lying down and I don’t want to wake her.’
She began, her voice sweet and clear, the voice I wanted when I grew older.
I now know how to hate. They took my dear uncle away and we don’t know why. He hasn’t come back. There is no word of him. We are packed in here. I haveno space of my own. Erich and I hardly talk, though we’re a similar age. I don’t know why. We used to in our other life.
I know cowardice too. When the soldiers asked for my uncle, I froze. I couldn’t move. Erich did, and was butted in the head for his trouble.
I stood, paralysed, while they took Uncle Ernst away. I have no courage .
I would like to escape and join the partisans. They are out there somewhere in Holland and France, in forests, blowing up railway lines. That is the talk on the streets. How would I get there? Do I tap some German on the shoulder and ask, ‘Excuse me, can you direct me to the resistance armies?’ I hate being trapped. I hate being helpless.
Hunger gnaws at me. Yet I still dream. Will I become a writer one day? Is it all right for me to have dreams?
My aunt hardly talks now. Mama continues to knit the world’s longest scarf. I think she is going mad. She says she is knitting my uncle into the scarf today.
‘Do you understand what I’ve written, funny little thing?’
‘Yes, Miri, I think I understand most of it. You need to tell me more about the resistance army. I’d like to join too. After all, I’ll be ten soon.’
T HE SILENCE THAT went with Uncle Ernst’s absence was unbearable. Aunty Gitta, now a little crazy, combed the streets, expecting to run into him. But he’d gone.Vanished. All that remained of him was his clothing in the wardrobe and his shoes, now worn by Erich.
On Friday nights, over our candles, we said a prayer for the safe return of Uncle Ernst. The rest of the time he wasn’t mentioned. Sometimes Agnes would quietly come to me and without a word, we’d hug and remember him. Erich would put an arm around his mother. My papa would look at a photograph of his brother with sad eyes. Mama’s voice would stumble if someone knocked on the door. Miri wrote her thoughts in her journal. We waited and waited, but he didn’t come back.
‘When will you finish knitting the scarf?’ I asked Mama.
‘I will know when it is finished,’ Mama replied. Her fingers twitched away, her needles making a sound like the ticking of a clock, and the scarf grew longer.
A week later, when Mama went to meet Mrs Liebermann, she came home empty-handed.
‘She didn’t come,’ Mama said. ‘I am worried for her. I saw soldiers standing near the corner where we would meet, just by the alleyway. If they found out she was feeding Jews there is no way of knowing what will become of her.’
‘Maybe it is just too dangerous now for her to feed us,’ Papa said. ‘There are soldiers everywhere. It doesn’t mean they know she’s been helping us.’
‘People are just disappearing.’ Mama bit her bottom lip. ‘She was a good woman. Not many would have taken the risk. Our rations will have to see us through, though I don’t know how.’
O FTEN WHEN I was bored and restless, I would approach Miri as she sat at the table writing furiously in her journal. ‘Have you written anything new in your journal, Miri?’
‘Yes, but it’s not for you. You’re too young.’
‘Read it anyway.’
‘It’s really not for you. You won’t understand it.’
‘Please.’
Memories of a former friend
I cannot speak to you again
for you are Jewish .
Therefore, I have to hate you .
But we are friends .
We’ve known each other since
kindergarten .
I am still the same person .
I didn’t know that you were Jewish .
That you were different .
That your people drink the blood
of Christian babies .
That you seek to control
the world .
But that is silly .
You can’t believe this .
We are good and bad like you .
No different .
As for drinking the blood of
Christian babies
You know that old story is
She began, her voice sweet and clear, the voice I wanted when I grew older.
I now know how to hate. They took my dear uncle away and we don’t know why. He hasn’t come back. There is no word of him. We are packed in here. I haveno space of my own. Erich and I hardly talk, though we’re a similar age. I don’t know why. We used to in our other life.
I know cowardice too. When the soldiers asked for my uncle, I froze. I couldn’t move. Erich did, and was butted in the head for his trouble.
I stood, paralysed, while they took Uncle Ernst away. I have no courage .
I would like to escape and join the partisans. They are out there somewhere in Holland and France, in forests, blowing up railway lines. That is the talk on the streets. How would I get there? Do I tap some German on the shoulder and ask, ‘Excuse me, can you direct me to the resistance armies?’ I hate being trapped. I hate being helpless.
Hunger gnaws at me. Yet I still dream. Will I become a writer one day? Is it all right for me to have dreams?
My aunt hardly talks now. Mama continues to knit the world’s longest scarf. I think she is going mad. She says she is knitting my uncle into the scarf today.
‘Do you understand what I’ve written, funny little thing?’
‘Yes, Miri, I think I understand most of it. You need to tell me more about the resistance army. I’d like to join too. After all, I’ll be ten soon.’
T HE SILENCE THAT went with Uncle Ernst’s absence was unbearable. Aunty Gitta, now a little crazy, combed the streets, expecting to run into him. But he’d gone.Vanished. All that remained of him was his clothing in the wardrobe and his shoes, now worn by Erich.
On Friday nights, over our candles, we said a prayer for the safe return of Uncle Ernst. The rest of the time he wasn’t mentioned. Sometimes Agnes would quietly come to me and without a word, we’d hug and remember him. Erich would put an arm around his mother. My papa would look at a photograph of his brother with sad eyes. Mama’s voice would stumble if someone knocked on the door. Miri wrote her thoughts in her journal. We waited and waited, but he didn’t come back.
‘When will you finish knitting the scarf?’ I asked Mama.
‘I will know when it is finished,’ Mama replied. Her fingers twitched away, her needles making a sound like the ticking of a clock, and the scarf grew longer.
A week later, when Mama went to meet Mrs Liebermann, she came home empty-handed.
‘She didn’t come,’ Mama said. ‘I am worried for her. I saw soldiers standing near the corner where we would meet, just by the alleyway. If they found out she was feeding Jews there is no way of knowing what will become of her.’
‘Maybe it is just too dangerous now for her to feed us,’ Papa said. ‘There are soldiers everywhere. It doesn’t mean they know she’s been helping us.’
‘People are just disappearing.’ Mama bit her bottom lip. ‘She was a good woman. Not many would have taken the risk. Our rations will have to see us through, though I don’t know how.’
O FTEN WHEN I was bored and restless, I would approach Miri as she sat at the table writing furiously in her journal. ‘Have you written anything new in your journal, Miri?’
‘Yes, but it’s not for you. You’re too young.’
‘Read it anyway.’
‘It’s really not for you. You won’t understand it.’
‘Please.’
Memories of a former friend
I cannot speak to you again
for you are Jewish .
Therefore, I have to hate you .
But we are friends .
We’ve known each other since
kindergarten .
I am still the same person .
I didn’t know that you were Jewish .
That you were different .
That your people drink the blood
of Christian babies .
That you seek to control
the world .
But that is silly .
You can’t believe this .
We are good and bad like you .
No different .
As for drinking the blood of
Christian babies
You know that old story is
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