Masters of Silence

by Kathy Kacer

  And then, all too soon as far as Helen was concerned, it was over. The clown swept his arm across his chest and bowed deeply once more while the children jumped to their feet to show their appreciation. Even the nuns were beaming and applauding.

  Helen glanced around for Henry and spotted him sitting by himself on the other side of the room. She wasn’t surprised to see him all alone. Henry had no friends at the convent. What shocked her was the look on his face. His eyes were as round as two coins and he was beaming. Helen hadn’t seen such absolute and total joy on his face since they had been together in Frankfurt as one complete family.

  Helen watched as the children surrounded the clown, chattering in delight. As she stood to leave, she saw that Henry remained in his seat, still beaming, his feet swinging back and forth with a nervous kind of energy. Helen wanted to go over and talk to him, but she was afraid she might spoil the moment—burst this bubble of delight that seemed to have possessed him. She gazed at her brother for another moment. Then, with a sigh, she began to walk out of the room. At the door, she paused, looking back over her shoulder to see Henry staring at the clown. The clown was staring back at Henry.

  CHAPTER 16

  Henry

  Without saying one word, this clown had grabbed Henry’s attention and wrapped him up in a complete story. He had never seen anything like this in his life, and it lit him up. It was as if an electrical surge had just passed through his body, jump-starting something that had felt dead for so long.

  When the show was over, Henry stayed in his seat, watching the clown greet the children who had rushed over to ooh and ahh and gush over him. Everyone was asking questions: “How did you do that part with the lion’s jaws?” “Where do you get your ideas?” “When did you learn how to do this?” The clown was patient, listening to every question and taking the time to answer. Henry also wanted to walk up to him and ask how he could do those things with his body—how he could entertain everyone, how he could say so much without saying a word.

  One by one, the other children left the room. Helen, who had waited behind for a few minutes, also walked out. Finally, it was just Henry and the clown. And that’s when all of his excitement and eagerness drained out of his body. How could he ever talk to this person? How was he going to be able to tell him how much he had enjoyed—no, how much he had loved—the show? He was still not sure how to begin to open up. He didn’t even know why he hadn’t left the hall. All he knew was that he wanted to be close to this young man, maybe figure out how the clown could “talk” to people in silence? That was something Henry could definitely use.

  Another long minute passed while Henry sat staring at the clown, and the clown gazed back at him. Then suddenly, the clown began to walk toward him. Henry sat higher in his chair. His legs, which had been swinging back and forth, went still. His body stiffened.

  Closer and closer the clown came until he stood directly in front of Henry, peering down at him, not making a sound. Henry leaned his head back in his chair and looked up at the clown. And then, something came over him. Without saying a word, Henry rose from his chair and swept his right arm high into the air and then across his body as he bowed deeply and dramatically, just as the clown had done. He stayed like that, bent over, arm across his chest, and then rose and once again stared at the clown.

  A smile began to tug at the corners of the clown’s mouth. He nodded his approval and bowed as well with a dramatic sweep of his arm and a deep, forward plunge of his body. When he stood up, he was smiling broadly. Henry beamed back.

  Next, the clown placed his hands in front of his face. When he moved his hands up, his face had a big grin plastered across it. When he moved his hands down, the smile turned into a giant frown. Up and down his hands moved, while his face went from grinning to scowling. Then he lowered his hands and stared once more at Henry, inviting him to give it a try.

  Hesitantly at first, Henry brought his hands up to cover his face and then began to move them up and down, smiling and frowning behind his hands just as the clown had done. The clown applauded softly.

  What next? Henry wondered. He didn’t want this time to end. He felt as if the clown understood him, and Henry wanted to continue their quiet conversation. And that’s when the clown held his arms out in front of him and placed one hand on top of the other. He spread his fingers wide and began to roll his hands up and down like waves on the sea. At first, Henry was puzzled. What was the clown trying to do? Was he swimming? Was he pushing something away with his hands? And then a moment later, he got it. It was a bird! The clown had created an imaginary bird with his hands, one that was about to take flight. Henry watched as the clown continued to roll his hands up and down, spreading his fingers as wide as he could to create wings. And then, the bird took off. It flew high above the clown’s head and swooped in big circles around his body. It even landed for a moment on Henry’s shoulder, fluttering its wings before settling there lightly. Then it soared again, sweeping across the air, back and forth, up and down, until the clown released the bird, watching it continue to fly. Finally, the clown’s hands came to rest at his sides.

  Henry looked down at his own hands and then slowly and tentatively brought them together, spreading his fingers as the clown had done and letting his hands rise and fall. At first, his motions were clumsy. This doesn’t look like a bird at all, he thought. It looked more like a machine, stiff and awkward. The clown reached out, helping to guide Henry’s hands forward and back. And slowly but surely, Henry’s hands became more fluid, rippling up and down as if the bones in his fingers had dissolved. He had created a bird and he could make it fly and swoop just as the clown had done.

  Finally, he, too, brought his hands to rest at his sides. The clown nodded once more, then bowed deeply, turned, and left the room.

