“So the determined little mouse tried again. He climbed with all of his might and he made it to the third drawer—”
“And he got the cheese,” says Roza. I haven’t heard her voice for days. She’s chewing on the ends of her hair.
I want Roza to be right. But today is our fifth day with very little to eat. I know the mouse in my story must work even harder.
“No,” I say. “He slid back down again. And this time it really hurt when he landed. Still, he didn’t give up. The fourth time he climbed higher. Just past the fourth drawer. He put a little paw on the top of the dresser.” The girls lean in close to me. “He hung from the very top. The cheese was so close.” I pause and look around. They’re wide-eyed and awake now.
“And he fell again,” I say.
The girls slump back, disappointed.
“Now he knew that he could do it. He wouldn’t give up. He ran up to that dresser and scrambled to that ledge. And this time, the fifth time, when he got his paws on the very top of the dresser, he pulled himself up. And there was the cheese.”
“Oh, good,” says Roza, swinging her legs off the edge of her bed.
“And do you know what?” I ask.
“What?”
“There was more cheese there than he expected. And a bit of cracker too.”
We file down the hall and to our seats, where we find bowls of hot water waiting for us.
Chapter 24
Morning prayer service is longer than usual, longer than ever. Perhaps it’s Sunday. Perhaps the nuns have nothing for us to do and see we are too weak for chores. Perhaps there are no more cabbages, turnips or carrots and they are keeping us here to distract us from the idea of lunch. Sister Maria prays loudly, but most of the girls just sit and stare. We stand to sing and no one joins in.
Many songs but few dumplings. Grandma used to say this to me and Jakub when we sang or played instead of doing our chores. He would come home from school with the best songs and after he sang them only once, I’d have the song memorized forever. A liar must have a good memory. I know how true Grandma’s words are. Grandma would want me to be Anna Karwolska. I change the words: A survivor must have a good memory.
Sister Maria lifts her arms and says, “You may be seated.” We plop down.
There’s a tapping sound behind us, soft at first. The music stops; someone is knocking at the main door. The nun closest to the door pulls it open. It’s the man with the cart, the one who brought me here months ago. Though I’m in the middle of the room, I hear the man’s low, clear voice when he says, “I have brought food.”
I stand with Eva and the other young children watching the older girls. They form a line to move the food from the cart to the pantry. The wind is so strong; I move Eva behind me to protect her from the gusts. We don’t care about the cold or the wind. The older girls pass sacks of grain, crates of vegetables and even tins from one to the other down the long line. Monika is near the cart. Next to her, a short girl in a tattered brown dress drops a sack that’s placed in her arms.
I should be helping them. Now even Anna Karwolska has been nine for many months. No one suggested moving across the hall with the older girls, so I kept quiet. I want to stay with Eva.
“I can help,” I say. I rush to stand opposite the girl. We lift the small sack of grain and pass it to the girl beside us. Monika places the next sack in both our outstretched arms and we turn to pass it down the line. The girl’s hair blows in front of her eyes. The wind scratches against my ears, freezes my face and pulls my braids out behind me.
When the last of the food is removed from the cart, my arms are shaking and burning. My feet are numb and pinched in my tight shoes. Sister Maria shoos us inside to warm up. There is already warm water waiting at our places. The room fills with the smell of food, real food. Lunch is porridge, so thick and delicious it fills my stomach completely. After my last spoonful, I’m sure I’ll never be hungry again.
At dinner we line up for hot soup. Roza tips her bowl to her mouth and drinks it standing in line. Sister Danielle glances her way, but doesn’t pause to scold her for drinking before the soup is blessed. The girl in front of me steps around her, leaving a wide space, and I do the same. I make sure to hold my soup close, in case Roza decides to make a grab for my bowl. But she’s got her bowl tipped high, draining it of every last drop, and doesn’t seem to notice me at all. As we’re eating, Sister Danielle makes her way between the tables. She surprises each of us with a thick slice of bread.
All of the girls are quiet in the bedroom before bed. But it’s a different kind of quiet than this morning. It’s a full-belly quiet.
“You’re missing one of your ribbons,” Eva says, pulling my braids forward on my shoulders. “Your favorite special ribbons.” The small pieces of Mama’s shirt. I’ve worn them every day since we parted. There is only one now; the other must have blown away in the wind. I slide the strip of cloth off the end of my braid and rub it against my cheek.
Eva’s eyebrows arch and her eyes open wide. She looks as if she might cry for my loss. “Don’t worry,” I say, keeping my voice strong. “Here.” I hold my hand out to her. “Spell your name for me.”
She writes it quickly. “Teach me yours,” she says. She learns my name in a flash and snuggles close to me.
Eva breathes deeply beside me as she drifts off to sleep. I think of my cousins around the table, a holiday dinner at Grandma’s house. My feet ice-cold and blurry under the water at the edge of the lake. My grandfather’s hands placed ever so gently on top of my head each time he walked past me. I rub Mama’s cloth against my cheek. Tomorrow I will make one large braid and tie it at the bottom. Tonight I hold the strip in my hand as I fall asleep.
