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HOME Brody, Galicia (modern day Ukraine), August 1914 I am Anna-the-eagle, wings outstretched, soaring up, up and away in the searing blue. The sun burns hot on my face, although the air is as clear and biting cold as the sparkling waters of the lake which glints, far, far below. I hold out my arms, the wind squeezing tears from my eyes as I tear down the hill so fast I might, if I push just a little faster, take off for real. Muscles burn, lean forward, hold breath, believe! But my foot catches on a tuft of rough grass and I stumble, legs paddling as suddenly I’m airborne, arms flapping and whump! I’m sprawled on my belly, a mouthful of spiky grass, wind knocked out of me. There is a moment of pure silence, as though the world has stopped spinning, the birds singing, the wind blowing and I am still, poised, waiting. Tick, tock and the spinning, singing, blowing are back and with them crashes the pain, searing and fierce. I sit up to nurse my sore ankle and behind me, giggling. “Anna, you clumsy fool!” Ester’s voice, filled with breathless laughter. “You’re such a child.” She flumps down beside me, rosy cheeks, wide-smile, big teeth. She’d be the prettiest girl in the school, were it not for those teeth. But the older boys appear not to care as they strut about by the school gate, chests puffed, pulled tall, trying to catch her eye, pushing and shoving each other, vying for a glance. Better still, a smile or greeting. I say nothing, but suck in a breath, rub my tender joint. We are the same age – twelve – but there might as well be two or even three years separating us. Unlike Anna with her budding breasts, tiny waist, coquettish smile, I’m in no hurry to grow up, clinging to my childish world with all my might. She pushes back her hair from where the breeze blows it across her face. “Anna?” She tries to peer into my eyes, but I don’t want her to see they are wet. “Are you hurt?” “My ankle. I twisted it when I fell.” I turn and look at the lip of the hill behind us, momentarily ashamed by my pretend eagle-flight. To the left of where we sit is my tree. Tree. She stands squat and gnarled, broad hipped and scrawny armed, just like Babbe Henie. Both of them solid and ever-present comforts for as long as I can remember in their own, very different ways. Babbe Henie, who tells me with a wink and gappy smile that I am the favourite of her eight grandchildren. I suspect she may say this to each one of us, but I decide to believe it anyway. Patient, kind Babbe Henie, with her delicious borscht and dumplings, and tiny, cosy cottage next to ours, who never smacks or shouts or punishes. And here is Tree, alone on the hillside, silent witness to the jumbled words and silly ideas I tell her as I sit beside her through long-stretched summer days. Who stands sentinel as I rest my back against her rough trunk, leafy limbs wrapped overhead, shelter from sun and wind. Home is a noisy, crowded place with too many children and always work to be done. Whenever I can, I escape its thick walls and flat, fusty air to run up the hill behind our cottage, free and alone. Ester, who can never understand this need in me, only has one brother and a grander home on a grander street. I never talk to her about my glorious Tree, and what she means to me. How she is also a home for the green woodpecker couple who return to nest in her, year after year. This year, they are late, their brood still in the nest even though it is already August. I picture them now, their red-capped heads poking out of the nesting hole, stretching out their green wings, testing them for flight. Four, I think, have survived so far but the most dangerous time for them – leaving the nest – is yet to come. Any day now, I’m sure of it. I hope I can be here to keep watch over them as they take their first flight towards the safety of the wood below. I turn back to Ester. Smile, bury my shame. This is Ester after all. Dear faithful Ester. “Honestly, for a moment there,” I admit, “I really thought I might just take off and fly.” And my friend laughs once more, deep and guttural. I stop rubbing and gingerly flex and point my foot. I hug my knees and stare out across the wheat fields, shimmering gold in the late afternoon sunshine, the spires, chimneys and rooftops of Brody just visible between the treetops of the little copse below us. Oh, what I would give to be like my woodpeckers. To spread a pair of wings and take to the skies. I would fly over the town and away, free from the daily grind of washing, cleaning, cooking, mending, minding the baby, or whatever other task Muter would have me do, keeping me from playing on my hillside or reading books beside Tree. “I love you, Anna, you know that?” Ester flops backwards, arms outspread and stares up towards the heavens. “I love how you don’t care how silly you are. How you speak your mind and never worry about normal things.” “Like what?” I look at her with curiosity, the throbbing in my ankle receding. “What normal things should I worry about?” Ester turns her pale face towards me, dark hair fanning out across the grass. Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “Like war. There is a war, Anna, surely even you know that. Aren’t you afraid?” She plants an elbow and props her head up on her open palm. “My parents think we should leave, travel west.” “But why? The war is far away. Brody is hardly a city of importance, not like Vienna, or… Or Lemberg.” “But the Russians are coming, Anna.” Her voice is gentle, as though she the adult, and me the ignorant child. “I know that…” I snap. “Then you should know to be worried. Jews must always be worried. Always be ready to move.” Ester sits up. “What do your family think?” I shrug. It’s true, I have heard my parents’ urgent whisperings late at night when they think we children are all asleep. I’ve seen their darting eyes and pinched cheeks and the way the women stand in close huddled groups in Market Square, not laughing and gossiping as they usually do, but serious faced and low voiced. I’ve seen how Babbe Heine and Zaydee shake their heads and mutter, we will never leave our homeland. How can you think on it? Mostly I see Fater’s thin lips gripped tight and the muscle in his jaw flex beneath his skin. Where will we go? What can we do? We have a decent life here, Reisel. We cannot take that with us. “I don’t think we are going anywhere,” I say finally. “Babbe and Zaydee would never leave, and Fater can hardly take his shop, can he?” Perhaps it is different for Ester’s family. Just two children and her father is a lawyer. Lawyers can go anywhere, can’t they? Fater is just a tailor, although his shop does well enough, trading on his excellent workmanship. Besides, he says we live in the best place in the world – we are at the centre of it all. Right here on the border, where East meets West, in a hubbub of cultures and nationalities. He says that is what makes our town so vibrant and interesting and cultured. Why it brims with ideas, books, music and energy. “I don’t want to go anywhere else, Ester,” I announce, our little cottage suddenly becoming cosy in my mind rather than stifling, when compared to the lonely, unforgiving outside world. “This is home, I am happy here. Besides, where else is there to go? Fater says that Jews aren’t welcome in most cities in Europe.” “We might go to America. To New York.” “But that is so far away!” Suddenly Ester leans towards me and grips both my hands in hers. “Come with us, Anna. Our families could travel together.” Her voice is urgent. “Wouldn’t that be an adventure?” “But it’s hardly my choice!” I cry, “And you might think again if you had to put up with my little brothers’ and sisters’ whining.” “I don’t want to go without you.” There is silence while we both contemplate the view, gripping hands, sitting close. “What would we do in America?” I whisper. She might as well be suggesting our families travel together to the moon. “Men fly there, you know.” Her eyes sparkle. “It’s true. Wouldn’t that be a sight to see,” she adds as though this is the clincher. “Even I don’t believe that, Ester.” “Then you should see it for yourself. I saw a photograph. You ask Miss Beile. Or Mr Homberg, the science master. It looked like a great white, double winged bird. The man sort of climbs in the middle, which is made of wood. But the wings don’t flap. At least, I don’t think they do.” “Then how does it fly?” “It has an engine – like a motor car.” I study Ester’s face and decide from the earnest look in her eyes she is telling the truth. “Then in that case, one day, I shall go to America. But alone. My family won’t budge. Things will be okay here, Ester. You’ll see.” Back at the cottage I am greeted by the mouth-watering smell of soup, sizzling onions and kasha. “Just in time to eat, Anna,” Muter exclaims, her cheeks flushed, whisps of fair hair escaping her bun. She flashes me a look. She lifts the large pot off the stove and carries it with both hands to the table, skipping over the baby, Marcus, who crawls between her feet. “Wash Anna please, and make sure your brothers and sisters do the same.” I sweep Marcus into my arms and he rewards me with a delighted chuckle and a stream of dribble. He grabs fistfuls of my hair and I bury my face into his soft, milk-and-honey scented skin. “Come on, lets wash these hands.” I carry him around to the washhouse where my siblings are diligently scrubbing fingernails with a bar of soap and a nailbrush. Leon, my older brother by one year turns to me, his face pinched and pale. “They’re here,” he tells me in an exaggerated whisper above the heads of the others. “Who?” I ask, setting to work on Marcus’s chubby splayed palms. “The Russians,” he growls, “who else?” A sudden stab of fear pauses my hand for a moment. I may prefer to live in the pleasant, imaginary world existing inside my head, but we all know how the Russians feel about Jews. For years, wave after wave of refugees have been travelling from the East, crossing the border into Austria at the edge of our town, finding peace and a new life here, amongst us. “But this is our town,” I say, propping Marcus on my hip so I can wash my own hands. “They can’t touch