1936
A Short Story

The hiding space is dark, and it smells like cat pee and Grandma’s musty closet. I cough, dust infiltrating my lungs. Mama runs to the kitchen and comes back, handing me a bundle of items wrapped in frayed, gray cloth. 

“Food,” Mama says, placing it next to me. Mama grasps my hand, her soft fingers caressing mine. In a split second, I climb out and leap into her arms, holding tight. She hugs me, and for a moment, everything seems like it'll be ok. Too soon, she pushes me away, back into the heater. A stream of tears falls down her cheek.

“Günter, put the front on!” Mama cries. Papa lifts the front of the heater and shoves it on. Everything goes dark. 

“We love you,” Mama whispers. For a single moment, all is quiet.  

 Mama’s voice was always like a soft melody ringing through the air, but that night it sounded broken, as if the notes had been replaced with something darker, more twisted. Not even ten minutes ago, I sat up in bed, startled at what had woken me up in the middle of the night. Blinking, a woman was standing over me, her smooth, brown hair falling over her shoulder. Deep blue eyes looked at me. I knew those eyes. 

“Mila!” Mama said, shaking my shoulders. “Wake up, we have to go.”

I slowly got out of bed, reaching for Mama’s hand as she smiled and ushered me into the hallway. I frowned. Usually when Mama smiled her eyes lit up like the sun, but there they were bleak as a gray and cloudy day. In the living room, Papa was pacing back and forth, his uncombed hair sticking up like he’d rushed out of bed. He glanced at the front door. I giggled.

“Oh Papa, the door’s not going to come off its hinges and eat you,” I said, smiling. Papa didn’t smile back. “Mila, come here.” He was standing by the old heater in the corner of our living room. The heater was large, rectangle-shaped, and had peeling, white paint. 

“Papa, that heater doesn’t work. It never has.” 

“I know it’s broken, Mila. You see, this isn’t actually a heater. My father built it as a hiding place back in 1915, and it’s disguised as a heater. He built it in case my family had to hide during the first world war. Luckily we never had to use it. Well, not until now,” Papa said as he kneeled on the beige carpet in front of the heater. He reached one hand underneath the heater and pulled out a long, metal bar. The end was curved, and brown rust crept over the gray color. “My father put this here back when he built it, so we could open the hiding spot whenever we needed to.” He stuck the curvy end of the bar into a crack in the heater, pushed down, grunting. The front of the heater came off with a pop and clattered to the floor. He looked at me, gaze softening. The next moment I was wrapped up in his arms. I hugged him tightly.

Inside that musty, dark, heater, I hear the front door burst open, and multiple sets of shoes thud against the floor. 

“Heil Hitler!” a low, gruff, voice booms. 

“Heil Hitler,” my parents reply, their voices shaky. 

My blood runs cold. Nazis? I think to myself. What are Nazis doing in my house? As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice a tiny hole at the bottom of the heater’s cover. Slowly moving to not make a sound, I lay down and press my eye against the hole. Three pairs of shiny, swamp-green boots stand next to Mama and Papa’s bare feet. The people in boots are wearing pressed, black pants, the kind that Papa used to wear years ago, before he sold them. I don’t understand why Papa sold his prized pants, but I do remember the big dinner that he brought back; plump chicken, potatoes, and pie, something we hadn’t had in ages. That was a while back, and my tongue longs for the taste of delicious foods once more. 

Thud. Stomp. Shoes scuffing against the floor.

I move a little lower, and then I can see from their waists up. They’re all wearing the same dark green, long-sleeved military top, the exact color of their boots. Each has a black sash draped over their right shoulder with a few pins stuck to them, like medals. They have blond hair and handsome faces. No scars, no splotches, no birthmarks. The first one has sharp, blue eyes, the second has brown, and the third has hazel green eyes, each that stand out against their pale skin. 

“W-what are you here for, gentleman?” Mama says, her voice so quiet that it’s almost a whisper. 

“By Hitler’s ‘Denaturalization Law’, issued on July fourteenth, 1933, you and your husband are illegal trespassers of Germany. According to the law, you no longer have German citizenship and must be deported immediately.”

