The Length of a String

by Elissa Brent Weissman

  Until tomorrow,

  Anna

  28 August 1941

  t. July 1950

  Belle,

  Do you remember, that awful night, when Kurt asked Papa if we could trust the passeur, and Papa merely said he hoped so? Despite the nasty change the passeur pulled at first, I now know the answer to Kurt’s question is yes. I can take comfort in that, at least, as I think of you making the journey soon. It is dangerous, yes, and scary, with lies and fake papers and blind trust in strangers. But it seems I was fortunate to get here as quickly and smoothly as I did, and with cars and trains . . . some people aboard the Mouzinho crossed the Pyrenees mountains on foot! (I daren’t record any details beyond that. There are so many pieces and people at risk, and I worry about this journal falling into the wrong hands . . . some speak of German spies even here, on the boat. That’s why I am writing in Luxembourgish . . . safer than French.)

  Was your heart racing as the clock neared 8 that day? My body trembled all through my goodbyes. Oh, Belle, my goodbyes . . . they were terrifically inadequate. Grandfather wrapped me in his bony arms. His thin lips kissed the side of my head, and my nose was buried in the collar of his shirt, which smelled like his pipe. Grandmother . . . never one for kisses or emotion, as you well know . . . she clasped my hand with hers. Her skin was smooth but her grip was firm, and her hand was trembling. Oh, I was so anxious to get the difficult part over, I didn’t linger long enough! I should have realized that I will never see them again. I am certain of it now. Grandfather’s too frail to make this journey, and Grandmother wouldn’t leave without him. Could Papa bear to leave them, do you think, if it comes to that? What a horrid situation to be in, choosing to abandon one’s children or one’s parents. . . .

  Papa came while I was taking one last look at our room. He wrapped me in his arms and pressed his lips into my cheek. If only I could freeze that moment and stay in it until this war is over.

  I whispered into Papa’s ear, my voice breaking, “Can’t I just stay here?” and I felt his throat go up and down as he swallowed. Then he moved his hands to my head and held it arms’ length from his own. He said, “Be brave, Anna. You’re going to be brilliant.”

  I tried to be brave. I said, “I’ll see you soon,” and he smiled sadly, forcing his chin up. “Very soon,” he promised.

  The 7 of us stepped out the front door and onto the dark sidewalk. I held Oliver’s hand tightly. I wanted to walk close to you too, to link our arms together until we meet again, but Mama wouldn’t allow it, since twins are too likely to draw attention. You were carrying Mina, a bit behind . . . I listened as you sang softly to keep her content.

  I tried to commit to memory the street as we walked . . . so many shops and sights I’d seen every day and might never pass again. The bakery, where we’d treat ourselves to a pain au chocolat for breakfast before school. The button store, where I once spent 20 minutes searching the small baskets for a button to replace the one that had popped off my jacket, only to finally ask the shopkeeper and have him find an exact match right away. The narrow alleyway where Kurt and his friends used to play soccer, “no sisters allowed” . . .

  At last we found the man with a long coat and brown hat. He nodded at Mama, and she stepped close to him and spoke quietly. My blood coursed with anger seeing him for the first time. How dare he separate our family with his steep fee?

  You stepped close to me then and threaded your arm through mine. Your gaze was straight ahead, but I could feel your blood racing as quickly as mine.

  Do you remember what he said? His brisk voice . . . so serious. He said, “Who, then?”

  Mama said, “Two. Kurt and Anna.”

  You were the brave one, Belle . . . it was you who unlaced my arm from yours and gently pushed me forward. Oliver was still clutching my hand. I tried to catch Kurt’s eye, but he was staring straight at the man, his face stoic.

  Mama handed the man a paper bag with the top folded over. She took Mina from your arms and spoke to the passeur very strongly. I am so proud of how she spoke . . . very sure and direct. She said, “I have six children, and our family in New York is willing to sponsor them all. Please, would you consider taking more?”

