Chapter 1 I lay on my bed, wracked with worry. Horrible thoughts floated on my conscience. I buried my face in my pillow, my long hair spread over the silk. I tried pushing the thoughts away, with no luck. It was hard concentrating on anything these days. I had pushed my friends away, and spent less and less time with my mother. I knew she was worried too, but I had to admit I was angry. I play the scene over and over again in my head: why did it have to be my family to suffer? * * * A month ago, my life couldn’t have been more perfect. I had sat at the table waiting for Father to come home. Wonderful smells rose from the pot of stew. Cloves of dried garlic and mushrooms hung from the ceiling. The light of the setting sun seeped through the window, casting a warm glow on the kitchen. I watched as the soft figure of Mother stirred in herbs and spices, her long, strawberry-blonde hair flowing down her back. Like Father, I had a head full of flame-red hair and a face swarming with freckles. Mother was 18 weeks pregnant and her stomach was really starting to swell; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a sibling, if Father would love him or her more than me. Soon, the front door swung open with a creak and the tall figure of Father stood in the doorway. He set his bag down with a heavy thud and hung up his hat and scarf. He walked in, shaking the snow from his hair without speaking. It wasn’t like him. He sat down wearily as if the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. I ran up and hugged him, clinging to the plush arm of the chair. I looked into his eyes, which seemed more tired than usual. He gave me a small smile and playfully rubbed my hair, though his smile faltered and a grim expression took its place. “Holly,” he said, turning to Mother. “I have some bad news to share with you and Lily.” Mother turned around calm as ever, and slowly sat down next to Father. Her presence was reassuring. I sat quietly and listened, a bad feeling creeping up my gut. But I wasn’t afraid then. Mother had that effect on people. “It’s my job,” Father said, looking down. “I got laid off today. I’m to collect my last paycheck tomorrow.” He looked up at us. “I’m really sorry. I s-should have tried harder.” Mother and I, we wrapped our arms around Father, unsure of what to think or of what lay ahead. I laid in bed staring at my wallpaper: bright colors beamed from my walls, fields of livid flowers, a small cottage bordered in a white picket fence. My eyelids felt heavy. Worried whispers floated through the floorboards. * * * That Sunday I woke up to warm smells coming from the kitchen. I walked down the stairs, floorboards squeaking under my feet. Father stood grinning with an apron tied around his waist. “Morning, sunshine!” he called and placed a bowl of oats in front of me. “Where’s Mother?” I asked. “She wasn’t feeling up to it this morning. She’s in her room right now. I think it would be wise to leave her alone for right now.” That’s not like her, I thought. Mother was a put together, down-to-earth woman, and was always the calm one. I wondered what was upsetting her so much. “Don’t worry too much, Lily. I was thinking we could go fishing today, just the two of us. We will have to stop by town to get some bait before we head off, though.” We walked into town. I was dressed in a plain, light blue Sunday dress with a Peter Pan collar. It’s a nice dress, but not my best by far. It was perfect for a day of fishing. We walked down the cobblestone streets. I walked slightly behind Father. His tall figure perfectly hid me from the crowds. I slouched, keeping my head down, hoping to make myself seem smaller and less noticeable. I’m a shy girl, and talking to strangers was never my thing. Mother always told me how much I was like my father, but in my opinion we couldn’t have been more different. I watched as Father tipped his hat to a gentleman walking by with a polite “How do you do?” I cringed just thinking of a social interactions, and felt more grateful than ever for Father’s protective shadow. We loaded our little rowboat on a lake with our bait, fishing poles and lunches. Here on the lake, there was a peaceful silence, away from the crowds and people. Away from the vendors and markets. I felt safe here. It was Father’s and my special place here, where we had come so often. I climbed into the gently rocking boat and straightened my posture. Father rowed the boat off the shore, the paddles breaking the water’s surface, sending ripples out on the emerald lake. Fog spread across the lake, weaving its tendrils over the still waters. The outlines of faraway mountains were barely visible, green with all the lush vegetation. I breathed in the fresh air, smelling hints of pine and the familiar earthy smell. Ancient evergreens and willows stood tall along the shore watching over us like guardians. “ Only two months, I thought, then Father will be back. Father cast his line, and I followed shortly after. We sat like that in a silence for a while and, after an hour with no catches, he turned to me. “Lily, you know we have a beautiful big house with a stove and three stories, but anything beautiful costs money.” I loved our house, decked with its colorful wallpapers, its big windows,
Historical
Hide-And-Seek