The blue-eyed one smirked. “You have been evading deportation which will land you a miserable fate at the deportment center. Really, I ought to dispose of you now, but Hitler is a merciful man and I follow his guidance.” 

“But—can’t we at least have a moment to pack some clothing?” Mama begs.

“No! Illegal trespassers, violators of the law, and disgraces to the German race will not be given that privilege. You will go this instant!” a Nazi shouts. Mama stumbles back as he moves closer.

“Don’t touch my wife!” Papa demands. “If you hurt her, you’ll regret it! My wife and I are people too, we don’t deserve this. Leave us alone!” A soldier chuckles. 

“Fool. Watch your mouth.” 

“No, I’ll say what I want to say! You are all filthy cowards! Slaughtering innocent people and—”

A bang interrupts Papa, and he’s suddenly silent. My eyes automatically shut tight when the bang startled me, and when I reopen them, I don’t see Papa anymore.

“I told you to watch your mouth,” the soldier snarls. I can hear the smirk in his voice. Then, Mama cries out with such gut-wrenching pain that I have to cover my ears or my heart will burst into a million pieces. Mama screams Papa’s name again and again until a swamp green boot kicks Mama’s shins and she buckles to the floor.

“Shut up, woman, or you’ll end up like him,” another voice sneers. This must frighten her, as her sobs quiet.
“Now stay quiet if you want to live,” a deeper-voiced Nazi demands. Turning to the first Nazi, he continues. “You take her to the deportation center. What should we do with the body?” he adds. What body? I think to myself. My mind comes up with an answer, but I shove it away, clinging to the hope that it’s not true.

“We could haul it to the trash chute,” the second Nazi suggests.

“He’s not worth the effort, leave him there. Let’s go,” the first Nazi says. Boots thud against the floor once more, and I hear the door open and then slam shut. In my mind, I scream for Mama and Papa, but not a sound comes out. Part of me wants to break out of this hiding place and run after them, but my survival instincts tell me not to move. It takes all my strength, but I somehow manage to stay put. An eerie silence fills the room.

“Mama!” I call out, but no one answers. “Papa!” I shout. Still, no one answers. The wave of emotions building up inside me comes crashing down, and I’m drowning in the darkness, screaming their names as if will bring them back. Mama’s cries ring out in my head as tears stream down my face. I rock back and forth, trembling. 

Something tugs at my neck, interrupting me from my sadness. I reach my hand up to my collarbone and realize that my necklace has gotten tangled. I tug at the string, trying to undo the tangles when my finger slips against something smooth and cool to the touch. I pause, as my fingers rub against the familiar smooth wooden lines.

“The Star of David will keep you safe, always. Let its light guide you in the darkest of times.” Mama’s words echo in my head, sweeping over me like a soft, warm blanket. I long to hear Mama’s voice and to see Papa’s smile. My heart aches as more tears fall from my eyes. I cry until the emptiness inside me swallows me whole, and I rock myself to sleep in the darkness. 

I blink as a ray of light streams in from the hole in the front of this hiding place. I yawn, sit up, and bash my head against the low roof of the hiding spot. My cheeks are sticky from dried tears, and my whole body aches from staying in this cramped position. I look around, remembering the events of last night. A creaking noise breaks the peace, and my heart skips a beat. That noise is followed by a click and a slam as the front door opens and shuts. My shoulders go rigid and alarm bells ring in my head. What if the Nazis are back? Have they come to take me away too? 

I stay still as a statue, not daring to make a single noise. Shoes pad gently against the floor, making a soft tapping sound. My shoulders relax slightly as I realize that the Nazis haven’t returned, as their shoes thud much louder. I get low to the ground and look through the hole, just to be safe. A plump woman with bouncing, brown hair and bright green eyes stands by Mama’s favorite sitting chair, wearing a faded, woolen dress. 

Mrs. Hӧge, our neighbor, clutches her chest as her face goes pale. “Oh my! Stefan, come here, quickly!” She says, her voice panicky. 

“What is it darling?” a man’s—presumably Mr. Hӧge’s—low voice rings out from the hallway. I see him enter the living room. “I’m sure that—” he stops mid-sentence.

