The Earth Is Singing by Vanessa Curtis

join them but most of the time I just lie on my back and stare up at the woodworm-ridden beams over my bed and I think about what I am going to do when I get out of here.
    Most of my plans involve Uldis.
    I really miss him and think back to when I last saw him. He said he would visit, so I am holding out for that moment but the frustrating thing is that I can’t do anything about it stuck up here.
    Sometimes when Mama and Omama are asleep I feel a bit hot and flustered thinking about Uldis. I relive our last conversation in painstaking detail, trying to remember exactly what he said and how I responded and whether I came across as mature and romantic or a bit silly and I remember what it was like to kiss him properly in the dark back row of the Rīga cinema before the Nazis came. Then a reality check slaps me round the face like a wet salmon and I remember that Jews are no longer allowed to go to the cinema and I replay the look on Velna’s face and hear the spiteful laugh of Marija Otis right up close to my ear.
    It is nice to remember all the things that Uldis has said to me, though. I feel sure that he will honour his word and bring us food when he can, but thinking about him makes me feel hot and funny and a bit frustrated and the walls seem to close in on me. I am always relieved and half-glad when Mama rubs the sleep out of her eyes and yawns and says that perhaps we should play a board game before supper.
    The game kills the final few dull hours of stupefying heat and boredom and Uncle Georgs is visibly relieved to be handing us our last tray of the evening.
    “Goodnight,” he whispers as he descends the ladder and clangs us back inside our hot prison.
    We eat the soup that he has brought us and if it is the Sabbath, say our special Friday night prayers.
    Mama’s routine seems to keep us calm.
    We have been up in Uncle Georgs’s attic for just over a month.
    By now we no longer complain or argue much. Georgs has urged us to keep our voices down.
    One evening we have a reminder of why we are hiding.
    We are laughing in low murmurs over our board game and then we hear the doorbell go downstairs and the sound of Uncle Georgs’s two dogs barking. We freeze. Usually it is a friend or neighbour of Uncle Georgs but something about the way in which this sound goes on for a fraction longer than usual makes us glance at one another and then sweep the game under one of the beds.
    Mama goes over to the window and clicks it open as softly as she can. The three of us stand by the window in our coats even though it is boiling. I can barely find enough breath in my body to keep from falling over.
    There are harsh voices downstairs. Men’s voices, loaded with authority and disrespect. I can hear Uncle Georgs protesting at something and then the hysterical chirp of Aunt Brigita’s voice, which is the only bit of her I ever hear, cutting into what her husband is saying.
    Then we hear it.
    Footsteps, pounding up the stairs towards the first floor.
    It sounds like at least two men, possibly more.
    All we can do is stand huddled by the window, staring at the circular grey bell on the wall.
    “Why doesn’t he ring it?” I whisper.
    Mama flashes her eyes at me. It means “be quiet”.
    I strain to hear.
    I am listening for the sound of those shelves being pushed back to reveal the hidden loft hatch. I know the scraping sound it makes because I hear Uncle Georgs do it every time he comes to see us.
    I strain so hard that I can hear blood rushing around inside my head.
    Nothing.
    The footsteps seem to be running in and out of the first-floor bedrooms.
    Then they pound downstairs again and we hear the front door being opened and Uncle Georgs saying something in a polite voice.
    The door shuts.
    Then the yelling begins.
    Aunt Brigita screams at my uncle all evening.
    I feel sick, hearing the hysterical tone of her voice go on and on at kind Uncle Georgs.
    He tells her to be quiet.
    “They will hear you!” he says. “And so will