by Irma Joubert
He tried another angle. “Poland is under Communist rule. It’s getting worse every day, especially now that the so-called democratic election has made the Communist parties even more powerful. I want to take you to the British or the American zone in Germany, your chances—”
“I like being under Communist rule.”
He got up and left the room. Typical little female, he thought, irritated beyond measure. He walked toward where Turek and his father were putting up a fence.
She saw him sitting on the grass. She sat down next to him and slipped her small hand into his big one. They sat for a long time before he spoke.
“Gretz, I made a promise to the Holy Mother of God to do the best I can for you, to do what I believe is best for you.”
“I want to stay with you,” she pleaded. “Jakób, who am I going to tell when I’ve had a scary dream?”
“Gretz, don’t.”
“I know.” She lowered her head.
“Please don’t cry.”
“I won’t. I just don’t want to go to a German orphanage.”
“I know,” he said, “but I don’t see any other solution. I read in the paper that refugees from the old eastern provinces of Germany are flocking to Schleswig-Holstein. There’s a refugee camp in Kiel.”
She put her fingers in her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more,” she said. She felt her tears pushing past the stone in her stomach and the lump in her throat, pushing up until they almost reached her eyes.
When Jakób returned in May, they left immediately, just the two of them. In her bag were her documents and clothes. Jakób took along a blanket and some food.
At the beginning of their journey, she sat at the window, looking out at the towns on the banks of big rivers, at the tall cliffs with castles at the top, at the farmers in their vegetable plots. She looked at the stations, the big signposts with the strange names, where people got off and others got onto the train. “No one wants to stay where they are,” she said.
“Just as well,” he said. “It’s no good being satisfied with everything.”
When she grew tired, she lay down on the seat next to Jakób and made up stories about the castles and the tall cliffs. It helped ease the great sadness inside her. But not much.
They changed trains four times. They went through checkpoints where rude officials stared at their permits. “The Communists are just as bad as the Gestapo,” she whispered to Jakób.
“Be quiet, or they’ll throw you in jail,” he warned.
She kept quiet.
Since crossing over into Germany, they had spoken nothing but German. “It feels strange not to speak Polish,” she said. “I speak better Russian than German. We learned it at school.”
When they changed trains for the last time in Hamburg, Gretl said, “I’m sleepy.” She tried not to think, especially not of what lay ahead.
“Take a nap. It’ll be another two or three hours before we reach Kiel,” said Jakób.
On the seat next to him lay a newspaper someone had read and left behind. A stroke of luck, thought Jakób. Maybe it would distract him for a while. He read the headlines, the sports news on the back page, unfolded the paper, read about the serious food shortages and the suffering in East Berlin and the Americans’ latest invention. Finding it impossible to concentrate, he was about to fold up the newspaper when he noticed a heading: “Kinder wandern nach Südafrika.”
Frowning, he began to read, “Two South Africans, Mr. Schalk Botha and Dr. J. C. Kriek, are presently in Germany in search of Protestant orphans. They plan to relocate fifty boys and fifty girls to South Africa, where they will be legally adopted by selected parents who can offer them a happy home and a bright future in a sunny country filled with possibilities.”
He put the paper down.
He could never send her to Africa.
She lay on the seat beside him, asleep, her blonde curls spread over his thigh.
. . . a country filled with possibilities . . .
Poland was under Communist rule, the population was hungry. Germany was in ruins, its people faced starvation.
But Africa was too far away. And too dark.
. . . a happy home . . . selected parents . . .
Gretl had stopped being a Protestant a long time ago. She had been confirmed in the Catholic Church, went to mass every Sunday, had attended a Catholic school. But she had a document that said she had been baptized Gretl Christina Schmidt by Pfarrer Helmut Friedrich in the Deutsche Luthersche Kirche on 18 December 1937.
Holy Mother of God, help me, he prayed.
He picked up the paper again and continued to read the story. “The two gentlemen seek German orphans with pure Aryan bloodlines.” That ruled Gretl out. On the other hand, she looked Aryan. And only one of her grandmothers had been Jewish.
He read on: “The orphans of fallen SS soldiers will help to increase the Afrikaner population.” In his mind’s eye he saw the photograph of her father in his SS uniform. He remembered the words in the official letter. The net seemed to be closing in around him.
It was probably an old paper. There were many orphans. Surely fifty girls would have been selected by now, Jakób told himself.
He turned to the front page. It was the Schleswig-Holsteinische Volks-Zeitung of May 22, just a week earlier.
Before the Warsaw hospital had been destroyed, a South African pilot had occupied the bed next to Jakób’s. Nick Groenewald’s plane had been shot down over Warsaw. He had parachuted to safety but suffered serious facial burns.