For my Opa “Faster, faster, faster!” Carlotta squealed, her eyes shining with excitement. Freja Larsen and Madeline Aaron, best friends since birth, laughed at the silliness of Freja’s younger sister. Giggling and talking, they rode home on Farmer John’s hay cart every day after school. “Three, two, one and . . . jump!” All three of them, Freja holding her little sister’s hand, jumped off the hay cart as they reached their home. Running with the hay cart to give Lily the cow a little pat, they finally waved goodbye to the cart that moved into the distance, dust trailing behind it. As they walked to the door, Carlotta blabbed on about what they were going to play once they got home. “We can play dolls!” she exclaimed. “Lotta, no, nobody wants to play dolls.” “I do.” Carlotta stuck out her tongue, held her nose in the air, and walked toward the house, her arms crossed stubbornly across her chest. “Lotta, c’mon, can’t we play anything else?” Slowly, Carlotta turned on her heel and eyed Freja suspiciously. “Like what?” she asked, squinting at her older sister. “What about hide-and-seek?” Freja suggested. Carlotta’s face fell then lit up. “I know where I’m going to hide! In our closet upstairs! The latch right at the back of the closet opens up and a hundred people can fit in!” “Lotta, you’re not supposed to tell the seeker where you’re going to hide. And anyway, it’s barely big enough for two!” “I bet you still can’t find me. It’s so . . . hidden!” Freja’s mother, Marie, was waiting for the girls at home and greeted them warmly as they came in. They walked straight into the kitchen, their mouths watering as the smell of freshly baked wienerbrød filled their noses. “Oh girls, what have you done?” Marie said, trying to suppress a smile. “Not one day goes by without you getting yourselves dirty. Now, who’s going to help me cook tonight?” * * * “And . . . done!” Freja had been helping Madeline get ready for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. This year, 1943, it was on the 29th of September. Freja had helped prepare the apples, pouring honey into a pretty jar big enough to dip the apples in. Madeline’s mother, Grace, had baked honey cake, which Carlotta was trying to nibble. Grace had also baked fresh, round challahs, and the girls couldn’t wait to eat the sweet cinnamon treats. The girls also laid out the head of a fish and some pomegranate and many other goodies. Madeline looked stunning in a beautiful but modest dress, and so did Grace. Now everything was finally set. Grace had invited the Larsens to share the first, special evening of Rosh Hashanah with them, and the best friends were excited for the first time celebrating together. Ring, Ring, Ring. The doorbell rang and everyone froze. Slowly, her heels clacking, Marie walked to the door and peeked through the keyhole, holding Carlotta by the hand. It was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Marie let out a sigh of relief and mouthed “Kasper.” Freja’s mother was in the modstandsbevægelsen, the Danish resistance, a group of people who fought secretly to protect the lives of Danish Jews. She opened the door a crack and then swiftly let the young man in. “God aften, Kasper,” she bade him good evening in Danish. Even though he was not who she had feared, Marie didn’t look very pleased. Her face showed no concern, but her eyes were filled with worry. Kasper talked quickly and secretly to Marie, not taking off his coat or hat or coming any farther than the hallway. He whispered something, and Marie’s face turned pale and her lips dry. She bade him goodbye and moved quickly back into the living room. “We cannot stay here. You must come with us to our home.” * * * Marie drove everyone back to the Larsens’ home—the car was the family’s only piece of luxury—as it was faster than walking. She told Carlotta to stop fussing about wanting to hide in the closet and ordered the girls to go to bed straight away. Madeline and her mother squeezed into the secret back closet that was Lotta’s favorite hiding spot. Freja and Carlotta went straight to bed, as it was late anyway. In their room, Lotta cuddled up to her sister and fell asleep soon, but despite the fact that Freja’s eyes felt like lead, she could not bring herself to sleep. There was a firm knock on the door about an hour later, and Freja still lay awake. She could hear her mother’s footsteps move across the tiled kitchen floor, out into the furnished living room, down the hallway, and to the door. Muffled sounds of voices and then boots scraping against the burnished wood floorboards. Freja imagined what Carlotta would have thought about this. In her mind, she could hear Carlotta’s young voice stubbornly refusing to let them in without taking off their shoes and throwing a tantrum when she saw how they were treating the beautiful house. The footsteps came closer, and Carlotta started to fuss. Knowing it would be dangerous if Lotta were to wake, Freja held her close, and Lotta’s breath slowed once more. Freja shut her eyes tight and turned the opposite way of the door. The door opened loudly and light flooded into the room. Two uniformed officers, one stout, one lanky, closed the door and shone their torches on the bed. “Please, my children are sleeping, don’t wake them.” Marie gripped the lanky soldier’s wrist and moved the torch’s glare away from the bed. Only now did Freja dare to open her eyes. “We have nothing to hide. Now please—leave my children to sleep.” The soldiers started to back out but then suddenly walked towards the closet. The uniformed officers
