Good Night, Maman

by Norma Fox Mazer

  Everything seemed easier for him. He did better in school than I did. He studied more, but I didn’t think that was the big difference. The language was still much easier for him, but it was more than that. He just knew he was going to do better than me; he always did. Besides, he said Maman had already taught him everything he was supposed to be learning now.

  On my first report card, I had Cs and Bs. “That’s good,” Marc said, but how good could it be when he got all As? We had to have an adult sign our report cards. Marc asked Mr. Stein. I didn’t want the Steins to compare me to Marc, so I wanted to ask Jo to sign mine, but she was in the hospital, having her baby.

  “I have no one to sign my report card,” I said.

  “Mr. Stein will sign it,” Marc said. “Or Mrs. Stein.”

  “She’ll think I’m dumb.”

  “Relax,” Marc said. “Cs and Bs? That’s A-OK. Take it easy.”

  His newest American expressions. “Relax.” “A-OK.” “Take it easy.” He whistled a lot, too. Why is he so happy? That was a mean thing to think, but I thought it anyway.

  Since Thanksgiving, the weather had been getting colder. It had snowed almost every day, and our room was chilly. The morning I had to return my report card, I woke up grouchy. Marc was whistling. “Do you have to be so noisy?” I said.

  He looked over at me and laughed. “Take it easy,” he said, and he went back to whistling.

  One Saturday, Peggy brought her sled to the fort, and she and I and Marika went sledding on the hill that sloped down to the lake—the same place where Marika and Trudi and I had gone swimming only a few months before.

  Later, we went downtown to look in the shop windows. We were walking on Bridge Street when Marika said, “Your brother, Karin. Across the street.”

  He was with a girl who was wearing a big white ski sweater and a white headband on her red hair. “Oh, I know her,” Peggy said. “That’s Barbara Henderson. She’s in high school.”

  “Your brother has a girlfriend!” Marika said.

  “Not him,” I said. “He’s too shy. She must be just a friend.”

  But I knew Marika was right. I could tell from the way Marc was walking with the girl—so close—that she was more than a friend. And I knew that was his secret, where he’d gone that night, why he whistled in the morning.

  At first, I thought I’d tell him that I knew his secret, I knew about his girlfriend. I even knew her name. I imagined his surprise. His cigarette would fall right out of his mouth.

  But then, I decided no, I wouldn’t say anything. I’d wait for him to tell me. Yes, I wanted to do it that way. I wanted him to tell me.

  29

  MARC’S LITTLE SECRET

  Marc kept looking at his clock. We were sitting at the table, studying. Every few minutes, he’d glance up and turn the clock toward him. Exactly at eight, he jumped up. “I have to go out for a while.” He combed his hair, smoothing it back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just out.”

  “Out where? What’re you going to do?”

  “Nothing much. Get those X-ray eyes off me.” He put on his jacket and wound a scarf around his neck.

  “Marc, tell me where you’re going.”

  “Don’t be a pest, Karin. I’ll be back in a while, all right?”

  “No, not ‘all right.’ It’s too cold to go out.” That was absurd. It was cold—the temperature had dropped below twenty degrees—but we still went out all the time. “And it’s dark,” I said. Another silly remark.

  He gave me a tap on the head. “I won’t be gone long. Finish your homework. You can visit someone if you get bored.” And he was out the door.

  “Okay,” I said to the empty room. “Hunky-dory. Fine with me.” I knew how to be alone. I had plenty to do. Besides homework, I had started drawing again. The art teacher, Mr. Milleritz, said I should work at it. He was helping me.

  I put Betty Lou next to the clock on the table, and then I added a jar. Mr. Milleritz said I should practice drawing objects for a while. I started drawing, but my fingers slipped on the pencil, and my eyes suddenly filled with tears.

  I wished I could see Marc, not even to talk to him but just to know where he was and what he was doing. What if he’s meeting the red-haired girl? Why does it matter—it doesn’t! Stop waiting for him to say something about her—tell him you know his secret.

  I stood at the window, scraping the frosted pane with my fingernail. Maybe they were talking about me, about what a pest I was. How Marc could never be free with me here. Marika thought I was too possessive of Marc, but I never kept him from doing anything. It would only be courteous for him to tell me where he was going! Anyway, Marika didn’t know how it felt to be alone. She had her mother and an older sister, and they never went anywhere without her.

  About an hour later, I heard Marc stamping his feet in the hall. “Cold outside!” he said, coming in. His cheeks were bright red. “My hands are freezing.”

  “Lucky me, staying in,” I said.

  He acted as if he didn’t get my sarcasm. He grinned. “You’re smart. What’d you do? Were you drawing?”

  I sat down on the cot. I told myself not to be possessive, not to say anything about the red-haired girl. And then I said it anyway. “Marc, I know your secret.”

  “What secret? I don’t have any secrets.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

  “I saw you with a girl last week. Red hair and fat arms. You were on Bridge Street, right across the street from me and Marika and Peggy. You didn’t even notice us.”

  He exhaled smoke.

  “You’re stinking up the room, Marc! Is that where you were just now? With that redheaded girl? I know her name, too. Barbara. Did you go see Barbara that other time?”

