The Earth Is Singing Page 3

  She puts something on the window sill in front of us.

  It’s the dirty stuffed teddy bear belonging to Peter Rubinstein. It only has one black beaded eye.

  “We will keep it until he gets back,” says Mama, her eyes shining. “I will sew on a new eye and give this bear back his sight!”

  I smile. Sometimes Mama can be strict and hard to fathom.

  At other times I love her so much that it hurts.

  The silence outside doesn’t last long. The sound of screams and gunfire reach us from somewhere just around the corner – Kalēju iela, perhaps.

  Mama makes us a cup of coffee each as it’s obvious that we will not be able to sleep any longer that night. Already I know that I will fail to reach school in a few hours’ time.

  “Mama,” I say, fiddling with the ends of my hair. “The Germans have chased the Soviets out of town but it does not feel safe. I can still hear shooting.”

  Omama has woken up and come in to see what we are talking about. Mama pours her a cup of strong black coffee and gets out a tin of biscuits.

  “Mama,” I say, with more insistence in my voice this time. “Why did they take Mrs Rubinstein away?”

  My mother looks like she is wrestling with something in her head. She plays for time by dipping a caraway biscuit into her coffee and chewing on it in a very deliberate way.

  “Tell the girl, Kristina,” says Omama. “She’s not a baby any longer.”

  “Thank you,” I say, indignant.

  Mama gets up and looks out of the window again. Then she turns around and stands behind me with her hands on my shoulders.

  “They are shooting Jews,” she says. “And they have taken Mrs Rubinstein away because she too is a Jew.”

  She brushes my fringe off my forehead and rakes her fingers through my hair.

  I nod. Mama is expecting me to be brave and understanding, so I try to look serious.

  “Is there some other reason, though?” I say. “I mean – has she done something wrong, other than just being a Jew?”

  Mrs Rubinstein is a very gentle, nervous lady. We saw her nearly every day, outside supervising her children in the small back garden of the apartments or hustling them down the street to the kosher butcher’s shop. She had the same large, dark worried eyes that could be seen on the faces of her children.

  “Oh, Hanna,” says Mama. She drinks the dregs of her coffee and sinks her head into her hands. “She has done nothing wrong. As you say – she is just a Jew.”

  “But you are a Jew,” I say. I can hear my voice rising up a bit in panic. “So why didn’t they take you? Or Omama?”

  Omama snorts. I can almost hear her saying, “Pity the soldier who tries to take ME away. I’ll hit him with my stick!”

  “Because I am lucky this time,” says Mama. “Because I pray every night to God that He will leave me here to look after you. Because I promised your father” – and here she swallows back tears – “that I would always protect you from harm.”

  I feel sick. I push my cup away and hang on to Mama’s hand.

  “First the Soviets hate us because we are proud to be Latvian,” I say. “And now the Germans hate us because we are Jews. What have we ever done to them?”

  Mama sighs.

  “It is complex,” she says. “But it is not all Germans who hate the Jews. Just the Nazis. They are working for Hitler and he hates the Jews.”

  “Why?” I say. I know that my questions are wearing Mama out and Omama is flashing her eyes at me, which probably means that I should stop, but I can’t seem to hold the words back. It’s like a whole new section of my future life has just started up without me even wanting it to.

  “He blames them,” says Mama. She sounds so matter-of-fact, like she’s discussing the Sabbath dinner menu.

  “For what?” I say. “I promise that is my last question.”

  Mama gathers the cups and helps Omama from her chair. When she turns back to me her eyes have taken on a haunted expression I’ve never seen before. I can trace back her family and her family’s family and even ancestors before that, in those pain-filled eyes.

  “For everything,” she says. “He blames the Jews for everything.”

  The next day is Friday.

  I am not allowed to attend school, just as I had predicted. The streets are too dangerous.

  Mama goes out on her own after breakfast to get the ingredients she needs for the Sabbath dinner tonight and the meals we will have tomorrow. In the new paper, Tēvija, published every day in Rīga, there is an announcement for Jews. It says that we are banned from shopping anywhere that has a queue of people outside it. We are not supposed to mix with the rest of the population now.