They had talked a lot; it was all they could do. “South Africa is a beautiful country, the best there is,” Nick had said. “It has good weather, a strong government, beautiful natural scenery, a healthy economy. It’s a land of milk and honey.”
Nick had told him that the South African government was staunchly anti-Communist, intent upon warding off the “Red Danger.”
He shook his head and picked up the paper again. “The children will have access to an excellent education, up to university level.”
By the time Gretl woke up, he had made his decision.
They walked through the streets of Kiel. All the cities looked the same. The gaping wounds of war were evident everywhere.
“I don’t even know where South Africa is,” Gretl protested. Her voice was thin; she held her chin high.
“I’ll find an atlas and show you.” Jakób tried to quell his own misgivings.
“I don’t even know what Protestant means.”
“It means Christian, but without the pope,” he said.
“I don’t know whether they can speak German. Or Polish, or Russian.”
“Certainly not Polish or Russian. We’ll find out what language they speak.” He felt slightly irritated. She wasn’t making it easy.
“I don’t want to learn another language.”
She pursed her lips and walked on, her back straight and stiff.
They found a library and entered. Jakób told the lady with the severe glasses what they were looking for. She inclined her head and stared at Gretl. Gretl met her gaze. The lady walked ahead of them and selected a number of books from the shelves. “Sit here,” she said, then returned to her desk.
Gretl knew how to use an atlas. South Africa was on the other side of the world, she saw. The map didn’t show any tracks, so she couldn’t reach it by train. Nor by bus or horse-drawn cart either, only by ship. And close to South Africa there was a picture of a round-faced wind blowing fiercely across the sea.
She closed the atlas and picked up a book about South Africa. There were many pictures in it, pretty
, colored pictures of a mountain that looked like a box with a cloud covering its top and a blue ocean at its feet. Everything was bathed in bright sunlight. There were pictures of animals—lions and elephants and large bucks with long horns. And cute little monkeys. There were also pictures of dark-skinned people with painted faces. They were completely naked except for a few beads. She wanted to show Jakób the pictures, but she noticed just in time that the women were also nearly naked, so she quickly turned the page. When she found a picture of a black man wearing nothing but a skin, she showed it to Jakób. “Yes,” he said, “those are Negroes. They live in Africa.”
If the Polish children had thought she was too white, what would the people in Africa say?
She sat quietly, studying the picture. The man was fat. He was barefoot and in his hand was a long stick with a sharp point. He was sitting in front of a round grass hut. She didn’t think she wanted to live in a grass hut.
“Look, Gretl, they say here that South Africa is a rich country, because it has a lot of gold.”
She looked in Jakób’s book. The men were wearing clothes, thank goodness, and round metal helmets. They were pouring liquid gold into a brick-shaped mold. Behind them flames were burning high.
“And there are farms. See how wide and how flat the land is.” Jakób pointed with his finger.
There was a picture of women working in the fields with hoes, just like Uncle Janusz and Turek did, and Aunt Anastarja too, when she wasn’t at the cathedral. They were wearing dresses and scarves around their heads. She laughed. “Look, they’ve got babies on their backs!”
“Hush, be quiet.” Jakób motioned with his eyes toward the strict lady at the desk.
Gretl nodded and carried on looking through the book. But she didn’t enjoy it. Not because she was afraid, just because everything looked so strange.
“They speak two languages,” Jakób said after a while without looking up. “English and Afrikaans. I know a bit of English. It’s not too hard. And Afrikaans, they say here, comes from Dutch, so it’s not too different from German. I understood from the article that the orphans will probably be placed with Afrikaans people.” He picked up the paper again and opened it at the article.
In Africa the people speak Afrikaans. It made sense. “I don’t want to go,” she said, resolutely closing her book.
He lowered the newspaper and looked at her despondently. “Why not, Gretl?”
“How would you like to live in a round grass hut?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He could pretend to be stupid all he wanted. She wouldn’t go. “And besides, I’m too white.”
“Gretl, what are you talking about?”
He wasn’t just pretending to be stupid, he was stupid. She opened the book at the picture of the man wearing a skin and sitting in front of a grass hut. “See here!” she said and pressed her finger on the hut. She turned back three pages to the picture of the bare-chested women. “And here!”
He turned his head and began to laugh softly. “Gretl, you’re not going to live there!” He laughed louder, and the woman at the desk gave them an irate look.
“Behave! The lady is looking at us!” she whispered sternly.
He closed the books and got up. “Come,” he said, “we’ve done enough work for one day.”
They walked past a bakery. A single cake was on display in the window. Immediately when they entered his stomach cramped at the smell of bread.
“Are you going to buy the cake?” Gretl asked eagerly.