  But the man opened the paper bag and counted the money. He shook his head, and my stomach knotted. The passeur said, “This won’t even cover two.”

  Mama whispered loudly for him to count it again. She said, “I’m sure it’s correct. Enough for two.”

  “Things have changed,” the man replied. “The Gestapo found Jewish children hiding on the train last week. They deported them. Killed the man helping them cross. A friend of mine.” The passeur looked down for a moment here, paused.

  I realized then (and know so much now) that even though he was taking advantage of our situation, charging such a steep fee, he was risking his own life too. Even so, and even after all he did for me, what happened next broke my heart.

  He looked up and all signs of weakness were gone. “My fee has doubled,” he said firmly. “This will only be enough for one.”

  I gasp now, again, as I write it. How stunned we all were, how upset. How he put a finger to his lips and stepped closer to the wall, out of view. How he spat, “One. Quickly. Or no one.”

  How Kurt said, “Anna will go.”

  I tried to protest . . . did I try hard enough? I was stiff from fear. Kurt was insistent. He took a step to me, gave me a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

  I remember Mama . . . holding Mina close, to calm her and muffle her cries. When she lifted her head, her eyes were wet but resolute. “Anna,” she said.

  And so it was settled.

  My goodbyes were a haze. I know I kissed everyone, exchanged words of love. I think Greta was crying. I know you held me the longest. I know Oliver gave me his Bier to take along. It all went too quickly. I was in such shock, I don’t think I even cried.

  But here I am now, safe on the boat. Recording the story, all alone. If only you were here with me, Belle. Then you would know how my tears are coming, so many that the ocean is nothing but a wet, blue blur.

  Missing you with all my heart,

  Anna

  CHAPTER 9

  I read those last words slowly, on the verge of tears myself. (Maybe I’m not so cold-hearted after all.) When Madeline finished the entry, she took a big breath and raised her head. Her face was dazed, and she was squinting and blinking, like she’d just come out of a dark movie theater. In fact, it was the opposite. When we’d moved to her room it was light out, but we’d been reading so long that it was now dark. It was silent too. Either Henry had turned the Xbox volume down or he’d stopped playing long ago. That whole argument felt like the distant past, and 1941 felt like the present. Weird.

  The two of us looked at each other and breathed out deeply, so in unison that it made us laugh. Madeline went to turn on the light, and I rubbed my eyes.

  “Wow,” Madeline said, propping herself on a pillow next to me.

  “Double wow,” I said.

  “It’s weird,” Madeline said. “Whenever we learn about the Holocaust—”

  “Which is every year.”

  “Every year in Hebrew school and in regular school, so really twice a year. I guess they do say that some people left before being put in concentration camps. But I never thought of it like this.”

  “I never thought about it at all,” I admitted. I especially never thought that one of those people was in my family. That this story was somehow part of my history. Even if that history is adopted.

  So in a way, Anna was about to be adopted. She was twelve—the age I am right now—and crossing an ocean all by herself. Leaving behind her parents and grandparents and a twin sister. And Oliver. Little Oliver—my great-great-uncle—who she clearly loved so much.

  I wonder if Oliver made Madeline think of Henry. I know he made me think
of Jaime. I’ve always taken for granted that he’ll grow up alongside me. We kind of used to be like Anna and Oliver. My parents have a photo on their bedroom wall: I’m seven, and Jaime’s four, and we’re next to each other with a glowing menorah in the background. There are six candles lit, so it must have been the sixth night of Chanukah. I know that I was seven, because in the picture my hair is in two puffy ponytails on the top of my head—the way I wore it almost every single day until third grade—and I’m holding up a box with a set of earrings, which meant the very next day, my mom would take me to get my ears pierced. And Jaime is wearing footie pajamas and grinning with gritted teeth, holding a toy fire truck above his head like a winner’s trophy. Thinking of the picture made me smile. I forgot how much Jaime had been obsessed with fire trucks when he was little.

