The Earth Is Singing Page 9

I smile back but I feel sick and shaky and wracked with worry.

  My heart is pounding.

  Aunt Brigita will not let us stay here much longer.

  It looks as if even our own family will turn against us soon.

  So what will happen to us then?

  Chapter Ten

  After the visit from Aunt Brigita we wait in fear for Uncle Georgs to come up and tell us that we must leave his house.

  Mama says that we could go back to our apartment in the old town and hide up in the attics of the building, but we know that this would not be ideal. There are too many other non-Jews in the apartment block and they would hear us moving around overhead.

  Omama reckons that her Rabbi might be able to help us, but this would mean leaving the suburbs and somehow going into town to look for him, so that’s too risky.

  “Maybe we should just move to the ghetto,” I say, trying to help.

  Mama’s face becomes pinched and stubborn.

  “No,” she says. “I will not move there. Not to that district. We are better off up here but only if Uncle Georgs agrees to let us stay.”

  We are silent for a moment. Last night very late we heard Georgs and Brigita have another whispered argument in their bedroom below our feet.

  And last night for the first time, Georgs did not bring us any supper on a tray.

  It makes me feel sick with guilt that their marriage is in trouble because of us, even though I don’t much like my aunt.

  There is nothing we can do this morning except wait.

  It is our Jewish New Year today.

  It falls at the end of September and its real name is Rosh Hashanah.

  If we had been at home and not holed up in an attic with no table or cooking facilities we would have started the celebrations at sunset after the ram’s horn had been blown at synagogue to symbolize the sobbing and wailing of Abraham offering his son to God. The celebration would have gone on for two days.

  However it’s a bit difficult to do anything much without any food up here and I don’t fancy our chances blowing any sort of horn with the Aunt Brigita Police on duty downstairs.

  So we wish each other a Happy New Year with kisses and hugs and try hard not to see the irony in our wishes.

  Omama pinches my cheek in that special way that she has and my eyes water with pain but I kiss her anyway.

  Then we sit on the edges of our beds and wait.

  At ten o’clock, Uncle Georgs burst through the loft hatch.

  He is smiling and a little out of breath.

  He gestures at me to take the tray and I cry out when I see it.

  There is a round shiny challah and a jar of honey.

  “I made it in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep,” he says, going a little pink. “I remembered that it was today.”

  Mama comes over and plants a big kiss on the top of Georgs’s head.

  “Oh, you are a good man,” she says. “A thousand thanks. This will make our day special.”

  Uncle Georgs clears his throat and starts to descend the ladder, but then he comes up again as if he’s just remembered something.

  “I have had words with my wife,” he says. “Don’t worry. You can stay here as long as it takes. Happy New Year!”

  He goes down and we hear the shelves being slid into place.

  Mama sits on her bed and bursts into tears.

  We eat the shiny challah, dipping the sweet pieces into the sticky honey and cramming it into our mouths. We are not supposed to have it until the evening but up here the rules are bent so much every day that even Omama doesn’t really mind.

  “We dip this bread into honey so that the forthcoming year will be sweet,” she says, honey running down her chin. “And we eat the round challah also so that the year will be rounded, like a circle.”

  Mama gives a very un-Mama-like snort.

  “How will it be?” is all she says, but the bread doesn’t taste so good after that. I know that she’s right, but sometimes I just want to pretend everything is going to be okay.

  I make a big fuss of pulling off more challah and dipping it into the divine honey.

  We do not eat as much here as we would like to, so to have a whole loaf and a jar of honey makes me feel rich for the entire morning. And there is fresh coffee, too. Uncle Georgs has gone all out to try and make our New Year special.

  And he has more surprises in store.

  By the late afternoon Omama is trawling through the papers and Mama is asleep on her bed as usual. There is a gentle click and Uncle Georgs appears with our supper tray. It is earlier than usual so I am surprised.

  He slides the tray onto the floor and beckons me over.

