For a moment, for one moment only, I will pretend that nothing has happened. I leaned back, swinging on the old branch. I will go into the house now, I thought. They will be at the breakfast table,
Mama pouring the hot coffee, Papa buttering his bun. Arthur will gather his books together and hurry to a lecture. The white cups will gleam on the table, crumbs will be scattered on the checkered cloth. “Look at the lovely violets; oh, they are perfect!” Mama will exclaim. “Go put them in the dining room.” “Which vase, Mama?” “Put them in the shallow silver bowl. Short-stemmed flowers look their best like that.” Yes, Mama is right, it’s hard to tell if the bowl does more for the flowers or the other way around. I better hurry. I will be late for school … .
Late? Yes, late. Slowly I creep back to reality. I will be late because we are going away from here. Why is it all so hard? The war will end soon, we will all be back home. Somehow the thought brought no comfort. I felt way down in my heart that I would never be back again.
A bird fluttered in the branches above me. Somewhere a dog barked. I embraced the twisted branch and kissed its rough wet bark. “Good-by, good-by,” I murmured.
“Where were you?” Mama asked when I went downstairs again.
“Out in the garden,” I answered.
Then I saw Niania sitting on an old kitchen chair. She had braved danger to come to us. Papa was urging her to go. She refused.
A wagon drawn by an old sleepy horse pulled up in front of the house and a peasant with his son started to load our meager belongings. Then Niania embraced Mama and they both cried. She grabbed Papa’s hand and before he could protest she kissed it.
“You brought up my grandchild, you gave me a home for thirteen years, I loved you like my own son.”
Papa embraced her and kissed her cheek. She wept on his shoulder and looking at me, she said, “It was a morning like this when she was born. You carried her in your arms toward the window. You said she was your princess, our little sunshine princess. Where are you taking her now?” Her voice
was terrible. “Where?” she repeated. Then Niania started to pray. Papa and Mama lowered their heads.
The wardrobe and Mama’s and Papa’s beds were on the wagon. The furniture was mildewed from the dampness in the cellar. It looked strange and unfamiliar on the wagon. We took a last look into every corner of the cellar. How gladly would we have stayed here, how desirable the cellar looked! The peasant snapped the reins. “Hetta wio. Hetta wio.” The old horse began to walk … slowly the cart started to move. Papa and Mama and I followed the wagon with bowed heads, as though walking behind a hearse. Here and there neighbors looked from behind curtains, waved mute farewells, wiping tears into handkerchiefs. Papa and Mama didn’t see them. Papa carried the pot of chives, Mama her black shopping bag with our bread, our salt, the dried peas, the precious cocoa and jam. I still clutched the violets I had picked.
When we reached the bend of the street where Arthur had slowed down, instinctively Papa and Mama slowed down too. They wanted to look back, I knew, but at the crucial moment Papa took Mama’s hand and they went on. I looked back though–the only one who did so. No one was in sight. The tree branches swung in the mild breeze. The windows of our home gleamed in the sunlight.
Chapter 11
BEFORE I OPENED MY EYES I FELT THE PECULIAR STRANGENESS of waking in an unfamiliar room. Most peculiar was the brightness–I was used to the darkness of our cellar. When I opened my eyes, there in the sunlight was our old furniture, shabbier than I had imagined, but at the same time clean and bright. Both Papa and Mama, with whom I shared our one room, were in much better spirits than I remembered in a long time. The thing that we had feared most was done. The act of moving was over.
We had never lived anywhere else before. There had always been our home:
Mama pouring the hot coffee, Papa buttering his bun. Arthur will gather his books together and hurry to a lecture. The white cups will gleam on the table, crumbs will be scattered on the checkered cloth. “Look at the lovely violets; oh, they are perfect!” Mama will exclaim. “Go put them in the dining room.” “Which vase, Mama?” “Put them in the shallow silver bowl. Short-stemmed flowers look their best like that.” Yes, Mama is right, it’s hard to tell if the bowl does more for the flowers or the other way around. I better hurry. I will be late for school … .
Late? Yes, late. Slowly I creep back to reality. I will be late because we are going away from here. Why is it all so hard? The war will end soon, we will all be back home. Somehow the thought brought no comfort. I felt way down in my heart that I would never be back again.
A bird fluttered in the branches above me. Somewhere a dog barked. I embraced the twisted branch and kissed its rough wet bark. “Good-by, good-by,” I murmured.
“Where were you?” Mama asked when I went downstairs again.
“Out in the garden,” I answered.
Then I saw Niania sitting on an old kitchen chair. She had braved danger to come to us. Papa was urging her to go. She refused.
A wagon drawn by an old sleepy horse pulled up in front of the house and a peasant with his son started to load our meager belongings. Then Niania embraced Mama and they both cried. She grabbed Papa’s hand and before he could protest she kissed it.
“You brought up my grandchild, you gave me a home for thirteen years, I loved you like my own son.”
Papa embraced her and kissed her cheek. She wept on his shoulder and looking at me, she said, “It was a morning like this when she was born. You carried her in your arms toward the window. You said she was your princess, our little sunshine princess. Where are you taking her now?” Her voice
was terrible. “Where?” she repeated. Then Niania started to pray. Papa and Mama lowered their heads.
The wardrobe and Mama’s and Papa’s beds were on the wagon. The furniture was mildewed from the dampness in the cellar. It looked strange and unfamiliar on the wagon. We took a last look into every corner of the cellar. How gladly would we have stayed here, how desirable the cellar looked! The peasant snapped the reins. “Hetta wio. Hetta wio.” The old horse began to walk … slowly the cart started to move. Papa and Mama and I followed the wagon with bowed heads, as though walking behind a hearse. Here and there neighbors looked from behind curtains, waved mute farewells, wiping tears into handkerchiefs. Papa and Mama didn’t see them. Papa carried the pot of chives, Mama her black shopping bag with our bread, our salt, the dried peas, the precious cocoa and jam. I still clutched the violets I had picked.
When we reached the bend of the street where Arthur had slowed down, instinctively Papa and Mama slowed down too. They wanted to look back, I knew, but at the crucial moment Papa took Mama’s hand and they went on. I looked back though–the only one who did so. No one was in sight. The tree branches swung in the mild breeze. The windows of our home gleamed in the sunlight.
Chapter 11
BEFORE I OPENED MY EYES I FELT THE PECULIAR STRANGENESS of waking in an unfamiliar room. Most peculiar was the brightness–I was used to the darkness of our cellar. When I opened my eyes, there in the sunlight was our old furniture, shabbier than I had imagined, but at the same time clean and bright. Both Papa and Mama, with whom I shared our one room, were in much better spirits than I remembered in a long time. The thing that we had feared most was done. The act of moving was over.
We had never lived anywhere else before. There had always been our home:
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