  “Maybe I’ll do my research project on people who left before being put in concentration camps,” Madeline said. “With lies and fake papers and crossing the mountains on foot. I wonder if Mrs. Coleman would let me do that instead of Kristallnacht.”

  “That’d be really cool. Maybe I should switch mine to being about Luxembourg.”

  Madeline gasped, her public radio dreams ignited. “Imani! You could find Anna’s old house! You could find out what happened to her family!”

  “I’m hoping the answer to that is in here,” I said, tapping the cover of the journal. We both looked at it for a few seconds, wondering what other secrets it held. Then my mind flicked to the way that I was keeping this whole thing a secret from the rest of my family. It made me feel uneasy.

  To be fair, though, aren’t they also keeping secrets about my past from me?

  My phone buzzed. Neither of us needed to look to know it was my mom, telling me to come home for dinner. I sat up and reached for my sneakers.

  “I know it’s not really fair to ask,” Madeline said, shifting in her spot on her bed, “but can you wait for me to read more? We can hang out after school tomorrow. I really want to know what happens next.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, knotting my laces. “But no guarantees.”

  CHAPTER 10

  When I got home, the house smelled warm and spicy. Mom must have made chili.

  “How’s Madeline?” she called, but her voice wasn’t coming from the kitchen, and it sounded kind of muffled.

  “Good,” I called back, looking around for her. I finally found her in the living room, crouched under the desk. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  She stuck her head out and smiled at me. I stuck the diary behind my back.

  “Filing,” she replied, holding up a pile of papers.

  “Oh,” I said. I always put my feet on the filing cabinet when I’m using the computer. I’d never thought about it serving another purpose. But . . . “What are you filing?”

  “Just some paperwork about Grandma Anna’s estate. You know, boring adult stuff.” She and the papers disappeared back under the desk.

  Paperwork about Grandma Anna’s estate. Could that include Grandma Anna’s adoption papers, the ones I’d hoped to find on her bookshelves? What other paperwork might be in that filing cabinet? My adoption records? If I found those, I could get the answers I was looking for without having to upset my parents at all. What’s that thing people say? What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

  “We’re going to eat once I finish this,” Mom said, her head still buried. “Why don’t you go wash up.”

  Would my parents keep my adoption papers here, in our own family room? My legs were suddenly tingly, like I was preparing for a tennis match. I was going to look in that filing cabinet later. The answers I’d been craving might have been here all along, filed in my large metal footrest.

  But before I searched for secrets they were keeping from me, I had an important one to hide from them: the diary. I took the stairs two at a time up to my room, then scanned it for a place to hide the journal. Maybe I could hide it in plain sight. (Kind of like putting my adoption paperwork in the family room filing cabinet. . . .) I stuck the diary in the middle of the stack of books on my nightstand, then stepped back and cocked my head. Too risky.

  “Dinner!” my mom shouted.

  I looked at my open closet. A row of shoeboxes lined the top. Perfect.

  I rolled my desk chair over and took one down. The top was dusty, but I knew the journal would be safe inside. I stuck it in, slid the box under my bed, and stood up just in time for a loud knock on my bedroom door. I brushed the dust from my hands before turning the knob.

  “Dinner,” Jaime said.

  “Thanks,” I said, fighting this crazy urge to give him a bear hug. “I’ll be right there.”

  I’ve often wondered if Jaime wants to know about his birth family as badly as I want to know about mine. Or what my life would be like without him; like, if he’d been adopted by a different family, or still lived with his birth parents in Guatemala. A few times, when I’ve been really mad at him, I’ve even wished my parents hadn’t adopted him. But right now, watching his black hair and stocky body bounce down the steps on the way to eat chili with Mom and Dad, I’d have dared anyone to say he isn’t really my brother.

  No matter what I found in that filing cabinet—and I was going to find something, I just knew it—my brother and I would still be family.