  “A special supper,” he says. “I had to assemble it while Brigita was at her reading circle. She is not to know I spent money on this. Happy New Year!”

  My brilliant uncle disappears down the hatch and I stare at the tray.

  There is a steaming dish of chicken soup with little white noodles floating in the golden liquid. Next to it is a platter with a whole fish on. We eat a whole fish at Rosh Hashanah to symbolize fertility. And under a cloth on another plate is a golden square of apple strudel, stuffed with plump raisins and fat wedges of sugary apple. There are white china plates and silvery cutlery.

  And a glass carafe containing red wine.

  “Mama,” I whisper. “Wake up.”

  My mother struggles into a sitting position and tries to focus her tired eyes on the tray. When she does, she claps her hands without making a sound and hugs me to her.

  Omama is already slurping the soup.

  It is the best evening we have had since we moved into this attic over a month ago.

  For one evening we forget that we are all a little thinner and paler from lack of balanced meals and fresh air. We forget about Omama’s worsening hip and the way that all my ballet muscles are less defined even though I try to run through a set of exercises whenever I can. We forget that we are homeless and do not know what lies ahead of us.

  There is only one thing we do not forget. Well – one person.

  “To Papa,” I say, raising the small glass of wine that Mama has allowed me.

  “To Papa,” says Mama, her eyes glistening. “And to dear, dear Uncle Georgs.”

  I think of Uldis with a pang in my stomach. I miss him so much, stuck up here away from the rest of the world.

  We clink glasses very softly and smile at one another.

  So the first day of our Rosh Hashanah is everything we could have wished for and more.

  We do not get to observe the second.

  At one o’clock in the morning we are woken from our wine-drenched sleep by a banging noise.

  “Quick,” says Mama, wide awake in seconds. “Onto the balcony, Hanna.”

  I start to open the window as softly as I can.

  Mama helps Omama on with her coat and herds us both underneath the window.

  The night air comes through the cracks. It is sharp and acidic. There is some sort of danger in the air, like gunpowder.

  I start to shiver. The three of us stare at the grey bell. I pray hard for it not to go off.

  When it does, I jump so hard that I bang my elbow against the window frame.

  “Go,” says Mama.

  Just one word, but we know what we have to do.

  I push open the window and climb onto the balcony.

  Then I lean back in to give Mama my hand. I help her out and then between us we manage to haul Omama out by her arms. It is a good job she is so skinny.

  Mama shuts the window behind us and looks up at the roof.

  “Climb up as far as you can towards the middle,” she hisses. “Stay very still when you get there. I will be right behind you.”

  I begin to climb up the roof in my shoes and nightdress but then I look down at Mama and Omama standing there looking up at me and my heart contracts.

  I promised Papa I’d look after them.

  I slither back down the roof tiles backw
ards and my feet hit the balcony.

  “Hanna,” says Mama. “What are you doing? Get back on the roof at once!”

  “You and Omama go up first,” I say. “I will help you.”

  There is no time for argument. With an anguished look at me, Mama climbs onto the roof tiles and turns around to extend her hand to Omama.

  Omama reaches up a skinny wrist and grabs Mama’s hand. I push her legs up and between us, Mama and I try to heave Omama onto the roof but it is no good. Her sore hip and her skinny legs are a lethal combination. Her legs slip and slide as they try to find footing on the black slates and a great tile comes loose.

  It crashes to the ground below and smashes into pieces. The noise may as well be a cannon shot.

  “Well, that’s us done for. Perhaps we should have practised?” says Omama. She is back on the balcony.

  I laugh. I am surprised that Omama can still be so funny in this situation.

  Mama hesitates on the roof. Then she slides back down again.

  And that is where they find the three of us.

  Cold, defiant, huddled together on a tiny balcony in our coats and nightdresses.

  The two Gestapo men, standing with their guns and their snarling, pulling dogs.

  And behind them, in his yellow-green uniform with the red striped armband and wearing an expression of something that I can’t read…

  Uldis.