  “What other time?”

  “When we had the fight. When you wouldn’t tell me anything. And then we made up, but you’re still the same, you’re still not telling me anything.” My face was burning. I thought I was going to cry. No, no, no! I pulled my pad in front of me and started drawing on it, nothing really, just squiggly lines to keep myself busy.

  “Oh, you might as well know.” Marc puffed on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes, as if he were older than God. He wasn’t the same boy I’d walked with through Italy. “I just went out to phone her.”

  “You were talking on the phone all this time?”

  He nodded. He looked pleased with himself. “And Barbara doesn’t have fat arms, Karin. She’s in eleventh grade,” he added, too casually.

  “Eleventh grade! How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Marc! You’re only fourteen.”

  “Almost fifteen,” he said. “Three more months. Anyway, she doesn’t care.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “None of your business, actually.”

  “I thought you liked Eva.”

  “I do. Eva is a very smart girl. We have fantastic discussions.”

  “Then why do you have to run to this so-called Barbara?”

  “She’s very nice, very sympathetic. She says I’m more mature than American boys. More serious. She doesn’t want me to smoke. See, she’s a good influence. We met in the history club.”

  “What does so-called dumb Barbara see in you?”

  “She’s not dumb, and what is this ‘so-called’ stuff, anyway?”

  “Just something Peggy and I say. Do you neck with her?”

  “Neck?” He got a faintly goofy look in his eyes. “What’s that?”

  “You know what that is.” I made smacking sounds.

  “It’s not a question you can ask, Karin.”

  “I can ask you anything I want.”

  “But I don’t have to answer.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a little tin ashtray.

  “Maaarc.” I sat down on the edge of my cot. “You shouldn’t.”

  “What, have a girlfriend? It’s natural.”

  “You’re too young!” I felt stupid saying that, a
nd, at the same time, stubborn. I kept thinking of him with her, looking at her so eagerly, talking, talking, not even noticing me right across the street. And meeting her in secret, running out to phone her in secret, not telling me anything. Was he telling her things instead?

  “Maman wouldn’t like it,” I said. “She wouldn’t approve.”

  He stared at me, then he flung himself down on his bed. I thought he would argue with me. But he didn’t say anything, just lay there on his back, his chin raised, almost as if he’d been thinking the same thing.

  30

  THE SODA SHOP

  Marika, Trudi, Peggy, and I walked around Oswego together, looking at the Christmas decorations on the houses. Trudi was happy again. She’d been miserable when she was put back into the third grade, but it got better after a while. The little kids helped her, and they didn’t laugh at her accent or because she was bigger. In a month, she had moved up a grade, and the next month, another grade.

  Around us was a white world. The whole town of Oswego, houses and trees, glittered and sparkled. It was winter vacation, and it had been snowing for three days. Big, soft, light snowflakes falling, falling, falling. Walls of snow taller than we were had grown up between the sidewalks and the roads. Cars passed, nearly invisible, their tire chains thumping.

  On Elm Street, four boys on skis glided past us, right in the middle of the street.

  “Hi! How are you?” they called.

  “Hello!” we said. “Hello! Hi!”

  “Enough snow for you girls?”

  “Mucho plenty,” Peggy sang out.

  “Mucho plenty,” we all sang out.

  And then we kept walking and talking.

  “There she is,” Marc said. He walked a little faster. Barbara was waiting in front of the soda shop for us. She was wearing ski pants and the same big white sweater and a white headband.

  “Hi, Karin!” She waved as if she knew me already. “I’m so glad I’m getting to meet you.”

  Her deep voice surprised me. “Hello,” I said. I dug my hands into my jacket pockets and followed her and Marc into the warm, steamy soda shop. There was a row of dark, high-backed booths. For a moment, Marc looked from me to Barbara, then sat down next to me. I didn’t think I should feel as glad as I did—but I did.

  The waitress came, and Barbara ordered a lemon Coke. I ordered fries and Marc ordered a cheeseburger. He loved cheeseburgers more than any other American food.

  Then none of us said anything for a while.

  “You know what, Karin?” Barbara said. “I always wanted a sister. Somebody to talk things over with. I’m an only child. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wondered why she was telling me this.

  “I’m like her brother now,” Marc said.

  “Yeah, he’s my new brother,” Barbara said.

  “Little brother,” I said. “He’s fourteen.”

  “I know.” Her face got a little flushed.

  “Fifteen soon,” Marc said. “Two more months, that’s not too long.”

  “Three months,” I said. “March.”

  Marc smiled. “Fine. Three months.” He leaned on his hand, looking at Barbara. Straight at her chest.

  “Maaarc,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I glared at him.

  “You two have a wonderful relationship,” Barbara said. “Marc talks about you all the time, Karin. I hear you’re very smart, too. Marc is so smart! He puts me to shame.”

  “Oh,” I said doubtfully. “You like to study?”

  “Karin,” Marc said, with a warning in his voice.

  “I do,” Barbara said. “I’m an A student. I’m in the National Honor Society.” She looked at me with a smile. “Surprised?”

  “Oh no,” I lied.