The Fence
Ever since I could remember, Momma and I lived alone. Just us two. She never mentioned my Poppa or any aunts or uncles or cousins, so neither did I. We were happy enough how we were. It was 1953, and we lived on the very edge of the Black District of the town. Some thought we were much too close to the White District, because only a tall, wooden fence separated us from their houses. The Fence stretched as far as I had ever ventured, and no one could come or go through it. But that didn’t make any difference; we went our own way, they went theirs. Momma ran a business doing laundry for the neighbors. I would help her wash the clothes in big metal tubs, then hang them all to dry on the long clothesline stretched across the yard. Some days, she would send me to buy more lye soap for her washing. Other days, I would deliver the clean laundry to her customers’ houses. One day, I sat on the steps of our house braiding the long, stringy grass and wishing there was shade somewhere nearby. The hot August sun was merciless. And since Momma had a group of talkative friends over, she had strictly instructed me not to go into the house unless of an emergency. So I was stuck outside. After a few more minutes of this, I made up my mind. I would go exploring. Past the huge hedges behind the house was the Fence between us and the White people. I wasn’t to go near the Fence under any circumstances, Momma’s orders, but I was much too bored to heed that rule. She said that she didn’t want me to get scratched by the prickly hedges, but I knew perfectly well that that was just an excuse. She didn’t want me to see the White people on the other side. After checking that Momma was still safely preoccupied inside with her friends, I climbed into the bushes. So much for getting scratched up, I thought. They’re not even prickly! Just a few feet in, my hands found the rough wood of the Fence. I wriggled my entire body through until I was right up against it. Then I pressed my eye against a conveniently located knothole and peered through. All I could see were the leafy branches of identical hedges on the other side. Leaning forward a little too hard, the board gave way and I tumbled through, right onto the other side. Gasping with surprise, I began to sit up, rubbing dirt from my eyes. Until I heard a voice. “Who’s there?” it demanded. I held my breath, trembling with fright. I didn’t dare go back through. Surely whoever was speaking would notice me shaking the bushes. But if Momma found out I’d been over… I took a quick look, not daring to even breathe. A little White girl was kneeling in front of me. She was so close that I could have reached out and touched her shining golden hair. She peered right into the branches. I made myself as small as I could, but too late. “I can see you in there. What are you spying on me for?” I couldn’t do anything now but answer her nice and polite, just how Momma taught me. “I wasn’t exactly spying on you,” I replied. “I didn’t even notice you was there at first.” “What’s your name?” she asked me. She had lost her commanding voice now. “Ruth,” I replied shyly. “I’m Donna Schultz. Nice to meet you.” “Yes,” I agreed. “Would you like to come out? We can play together, and I will show you my dolls.” I glanced back over my shoulder through the bare hole where the board had collapsed. What on earth would Momma say to see me on the other side of the Fence playing with a White girl? Never mind, I told myself, She’ll never find out if you don’t tell her. “Here I come,” I told the girl, tripping my way out. Donna laughed. It was a nice sort of laugh, not mocking, but sweet and twinkly, just like her. I gave her a smile and brushed the dirt off my knees. “So, how old are you?” she asked conversationally as she led me across the yard. “Eight-years-old,” I told her proudly. “I’m eight and three-quarters,” she responded. I had no idea what three-quarters was supposed to mean, so I kept quiet. “This is my house. Mother and Father aren’t at home, only Jonathan. But he won’t play with me unless it’s baseball, and Mother says baseball is unladylike, so I can’t. I don’t like it much anyway.” I was relieved to hear that this girl’s parents weren’t home because they probably wouldn’t have been very happy with a Black girl like me on their side, the White side, either. Even then I didn’t realize how big of a risk I was taking. But at the time my thoughts were completely focused on Donna’s beautiful dolls and playthings. I was happy just to listen to her talk, lying comfortably in the dappled shade of her yard. Once the sun began to set, however, I told her I’d better get home. She told me that she hoped she could talk to me again soon. “Bye!” I called to her as I scrambled back through the poky branches a little more gracefully than before. “Goodbye, Ruth!” she responded, waving at me. And that was the beginning of our secret friendship. * * * A few weeks later, as Momma and I were completing the noontime deliveries, I asked her an innocent question. “Momma, why do we have to live apart from the White people?” She looked at me funny and said, “Why you asking, girl?” “It’s just that there’s other girls out there just like me ‘cept they have white skin. Why ain’t we allowed to