  Chapter Eleven

  The dogs bark, thick snouts pointing up towards the night sky and fat bodies straining at their black leather leashes.

  Downstairs Uncle Georgs’s dogs are going crazy.

  One of the Gestapo men shouts at the dogs and they whimper and settle down at his feet.

  I am shivering hard. It is not cold outside but inside I am full of rising fear. I can’t stop staring at Uldis. There has been some mistake. Why will he not look at me? I cling onto Mama’s arm on one side and Omama’s on the other. Omama’s arm feels like the bone in the middle of a shank of lamb but without all the meat and fat clinging to it.

  Then it hits me as hard as if I had been attacked with the butt of a rifle.

  This is because of me.

  I told Uldis where we were hiding.

  I have betrayed my own family.

  “Name?” says the man who has shouted at the dogs.

  Mama steps forward off the balcony and climbs back through the window, gesturing at us to follow. Her head is held high and I recognize the determined lift of her chin. My mother is a proud woman.

  “Kristina Michelson,” she says. “This is my mother Ita Dzintra and my daughter Hanna Michelson.”

  I shoot Omama a look of astonishment.

  “I did not know that was your name,” I whisper.

  Omama shrugs.

  “What can I say?” she answers. “I am an enigma.”

  Then she pinches my cheek very hard. The tears that this brings are added to the tears I already have in my eyes. Everything I love and have left in the world is huddled here in a poky room in front of the Gestapo and their vile dogs. The world has shrunk right down to this attic and this moment.

  “Michelson, huh?” says the man. He comes over and looks straight down into my face.

  I try and stare back with as much impudence as I can muster, but my arms and legs and head are shaking. I can’t seem to look at Uldis and his face is in shadow in the dark corner of our attic. But his stance – folded arms, unmoving – is telling me things I don’t want to know.

  “Jew?” says the man. “But you are not wearing your star.”

  In the panic to get outside I forgot to put on my jacket with the star sewn on.

  Mama pushes me behind her and steps up to the man. She only reaches the level of his chin but she can be very intimidating when she gets going.

  “We were sleeping!” she says. “You expect us to wear the star when we are asleep?”

  The man looks at his colleague and exchanges one of those vile, lazy smiles.

  “What shall we do with these Jews?” he says. “They are very bolshie.”

  Mama stares him straight in the eye.

  “You can do what you want with me,” she says. “Yes. I am a Jew, and proud of it. But I ask you to spare my mother as she is old. And my daughter is only a half-Jew.”

  The man and his colleague share another smile.

  Then he pushes my mother out of the way so that she stumbles against Omama. He lifts my chin and looks straight at me.

  “Mischlinge,” he says. “Aryan blood contaminated by a Jew!”

  Then he spits straight into my face.

  All this time Uldis has stood at the back of the attic room, stooped over to avoid banging his head on the beams.

  My thoughts are all over the place.

  How could you hate me this much? What have I ever done to you other than shower you with love and want to spend time with you?

  My anger is rising up in a red mist in front of my eyes.

  At that moment there’s a slight bang downstairs. I recognize the sound of Uncle Georgs’s front door. I half turn my head and see my uncle and aunt scurrying down the front path like frightened mice, carrying their leather suitcases and wearing hats and coats.

  In a heartbeat both the Gestapo men have thrown themselves down the loft hatch, snapping instructions at Uldis on their way down.

  We hear them burst out of the front door and shout a one-word order at Georgs and Brigita, who are at the front wheel of their car. The dogs are let loose and stand in front of the car, barking their harsh, repetitive warning. I watch my aunt and uncle getting out of the car and trying to fend them off.

  There’s a commotion of shouting and confusion and I hear my aunt’s scream and my uncle’s voice raised in protest.

  Then there is a shot.

  Then another.

  “Mother of God,” cries Mama. “No. Please no.”

