carrying a tray. She sat on the floor beside her daughter, and handed Marianne a cup of delicious, sweet, milky coffee. The cups did not match, and one had a handle missing.
“Mutti,” said Marianne, “we’re going to pretend that today is your birthday.”
“I can’t think of one reason why I’d want to be thirty-seven even one day sooner than necessary.”
“Well I can,” said Marianne. “I think you need a present.” She put the parcel in her mother’s lap.
“What pretty paper; it’s much too nice to throw out.”
Whenever Mrs. Kohn received anything wrapped in gift paper, she always said exactly the same thing. It used to drive Marianne and her father crazy, because they liked to tear the paper off quickly and get to the present. Today Marianne didn’t mind at all.
At last Mrs. Kohn finished. She drew out the box. Her fingers traced the carved flower design gently. She turned the key. Brahm’s “Cradle Song” filled the room. Marianne sang the words softly:
Sleep my baby sleep,
Your Daddy guards the sheep.
Mother shakes the gentle tree
The petals fall with dreams for thee
Sleep my baby sleep.
Mrs. Kohn said, “I will never part with this. It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you, Marianne.”
They finished their coffee, and set to work to clear up. By ten o’clock all the broken china and glass had been swept up, books were neatly stacked, and those that could be repaired put in a box. Marianne had washed her hair and sat down to a late breakfast with her mother.
“I’m glad they didn’t find your homemade black cherry jam,” said Marianne, spooning some more onto her bread.
“I was thinking we could cut up the bedspread from the spare bed. That would do for curtains, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Marianne, with her mouth full. “What else do we have to do?”
“Would you mind going to the bakery for our breakfast rolls? Mr. Altmann will wonder why we haven’t picked up our order. I’m going to scrub this floor, and then wash all the clothes in my room. They’re still on the bedroom carpet. The Gestapo threw everything out of my wardrobe.”
“I’m finished eating. I’ll go right away.” Marianne put on her coat. Something rustled. The envelope that Ernest had delivered the day before was still in her skirt pocket. She must have put it there after their quarrel.
“Mutti, I’m dreadfully sorry, I forgot to give you this note from Mrs. Schwartz.”
“It doesn’t matter. Hurry back, darling. Oh, and take fifty pfennig from my purse for shopping.”
“Good-bye. I’ll come home as fast as I can.”
I t was good to be out in the fresh air, away from the terrors of the night. Out here, things seemed to be normal. Marianne passed a few morning shoppers with their string bags on their arms.
She loved going to the bakery; it had always been one of her favorite chores. It was the first errand she’d ever been entrusted to go on alone. She had only been seven then and her mother had waited at the corner for her the whole time she was gone. Mr. Altmann never let any child leave his bakery without a taste of something warm and delicious, fresh from the oven.
At the corner of the Schillerstrasse, a familiar name was gone. FAMILY SAMUELS, FAMILY SHOE REPAIRS , had been replaced with a new name – BAUM, SHOE AND BOOT REPAIRS. NEW OWNER. ARYANS ONLY .
Who would mend their shoes now?
Marianne reached the bakery and saw her face reflected inthe window, splintered like the broken glass in the door. The heavy, wooden door frame was badly gashed, and the sign on the door said, CLOSED. A pile of shattered glass had been neatly swept up beside the step, which had dark stains on it. The display case was bare.
Marianne saw Mr. Altmann washing down the counter, and knocked on what was left of the door. Mr. Altmann looked up, smiled and walked toward her. For the first time since she’d known him – all her life, really – he looked old. His forehead
“Mutti,” said Marianne, “we’re going to pretend that today is your birthday.”
“I can’t think of one reason why I’d want to be thirty-seven even one day sooner than necessary.”
“Well I can,” said Marianne. “I think you need a present.” She put the parcel in her mother’s lap.
“What pretty paper; it’s much too nice to throw out.”
Whenever Mrs. Kohn received anything wrapped in gift paper, she always said exactly the same thing. It used to drive Marianne and her father crazy, because they liked to tear the paper off quickly and get to the present. Today Marianne didn’t mind at all.
At last Mrs. Kohn finished. She drew out the box. Her fingers traced the carved flower design gently. She turned the key. Brahm’s “Cradle Song” filled the room. Marianne sang the words softly:
Sleep my baby sleep,
Your Daddy guards the sheep.
Mother shakes the gentle tree
The petals fall with dreams for thee
Sleep my baby sleep.
Mrs. Kohn said, “I will never part with this. It’s the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you, Marianne.”
They finished their coffee, and set to work to clear up. By ten o’clock all the broken china and glass had been swept up, books were neatly stacked, and those that could be repaired put in a box. Marianne had washed her hair and sat down to a late breakfast with her mother.
“I’m glad they didn’t find your homemade black cherry jam,” said Marianne, spooning some more onto her bread.
“I was thinking we could cut up the bedspread from the spare bed. That would do for curtains, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Marianne, with her mouth full. “What else do we have to do?”
“Would you mind going to the bakery for our breakfast rolls? Mr. Altmann will wonder why we haven’t picked up our order. I’m going to scrub this floor, and then wash all the clothes in my room. They’re still on the bedroom carpet. The Gestapo threw everything out of my wardrobe.”
“I’m finished eating. I’ll go right away.” Marianne put on her coat. Something rustled. The envelope that Ernest had delivered the day before was still in her skirt pocket. She must have put it there after their quarrel.
“Mutti, I’m dreadfully sorry, I forgot to give you this note from Mrs. Schwartz.”
“It doesn’t matter. Hurry back, darling. Oh, and take fifty pfennig from my purse for shopping.”
“Good-bye. I’ll come home as fast as I can.”
I t was good to be out in the fresh air, away from the terrors of the night. Out here, things seemed to be normal. Marianne passed a few morning shoppers with their string bags on their arms.
She loved going to the bakery; it had always been one of her favorite chores. It was the first errand she’d ever been entrusted to go on alone. She had only been seven then and her mother had waited at the corner for her the whole time she was gone. Mr. Altmann never let any child leave his bakery without a taste of something warm and delicious, fresh from the oven.
At the corner of the Schillerstrasse, a familiar name was gone. FAMILY SAMUELS, FAMILY SHOE REPAIRS , had been replaced with a new name – BAUM, SHOE AND BOOT REPAIRS. NEW OWNER. ARYANS ONLY .
Who would mend their shoes now?
Marianne reached the bakery and saw her face reflected inthe window, splintered like the broken glass in the door. The heavy, wooden door frame was badly gashed, and the sign on the door said, CLOSED. A pile of shattered glass had been neatly swept up beside the step, which had dark stains on it. The display case was bare.
Marianne saw Mr. Altmann washing down the counter, and knocked on what was left of the door. Mr. Altmann looked up, smiled and walked toward her. For the first time since she’d known him – all her life, really – he looked old. His forehead
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