid that citizens here would contract that disease. A friendly doctor in Germany falsified the paperwork, omitting the fact that you had TB. He declared you fit for travel. That’s what the second letter says.”

  Sara glanced once more at the second document. The letters swam in front of her eyes.

 
; “It’s written in German,” continued Mrs. Hazelton. “This medical certificate is signed by the doctor in Germany. You were treated for the disease here at the orphanage, and you recovered quickly.”

  Sara looked at the name on the paper—Gunther Pearlman.

  She raised her eyes tentatively to Mrs. Hazelton. “And my…father?” The word sounded like another language in her mouth.

  Mrs. Hazelton shook her head. “I assume he was imprisoned with your mother. But I’m afraid I have no information about him.”

  Sara sat back in her chair. She was still having difficultly processing it all—the fire, realizing that she was no longer going to be able to live at the orphanage, and now hearing that her mother was Jewish and connected to the horrible events of the Second World War.

  Mrs. Hazelton rose and moved around her desk. She paused in front of Sara and then eased herself into another chair, wincing, as if the effort of holding herself up was suddenly too much. Once again, Sara remembered that the matron was ill. It was so selfish of her to think only of herself in that moment. “What about you, ma’am? Are you in pain?”

  Mrs. Hazelton brushed the question away. “We cannot always control what becomes of our bodies, my dear. But it will give me peace of mind to know that the seven of you are making your way in the world.” She paused. “And there’s one more thing.”