The Length of a String

by Elissa Brent Weissman

  This I will miss the most, Belle . . . the way we connect as twins in our sleep. It is as though our deepest minds are connected by an invisible yarn, the way we used to tie string between paper cups and whisper secret messages. With an ocean between us, will we still have the same dreams? Will we still wake in the middle of the night, trembling from a shared nightmare?

  I do hope so. That string is all we have until the rest of you join me for a happy, safe life in America and all 10 of us once again do everything the way we’re meant to. As a family.

  I must stop here for a moment. I am becoming sick.

  26 August 1941

  t. July 1950

  Dear Belle,

  I spent most of yesterday terrifically ill. I was not alone in the infirmary . . . many people were in horrid condition due to the waves. At home, the nice part of being ill was staying home from school and having Mama all to yourself. And the little treat Papa used to pick up on his way home from the university “for the patient” . . . remember when we both had chicken pox and Papa brought us dolls with red spots on them? How sad and lonely it is to be sick by yourself.

  That night in our bed, the night of “Anna un Kurt” . . . you with your happy dream . . . believe me when I say that was my last happy night. I woke up before you (as usual), and I never gave you a full account of what happened that morning. Oh Belle, it was dreadful. I went downstairs in my nightgown and saw Mama looking weary. Papa was home (no work to be found that day, again) and said he needed to talk to me and Kurt. I said, “Should I wake Belle too?” and Mama had a big sob, and Papa rubbed her back and said, “Just Kurt for now. Let Belle sleep.” That’s when I knew for sure it was about the argument . . . just Anna un Kurt . . . for what do you and I do apart?

  Grandmother pulled the little ones out the door. (Of course Greta insisted she was not a little one and she should stay, but Grandmother gave her her sternest look, and they all left.) Nervous, I tapped on Kurt’s door until he stirred, and we all (Mama, Papa, and I) went into his room. I sat at the desk, Papa leaned against the bureau, and Mama sat at the edge of the bed, where Kurt was still lying down, his hair a sight and a pillow line running down his cheek. You were still down the hall in our bed, sleeping peacefully. (The only time I can think that we met like this, without the whole family, was planning Mama’s birthday surprise a few years ago. Remember how we giggled then, with the excitement of a secret? How different this was . . . even the air felt weighty.)

  I understand your anger at being excluded. I thought you were furious at hearing the information after us, but now that I’ve been mulling it all these days, I realize that you felt lied to. You think Mama and Papa didn’t give you all the information . . . that they gave more explanation about their decision to me and Kurt that morning, keeping you in the dark. But Belle, it’s not true! I know only as much as you, and if I could change places with you then and most certainly now, I would in an instant!

  Here is a record of our secret meeting, and you must believe this is everything.

  The first thing Papa said was, “Luxembourg is no longer safe for Jews.” (I already knew that plain, of course, but to hear it from Papa? Papa, who is filled with endless faith in good things . . . he never even takes an umbrella, he is so hopeful about nature!) Papa said he and Mama had secured papers for us to move to America. He said our cousins Max and Hannah Schoelstein will sponsor us.

  I got excited (this seemed like good news) but Kurt said, “Max and Hannah? Who are they?”

  Something odd happened then, Belle . . . I think Papa caught Mama’s eye before answering. It was a strange look, but so quick I couldn’t decipher it. I cannot say, even now, and there is no one here to help me analyze it. But it makes me anxious . . . these are the people I will live with until the rest of you arrive. Mama and Papa could not share much about them. Here is everything they said they know. (You know all of this already, but I am writing it here anyway, for I wish we were here together, reciting these facts in preparation for meeting them together.)

  Max is Papa’s second cousin. They played together when they were children.

  Max moved to America long ago, before any of us were born.

  Mama and Papa have never met Max’s wife, Hannah. They only remember her name from a wedding announcement years ago.

  Papa found their address and wrote to them about our situation. They were willing to sponsor us. (That must be good, yes?)

  They live in New York, in a place called Brooklyn. (I know your disappointment at this . . . not Georgia or Hollywood . . . Could there be even a trace of glamour in a place called Brooklyn?)

  After learning this, I said, “But this is all good news. Why is Mama so sad? Why can’t we tell Belle?”

  So Papa talked about how difficult it is to get out of Europe now, even with papers and sponsorship. It is not impossible, he said, but it is very dangerous. Mama added (of course) that it is expensive. The papers . . . the train to Lisbon . . . the boat to New York . . . She also said what she always says when discussing something expensive: “There are a lot of us.”

  I remember that Papa moved from the bureau and took my hand in his. His palm was warm and wet. He said, “We have been saving money. Grandmother and Grandfather too. But now that Rabbi Serebrenik is himself in America, there is only one man who is willing to take Jews along that route to Portugal, and his price is very sharp. More than a year’s salary for each person, and as you know, I have not had a consistent salary in some time.”

  Mama said, “We think it’s best to get some of our family out now, before things become worse. The rest of us will follow when we have saved more money.”

  “How many will go now?” Kurt asked. He was sitting up now, with his pillow propped against the wall.

