“They’re hungry,” the woman utters, her voice shaking through each word.
“Yes, yes, aren’t we all? Come along. This way, I’ll show you to the food.” The Nazi yanks the woman by the arm and pulls her away from the rest of us, both children pinned to her side.
Another set of guards spot the disturbance and finds humor in the scene. “I’ll show you to the food,” one of them says, mockingly.
I don’t think they’re taking her to find food.
After a moment of standing still, we all place our suitcases down by our ankles. With an overwhelming amount of people to look at, the scent of rotten sewage didn’t slap me across the face until this very second. My hand aches from holding my bag and the ground is lumpy beneath the grass, irritating my already tired feet. I would do anything to untie my shoes, but I’m not sure if it’s safe to even blink.
From the corner of my eye, I spot mothers lifting their children off the ground, standing them upright or perching them on their hips. The men realign, too. “Lift your bags,” Papa tells us.
I do as he says without question. Nora and Mama do the same.
The chatter comes to an abrupt halt, allowing us to hear the distant crunch of footsteps. “What is it?” I whisper to Papa.
Nora shoves her shoulder into mine. “Shh.”
I try to peek around the gentleman in front of me, but there are too many others curving around the path.
Only two breaths escape my lungs before a cheerful melody whistles through the air, toying with my emotional state. I know nothing other than fear now, but the sound of happiness is more than welcoming. The muscles in my shoulders loosen and I look for who’s responsible for the beautiful sound. Is the person going to save us?
It’s a man in a fitted dark green SS uniform, with a black belt, shined knee-high boots, and gloves whiter than I’ve ever seen. He walks as if he’s a movie star, especially with his fancy cane, and smiles at many of the people he passes. My blood runs cold and my chest feels like it’s caving in on top of my heart. When he lifts his cane, he points it at a woman and her child and tells them to continue down the path to the left.
“Zwillinge, zwillinge,” he shouts, peering over heads. My heart falls into the pit of my stomach as I recall what zwillinge means in German.
Twins. He’s looking for twins.
My eyes widen. Papa grabs me by the arm and pulls me to his side. I glance over at Mama, noticing she’s staring off into the distance toward a tall cloud of smoke.
“Right here,” Mama speaks. “My daughters are twins.”
“Danica,” Papa hisses.
“Trust me,” Mama cries out. “Please.”
“Zwillinge,” the man says again, pausing in his step to inspect Nora and me. “Yes, you are, aren’t you?” A smile unfurls across his wide jaw, showing off a slight gap between his perfect bright white teeth. “You two are going to come along with me.”
He taps his cane against the stone walkway, gesturing for us to both come forward. As we do what we’re told, he lifts his cane and points it at Mama, telling her to go left. Then he points the cane at Papa and tells him to go right. We were supposed to stay together.
Mama wrenches her arm around mine and Nora’s neck. “My girls. My babies. I love you so very much. Take care of one another and we will find you as soon as possible, okay?” Her voice is trembling and weak. Tears fall from her eyes and skate down her dry cheeks.
Papa places his hands on our heads. “We’ll be all right. We must believe so. I love you, my sweethearts. Don’t be afraid. Please, for me. Be brave.”
“Go!” the man with the cane shouts at Mama and Papa. “Go now!”
A sob bucks through my chest and I press my lips together as tightly as I can so not to let the sound escape. Mama, Papa, no. Please. Don’t leave us. Please. I watch them walk away and for a moment—I just know what comes next for us all.
SIX
NORA
BOUGIVAL, FRANCE, JULY 1946
Without school or tutoring during the summer months, we have an abundance of free time. Our ages determine what we should do with the hours in the day. They teach the younger boys and girls how to do basic chores like folding laundry, ironing, sweeping, and dusting. The older children, those ten and above, have assignments of different tedious tasks like cleaning dishes, mopping, sewing, cooking, baking, and tutoring the younger children who fell behind during the school year. This is the orphanage’s way of ensuring we are fit to survive as functioning adults once we leave these premises.
Every day seems as if it’s a Saturday or Sunday now, monotonous with a rigorous routine for the sake of having a schedule.
Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, I’m in the sewing room, repairing torn clothing, hemming children’s uniforms, and sometimes making ribbons for the girls when there’s extra fabric. There are two other girls around my age assigned to the sewing room as well. I wouldn’t have thought there would be so much demand for clothing repairs each week, but there seems to be an endless pile.
Katia shares a table with me. There’s a five-year age gap between us, which is evident by the frustration she often shows. Her sewing machine jams more than the other two, and she says it’s the machine’s fault; that she got stuck with the lousy one. I switched our two machines last week so she wouldn’t have to use the bad one, but she hasn’t noticed a difference.
Her short blonde bob feathers out to the sides as she slaps her hands down onto the table. “I’ve had it,” she shouts. Her cheeks are scarlet and the fabric beneath the presser-foot bunches up against the taut thread.
“M-m-may I ’ake a look? I can h-h-help you fix i’,” I offer.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. I never do. No one does. Maybe you should write your words down on paper,” she snaps.
I remind myself she’s no older than twelve, and she’s as angry at the world as the rest of us. When possible, I avoid talking, so I don’t frustrate others around me. I won’t let it get the best of me, though. I push my chair with my good foot and lift my eyebrows, summoning her to move over so I can look at her machine. After a moment of contemplation, she makes room for me. I lift the end cap to remove the bobbin case, finding the bobbin to be facing the wrong direction. It’s the simplest mistake. I pop the bobbin back into its case and reattach it. With a couple of twists of the dial, the thread lines back up behind the needle. “Y-y-you ’ould be okay—”
I return to my machine and focus on the pair of slacks I’m hemming. The sound of her machine hums without a struggle.
Our two machines harmonize with a repetitive thump and whine from the motor. After a long moment, she removes her foot from the pedal and twists in her chair to look over at me.
“What happened to you, anyway?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in on my face as if she’s looking for a clue.
I shake my head. “I-i-i’ a long ’ory,” I say, realizing she probably doesn’t understand one word.
“Were you born like that?” she asks, peering down at my leg.
I shake my head again. “M-m-my leg wa’ fine up un’il la’ year.”