  She brought her white hair band down, then pushed it back on her head. “You know, Karin, Marc says you’re not so happy that we’re, you know, friends.”

  Why had Marc told her that? What else had he told her? The things I’d said about her? “Fat arms” … “this so-called Barbara” … “dumb” … I folded a straw into a tiny accordion. I thought, as I had before, that if Maman were here, I would be a nicer person. Better. I wouldn’t have so many mean thoughts.

  “So I was thinking, we—you and I—maybe we could be friends, too. Really. I would like it if you could be sort of like my younger sister.”

  Her younger sister? No. I was Marc’s younger sister. Marc’s, not Barbara’s!

  “My mother died when I was seven years old. She had leukemia. She died so fast. I mean, she went to the hospital, and she was gone.”

  For an instant I wondered if she’d made that up to make me feel sorry for her, but her eyes were watery. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She raised her shoulders. “I just wanted you to know that, you know, that I understand about you and Marc and, um, you know, all the things that you two—”

  “See what kind of person she is, Karin?” Marc said.

  He was looking at Barbara as if she was so special. I kept folding the straw, tinier and tinier.

  I knew I should say something bigger and warmer than “I’m sorry” or “I understand.” She’d lost someone she loved, too. I put the folded straw into my pocket. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, not with the way Marc was looking at her, as if he really loved her. Loved Barbara, not me.

  Dearest Maman,

  Today is Monday, January 1, the first day of 1945. We have now been in America nearly five months. It seems a very long time and very far away from you.

  Last night, everyone stayed up until midnight. We had a big party in the recreation room. The camp director, Mr. Joseph Smart, was there. Everyone from the fort was there, too, all the children, all the adults. We all acted happy and silly, and we all shouted “Happy New Year!” when it was midnight. I did the same as everyone, but in my heart, Maman, it was different. It was quiet. Is this the year we will be together again? I pray for it.

  Maman, here is the worst thing about being away from you—there’s nothing I can do to bring me back to you. There’s nothing I can do to make it happen sooner or faster. There’s nothing I can do to change anything. All I can do is wait. And sometimes, Maman, that’s very, very hard. I love you.

  Your Karin

  31

  “THANKS, AMERICAN BOY”

  In February, the wind blew all the time, an icy wind off the lake, a cold breath that never stopped. It penetrated windows and doors and walls, and blew right into our bones. And then, just when it seemed as if the world was always going to be frozen, March came and the weather warmed up.

  As I left school one day, Royal Sutter caught up with me. “You’re one of the fort people,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him. His eyebrows were so pale they were almost silver. “You still living there?” he asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  “So you’re a Jewish person?”

  I wanted to laugh. It was the way he said it—“a Jewish person,” curious but not mean—and the fact that he was asking me these questions after all the months that we’d been in the same classes together.

  “Do you like it here?” he asked.

  Another question so old it was like stale bread! “Yes,” I said. “I do like it here.”

  “How about the weather?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Now—dripping—it’s nicer,” I said. “It’s too cold in February.”

  “Hot dog!” he said.

  “‘Hot dog’?”

  “That means ‘You said it!’ We get some snow, don’t we? I mean we get snow.” He raised his hand above his head to show the size of the snowdrifts. “You ever see snow like that where you come from?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I didn’t think so. One winter we were snowed in. Oh, man. The snow fell and fell. We couldn’t get out of our house. Not out the door. We got out the second-story window. We made a
slide from the window to the ground, and down we went. You should have seen my old grandpa sliding on his rear end out that window.”

  “Is that true?” I asked.

  “True blue.” He put his hand on his heart. “Your name is Karin, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, are you going to live here? I mean, live here all the time, after the war?”

  I shook my head. “We have to go back to our own country.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to go back,” I said. “And your government says we must.”

  “Oh, the government,” he said. “My old grandpa says don’t trust the government.”

  “Your government is good. It brought us here. Your President Roosevelt and your government.”

  “Maybe you could stay,” he said. “You could write letters and tell them you want to stay.”

  “Some people, yes,” I said. “Not me.”

  He stared at me with his pale blue eyes under the silver eyebrows. “You know what, Karin? You’re cute.”

  “Me? I am? Thank you.”

  “Yeah, you’re welcome.” Suddenly, he walked off. Then he turned and said, “I like talking to you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks, American boy. Me, too.”

  “‘American boy’?” he said. “You are very cute!”

  Dearest Maman,

  Mr. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the American president, is dead. Did you hear about it? The newspapers say that all over the world people are crying. All the Americans we know are tremendously sad. My girlfriend Peggy said her parents cried. Here, at the fort, everyone was crying. He was a great man. Mr. Stein and some of the other men said the prayer for the dead for him.

  But, Maman, that’s not the only news. Today, Monday, April 30, only a little more than two weeks after Mr. Roosevelt died, we heard the news that Adolf Hitler is dead. Marc and I heard it on the radio. We couldn’t even speak at first. Then we hugged each other. Maman, he was so evil, it can’t be wrong to be happy that he’s dead.

  Mr. Stein says this has to mean the war will come to an end soon. Dearest Maman, I think of only one thing. We’ll be together. Soon, soon.