Read Online Let Me Whisper You My Story by Moya Simons - Free Book Online
Authors: Moya Simons
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nonsense.
It’s the truth.
I cannot talk to you.
I cannot be your friend.
I don’t know you anymore.
‘You’re right, Miri. I don’t understand.’
P APA WAS OFTEN called to treat patients in our apartment block and the other Judenhaus across the road. Aunty Gitta continued to pace the lounge room, or sit by the window, waiting for Uncle Ernst to return.
‘I guess they have a lot of sewing for him, Aunty Gitta,’ I told her, although she didn’t believe it, and of course neither did I. Aunty Gitta stroked my hair but didn’t answer.
Erich became even more silent. He sometimes watched Miri as she wrote, and he would occasionally go out walking up and down the street when it seemed quiet. I’d watch him, hands in pockets, head turning as he scanned the street for some kind of trouble.
Something had to be done about him playing unhappy music on the violin. ‘Can’t you play something bright,’ Papa finally asked him. ‘Make us happy, Erich. We are sick of being sad. Happiness is what we need.’
Erich turned away from Papa. Miri put her hand on his shoulder, thinking he might be insulted. ‘I know howsad you are, Erich,’ she said. ‘How hard it must be for you to play cheerful music when your papa has been taken away.’
I wondered if he had heard her. Then I saw his shoulder tremble under her hand.
‘Thank you, Miri,’ he said.
Erich’s music became more cheerful, although his face stayed sad. Sweet Mozart melodies poured from the strings. Hopeful songs. Songs, I suppose, of his father coming home, of a return to a time when everyone felt safe.
I went to my wardrobe. Inside it I could hear the strains of Erich’s violin. I fell asleep; a sweet sleep, lulled by the violin music and the warmth of the clothing around me.
‘W ILL YOU READ to me from your journal, Miri?’
‘You should be able to read it by yourself.’
‘I like your voice, Miri.’
‘Hmm. I think you’re lazy, but all right.’
Once I saw a white bird
Fly over mountain-tops and villages
Its wings dipping and lifting
Like drifts of snow
It could fly anywhere
Any time.
A hunter passing
Raised his rifle
For sport, for amusement
And shot the bird down.
Every bird in the world
Stopped flying
That day
And the world became smaller.
‘I don’t understand that poem at all. Why would all the birds stop flying just because one bird had died, and why would the world become smaller?’
Miri ran her hand through my hair. ‘It’s good that you don’t understand.’
Chapter Nine
I N FEBRUARY 1943 our worst nightmare began.
‘You are hereby instructed to leave this place and make your way downstairs to the truck below. Gather your belongings. Come. Now ,’ the loudspeaker echoed throughout the building.
It was a clear, cold morning and we’d just finished our small breakfast. Erich was polishing his violin case with a rag. Miri was sitting at the table as usual, sucking on the end of a pencil. Mama was knitting, Aunty Gitta was sewing, Agnes was complaining about ‘beetles’ gnawing her stomach. Papa was checking his medical instruments as he had a patient to see. I was measuring the world’s longest scarf.
We dropped everything in our hands and stood up, frozen by fear. I wondered about Annie. I had to get her. I broke away from Mama and ran to the bedroom.
Papa, my aunt and my cousins, Miri and I took our suitcases from under the beds and began to hurl clothing into them. What should we take? Where were we going? Mama was in a daze. Papa packed for them both. Mama’sscarf was left on a chair as she ran from room to room, confused about what was happening.
Within a very few minutes I could hear German soldiers everywhere throughout the building. One stood in our doorway in his smart uniform, his belt tight around a well-fed stomach. He repeated the Führer’s orders in his expressionless voice.
We were being taken away, and in the usual way of the Nazi regime, it was being formally announced.
Mama
It’s the truth.
I cannot talk to you.
I cannot be your friend.
I don’t know you anymore.
‘You’re right, Miri. I don’t understand.’
P APA WAS OFTEN called to treat patients in our apartment block and the other Judenhaus across the road. Aunty Gitta continued to pace the lounge room, or sit by the window, waiting for Uncle Ernst to return.
‘I guess they have a lot of sewing for him, Aunty Gitta,’ I told her, although she didn’t believe it, and of course neither did I. Aunty Gitta stroked my hair but didn’t answer.
Erich became even more silent. He sometimes watched Miri as she wrote, and he would occasionally go out walking up and down the street when it seemed quiet. I’d watch him, hands in pockets, head turning as he scanned the street for some kind of trouble.
Something had to be done about him playing unhappy music on the violin. ‘Can’t you play something bright,’ Papa finally asked him. ‘Make us happy, Erich. We are sick of being sad. Happiness is what we need.’
Erich turned away from Papa. Miri put her hand on his shoulder, thinking he might be insulted. ‘I know howsad you are, Erich,’ she said. ‘How hard it must be for you to play cheerful music when your papa has been taken away.’
I wondered if he had heard her. Then I saw his shoulder tremble under her hand.
‘Thank you, Miri,’ he said.
Erich’s music became more cheerful, although his face stayed sad. Sweet Mozart melodies poured from the strings. Hopeful songs. Songs, I suppose, of his father coming home, of a return to a time when everyone felt safe.
I went to my wardrobe. Inside it I could hear the strains of Erich’s violin. I fell asleep; a sweet sleep, lulled by the violin music and the warmth of the clothing around me.
‘W ILL YOU READ to me from your journal, Miri?’
‘You should be able to read it by yourself.’
‘I like your voice, Miri.’
‘Hmm. I think you’re lazy, but all right.’
Once I saw a white bird
Fly over mountain-tops and villages
Its wings dipping and lifting
Like drifts of snow
It could fly anywhere
Any time.
A hunter passing
Raised his rifle
For sport, for amusement
And shot the bird down.
Every bird in the world
Stopped flying
That day
And the world became smaller.
‘I don’t understand that poem at all. Why would all the birds stop flying just because one bird had died, and why would the world become smaller?’
Miri ran her hand through my hair. ‘It’s good that you don’t understand.’
Chapter Nine
I N FEBRUARY 1943 our worst nightmare began.
‘You are hereby instructed to leave this place and make your way downstairs to the truck below. Gather your belongings. Come. Now ,’ the loudspeaker echoed throughout the building.
It was a clear, cold morning and we’d just finished our small breakfast. Erich was polishing his violin case with a rag. Miri was sitting at the table as usual, sucking on the end of a pencil. Mama was knitting, Aunty Gitta was sewing, Agnes was complaining about ‘beetles’ gnawing her stomach. Papa was checking his medical instruments as he had a patient to see. I was measuring the world’s longest scarf.
We dropped everything in our hands and stood up, frozen by fear. I wondered about Annie. I had to get her. I broke away from Mama and ran to the bedroom.
Papa, my aunt and my cousins, Miri and I took our suitcases from under the beds and began to hurl clothing into them. What should we take? Where were we going? Mama was in a daze. Papa packed for them both. Mama’sscarf was left on a chair as she ran from room to room, confused about what was happening.
Within a very few minutes I could hear German soldiers everywhere throughout the building. One stood in our doorway in his smart uniform, his belt tight around a well-fed stomach. He repeated the Führer’s orders in his expressionless voice.
We were being taken away, and in the usual way of the Nazi regime, it was being formally announced.
Mama
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