  Mama takes this piece of news with a shrug.

  “We need to eat,” she says. “I’m sure that our Latvian neighbours will turn a blind eye.”

  She ties a scarf over her head first and pulls on her shapeless coat and her stout brown lace-up shoes.

  “I look like a good Latvian woman, no?” she says to her reflection in the mirror.

  I stand upstairs at the window and watch her scurrying down Skārņu iela. She greets a couple of neighbours and acquaintances on the way but does not stop to chat.

  At the corner of our street there is a soldier in a grey uniform with stiff boards on the shoulders and a cap with an eagle on the front. I stare. I have never seen such a uniform before.

  Mama comes back half an hour later.

  “There are queues everywhere,” she says. “I had to join one. Mrs Karulis recognized me. But she didn’t give me away. I kept my head down. There were other Jews like us in the queue, too.”

  “Like you,” I correct her. I don’t really count myself as Jewish. Papa wasn’t, and I look a lot like him. If it wasn’t for him being taken away, we wouldn’t be observing so many Jewish rituals and festivals. We have always celebrated the Sabbath, though. Even Jews with no faith at all tend to sit down on a Friday night and hold the Sabbath meal. I am starting to wonder if this is a good thing. Already I feel as if I don’t want to be at all connected with the Jews any longer. If Hitler is out to get them, then surely we should stop advertising our faith and try to blend in with the general population of Latvia?

  I sigh. Mama would never agree to that. Her faith has become even more important since Papa went away. And Omama has the deepest faith of us all.

  Mama is already preparing food in the kitchen. Because of our faith, Jews are not allowed to cook, bake or work after the Sabbath has formally begun, at eighteen minutes before sunset on a Friday night. Like nearly every Jewish woman we know, she prepares a cholent on Friday afternoon and leaves it to simmer overnight on a low heat in the oven, so that it will be ready for Saturday lunch the next day.

  I loathe cholent. Omama says that’s the whole point and that it’s not supposed to taste all that nice as it has been eaten for hundreds of years by Jews who don’t have a lot of money. It consists of a piece of slow-cooked, salty beef all stewed up with butter beans and potatoes.

  I like the Sabbath supper on Friday nights much better.

  Mama has already made two shiny loaves of challah – sweet, shiny bread wrapped into plaits a bit like my own. Her challah has three strands, which stand for truth, peace and justice. With the challah we will eat braised beef, fish in egg and lemon sauce, potato salad and potato kugel, my favourite thing. Kugel is a crispy pancake made of grated potato and fried until the inside is fluffy and soft. After this feast we will be served Mama’s excellent sponge cake. It has no butter, which is just as well as Mama says that the shops are running out of it. But it is light and fluffy and made with lots of eggs.

  By the time the food is prepared it is nearly sunset.

  I am allowed to light the special candles. They are placed on our dining-room table, which has been laid with a white cloth and flowers and all Mama’s best silver and china. The candles represent observance and remembrance.

  Omama welcomes in the Sabbath queen by wafting her hand
s around the lit candles seven times. The queen represents a bride given to us by God. Then she says the blessing with her palms pressed over her eyes.

  I like the comforting ritual of this blessing. Although I am not as religious as Omama, I know that God is up there looking after us all and keeping us safe.

  Mama bows her head and I am sure she is thinking of Papa and wishing with all her heart that he might be allowed to come home again.

  I close my eyes and wish it too. I wish it so hard that I forget to breathe and when I open my eyes I see stars.

  I try not to peek at the challah sitting under the cloth that must cover them at the table until we are ready to break the bread.

  I’m starving.

  And we can’t eat until Omama has taken herself off to the synagogue for forty-five minutes of prayer. She refuses point-blank to stay inside, even though Mama pleads with her and gestures to the noise coming from the streets outside.

  “They will not harm me in the synagogue!” Omama says. “They would not dare touch such a holy place!”

