I press my fists into the bed and scoot over toward the chair, signaling him to take hold of the chair so I can traipse into the seat. “I’ve got you,” he says. He knows brakes have me too, but his words cause a frenzy of sparks to ignite in my stomach.
With a grip on the right armrest of the chair, I pull myself onto the seat and drop my good leg off the side of the bed before lowering the other.
“The sun is out, the air is warm, the flowers are blooming, and there’s a scent of lilac breezing around the gardens. A friend couldn’t allow another to miss such a beautiful day. Not even for a light switch.” Elek could carry on a conversation all on his own if needed, which isn’t something I’ve ever been able to do. Maybe he thinks I was once a more vocal person, but I’ve always been particular about keeping to myself, forming connections with unnoticed objects or scenery. Although now, I also have a desire to focus on the one person who offers me a source of light for all the details I might have otherwise missed.
Two Years Earlier
Debrecen, Hungary, April 1944
The sun is high in the sky, tucked behind a cloud of cotton. A faint shadow casts over the front concrete steps of our house and the warm temperature teases with a whispering fragrance of daffodils. One lonely puddle remains as evidence from last night’s rainstorm with swirls of ripe colors and the crisp reflection of our neighbor’s plum-purple Maserati.
I bring the tip of my pencil down to the pad of paper and feather out strokes of a vanishing point and horizon line to form a perspective from my view on the front step.
“Nora, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be outside today,” Madame Varga shouts from her garden next door. She’s been our neighbor my entire life. Her husband, Mr. Varga, passed away a few years ago from heart complications, so we invite her to supper every Sunday night, making sure she never becomes too lonely. Her children moved to Budapest and only come to visit on occasion. I often worry about Madame Varga because I’m not sure I could be as content living alone as she is, especially since Arina and I have never even spent more than a few hours apart. The thought is unfathomable. Her gray hair whooshes with a passing breeze. The loose curls tumble backward, exposing her forehead, and the grimacing lines that make me think she’s upset. But it can’t be because I’m sitting on the front stoop in the middle of the day.
“I-I-I’m okay, M-M-Madame Varga. There’s n-n-nothing to worry about.” She must disagree as she pulls off her gardening gloves and tosses them on top of her tin watering can before ambling through the sparse shrubbery between our yards.
“Nora, please go in and tell your mama that—” she sighs like a gust of wind and moves in closer, stepping into my shadow. She leans down, pressing her hands onto her knees so whatever she has to say can’t go any further than my ears. I smell honey and apricots from her morning tea as she opens her mouth. “I need you to tell your mama that there is talk that the Nazis are coming to claim our properties. Other towns and villages have already faced the eviction and are being sent to ghettos.” I want to ask her why she’s outside in her garden if she’s so concerned, but she must notice my gaze drifting to her fresh mounds of dirt. “They will take none of the seedlings I just planted. I dug them up.”
She wraps her hand around my arm. “Yes, madame, I will go inform Mama.” I stand and pinch my sketch pad against my chest, tightening my grip around the pencil.
That they, the Nazis, can just tell us to leave our homes should be absurd gossip, but it’s no rumor. I wouldn’t expect anything less from those who hate us. They don’t care that we’ve lived here forever. My stomach tightens as the warning infiltrates my nerves. Madame Varga wouldn’t have mentioned anything if she hadn’t heard it from a reliable source.
The chocolate brown painted door yawns as I step back inside the empty family room. I don’t have to wonder where Mama and Papa are, since there is a commotion growing louder upstairs. Ever since Papa lost his job at the wheat mill and has been home all day, he’s been trying harder than necessary to help Mama with the housework. I sometimes wonder if they are stepping on each other’s toes.
I climb the steps, curious to hear what they’re talking about and wondering where Arina might be. I’m almost positive she has her ear to the wall in our bedroom. We don’t have a habit of listening in on their conversations, but as of this past month, it seems they’re hiding secrets since they continue to shout at each other through whispers. Mama and Papa are not the arguing type, and it’s obvious they don’t want the two of us to hear what they’re talking about.
Mama and Papa’s bedroom door is closed, and Arina has the rim of a drinking glass pressed up against the wall as she listens.
“Wh-wh-what’s going on?” I ask, stepping up beside her to place my ear against the wall.
“Mama said something about packing a bag for each of us and Papa is arguing with her, saying we don’t need to pack anything because we aren’t going anywhere.”
My shoulders stiffen, wondering if they heard the same news Madame Varga did. “M-m-maybe Mama is right.” I suppose I don’t need to interrupt Mama and Papa to tell them something they already know.
Arina steps away from the wall and tosses the glass onto her bed. “No, we aren’t going anywhere. Mama is worrying like usual. That’s all.” Arina sweeps her hair back behind her ears and plops down in front of the vanity we share in the corner. She takes her white ceramic hairbrush and smooths it through the long strands of her hair with slow strokes. The contemplation in her eyes tells me she’s pondering whether Mama is stewing over the news too much or if, perhaps, we should listen to her.
With my pulse drumming through my ears, I make my way to my bed, place down my sketch pad and pencil, and kneel to pull out my worn leather suitcase. I open it, realizing how long it’s been since we’ve needed a suitcase. We haven’t been able to travel anywhere because of the Jewish laws preventing us from leaving our sanctuary—or what we thought as safe, until now.
“What are you doing?” Arina asks, rushing to my side before slapping the suitcase shut.
Arina is glaring at me. As if a realization tightens around her throat, her head tips forward and her shoulders slouch. “They can’t take our home. They can’t. Right?”
I know nothing more than she does. I shrug because there’s nothing more to say.
Arina turns to her bed and shuffles forward as if she’s walking a creaky plank over angry sea waters. She drops to her knees and yanks out her suitcase; it’s like mine except she has stickers and postcards glued to the top of hers—each a memory from when we used to travel around Europe to visit our scattered family members in dozens of regions between France and Ukraine.
We both tend to the top drawer of our matching bureaus, weeding through undergarments first.
“What are you doing?” Mama asks, stepping into the bedroom. We didn’t notice their argument had ended.
“Packing a suitcase just in case,” Arina says.
Mama crosses her arms over her chest, just below her gold necklace with the Star of David pendant. “Were you eavesdropping on your Papa and me?”