  Here, Papa closed his eyes for a long time. When he opened them again, they were fixed on the desk. He answered, “Two.”

  Kurt could not believe it (nor I). He said, “Two! Only two?”

  Mama said, “Right now. The rest will follow,” and Kurt asked, “So, who?”

  It seems so obvious when I write it now, how the discussion went. Surely, I should have realized before this moment who was going. But I’m telling you truthfully, Belle, I did not know it until right then . . . about half of one second before Papa spoke it aloud.

  “You two,” he said.

  Oh Belle, I was in terrific shock! The unfairness of it all. Why did any of us have to go at all? Why not you? Why not us, together? I felt so lonely then, Belle, without you in the room.

  Kurt could not believe it. He said surely an adult would go.

  Oh, Belle, if you could have seen Mama’s face. It broke my heart in two, and then the pieces dropped down into my belly . . . plonk, plonk, like stones into water. Mama was in terrific pain as she said, “We can only afford to send two right now. We decided to send the two eldest children.”

  How absurd! I’m older than you by 9 minutes! How can 9 minutes determine that I must leave behind everything and everyone who matters, while you must stay?

  Trying to sound resolute, I said, “Let someone else go in my place. I’ll stay and help with the little ones.”

  Kurt said, “I don’t want to go either. I’ll wait until we can afford to go together.”

  I said, “Yes, I’ll wait too, at least for Belle.”

  Mama looked as if we’d convinced her . . . as if this was all she needed to change her mind and let us stay! But Papa was firm. “We’ve made a decision. You two will go now, and the rest of us will follow as soon as we can.”

  I cried, “But I don’t want to go!”

  Now Papa was becoming angry, and you know what that means. He banged his fist on the desk, and his voice became quiet but hard. “Do you think Mama and I made this decision lightly? Do you think we want to split up our family? Do you t
hink we want to send two of our children away? Do you think we want to leave anyone here to face Hitler?”

  That’s when you opened the door and said, “What’s happening?” How can I describe my flood of feelings at that moment? Anger, fear, and . . . guilt to be caught having this conversation without you. I suppose it was the first of many, many (how many?) things I will have to do without you until you arrive. (I can hear you protest that you must do everything without me too. But you are not alone, Belle. Not like I am.)

  You know the rest, of course. And you now know that what Mama and Papa told you is really the same as what they said before you arrived, about why they chose who they chose. But it wasn’t until you asked (through your rage, through your tears) when we would be leaving that Papa began to blink away tears himself.

  He said, “Tomorrow night.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The room went dark. I screamed and grabbed Madeline’s arm. The lights flicked back on, and I heard laughter from the top of the stairs.

  “Henry!” Madeline shouted. “Knock it off!”

  I exhaled and released my grip on Madeline, relieved it was just her brother playing with the lights. My heartbeat was still fast, though. It had sped up when I’d learned the meaning of “Anna un Kurt.”

  Henry flicked the lights again. “I didn’t even know you guys were down there,” Henry said from the top of the steps. “You’re so quiet. What are you even doing?”

  “None of your business,” Madeline called.

  I heard the stairs creak, because of course Henry now had to make it his business.

  “What are you doing?” he asked again. His blond hair was all wild, like he’d been experimenting with electricity.

  “Nothing,” Madeline said.

  Her little brother stared at us for a second, then walked over to the TV and turned it on.

  Now it was Madeline’s turn to say, “What are you doing?”

  “Playing Xbox,” he replied.

  “No you’re not,” Madeline said. “We’re down here.”

  “But you’re not doing anything,” Henry said, all fake innocence. He grabbed a controller and squeezed between Madeline and the arm of the sofa, even though there were tons of other places to sit. I took the diary from her and marked the page with the green ribbon. Then I held it to my chest protectively.

  “Dad!” Madeline called.

  The video game started, and Henry turned the volume up really loud.

  “Dad!” Madeline shouted again.

  No response. Madeline stood up from the couch—making sure to squish Henry as she did—and pounded up the stairs. I stuck my tongue out at him and followed.

  “We were down there,” she was telling her dad in the kitchen, “and Henry just barged in and started playing Xbox.”

  “Well, what were you two doing? Hello, Imani.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  Madeline glanced at me.

  “Reading,” I told Mr. Winter.

  “Reading?” He almost laughed. “You can do that somewhere else, can’t you?”

  “But Dad—”

  “The Xbox is only in the basement,” he said. “But last I checked, a book can go anywhere.”

  Madeline gave the biggest eye roll I’ve ever seen. “Dad.”

  Video game sounds wafted from the basement. Henry shouted, “Yes!”

  “What are you reading?” Mr. Winter asked casually.

  “Nothing,” Madeline snapped.

  I put the diary behind my back. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to your room.”

  “This is so unfair,” she grumbled. “You always take his side.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Winter deadpanned. “Because Henry’s my favorite child.”

  “Ha-ha,” Madeline said as she stomped down the hall. I stomped too, in solidarity. Their eco-friendly bamboo floors were great for stomping. Nice and loud, but still soft on your feet.

  Once in her room, Madeline slammed the door behind us, and I gave her some time to calm down.