  CHAPTER 17

  Helen

  The clown returned to the convent two more times in the following weeks. And at the end of each performance, Helen noticed that Henry stayed behind. Clearly, the clown had sparked something in her brother that livened him up. Wandering by his dorm room on the way to class one morning, she caught him practicing some movements that the clown must have taught him. She had hidden behind the door to his room and watched him fluttering his fingers as if there were a flock of butterflies all around his head. Another time, she caught him pretending to be a high-wire acrobat, balancing along an imaginary tightrope and holding a make-believe umbrella to keep his balance. Henry was good! She marveled at him.

  She never said a word to him about watching him practice; she was afraid if she told him how good he was, she would break this magical spell that seemed to have finally captured her brother. But she did mention all of this to Albert one afternoon after the clown had finished performing and the children were filing from the room. Her brother had remained in the great hall to help put the tables and chairs back in place. Helen figured that was when the clown worked with him.

  “Have you noticed anything different about Henry?” she asked.

  Albert nodded. “Definitely! He’s smiling. I guess he’s finally accepted the fact that he needs to be here.”

  “But it’s also the clown,” Helen said. “I think he’s teaching Henry how to do his tricks and skits. He still isn’t talking, but between that and the writing he’s doing …”

  “Writing?”

  Helen hesitated before replying. While she was pretty sure that Henry wouldn’t like it if he knew she watched him practicing his movements, she was absolutely certain he wouldn’t want anyone to know about his writing. But Albert was her friend and someone to confide it. “He hasn’t shown me any of it. But I think he writes in this notebook that he keeps under his blankets. He hides it from me whenever I walk into his dorm room. You won’t say anything, will you?”

  Albert smiled. “My lips are sealed. I’m just glad your brother is doing better.”

  “I figure it helps him to write things down.” If writing and acting
were the key to helping Henry, that was good enough for now.

  The next time the clown returned to perform at the convent, Helen took the chance to thank him for what he was doing for her brother. Henry hadn’t been able to stay behind that day. He had chores that pulled him away from the hall.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur,” she said, after the other children had finished asking their questions and she could finally have a moment to talk to him alone.

  “Please call me Marcel,” he replied.

  Helen nodded shyly. “Marcel.” She figured they were only a few years apart in age, but he had a way of speaking that made him seem so much older and wiser than his years. “I think you’re brilliant,” Helen gushed.

  Marcel laughed. “Well, that may be an exaggeration. But thank you for the compliment.”

  Helen felt her cheeks grow warm. “And thank you for helping my brother,” she said. “I believe you’ve been teaching him. He seems … happier these days.”

  Marcel looked puzzled.

  “My brother. Henry.”

  Marcel’s eyes lit up. “Ah yes, your brother is the quiet one. I’m glad I’ve helped. He has quite a flair for these movements.”

  “I had hoped somebody might get him to talk, but this is pretty good for now.” Helen wanted to know more. “Could you tell me how you learned to do all those things?”

  “It’s called mime,” the clown interjected.

  “Yes, can you tell me how you learned to mime?”

  “Have you ever heard of the American actor Charlie Chaplin?” he asked.

  “Of course!” Charlie Chaplin was a world-famous silent film star. Helen’s parents had once taken her to see a Charlie Chaplin silent film called City Lights. In it, he played a shabbily dressed little beggar who wandered the streets of a big city and found a young blind girl, with whom he fell in love. But the girl mistook him for a wealthy man and he went along with that deception, even though he worried that if she ever found out he was poor, she would leave him. The movie had a happy ending, of course, when the girl’s sight was restored and she realized that even though he was poor, she had fallen in love with him.

  “I was inspired by watching Chaplin and how he could create stories without words,” Marcel said. “I realized that I was born to be a mime, just like a fish is born to be in the water and a bird is born to fly. Would you like me to teach you something as well?” he asked. “Le muet has become quite accomplished.”

  Le muet? Who is that? Helen wondered.

  Marcel caught her puzzled stare. “Your brother—the quiet one. I’ve named him le muet, the one who doesn’t talk—the mute.”

  Helen laughed softly. “It’s a perfect name,” she said.

  “I mean it with the greatest respect,” Marcel continued. “You may want him to talk, but I understand that you don’t always need words to communicate.” He paused. “So how about it? Are you ready to let me teach you something as well?”

  Helen squirmed and looked away. Acting had never been her strong suit. She didn’t even like to sing in public. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it,” she said.

  Marcel persisted. “Just give it a try.” And then he began to act out a scene in front of her in which he pretended to be walking a dog on a leash. The imag­inary dog was not very cooperative. It yanked him first in one direction and then the other, throwing him completely off-balance and sending Helen into a fit of laughter. She could almost see the dog at the end of the make-believe leash. Marcel invited her to stand next to him as he demonstrated how to act as though you are being tugged around the room and how to make the audience believe something was actually pulling you. But try as she might, Helen could not get the actions. She was stiff and awkward. There was nothing fluid about her movements and nothing convincing about her acting, no matter how much guidance Marcel gave her.