us here. Stop it, Leon, you are frightening me.” Over the meal, Leon raises the matter again. Fater tells him not to worry, but the look he exchanges with Muter twists something in my belly and my appetite evaporates. “Ester and her family are going to America,” I blurt out. There is silence as everyone stares at me. “Can’t we go too?” “They don’t want the likes of us,” Fater says, slurping his soup. We’ll take our chances.” “Eat up,” Muter instructs, and I pick up my spoon. * The hour before daybreak is the darkest, coldest, stillest hour of the night. Perhaps this is why I am woken by the unexpected noise. My brain is still fuzzed with sleep and tries to make sense of the sounds. A faint, strange crackling, like the rustle of a paper bag, or someone unwrapping a parcel. I raise my head from the pillow, wondering if it is one of my siblings, but the room is too dark and I can’t make out any of their lumpy shapes as they sleep through the velvet black. More awake now, I determine the crackling is coming from outside, not within the room itself. And from the gaps in the shutters, a faint glow of dawn. I focus on it, my brain trying to make sense of the strange flickering, orange light, so unlike the usual milk-pale bloom of first-light. And then I smell it. Bitter, toxic. Smoke. I tumble out of bed, wincing as pain shoots through my still injured ankle. Pushing open the shutters, I gasp, barely believing what my eyes are seeing. Brody is on fire. Flames leap from Market Square, just five minutes on foot from home. Smoke pumps high in the sky from the direction of the railway station and now I see them. The dense shape of Russian soldiers moving through the darkness at the end of my street, so many of them, yelling, carrying burning torches, and I’m frozen in fear. I cannot move or breathe or think and then strong arms wrap themselves around my waist and Fater is lifting me away from the window. “Get dressed, now! Warm things, quick as you can.” And the room is suddenly panicked action, everyone dressing or being dressed. The baby is crying, Muter is crying. Fater is shouting, Reisel, get a grip, hurry! We must go! Leon is helping my sisters, Emily and Fanny. I’m barely able to dress myself, my fingers fumbling, feeble with fear, with buttons and ties and stockings and laces. Too slow, too slow! The smell of burning grows stronger and now I hear harsh Russian voices shouting, Get out! Leave now! All Jews must go! And in between the dressing, the terror, the grabbing of food and what little money we have in the few desperate minutes before the Russians reach our cottage with their hate and their greedy fire, the questions come, why, why us? Why now? What have we done to deserve this? And then we are out, gathered in the back yard, the stench of smoke and terror choking our lungs. We daren’t gather in the street. Leon is strapping Marcus onto Muter’s back and Fater is pleading with Babbe Heine and Zaydee to come with us. “Where to?” they ask, huddling into each other, shivering and shaking. “But where are we to go?” “Anywhere,” is Fater’s answer, his words filled with an urgency I have never heard before. “Anywhere but here. They will kill us all,” he cries, his voice cracked and broken, like a log splintering under a falling axe. “We will not go,” Babbe Heine replies firmly. “We will slow you down, and nobody wants old people like us. We are a burden. You must go without us.” “Please come,” pleads Leon and I begin to cry, reaching for Zaydee’s knobbly hand. “We can’t leave without you,” I gasp, and now Emily and Fanny are sobbing too. Something crashes in the street and there is a terrible scream. We all jump. “There isn’t time for this,” breathes Muter. “Go,” urges Zaydee, kissing my hand and releasing it. “Just go.” “Then at least come with us as far as Kamionka. You have friends, cousins there. Somewhere safe, for now at least,” Fater says, picking up his bag and flinging it across his shoulders. Zaydee waves us away. “We will, at our own pace. Now go!” I fling myself into Babbe’s arms, feel her tears on my cheeks. “Until next time, libling, look after your mother.” She kisses the top of my head and releases me. “Be safe,” she murmurs, then turns and falls into Zaydee’s embrace. And then we are away, climbing through the woods behind our cottage, pausing now and then to look back at our beloved Brody, half of it in flames, the whole of market square, the railway station, the great synagogue. Most of our quarter. I look towards Ester’s street, and ache for her. I tug at Fater’s sleeve. “Please, Fater, I want to go back for Ester. I must know she is safe.” “No, libling, there is no time,” he says, pulling firmly on my hand, dragging me onwards. “Do you not think I wonder about all those I love? My friends, my employees, my beloved shop – my parents?” he chokes. “We must save ourselves, and hope they get out too.” And on we go in silence through the grey light of dawn, hugging the safety of the trees that skirt the edge of our town, away from all I have ever known, with nothing but our clothes on our backs and each other’s hands clasped