“I know,” Mrs. Hӧge whispers. “How could they? He didn’t deserve this.”

“Günter was a good man, we will honor his life,” Mr. Hӧge says. 

Multiple sniffles fill the following silence. “Oh Stefan, Hanna wouldn’t want him laying here. Take him to the hallway, and then fetch the building’s manager. We can arrange a proper burial. I’ll hold the door for you,” Mrs. Hӧge says. After that, I hear a lot of shuffling noises and Mr. Hӧge grunting, followed by the door closing.

“Oh, that stain isn’t going to come off of the carpet,” she mumbles to herself. “What to do, what to do. Get yourself together, Mila!” Suddenly, she snaps her fingers. “Right! Mila! Where are you? Why did my old brain have to forget where Hanna and Günter said they hid her?” Mrs. Hӧge shuffles about the living room, peering behind furniture and looking down the hallway. She’s about to search the rest of the house when my mouth does something without my brain’s permission.

“Wait!” I call out. Mrs. Hӧge whirls around.

“Mila, is that you?” she asks.

“Yes.” 

“I hear you but I don’t see you,” she says, shaking her head as if she’s going crazy. 

“I’m in the heater.” 

She glances in my direction. “How did you get in there?” she asks, cocking her head and scrunching her eyebrows in befuddlement. 

“Papa helped me in, using that wrench down below. Could you please get me out of here? Use the wrench and pry off the front of the heater,” I instruct.

“Oh, yes. One moment,” she bends down, huffing until she resurfaces with the wrench. After ages of her attempting to free me, the front clatters to the floor. “Whew!” she exclaims and stands up, smiling at me. Now that I’m up close, I notice the creases in her forehead and the tiredness in her eyes. Offering me a hand, she helps me climb out of the heater. I bend over and stretch, sighing in relief as blood circulation returns to my limbs. 

My stomach rumbles. “I’m hungry,” I say, realizing that I hadn’t eaten the food Mama had given me. 

“Ah, right. Well then, why don’t you come to my apartment with me, and we’ll figure things out from there,” she suggests, moving towards the door. I take a step, and then an icy panic spreads throughout me. On the carpet, previously blocked from my view by Mrs. Hӧge, is a sickening splatter of red. It’s a dark maroon shade, standing out against the carpet like a rotten tomato in a bucket of water. Dreadful, unwanted. Memories of last night flood my head, whirling around and around until my eyes blur and I’m gasping for air. I can’t stay here. I dash out the front door, the world spinning. I hear Mrs. Hӧge call after me, but her voice is faint and warbled, as if she were underwater. My mind doesn’t seem to process anything that happens next and I jump in surprise when rays of sunshine warm my face. 

On the sidewalk, I’m hit with a wave of noise and light and sound as blurs of color pass by, probably people, but I can’t seem to focus on anything. Their shoes click unnervingly loud against the cobblestone streets, and my breathing is so heavy that my lungs feel like they’re drowning. My fingers brush against the itchy fabric of my dress, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m out in public in my nightgown, without my identification papers or my Jewish identification star. Even though I could be deported, I don’t care. I just have to get out.

My legs are moving before I realize it. The sidewalk is cold and rough against my bare feet, but I keep running, wind whipping through my tangled hair and across my cold head. I don't know where I’m going but I can’t stop moving and the trees and buildings rush past in a blur as my lungs start to burn and something wet trickles down my cheeks. 

Rapid breathing, eyes stinging, muscles burning, my knees buckle out from beneath me and I collapse onto something soft. My body has nothing left, so I just lie there, limbs heavy and melting into the earth beneath me. 

Breathe.

As I blink, my eyes shut again because the sun is too bright. Again they open. I realize I’m on my back, looking up at the trees gently swaying in the breeze above me. A bird chirps and grass tickles my back, and I just look up at the vast blue sky.

Mama, where are you? 

My fingers fumble through my shirt for my necklace, pulling it close to me. I look up at the open sky.

Rest in peace, Papa. 

Mama, I’ll find you. One day.

I press the necklace against my palm, its smooth wood soothing, and close my eyes.