  Even Omama looks scared. I have never seen that haunted look in her eyes before. Now she looks just like what she is – a tiny, bent-over old lady who is weak from lack of proper food and emaciated by old age and worry. It’s like her big personality has been sucked out of the attic and flown over the rooftops seeking another home in the city.

  “Mama,” I whimper, “what are they going to do to us?”

  My mother looks at Uldis. All this time he has been standing silent in the attic, although I notice he has brought his gun out of its holster and is now holding it with some awkwardness, like an angular newborn baby.

  “Perhaps you can tell us,” she says. Her voice is cold and thin. “I knew that you had volunteered. I knew about your father. But I was hoping you had more sense, Uldis. Your mother is a good woman and for her sake I’ve allowed you into our lives against my better judgement. Why are you hunting down innocent people? Where is your pride?”

  Uldis steps out from the shadows in the eaves. His face betrays no emotion under his peaked cap. The blue eyes which I have always loved seem to have lost their clarity and taken on a dull, glazed look.

  “How did you find us?” says Omama with a spark of her old outrage.

  “Hanna told me you were hiding here,” he says. Mama and Omama both gasp at this. They look at me for confirmation. I give a small, ashamed nod.

  “Hanna,” says Mama, “how could you? I told you to tell nobody of our plans. Nobody.”

  I flush with fear and anger.

  “I thought Uldis was different,” I say. “He told me he loved me.”

  “Oh, Hanna,” sighs Mama. “No. You have been fooled.”

  This is all too much to take in. Only months ago I was going to the cinema with Uldis and even though I had decided to put my ballet career above everything, I still had a dream of marrying him and having lots of blue-eyed, blond-haired children who looked a little like both of us.

  Now he is standing here with that strange, detached look in his eyes and I feel as if I am in a waking nightmare.

  “So?” says Omama, shuffling forward to peer up at Uldis. “What have yo
u got to say for yourself? Why pick on us? What have we ever done to you, other than welcome you into our home and give you our food?”

  A sneer settles on Uldis’s thin face.

  “You are Jews,” he says. “Responsible for everything bad in this country. I am helping Herr Hitler cleanse Latvia of your race.”

  Neither Mama or Omama look surprised at what he says, but my spine goes cold.

  “But you told me you loved me…” I begin, but we are interrupted by one of the Gestapo, who bursts back into the attic and orders us downstairs.

  He has his gun in my back.

  I guess he thinks I’m the most likely to make a run for it. I’m the youngest and fittest out of the three of us. But I can never leave Mama and Omama. I promised Papa and I am not the sort of girl who breaks an important promise.

  So I let him shove me downstairs towards the armoured vehicle revved up outside. The other Gestapo man is already at the wheel, drinking out of a bottle and staring straight ahead like he’s tired of us already.

  The front path is littered with the clothes from Uncle Georgs’s suitcase. I step over shirts and hats and trousers and then I stop. My aunt and uncle are lying motionless amidst the piles of clothing. Uncle Georgs’s left leg in its brown trouser is bent out at a strange angle, like a stork. I can see my aunt’s face. She is staring up at the sky with her red-lipped mouth opened in a half-circle, like she is about to sing.

  A patch of dark red seeps into the cracks in the pavement and spreads out like a jagged fan.

  “Move forward,” hisses the second Gestapo man.

  I stumble over the bodies and get into the car, weeping. I daren’t look round to see if Mama and Omama are coming but inside my head I pray to God for them to stay alive.

  I hear Mama’s scream of shock as she treads the same route and I hear her consoling Omama over and over in a low voice. They are both pushed into the back seat with me.

  The vehicle roars away from my aunt and uncle’s house.

  I clasp the hands of my mother and grandmother and look at the back of Uldis’s head. He is sitting in the front seat with the two men and he betrays no emotion at all. They pass him the bottle and he takes a swig. I get a whiff of the sharp, sterile smell of vodka.

  I am horrified and in shock because of what has happened to my kind uncle and his wife and I am sickened to the core by Uldis’s betrayal, but there is a worse emotion bubbling up and threatening to overtake all others.