  She flaps her hands at Mama and puts on her long black coat and scarf. Then she hobbles off down six flights of stairs and emerges at the bottom panting for breath and leaning on the wall. Mama watches her until she has reached the end of our street and turned right towards the synagogue.

  Then she sits back at the table and we watch the flickering candles and wait.

  Omama returns an hour later.

  “I have never seen so many people at synagogue,” she says. “Some nice woman gave me her seat or else I would have been forced to stand on my terrible legs.”

  Mama and I exchange a small smile. We both know that Omama’s legs suffer from nothing more than the ache of old age, although she has stiff and creaky hips.

  We sit together at the table and Omama recites kiddush over cups of wine. It is supposed to be said by the man of the house, but Omama is now the senior in Papa’s absence so she does it without being asked. She offers another prayer, dips chunks of challah into salt and passes it around.

  We eat Mama’s delicious food and try to ignore the bangs and screams coming from outside.

  “Sing, Hanna,” says Mama after we have finished the meal and ended with a prayer and another cup of wine. “Go on. ‘Raisins and Almonds’. Sing it for Papa, no?”

  I wish she hadn’t mentioned his name. I’m going to have a wobble in my voice when I sing now.

  But Omama and Mama are looking at me, their faces shining with anticipation. So I take a breath, stand up and sing my favourite song in Yiddish, just to delight them even more.

  When I’ve finished, Mama wipes away a tear.

  “You are still Papa’s little songbird,” she says.

  I smile because she’s being a bit overemotional and I feel embarrassed.

  “Oy,” says Omama. “All this eating and praying has worn me out. I am off to my bed.”

  She hobbles out of the room, leaving Mama and me sitting in virtual darkness. We have extinguished the Sabbath candles with wine. It is part of our religious ritual.

  It’s nice, sitting together in the dark room. Or it would be if there were fewer strange noises coming from outside.

  I can’t think what I’m hearing. It’s a muffled noise, like a radio in the distance with somebody turning up the volume dial a bit at a time. I can hear thin sounds of screaming.

  There’s a faint smell of smoke.

  I am just thinking about going to bed and putting this confusing day behind me when there is another scream from right outside and a babble of concerned voices.

  Mama leaps up and presses her face to the gap in the curtain.

  “It is Rachel Solomon,” she says. “I can’t hear what she is saying. I’d better go down.”

  “No,” I start to say, but Mama is already rushing outside. I look down and see her join the group of concerned people below, put her arm around Rachel’s shoulder and say something to her. Whatever it is that Rachel says back to my mother causes her to drop to her knees like a stone and start to pray out loud in the street.

  I run downstairs faster than I’ve ever run in my life.

  “Mama!’ I shout, pushing my way to her. “What has happened?”

  My mother is crying so much that I can’t understand what she is saying. With the help of another of our neighbours, Mr Bloom, I hoist Mama back into the apartment block and slowly up the stairs. I’m a bit worried about Mr Bloom because he’s ninety, but he seems to have the stamina of a much younger man.

  I wait until Mama has drunk some of the coffee I have made and then she holds out her hands to me and we sit close together on the sofa.

  “Oh, Hanna,” she says. “They have burned down the Great Choral Synagogue.”

  I start with horror. The Great Choral Synagogue on Gogoļa iela is one of the largest and oldest in all of Rīga.

  “What?” I say. “No – it’s a holy building. Nobody can burn it. Not even the Germans.”

  Tears pour down Mama’s cheeks.

  “Well, they have done it,” she whispers. “And Hanna – three hundred Jews were locked inside.”

  The next day the rest of the shiny challah loaves sit untouched upon our table.

  Chapter Four

  Later that morning, Uldis picks me up and we head to the swimming baths in town.

  I had dressed in a daze. We hadn’t slept a wink and were still in shock from what had happened, but Omama told me to get cleaned up and put something nice on. Mama just said that there were other boys in the world and that I shouldn’t get too hung up on the first one I’ve ever liked, but I ignored her.

  So I am wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a white shirt knotted over my blue one-piece costume and it feels wrong even to be thinking about how I look.