Chapter 25
It’s been at least a dozen days since the man brought us food. Things are nearly back to normal. There’s no food to spare, but there’s enough. And some things have changed. The babies have all found homes outside the orphanage, so there is more space and less noise in our room. Klara still sings the loudest during prayer service and prays while the rest of us do chores, but she calls me Anna instead of Liar and doesn’t seem to notice Roza at all.
Sister Maria’s prayers tell us not to fear, but we have new fears now. They are always listening for the sound of car motors and soldiers’ voices. We look out the windows each time we pass, just in case they are there, ready to pounce.
The morning is silent. Sun is streaming through the windows. But the sisters haven’t rung the bell. The little ones sit up and pull on their clothes. They yawn and stretch and line up by the door. Eva and I do the same.
“Do you think they are all right?” Eva asks me.
“Of course. The sisters are fine.” I don’t believe my own words. Where are they? It’s well past time; why haven’t they rung the bell?
One strong, high voice sings to us from down the hall. It sounds high and light like Sister Maria when the organ plays. I’ve never heard this song, but many of the girls know the words and start to sing along. Excitement zips through the group, flying from person to person like something real—like a butterfly.
“Do you know the song?” Eva asks.
I shake my head, disappointed for a moment. She thinks I know everything.
In a few minutes I’ve caught the chorus and sing along with the other girls. Sister Danielle reaches us. Her voice is beautiful.
“Little ones first,” she says.
We leave the room with the youngest girls in the lead. I’m last. Across the hall, the older girls fall in line behind me. We sing as we walk. It’s such a great feeling. Why don’t we sing every morning?
Everyone is filing into their places instead of lining up for food. Every place has a cup, a bowl and spoon, and also a little brown ball. I stand in my place next to Eva. My hands fly to my face. It’s a chestnut beside my bowl. There’s one for each of us.
There’s a buzz through the room. Eva smiles up at me. “Christmas,” she says.
We sit down an
d bless the food. I reach for my chestnut. It’s warm and smooth along the bottom. Rough, jagged edges curl away from the top where it was sliced.
Eva sniffs hers with a puzzled look on her face. She doesn’t know how to eat it.
“I’ll show you,” I say. “Do what I do.” I tug on an edge to unwrap my chestnut. Her eyes widen. “It’s fine. Really.” I pull the husk away and drop it on the table.
“You do it.” She offers me her chestnut.
I shake my head. “We’ll do it together.” I wrap my hand over hers. “Pinch,” I say, placing my fingers over her thumb and finger. “Good, now peel the hard part away.” She tugs and tugs until the chestnut is unwrapped. Then she brings it to her mouth and takes a bite.
“Mmmmmmmm, it’s the best food ever.”
Sister Danielle is making her way around the table. She’s holding a bowl in one hand and a wooden stick in the other. We all stop eating and watch her dip the stick and hold it over each girl’s bowl. I watch the girls try the new addition. Their faces light up with surprise at the taste. I sit up straight and wait for Sister Danielle to make her way to me. She plops some into Eva’s bowl first. “Honey,” she says. And mine next. “Honey,” she says again.
“Thank you, Sister Danielle,” I say.
I dip my finger into the liquid. Honey. It’s thick and sweet and wonderful.
Eva has her spoon in one hand and the rest of her chestnut in the other.
“Christmas,” I say.
“Christmas,” she agrees.
Chapter 26
“Good news,” says Sister Danielle the day after the snow melts. “We will have forest days again starting today.” A few girls, who have been here a long time, wiggle in their seats. “If you are new and old enough to help, go with Sister Irena. The rest, get a basket and come with me.”
I don’t feel new any longer. Almost a dozen girls have arrived since my first day more than seven months ago. But I’ve never heard of forest days, so I hurry to join the group around Sister Irena. The girls in Sister Danielle’s group talk of acorns and walnuts. “Not this time of year,” she says. “That was autumn. This is the start of spring.”
Sister Irena leads us through the kitchen. She instructs us each to take a pail by the door. When we leave the kitchen, we don’t turn to the forest with the other girls but down a path through a grassy field.
My feet feel the damp ground through the holes in my shoes. The earth squishes and my tight shoes claw into my skin with every step. In front of us is a large rectangle covered in leaves. “Line up next to me,” says Sister Irena. She bends down and pushes back the leaves. Then she digs in with her hands. In a moment, she pulls out a small brown rock.
“It’s a potato,” she says, and drops it into her bucket.
The rest of us squat down, push back the leaves and dig in. The dirt is cool and loose. I find my first potato right away.
“Check carefully,” says Sister Irena. “There could be another potato right next to the one you just found.”
I reach my hand back into the cool earth and discover she’s right. There’s another exactly beside the one I just found. In no time our buckets are full.
We line up and wait while Sister Irena quickly checks the soil we just searched. She finds five potatoes in the dirt the smaller children harvested, but she doesn’t scold them. Instead she holds each one up for all to see and says, “Look here, this one must have just sprouted.”
That evening our soup is thick. Potato soup. The best I’ve ever tasted. When Eva and I snuggle into our bed at night, I barely have a moment to think about being Anna Bauman. Mama. Papa. I’m so warm. My belly is full. I fall asleep easily.
