to get out fast. Niania’s deep voice went through me.
“Gertele, come back.”
She called me by my childhood nickname. At the sound of that long-forgotten name I felt a tightening in my throat. When I turned around, her work-worn hands stretched toward me. I ran into her embrace. She sat me on the little stool at her feet, her hard, calloused hands stroking my hair.
“My poor child,” she said.
I put my head in her lap, I felt her warm tears on my hair, I felt my own tears start.
Then the picture of our cellar room came back to me.
“I have to go now, Niania,” I said finally.
She pushed me back into the chair, begging, “Stay, please, stay a little longer.”
“No, Niania, I have to go to Mama and Papa. They send you all their love. You know they cannot come. It is too dangerous.”
I embraced her once more and ran out.
At home we sat silently. This was the last morning in our home. I could not stand it in the cellar. I went into the yard and then I jumped over the fence into the garden, the garden which I had so loved. I did not care if anybody caught me, I had to see my beloved garden again. It had rained during the night and the young fresh grass was wet. I looked at the rich moist soil under my feet. Everywhere memories surrounded me. On an old tall branch was a piece of rotted string. I knew it: a few years before, Arthur had flown a kite, it stuck in the tree, and we had never got it down. Wind, snow, and rain had blown the paper away but the little bit of string was still there.
On the old pear tree there was a mark made by a Scout knife driven into it years ago by Arthur. There had been a note under it that day reading, “I am a prisoner of the Cow-Cow tribe.” We had played Indians and Arthur had been taken prisoner; that heroic sword and note were supposed to save him. The note was gone a long, long time and Arthur was far, far away … .
There were the narrow, now overgrown paths where I rode my tricycle and wheeled my dolls. There was the little garden house, now badly in need of paint; we had used
to paint it every spring. From one corner of its ceiling hung some faded yellowish paper. It had been a Japanese lantern in the shape of a full moon, for my fifteenth birthday party. We had left it there because it looked so funny.
Was it really only three years since Mama and Papa, young and gay, had stood arm in arm with Papa watching us eat ice cream and cake? How happy I had been that day!
I ran down to the edge of the brook where I knew I could find violets, and there they were, in their velvety brilliance, fresh, untouched, and fragrant. I picked a bunch and held them tight and then sat down on the moist ground and started to cry, thinking of the velvet lawn, of the yellow dandelions that soon would be blooming in abundance, thinking of the birds that sang in the trees at night, thinking of the blooming cherry trees, the red fruit hanging from the branches, of the rich autumn that would paint the leaves in bright hues, of the gleaming fruit, of the sunshine and rain that would come to my garden in all seasons. And all this we were not to see any more.
There by the brook, thinking and crying softly, I bade farewell to my childhood. Then I walked toward the house, not the front entrance, but the side where the bedrooms faced. I did not care whether I was caught or not, I had to see my beloved home once more!
A shade went up in my parents’ room and I saw the familiar cream-colored wallpaper. Soon Mama’s head would appear and she would say to Papa, “You had better take your umbrella, Julius. In April one never knows.” Then she would come into my room, gently kiss my forehead; I would stretch, turn around, and sigh. “Take your raincoat to school today,” she would say.
I started to walk back now, not along the path but over the young grass. Here was the plum tree with the funny twisted branch on which we used to swing; it felt wet, cool, and familiar. I sat on it, closed my eyes.
“Gertele, come back.”
She called me by my childhood nickname. At the sound of that long-forgotten name I felt a tightening in my throat. When I turned around, her work-worn hands stretched toward me. I ran into her embrace. She sat me on the little stool at her feet, her hard, calloused hands stroking my hair.
“My poor child,” she said.
I put my head in her lap, I felt her warm tears on my hair, I felt my own tears start.
Then the picture of our cellar room came back to me.
“I have to go now, Niania,” I said finally.
She pushed me back into the chair, begging, “Stay, please, stay a little longer.”
“No, Niania, I have to go to Mama and Papa. They send you all their love. You know they cannot come. It is too dangerous.”
I embraced her once more and ran out.
At home we sat silently. This was the last morning in our home. I could not stand it in the cellar. I went into the yard and then I jumped over the fence into the garden, the garden which I had so loved. I did not care if anybody caught me, I had to see my beloved garden again. It had rained during the night and the young fresh grass was wet. I looked at the rich moist soil under my feet. Everywhere memories surrounded me. On an old tall branch was a piece of rotted string. I knew it: a few years before, Arthur had flown a kite, it stuck in the tree, and we had never got it down. Wind, snow, and rain had blown the paper away but the little bit of string was still there.
On the old pear tree there was a mark made by a Scout knife driven into it years ago by Arthur. There had been a note under it that day reading, “I am a prisoner of the Cow-Cow tribe.” We had played Indians and Arthur had been taken prisoner; that heroic sword and note were supposed to save him. The note was gone a long, long time and Arthur was far, far away … .
There were the narrow, now overgrown paths where I rode my tricycle and wheeled my dolls. There was the little garden house, now badly in need of paint; we had used
to paint it every spring. From one corner of its ceiling hung some faded yellowish paper. It had been a Japanese lantern in the shape of a full moon, for my fifteenth birthday party. We had left it there because it looked so funny.
Was it really only three years since Mama and Papa, young and gay, had stood arm in arm with Papa watching us eat ice cream and cake? How happy I had been that day!
I ran down to the edge of the brook where I knew I could find violets, and there they were, in their velvety brilliance, fresh, untouched, and fragrant. I picked a bunch and held them tight and then sat down on the moist ground and started to cry, thinking of the velvet lawn, of the yellow dandelions that soon would be blooming in abundance, thinking of the birds that sang in the trees at night, thinking of the blooming cherry trees, the red fruit hanging from the branches, of the rich autumn that would paint the leaves in bright hues, of the gleaming fruit, of the sunshine and rain that would come to my garden in all seasons. And all this we were not to see any more.
There by the brook, thinking and crying softly, I bade farewell to my childhood. Then I walked toward the house, not the front entrance, but the side where the bedrooms faced. I did not care whether I was caught or not, I had to see my beloved home once more!
A shade went up in my parents’ room and I saw the familiar cream-colored wallpaper. Soon Mama’s head would appear and she would say to Papa, “You had better take your umbrella, Julius. In April one never knows.” Then she would come into my room, gently kiss my forehead; I would stretch, turn around, and sigh. “Take your raincoat to school today,” she would say.
I started to walk back now, not along the path but over the young grass. Here was the plum tree with the funny twisted branch on which we used to swing; it felt wet, cool, and familiar. I sat on it, closed my eyes.
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