  In any case I feel a little shy having my legs out on display, but at least it is warm in the sunshine today.

  I like the feeling of the sun on the crown of my head. Seeing Uldis is like having balm applied to a sore spot, even though underneath the cut runs deep.

  I have no idea whether mentioning what happened last night will risk ruining the mood of our date but I can’t help but bring it up. I can talk to Uldis about anything.

  “You will have heard the dreadful news about the Jews killed in the synagogue?” I say.

  We are walking through the old town, my hand slipped through Uldis’s arm. He is wearing brown trousers and a crisp white shirt and his hair is oiled back, ready for the swimming pool. In his hand is a small satchel containing his striped swimming trunks and a couple of towels.

  “Oh yes,” says Uldis. “It is truly tragic. I witnessed it all. Those poor people trapped inside.”

  I shudder.

  “How come you saw it?” I say.

  “I was passing by,” says Uldis. His voice is low and sober.

  We don’t talk much after that. Even though we have been going out for a few months now, our relationship is still fragile and soft, like a newborn baby. It is enough to feel the sun on my skin and the muscle in Uldis’s forearm under my hand. Before we started going out we were always messing about play-fighting and pushing and tickling one another and yet I never gave the physical contact a second thought.

  Now I am shy of even having my hand on his warm arm.

  Uldis greets people as we walk towards the pool. His family is well-connected in Rīga and his father knows all the business people in the city. Lots of men stop to shake his hand. Uldis is unfailingly polite and considerate, asking after elderly relatives and bending down to pat an assortment of small hairy dogs.

  I feel proud to be with him.

  He has his hand in the small of my back, guiding me through the door to the pool, letting me go first.

  “You have lovely manners,” I can’t help saying. “That is why my papa liked you so much, I think.”

  Uldis blushes. I guess he’s modest, too.

  “Come on,” he says. “Last one into the pool has to buy the ices!’

  I’m so busy
splashing my way up and down the centre of the pool and admiring Uldis as he jumps from the very highest diving board, his body all lean and hard like a whippet, that for a while I don’t notice somebody staring at me from across the pool.

  When I stop to catch my breath at the side and remove my goggles, I can see my best friend from ballet school, Velna, bobbing up and down in the deep end and looking over. She has her blonde plaits tied up on top of her head and is wearing a bright green swimsuit which sets off her flawless ivory skin.

  “Velna,” I call, waving my arms back and forth. “Come and swim with me!”

  But the sound doesn’t carry far enough, perhaps. I could have sworn she saw me, but maybe I am wrong. She has turned round and is deep in conversation with another group of girls I recognize from ballet school.

  “Oh,” I say. I chew on my lip, troubled. Uldis swims up underneath me and grabs me from behind, making me scream and kick out great streams of water.

  “I think Velna is ignoring me,” I tell him.

  “Why would she do that?” says Uldis. “You are good friends.”

  “I thought we were,” I say. For some reason I think of Poland when I say this.

  “Don’t worry about it,” says Uldis. “She’ll be fine when you next see her.”

  When he kisses me, all wet and fresh-faced and stares down at me with those hypnotic ice-blue eyes, I forget about Velna, the pool, Rīga, Latvia and everything else.

  Mama keeps me away from dance school for nearly two weeks. She is afraid I will get caught up in all the shooting on the streets. But I feel caged in and desperate to stretch my limbs, so in the end I persuade her to let me go back.

  Uldis offers to walk me as far as the river on my first day. My school is on the other side, which means I have to run across a busy traffic bridge; but it is not the cars that Mama is afraid of.

  “You cannot go around the city alone,” she says. “It is not safe now. I will walk over each day and fetch you from class. We can return home together.”

  I roll my eyes at her but I’m pleased that Uldis will be accompanying me on my first day back. Uldis has now joined the Latvian police and he looks very smart in his uniform. I enjoy being seen on his arm as I walk past the Freedom Monument and towards my school. I take sideways glances at his khaki uniform with the red and white patch armband, red stripes on the collar and the hat, with the Latvian insignia of three stars in the rays of a rising sun.