  “Sorry,” she said finally.

  I shook my head. “Whatever. Henry started it. And parents shouldn’t joke about having favorites.”

  “I know, right?” She sighed and collapsed onto her bed. I sat down at the edge of the mattress and pulled the diary out from behind my back. “Keep reading?”

  27 August 1941

  t. July 1950

  My dearest Belle,

  Two more days have passed here on the Mouzinho, though it is difficult to keep track. I have been sleeping-sleeping-sleeping, all night and for long stretches during the day as well. Is this what it is like to be you in the morning? Sleeping so late, not hearing Mina’s squeals or Greta’s loud voice or Oliver pulling that silly toy duck along the floor? I never understood how you could sleep so heavily, but now, Belle, on this boat, we could be attacked by pirates and I wouldn’t wake! My sleep is so deep, I have not had a single dream. This saddens me too, for it is in dreams that our connection is strongest.

  I can’t stop thinking about what you said on my last night at home. I didn’t have the right words to say to you then. It was all such a shock, and so rushed. And you were so huffy, refusing to help with the preparations. (Not that there was much to prepare. I could bring so little . . . why, it took less time than packing for a week in France!)

  I was not trying to be aloof, Belle. I wanted desperately to talk together all day, but how do you begin when there is too much to say, and none of it will make one ounce of difference? Then bedtime . . . the two of us lying next to each other in heavy silence. Oh, the thoughts that were in my head. I was thinking many of the same things I continue to think every moment of the day now: How long will it take to save the money for the rest of you? What might happen in Luxembourg before Mama and Papa are able to save enough? I was also thinking: Why Kurt and me, truly?

  Why? Yes, it sounds diplomatic that the two oldest would go first. But if it were so simple, there wouldn’t have been an argument the night before. There is a reason they chose to get rid of Kurt and me. Here is my best explanation:

  They cannot send Mina or Oliver without one of us to take care of them.

  Papa’s favorite is Greta (that is plain), so he wants to keep her.

  YOU are Mama’s favorite. (Don’t argue. You know it’s true.)

  Kurt and I are the most withdrawn. If only I had been more helpful around the house . . . more willing to spend my afternoons playing with Oliver and Mina instead of trying to escape for moments of solitude . . . Maybe Mama and Papa believe I wanted to leave.

  Kurt . . . did they want to send Kurt because he’d been trying to break away too? Since he started high school, he’s turned inward . . . staying late at track and field, sleeping like the dead, ignoring his chores and us all. Do you remember when we were little, how we were close friends . . . you and Kurt and me? How we’d spend hours playing our favorite game, Super Hirsch? I smile to think of it . . . two of us would pretend to be starving, or crushed by an automobile, or hanging from a cliff, on the edge of death until . . . Super Hirsch to the rescue! Remember how we fought over who would get to be Super Hirsch? We hated taking turns because we all wanted to be the hero. How long ago that seems. Lately you and I joke that Kurt is becoming a machine . . . all muscle, no brains or heart. I feel a bit guilty about it now, because clearly it is not true. What happened with the passeur . . . either Kurt is a coward, or else (and this is the truth, I believe) he has more heart than we ever knew.

  All of this was running through my mind that night, Belle, and has not gone away. That I am the twin they no longer want.

  I am still shocked to think that you believe the opposite, that since it is so dangerous at home, Mama and Papa were sending their two favorite children to America, to survive. You said . . . and it hurts me to remember or w
rite it down . . . you said, “It’s okay. I understand. What’s the point in saving me? I’m not as smart as you. My future’s not as promising. What would be the point of saving my life?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, the way my heart cracks to remember. You said, “It’s not such a shame if I don’t make it.”

  Dear sister, how could you think such a thing?

  What did I say then? Nothing adequate. How I wish I knew the right thing to say at that moment. But I do now, and here it is: It’s simply not true. You’d do better on your own. You’d view this journey as an adventure, not a nightmare. You’re better at making friends, people like you more, you’re so charming . . .

  Oh, Belle, what a case of “l’esprit d’escalier,” or in this case, not staircase wit but ship-across-the-ocean wit, for I finally know the perfect thing I could have said to make us both feel better. When you said it is not a big deal if you don’t survive the war, I should have quipped, “It is not about our potential in life. After all, they are sending Kurt.”

  Of course it’s not true, but think how we would have laughed! So full, we’d shake the mattress. Maybe then we would have done more talking, less lying in silence. Perhaps we could have planned one of those twin tricks you were always begging me to try. But we didn’t plan or laugh or even talk. We were still silent when Oliver appeared in our room . . . his cheeks were so wet, and his hand was gripping Bier so hard I’m surprised the stuffing didn’t pop out. You put on a good face and told him, “Anna’s going to find movie producers, so I can become an actress when we get to America.”

  You are certainly the better actress. When I told Oliver he’d be on the boat right after mine, he only began crying harder. I’ll always remember how lovely it was when Oliver got in bed with us, though. I tucked the sheet under him, so that the three of us were packed tight, a triple cocoon. That was a nice way to spend our last night together in Luxembourg . . . the best way, really.