  “Never mind,” he finally said. “You keep practicing, and before long, you’ll be able to do this as well as your brother.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Helen

  A few days later, Helen was sitting in the dining hall with Michelle when Sister Cecile approached. “I need you and your brother to come with me,” she said. “Mère Supérieure would like to meet with you both.”

  Helen’s mouth went dry. Why did the head nun want to see her?

  Helen glanced at Michelle, who gave her an anxious nod. Then she rose from the table. She looked across the room at Henry, caught his eye, and motioned for him to meet her in the hallway. Henry continued to look so much brighter than he had in the preceding weeks, especially right after the performances from the clown. But when he joined Helen outside the dining hall and she told him they were to meet with Mère Supérieure, Henry’s face fell instantly.

  Together, they walked the long hallway toward the head nun’s office. The door was closed, and Helen took a deep breath and knocked. A moment later, she and Henry were seated in front of Mère Supérieure, staring apprehensively at the head nun.

  “It’s been some time since our last … meeting,” Mère Supérieure began. “I wanted to know how you have been.”

  Helen looked up at the painting of Jesus behind the sister’s head. Weeks earlier, when they had first arrived, this painting had seemed so foreign to her. Now, it was strangely calming.

  “Well?” Mère Supérieure asked again.

  Helen clenched her fists into a ball. There were still nights when she couldn’t sleep, when she dreamed about Nazi soldiers or Papa being arrested, or when she worried about Henry and what was going to happen to them. Should she say something about all of that to Mère Supérieure? In the end, she chose to say nothing.

  “We’re very grateful to be here, Mère Supérieure. Aren’t we, Henry?” She looked at her brother, whose face was once again so low on his chest that she couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Andre,” Mère Supérieure said.

  “Pardon me?” Helen asked.

  “Andre,” the head nun repeated. “It would be better if you became accustomed to using your brother’s new name, as well as your own. By now, you should understand the importance of remembering that.”

  Helen gulped. She opened her mouth to say something, but the head nun raised her hand to stop her.

  “That’s not the reason I’ve brought you in here,” Mère Supérieure said.

  The pounding began in Helen’s chest. What now? She held her breath as Mère Supérieure reached into a desk drawer.

  “I have these for you.” The head nun pulled out two letters and extended them to Helen and to Henry, who raised his head for the first time since they had entered the office. “They are from your mother.”

  Helen started to reach her hands out to the nun, but then they froze in midair.

  Maman!

  Mère Supérieure placed an envelope in Helen’s extended hand. For a moment, she began to shake so uncontrollably, she thought she might drop it. But then, she grabbed it and held it up to her face to see if she could smell something of her mother—a hint of the perfume that she used to wear or a whiff of the soap that she bathed with. There was nothing.

  “You’re free to take the letters with you and read them privately,” Mère Supérieure was saying. “Naturally, you’ll have to return them to me as soon as you can. It would be too dangerous for all of us if anyone were to come into the convent and find them. Sadly, I must destroy all the letters that arrive here.”

  Henry sat holding his letter unopened in his hands. Mère Supérieure had returned to some work on her desk. But Helen could not stop herself. She tore open the envelope and pulled the letter from inside. Everything around her—Mère Supérieure, Henry, the painting of Jesus—all disappeared as Helen unfolded the letter and began to read.

  My darling child,

  Oh, how I have missed you! Your face is in my mind and my heart every minute of every day that passes by—from the moment I rise until the moment I fall asleep. I am still here
in Kronberg, and I am doing well, thanks to the generosity of this family. So far, there has been no news from your Papa. I pray that he is safe and that he will return soon. There are such terrible things happening in our country and in countries all around us. But we can’t give up hope. I am also praying that you are well, my darling girl. I hope you are making friends at the convent. And I hope you are taking care of your brother. He needs you now more than ever.

  I know you have had to grow up so fast—too fast! But you are smart and you are strong. And I pray for the day that we will be reunited.

  With all my love,

  Maman

  Helen sat holding the letter up close to her face, still oblivious to everything around her. For a moment, it felt as if Maman were right there, standing in front of her, talking to her, reassuring her. And then, slowly, the room began to come into focus and Helen lowered the letter.

  Henry still sat next to her, unmoving. His letter lay in his hands. He was just staring at it. When he turned to look up at Helen, his eyes were impossibly sad. Helen looked away.

  That was when Mère Supérieure cleared her throat and said, “That’s all. You may go now.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Henry

  Henry sat on his bed in his dorm room, turning the letter over and over in his hands. He couldn’t believe his ears when Mère Supérieure had said that the letters were from Maman. But instead of feeling happy that his mother had written, Henry felt himself pulled down into that deep black hole where his mind had been living for such a long time, ever since his mother had left him here with Helen.

  He had to admit that in the last few weeks, he had actually begun to feel better. He no longer woke up in the morning with his head so thick and heavy, he wanted to bury it underneath the blankets and never get up. He walked with his head a little higher and his eyes more open. It was Marcel who had helped him climb out of that dark place. Henry thought of him only as the clown.