They are all my charges, my cousins, three Berliners. Nadav is eight. Sarah is six. Hana is three.
I take them to the park, lead them through the winding paths, watch over them. I am the oldest—ten years old, almost eleven—and I am much taller than all of them. They gather around me, laughing and joking, pointing at the stretch of trees in the distance, the slate-blue sky, the buildings of the city framing the park. And when Hana races after some ducks, too close to the low pond, I chase after her to stop her from falling into the water.
They speak broken English, but I can understand them just fine. I am in awe of how many words they know, since I can’t speak German, or any other language, except for English. They talk over each other at times, a rush of words, slipping in-and-out from English to German, tumbling over each other’s speech, cutting each other off.
I am not used to such an explosion of conversation and laughter, because I am an only child. I am used to solitude, silence, retreating to my room to read books. My cousins have been here for three weeks, and it seems like three years. It won’t be long until they’re gone though. This is their last day here. They are leaving later this morning to board a ship to head back to Europe, and a part of me is sad about that, because I know it will be years until I see them again. Another part of me is relieved they are leaving, so that I can return to my quiet books.
But I shouldn’t feel guilty, for they are excited to return to their home. I can tell by the cheerful sound of their voices, how their faces have brightened at the thought that they will be on their way to Berlin soon. They have a fat gray cat named Falstaff and they all miss him. They tell me stories about how they feed him pieces of bread and honey and how he cuddles next to them at night purring a giant sound, like a tiger. They can’t wait to see Falstaff, can’t wait to see if he’s even bigger than when they left. They miss our grandparents too. Grandparents I have never met, who live upstairs on the second floor of their home, keepers of Falstaff while my cousins are here.
This is my cousins’ first visit to the United States, and even though they came with their parents, I am the one who has had to watch over them most of the time. For some reason, my cousins’ parents—my aunt, Lilia, and my uncle, Daniel—have stayed indoors the entire time they’ve been here. That’s correct: the full three weeks. I have not seen them leave the house once! They have spent most of their time in the dining room, drinking tea, and talking to my parents in low voices. All four of the adults look sad, but I don’t know why, and more than once I saw my aunt and my mom crying. They speak to each other in German, so I can’t understand anything that they’re saying.
Before my little cousins had arrived, my dad had told me I would need to entertain them, that it would be my responsibility to take them to the park each day, and to make sure that they didn’t get lost or hurt while they were outdoors.
“Your cousins are visitors in our home, and they will be your charges while they are here,” he had said. “You are the oldest, so you will be the one responsible for watching over them. Uncle Daniel has instructed them that they must listen to you, and that they shouldn’t talk back at you, and that they mustn’t fight with each other.”
I have undertaken this duty with seriousness over the past three weeks. And even though it’s hard to admit, I have enjoyed it, and I will miss them all when they are gone, these three smiling little faces and bright wits. I have grown used to listening to their stories about their school friends, and our grandparents, and of course, the spoiled great cat, Falstaff.
For the most part, my cousins have followed their father’s directives and have not been disobedient. A few times, though, Nadav and Sarah have argued with each other; and once, when I had tried to get them to stop fighting, Nadav had snapped and had said that he didn’t need to listen to me because I was just a girl.
All these rows happened the first week though; in the past two weeks, everything has been peaceful. And last night, Nadav even told me that he’s never known a girl who has read so many books as I have. We had all been in the parlor, and I had been reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Farmer Boy aloud to them. Nadav had been sitting in my dad’s rocking chair, and Sarah and Hana had been on the couch on either side of me, leaning up against me, kind of smushing me between them.
When I had finished reading for the night, Nadav had asked me if I wanted to be a teacher, since I liked to read so much. I had told him no, and that I want to be a lawyer, like my dad, and like his dad. He had grown very sullen all of a sudden, and had looked almost angry. Then he had stood up, shouted out that I was stupid and that I didn’t know what I was talking about; and then he had stomped out of the room.
“What is wrong with Nadav?” I had asked, confused.
“He’s upset because Father can’t be a lawyer anymore,” Sarah had explained. “He probably thinks you should have known that, I guess.”
“What?” I had asked, stunned. “Your dad is not a lawyer? When did this happen?”
She had shrugged her thin shoulders; said she did not know.
“Do you know why he’s not a lawyer?” I had pressed.
Sarah had nodded, but had spoken almost in a whisper, as if she were scared someone might overhear her. “Because of Hitler, because of the Nazis. They made a law that Jews can’t be lawyers. So, Father’s not a lawyer anymore. We’re not supposed to talk about it though.” She covered her mouth with her index finger, looked serious with a tiny frown.
And then, the three-year-old had spoken up, unrestrained by her older sister’s warning to be silent, making Sarah and I giggle with her outburst.
“Falstaff will save us from the Nazis!” Hana had cried out in a loud whisper, her face animated with bright certainty. “He will eat them! He’ll chew them up like mice and put them in his belly!”
Later that evening, when I had been lying in my bed, and my dad had come to say goodnight, I had asked him about what Sarah had told me. I had doubted that what my six-year-old cousin had said was true. Not that she would lie. She is a sweet and honest child. But she must’ve overheard something that was incorrect, maybe from her parents, or maybe from Nadav.
But she hadn’t been wrong. She had been right. My father explained to me that there was indeed a new law in Germany that prohibited Uncle Daniel from being an attorney because he was Jewish. This sounded amazingly stupid to me, and frightening at the same time. When I had asked him why there was such a law, he had said that the party in control of Germany hated Jews and that the law was intended to take away the ability of the Jewish lawyers to help people through the legal system, so that eventually all the Jewish people would be forced to leave the country.
“Why would anyone want to live in such a terrible place?” I had asked, trembling with indignation and fear. “Why can’t they just stay here, so that Uncle Daniel can be a lawyer? He can work with you, can’t he? They don’t have to go back, do they?”
My dad had shaken his head sadly. I had never before seen him look so despondent.
“They can stay in my room,” I had continued desperately. “Sarah and Hana are small and they can sleep in this bed with me. See, there’s enough room here! And we can put a bed over in that corner for Nadav!”
“That’s good of you, Judith,” my father had said. “But they’re going home tomorrow. They have to go home.”
“But why?”
“Well, Germany is their home,” he had said. “Their house is there. Your grandparents are there. All their belongings are there.” He had paused, and his voice had sounded strained, sorrowful. “And the laws here won’t let them stay anyway. They have to go home. They were only allowed to come here temporarily. They have no choice. They have to go back.”
These are the words that weigh on my ten, almost eleven-year-old, mind as I watch my cousins skip gaily through the park, enjoying the spirit of the sunshine. There are nagging thoughts that I cannot shake, even when they laugh and spin around and speak in German to one another.
What will happen to my charges when they return to Berlin? Will something bad happen to them because they are Jewish? Why can’t they stay here in New York where I can make sure they are safe? Will I ever see them again?
These thoughts race through my mind, even on this cloudless day. Even in this place where freedom supposedly lives.
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