Cries. Sobs. Babies. No, not babies, children are crying. It’s so loud; I think for a moment that the cribs are full again. Everyone sits up in bed.
“What is it?” Eva asks me.
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s crying?” Eva’s braver than I am, talking into the dark room.
“Outside,” says someone, maybe Veronica. “It’s outside.”
We head out into the hall and follow our ears. The older girls are out too, barefoot, wearing only nightshirts. We walk down the long hallway full of saints, past the statue of Mother Maria and out the front door. A giant moon hangs low in the sky.
Sister Maria is arguing with a lady in a long dark coat. A line of horse-drawn carts stands in front of the door. Groups of small children stand beside the carts. They’re so small. All must be younger than five. They cling to each other and sob. A few stand alone, crying.
A little girl darts into the woods.
Sister Maria interrupts her conversation to glance back at us. “Monika,” she says, “gather up the ones who ran into the woods.”
Monika runs after them, the bright moon shining down to light the way.
You can’t outrun the moon.
Sister Maria turns so quickly, I fear I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud. “Anna, please take the others back to bed.” Slowly we turn around and make our way inside.
The entire day is spent tending to the new children. They need baths and their hair needs to be picked. Most of their clothing isn’t fit to wear so something else must be found. They are young, three and four years old. We try to talk, to comfort them, but they only cry.
I want to ask them if they are from Warsaw, from the ghetto. Could they know my parents? Mrs. Rechtman? Halina or Marek? But I can’t break my promises. I promised Mama and Papa that I would stay safe. I promised Auntie and Miss that I would remember my lessons. I promised myself that I would only be Anna Bauman alone in my thoughts at night—the only time it’s safe.
That night our room holds extra cots, and mattresses are laid out on the floor. We really are stuffed ear to ear; some girls are three to a bed. The new girls are exhausted, but too tired to sleep. The moment the room becomes quiet, one child begins to cry and the others join her.
Someone begins to sing our Christmas song. Eva and I sing too. The new little girls quiet down and listen. I’m certain they’ll sleep now. But each time we stop singing, the crying begins again. When the song ends again, Eva looks at me and says in a loud voice, “Anna, tell us a story.”
“Yes, a story.”
“A story, Anna.”
“Please, a story.”
I open my mouth to say I don’t know a story, but I remember the mouse and the cheese. It doesn’t seem like the right story for tonight. I really have no idea of a story to tell. “I’ll try,” I say. “But there must be no more crying so I can tell the story properly.”
“Once upon a time there was an evil king who did not like children. No one who worked at the castle or lived in the city dared have children so near the king. Those who wished to start a family moved away to the valley.
“But even there, the children weren’t safe. Each spring, the king left his castle at the center of the kingdom to travel to his summer home. Each fall, he left his summer home to return to the castle. On these journeys, the king crossed right through the valley.
“As soon as they got word that the king was passing through, mothers and fathers sent every child into the forest for safety. There the children lived on berries in the springtime and roots and mushrooms in the fall. After the king’s procession passed through the valley, the children returned home again.
“But one year, there was a war. The king was threatened by another king. As his spring procession marched toward the valley, the children ran for cover in the forest as usual. Worried about his safety, the evil king gave an order. ‘This year, I will not take the valley road. Cut a passage through the forest.’
“The children were without the help of their parents, but they saw the king’s men chopping a route through the forest. There was no time to run and no place to hide. The clever children put leaves in their hair and stuck leaves to their skin. They held their arms out straight and stood tall, pretending to be trees.
“The king’s procession took a long time to cut throu
gh the strong forest. The children stood straight and tall. They didn’t move when squirrels ran up and down their trunks, nor did they move when warblers built nests in their hair. So, by the time the king finally passed the children, he saw nothing but trees. The children were safe.
“When the last carriage of the king left the forest, the tree children put down their weary arms. They shook the animals from their heads and began to walk home.
“But some children had become more tree than child. They could not put down their arms. They could not lift their feet. They couldn’t even call for help.
“All of the other children worked to rescue the ones who had become trees. They dug the tree children from the dirt—their feet were growing roots. They knocked the tree children onto their sides and rolled them out of the forest to their homes. There they had to learn to become children again.”
When I finish, the silence in the room grows. I look around. All of the children stare back at me. It is obvious they expect me to say more.
“The end,” I say.
“That’s not the end,” says one of the new girls.
“How did they do it?” asks Veronica. “How did they learn to be children again?”
Grandma always said, Don’t ask questions about fairy tales. I want to say this to Veronica, but the words only sound right in Yiddish. I chew my lip, considering how to say it in Polish. If I say it she may ask me to explain. I’ve never been able to explain Grandma’s sayings.
“Tell us more,” begs Veronica. Other girls too.
“It is the end,” says Eva. “They got away from the king. So that’s the end.”
“What happened next?”
I can’t believe it. The children are louder now than when they were crying.
“What happened next,” says a voice, Sister Maria’s voice, from the door, “is that all of the children went to sleep.”
Everyone scrambles to their beds.
“Anna, see me tomorrow morning, right after prayers,” says Sister Maria.
The Safest Lie Page 7