in our own. Clearing the edge of the trees, I see her. Tree. Or what is left of her. Now she is a blackened, smouldering stump and all breath is sucked from my body. I pull my hand from Fater’s and run to her, poor Tree, who, like Babbe Heine and Zaydee could not escape. Stifling sobs, I search in vain for my woodpeckers, but they are gone. Dead or escaped. Like Ester, I fear I shall never find out which. And in that terrible moment, I know that my childhood is over. Just like that, I shall never again soar free in a clear, blue sky. * I lean over the railings as the ferry cuts its way through the North Sea, chopping and churning the water into white froth beneath us. Despite my warm coat, the cold wind and spray bites through, needling my numb skin. We are on our way to begin a new life in England. Fater promises a cosy home, school, neighbours, friends. Us children will need to learn English, which, he tells us, we will pick up in no time. Where we are headed, the East End of London, we will find a familiar enclave of people who, just like us, speak Yiddish and eat borscht and who understand. Fater will be able to work once more at his tailoring. One day, he may even have his own shop again. One day, too, perhaps, this terrible journey across Europe, of not knowing where the next meal may come from, of being unwelcome, of not belonging, on relying on the kindness of the rare few who took pity on us, may, finally, be over. But after so many months of travelling in convoys of the homeless, the stateless, it is hard to believe we may finally find a place again to stop and stay, to lay roots and grow. I know how people see us. I can read it in their hostile eyes. In their stiff shoulders and their eagerness to get away. The destitute and unwanted. One incessant, shuffling grey line of need. Of the desperate who want to take what those who’s land we pass through, already have. How can we explain to them, we want nothing from them? What we want is our dignity, a chance to work, to go to school, to take care of ourselves and our families. We want to enrich and give back to those who are generous enough to grant us refuge. And there are many, so far on this journey, who have given us that. My heart aches with gratitude. Above me, wheeling and crying, are the grey shapes of gulls. I watch them for a few minutes, effortlessly rising and falling, keeping pace with the boat, barely moving their wings, and I think of Ester, my childish flights of fancy, and of Tree. I think of Babbe Heine and Zaydee, as I do every morning and night when I pray for their safety, and wonder if I will ever get to see them again. A surge of pointless rage sears through me and I tear my gaze from the gulls, instead I keep watch over Marcus, who clings tight to my hand, his chubby legs planted solid on the deck, watching the churning waters below. * Petticoat Lane is a seething mass of men in rough suits and caps, shouting and hollering – a mix of Yiddish and English, of tailors’ wares swinging on poles across the street, prices marked in black ink on labels pinned to sleeves. I dodge my way through the press of bodies, old and young, hit by the heady scent of tobacco smoke and boot polish, sweat and garlic, mixed with the ever-present, cloying odour from the local breweries and sugar refineries. School is finished for the day and I search for Fater. There he is, raised above the crowd as he stands on a wooden crate, so smart in his bowler hat and hand-made suit, fob-watch chain glinting from his top pocket. He negotiates a price with a customer, good humoured and smiling, and for a split second, I think perhaps we will be okay after all. Perhaps this place, our flat in Brick Lane, this heaving mass in the squashed streets of East End London, really does feel like home. After all, I go to school, I have friends, my family is here. We even managed, after months of searching, to track down Babbe Heine and Zaydee. And now they live here with us, squashed into our tiny flat. But I don’t care. We are together and we are safe. Isn’t that what home is? I miss Tree, of course. I miss Ester, who I think about every single day. I miss the fields and the broad boulevards of Brody. I miss the fresh air and the freedom. I miss my woodpeckers. And I miss being free of worry about the future. But here, together, we are safe. Slowly, we are building something new, and learning to trust. And for now, it is enough. Later, after supper, I will take Marcus to the nearby churchyard where an old yew tree stands. I like to sit beneath its branches while Marcus plays, listening to the birds singing, feeling its solid trunk at my back. Beside me, a ghostly Ester will sit, as she always does. I’ve seen them, Anna, she will gasp in her breathy voice, her eyes gleaming. The aeroplanes, Anna. They fly like a dream! Come and see them in New York. When will you come, Anna? she will ask silently. Soon, I will tell her. Soon, Ester. I smile, step forward and grasp Fater by the hand. Together we pack up his wares and walk slowly home for supper. *
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