He looked down at her. “Of course, Gretchen. For our last meal together we might as well have cake, what do you say?”
She smiled up at him. He had never used that endearment for her before, but the prospect of being separated from her made it seem right. “Of course.”
He took out the money. There wouldn’t be enough to get him home again, but that was a problem for another day.
At the place he had chosen for the night, he spread the blanket on the floor and placed the cake in the center. “Can we eat it right away?” she asked. “My mouth is watering.”
“I don’t think we should waste any more time,” he said, breaking off two pieces.
He drank in every movement she made, her thin hands around the chunk of cake, her pearly teeth sinking into it, her shiny eyes when she looked up at him. “It’s the best cake I’ve ever had. Eat, Jakób,” she said with her mouth full.
He bit into the soft cake, tasted the sweetness. I wonder if I’ll ever eat cake again without remembering this moment, he thought.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “May I have another piece?”
“Yes,” he said, “let’s finish it all tonight.”
She laughed and took another piece. When she had finished, she said, “I’m full. And there’s so much left.”
“I’ll eat another piece, maybe two, and we’ll have the rest for breakfast tomorrow morning.” He wiped the crumbs from her cheeks with his finger.
“Cake for breakfast! I’ve never heard of it!”
“Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you? Lie down now,” he said, “let’s try to sleep.”
“Okay,” she said and nestled against him.
But he didn’t really want her to sleep. “There are so many things I want to tell you, Gretchen.”
“You’ve already told me.”
He shook his head. “Other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . I don’t know. Like . . . always remember you’re Gretl.”
“I like Gretchen too.”
“Yes. But I mean more than your name. If you don’t allow others to influence who you are, you’ll have something no one can take away from you. It doesn’t matter what other people are like, or even what they call you. You must continue to be Gretl. Gretchen. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“I think so.”
“And . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know what else.” He sat up and took a small package from his pocket. “I bought this for you. See whether you like it.”
She sat up quickly. “For me?” Carefully she unwrapped it. Inside was a small wooden cross on a leather string. “Oh, Jakób, it’s so pretty. Is it mine?”
“Yes,” he said. “Let me put it around your neck.”
She fell asleep with the little cross clasped tightly in her fist.
He didn’t sleep. His thoughts went round and round, unable to escape from the vortex.
He sensed that she was awake. “Gretchen?”
“I woke up and I thought you were gone.”
“I’m here.”
“Will you hold me, Jakób?”
He wrapped his arms around the skinny little figure.
“Who’s going to teach me things if you’re not there?” she asked against his chest.
“You’ll go to school in your new country.”
“School can’t teach you everything,” she said.
“No, you’re right. But you’ll be part of a family. You’ll have a new mommy and daddy to teach you. But you must teach yourself things too. That’s what I still wanted to tell you. Look and listen carefully and make up your own mind. Decide what’s right and what’s good and do it, even if it’s not what you want to do. It’s the best way to learn.”
“Will my new family hold me like this?”
“Yes, they’ll hold you.”
When he thought she had gone back to sleep, she asked, “Jakób, will you visit me in South Africa? Even if it takes a long
time, will you promise to come one day?”
“I can’t promise that, Gretchen. I’m Polish. I’ll betray myself if I leave Poland.”
“Just to visit?”
“Relations between the East and the West are getting worse. I live in a Communist country; the South African government probably won’t allow me to come.”
“Will you write to me, then?”
“No, I can’t. No one must know you have any ties to Poland.”
He felt the small figure tremble. “Jakób?”
“I’ll never forget you, Gretchen, if I live to be a hundred. Always remember that.”
“How will I know?”
Mother of God, help me.
At that moment the moon broke through the clouds. “Do you see the full moon?”
“Yes?”
“That same moon shines down on South Africa. At this moment it’s shining down on South Africa and on Poland, on Częstochowa and Katowice. When you look at the moon, remember I am seeing it too.”
“If there are no clouds in Poland,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, “if there are no clouds.”
The first orphanage where they called the next day knew nothing about the relocation program. Neither did the second. But at the third orphanage a woman said, “I’ve heard of something like that. Try the Jugendbehörde, they should know more.”
“I’m very glad I don’t have to live in any of those places,” Gretl said as they continued on their way. “They don’t smell good. What’s the Jugendbehörde, Jakób?”
“The youth welfare organization. They look after orphaned children and people who have fallen on hard times.”
They walked through the streets of Kiel. Though they walked far, they arrived much too soon. Gretl stopped in front of the red-brick building.
“Here it is,” she said.
He couldn’t bear to look at the sign. “Yes, I know. Let’s just sit here and talk for a while.”
He sat down under a tree. It was cold. The rain had stopped, but the sun wasn’t out.