why would the Germans hate Zofia herself, a Polish girl who went to church every Sunday, even when her mother’s headaches prevented her from going with her daughter? The figure of God depicted in the fresco on the church’s ceiling, a fatherly-looking man with a flowing white beard, was a great comfort to a girl whose own father had been taken away. She was going to take her First Communion in less than a year. She knew that Jesus Christ was going to be there with her.
“The Germans couldn’t hate us. Not like they hate the Jews,” Zofia protested.
“They hate us too,” her mother explained, “and they have killed plenty of innocent Poles to prove it. Zosia, you must take my word for it. To them, we are slaves and they are the masters. But you must never, ever mention it. Do you understand? When you come to visit me at work, you mustn’t speak to Herr Leming unless spoken to, and then you must say very little.”
It was all beyond a child’s understanding.
“But the Jews killed Christ and they kill Christian children for their blood,” Zofia said, repeating what she’d heard so often at school.
“Well, I’ve known some Jews who were quite nice,” her mother said. “Anyway, my little Zosia, you must never look sad. You must always look happy, Zosia. Then Herr Leming and the others won’t bother us.”
Zofia wished her mother would stop telling her not to speak because she was already an expert at not speaking when not spoken to. She was a master at hiding sadness. She was a genius at not making any noise at all.
After midnight, when her mother was asleep, Zofia slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen, where she found her mother’s apron hanging over the back of the chair by the stove. She slipped her hand into one pocket, and then the other, but both were empty. She stood on the chair, inspected the shelf and the crockery. Nothing. Zofia returned to bed empty-handed.
In the endless present moment that is childhood, Zofia could no more understand the disappearance of the chocolate bar than she could comprehend the disappearance of her father, or remember leaving the Lvov ghetto, or even of having lived there.
Laura and Zofia were walking in Spa’s Park one day when a hollow-eyed young woman and her little boy passed them, followed by two SS men with German shepherds. It was apparent from the leaves and twigs clinging to the mother’s and son’s torn clothes that they had just been found in the woods. And it was just as clear to Laura that the two Jews were about to be shot. Under the brims of their peaked hats with the death’s head medallions, the SS men wore the smug expressions of men who were doing their job well. The mother had her arm around her son’s tiny shoulder, determined to protect him from the horrible fate she must have known awaited them.
Laura closed her eyes in an equally futile attempt to ignore the situation. The woman was a mother too, trying to shield her child from the truth, but the knowledge that she and Zofia might survive their lie, while the other woman and her child had perhaps only minutes to live, tore at her heart. A wave of guilt and despair passed through her as she tugged Zofia onward. And what made it all even more unbearable was Zofia’s apparent lack of curiosity about the doomed pair. Or was it obliviousness? Either way, her own daughter seemed like a stranger to her, and the more successful Laura was in protecting her, the stranger Zofia became to her.
Still, she continued to test her on the catechism, on the invented fates of loved ones, on what she should say to strangers if she was ever questioned.
“Where’s your father? Who is your Savior? What is the name of your mother’s boss?” She pushed and pushed until Zofia began running away at the sight of her anxious mother approaching. Laura herself was sick of rehearsing the lies because the price of keeping her daughter alive was to lose her affection—even their very relationship.
Yet she
“The Germans couldn’t hate us. Not like they hate the Jews,” Zofia protested.
“They hate us too,” her mother explained, “and they have killed plenty of innocent Poles to prove it. Zosia, you must take my word for it. To them, we are slaves and they are the masters. But you must never, ever mention it. Do you understand? When you come to visit me at work, you mustn’t speak to Herr Leming unless spoken to, and then you must say very little.”
It was all beyond a child’s understanding.
“But the Jews killed Christ and they kill Christian children for their blood,” Zofia said, repeating what she’d heard so often at school.
“Well, I’ve known some Jews who were quite nice,” her mother said. “Anyway, my little Zosia, you must never look sad. You must always look happy, Zosia. Then Herr Leming and the others won’t bother us.”
Zofia wished her mother would stop telling her not to speak because she was already an expert at not speaking when not spoken to. She was a master at hiding sadness. She was a genius at not making any noise at all.
After midnight, when her mother was asleep, Zofia slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen, where she found her mother’s apron hanging over the back of the chair by the stove. She slipped her hand into one pocket, and then the other, but both were empty. She stood on the chair, inspected the shelf and the crockery. Nothing. Zofia returned to bed empty-handed.
In the endless present moment that is childhood, Zofia could no more understand the disappearance of the chocolate bar than she could comprehend the disappearance of her father, or remember leaving the Lvov ghetto, or even of having lived there.
Laura and Zofia were walking in Spa’s Park one day when a hollow-eyed young woman and her little boy passed them, followed by two SS men with German shepherds. It was apparent from the leaves and twigs clinging to the mother’s and son’s torn clothes that they had just been found in the woods. And it was just as clear to Laura that the two Jews were about to be shot. Under the brims of their peaked hats with the death’s head medallions, the SS men wore the smug expressions of men who were doing their job well. The mother had her arm around her son’s tiny shoulder, determined to protect him from the horrible fate she must have known awaited them.
Laura closed her eyes in an equally futile attempt to ignore the situation. The woman was a mother too, trying to shield her child from the truth, but the knowledge that she and Zofia might survive their lie, while the other woman and her child had perhaps only minutes to live, tore at her heart. A wave of guilt and despair passed through her as she tugged Zofia onward. And what made it all even more unbearable was Zofia’s apparent lack of curiosity about the doomed pair. Or was it obliviousness? Either way, her own daughter seemed like a stranger to her, and the more successful Laura was in protecting her, the stranger Zofia became to her.
Still, she continued to test her on the catechism, on the invented fates of loved ones, on what she should say to strangers if she was ever questioned.
“Where’s your father? Who is your Savior? What is the name of your mother’s boss?” She pushed and pushed until Zofia began running away at the sight of her anxious mother approaching. Laura herself was sick of rehearsing the lies because the price of keeping her daughter alive was to lose her affection—even their very relationship.
Yet she
Similar Books
