parents got divorced. She lived with her mother and hardly ever saw her father. Marianne couldn’t imagine being without one of her parents for so long.
She noticed a tall thin girl, with yellow braids wound around her head, staring at her. The girl sat down on the bench beside her and asked, “Why are you looking so worried?”
“I’m not. I was just thinking about my father.”
“I’d rather not think about mine,” said the girl. “He yells at me all the time. He’s a platoon sergeant in the army and thinks I’m one of his recruits! Hey, why aren’t you in school? Don’t tell me, I can guess…you forgot to do your homework, so you’re not feeling well.”
She seemed good at answering her own questions, so Marianne mumbled something about a math test. She didn’t want to lie, or explain to this strange girl that she no longer had any need to make excuses to miss school, that the
Führer
had made the decision for her.
“I knew it. I’m taking the day off too. They won’t notice. The whole school is practising for tomorrow’s concert in honor of some important Nazi officials from Munich. My music teacher always says, ‘Now Inge,’ – I’m Inge Bauer, by the way – ’just mouth the words, dear, like this.’”
Inge contorted her lips in an exaggerated imitation of her teacher. “I’ve got a voice like an old crow, the worst in the sixth grade. I’m never allowed to sing. What’s your name?”
“Marianne.” Marianne picked up her skipping rope quickly, avoiding any more questions. The rope flew under her polished shoes and sailed smoothly over her short, straight brown hair.
One, two, let me through
Three, four, police at the door
Five, six, fix the witch
Seven, eight, it’s getting late
Nine, ten, begin again.
Inge joined in effortlessly. They skipped together until they were out of breath, chanting the familiar rhyme, faster and faster in unison. They collapsed on the bench, at last, laughing. Inge said, “Phew, I’m starved. I left my lunch in the cloakroom when I sneaked out. Have you got anything?”
Marianne rewound the rope. “I’ve got an apple in my bag. Help yourself.”
Inge opened the schoolbag eagerly, drew out the apple, and took a huge bite. The brown envelope slid from the bag to the ground.
“Oh, sorry,” said Inge and bent to pick it up. She read the name out loud, “Marianne Kohn.” Inge jumped to her feet and stood in silence for about three seconds, then spat out the apple so that Marianne had to jump aside to avoid the spittle. “Kohn, that’s a Jewish name – you’re a Jew. Can’t you read?” She pointed to the sign. “The yellow benches are for your kind.”
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and her hands on her skirt. Then she grabbed Marianne’s bag, and threw it onto the path as hard as she could. She wiped her hands again. Marianne picked up her things and moved toward the bench. Inge screamed.
“Keep away from me, you hook-nosed witch. I hate you.”
Then she pulled the rope out of Marianne’s hand and threw it at her. The wooden handles just missed her face, but Marianne felt them strike her chin.
Marianne longed to slap Inge, to wipe that ugly look from her face the way Inge had wiped her hands. Instead, she picked up the rope and put it into her bag. She fastened the straps with trembling fingers. Marianne smoothed the scratched leather, then looked up at Inge. The blonde girl was still standing there like one of the park statues, her face carved in hatred.
Marianne knew that nothing she could say or do would make any difference. She wanted to say, “I had fun – you made me laugh. We were almost friends for a little while, and now you hate me. How did that happen? Because of my name? Because I’m a Jew? My father fought on the Russian front in the 1914 war. He fought for Germany. He’s got a medal to prove it. I’m as German as you are.”
Instead she walked away. She could feel her shame like the aching bruise under her
She noticed a tall thin girl, with yellow braids wound around her head, staring at her. The girl sat down on the bench beside her and asked, “Why are you looking so worried?”
“I’m not. I was just thinking about my father.”
“I’d rather not think about mine,” said the girl. “He yells at me all the time. He’s a platoon sergeant in the army and thinks I’m one of his recruits! Hey, why aren’t you in school? Don’t tell me, I can guess…you forgot to do your homework, so you’re not feeling well.”
She seemed good at answering her own questions, so Marianne mumbled something about a math test. She didn’t want to lie, or explain to this strange girl that she no longer had any need to make excuses to miss school, that the
Führer
had made the decision for her.
“I knew it. I’m taking the day off too. They won’t notice. The whole school is practising for tomorrow’s concert in honor of some important Nazi officials from Munich. My music teacher always says, ‘Now Inge,’ – I’m Inge Bauer, by the way – ’just mouth the words, dear, like this.’”
Inge contorted her lips in an exaggerated imitation of her teacher. “I’ve got a voice like an old crow, the worst in the sixth grade. I’m never allowed to sing. What’s your name?”
“Marianne.” Marianne picked up her skipping rope quickly, avoiding any more questions. The rope flew under her polished shoes and sailed smoothly over her short, straight brown hair.
One, two, let me through
Three, four, police at the door
Five, six, fix the witch
Seven, eight, it’s getting late
Nine, ten, begin again.
Inge joined in effortlessly. They skipped together until they were out of breath, chanting the familiar rhyme, faster and faster in unison. They collapsed on the bench, at last, laughing. Inge said, “Phew, I’m starved. I left my lunch in the cloakroom when I sneaked out. Have you got anything?”
Marianne rewound the rope. “I’ve got an apple in my bag. Help yourself.”
Inge opened the schoolbag eagerly, drew out the apple, and took a huge bite. The brown envelope slid from the bag to the ground.
“Oh, sorry,” said Inge and bent to pick it up. She read the name out loud, “Marianne Kohn.” Inge jumped to her feet and stood in silence for about three seconds, then spat out the apple so that Marianne had to jump aside to avoid the spittle. “Kohn, that’s a Jewish name – you’re a Jew. Can’t you read?” She pointed to the sign. “The yellow benches are for your kind.”
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and her hands on her skirt. Then she grabbed Marianne’s bag, and threw it onto the path as hard as she could. She wiped her hands again. Marianne picked up her things and moved toward the bench. Inge screamed.
“Keep away from me, you hook-nosed witch. I hate you.”
Then she pulled the rope out of Marianne’s hand and threw it at her. The wooden handles just missed her face, but Marianne felt them strike her chin.
Marianne longed to slap Inge, to wipe that ugly look from her face the way Inge had wiped her hands. Instead, she picked up the rope and put it into her bag. She fastened the straps with trembling fingers. Marianne smoothed the scratched leather, then looked up at Inge. The blonde girl was still standing there like one of the park statues, her face carved in hatred.
Marianne knew that nothing she could say or do would make any difference. She wanted to say, “I had fun – you made me laugh. We were almost friends for a little while, and now you hate me. How did that happen? Because of my name? Because I’m a Jew? My father fought on the Russian front in the 1914 war. He fought for Germany. He’s got a medal to prove it. I’m as German as you are.”
Instead she walked away. She could feel her shame like the aching bruise under her
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