  CHAPTER 11

  The stars aligned shortly after dinner. Dad and Jaime went outside to play catch, and Mom went up to her room for a bath. If I was serious about checking that filing cabinet, I had to do it now.

  I went to the family room and crawled under the desk. I took a deep breath, gave myself a silent pep talk, wrapped my hand around the handle, and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled it three more times, each progressively harder, before I finally realized, like an idiot, that it was locked. My heart started pounding. Maybe my adoption paperwork really was in here. Why else would this filing cabinet be locked?

  What’s more, I knew where the key had to be. I’d seen Mom put something away before dinner, something that went in a place with other keys. I glanced out the window again—Dad and Jaime were absorbed in their game—then walked to the kitchen and opened the spice cabinet. There, to the left of the basil and tarragon, was an old jelly jar with keys in it. It had spare keys to both cars, the key to Jaime’s bike lock, the key to our neighbor’s house that I used to feed their cat when they went away, and—now in my hand—the key to the filing cabinet.

  As I walked back to the computer, my armpits started to sweat like they do at tennis matches, usually before my first serve. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to snoop around my own house like some white-collar criminal? Then again, it is my own house, right? And I was doing it to spare my parents the pain of talking about my adoption openly. If you thought about it that way, I was, as Grandpa Fred would say, doing a mitzvah.

  The key fit in the lock perfectly, and it turned with a definitive click. I pulled the handle again, and this time the door slid open, smooth and silent. The drawer was heavy with papers; I don’t know how the cabinet could withstand the weight of what was inside. Squinting through the darkness under the desk and the messiness of my dad’s handwriting on the labels, I skimmed the row of folders. Mortgage payments, health insurance, property taxes . . . Mom wasn’t lying when she said it was full of boring adult stuff. Toward the back, though, the folders began to be more relevant. One said I & J—COLLEGE FUND, and another I & J—MEDICAL. I pulled out a stack from the very back and saw words that made the sweat spread to my hairline. IMANI—ADOPTION.

  This is it, I thought. Do I really want to know what’s in here?

  The answer was apparently yes, because I pulled out the folder. But the answer was also, apparently, no, because I was relieved to find it was empty. Totally empty. Not one form or photocopy or note. I saw that there wasn’t even an adoption folder for Jaime. At some point, my parents either threw everything away or decided this paperwork did not
belong in our living room, locked or not.

  I heard the door open. I jumped, hitting my head on the bottom of the desk.

  “Ice cream truck!” Jaime announced. “I’m getting Dad’s wallet.”

  I bolted from under the desk and sat in the chair. My head was throbbing, but I resisted rubbing it.

  Jaime came running into the family room. “Come out and get something,” he said breathlessly. “The ice cream man said this is his last time around until next summer.”

  “Um,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  Jaime paused for a second, suspicious, but then shrugged and ran back outside. The ice cream truck music got louder and then softer as he opened and closed the front door.

  I let out my breath and rubbed my head. My armpits were soaked. I dove back under the desk and stuffed the folders in the cabinet, then slid the drawer closed and locked it. I raced to the kitchen and returned the key to the spice cabinet. Then, not knowing what else to do, I ran up the stairs and into my room. I collapsed on my bed, panting like crazy. I felt like I’d just run suicide sprints up and down the tennis court.

  I heard the front door open and close again. “Imani,” my dad called. “Come here.”

  Oh no, I thought as I walked slowly downstairs. Had I left a manila folder on the floor? Had Jaime seen the open filing cabinet and told my dad?

  But no. He’d just gotten me some ice cream after all.

  “Chipwich,” Dad said, holding it out. “Your favorite.”

  The relief that washed over me was followed instantly by guilt. I was spying on my dad, and he was out buying me ice cream. “Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You’re the best.”

  He pulled me toward him and kissed my forehead. He couldn’t have cared less about the sweat.

  31 August 1941

  t. August 1950