A Boy Is Not a Bird Page 2

  And maybe she will marry a millionaire one day. I don’t know if she’s named after Lana Turner, who starred in a movie I saw last year, but she’s just as beautiful.

  Papa turns to me and says, “Well, my little Schildkröte.” That’s his pet name for me — turtle — because sometimes I get so wrapped up in a book that he imagines I’m hiding inside it, especially when the book is very big, like the atlas.

  “You must be wondering what this is all about,” he continues.

  Do I really want to know? I’m not sure, so I mumble, “Ummm” — which is what I do when I can’t decide what to say.

  “Last summer, Hitler signed a pact with Stalin, the leader of Russia. You probably remember everyone talking about it.”

  I nod. My parents don’t discuss the news with me, but Max’s sisters keep him up to date on world events. To be honest, all that political jibber-jabber doesn’t interest me much. I don’t want to think about the war, and my parents don’t want me to think about it, either. A few times we’ve had refugees stay with us for several days — mostly Jews from Germany or Poland. The German army has been invading countries for the past year, and they definitely have it in for the Jews.

  My mother didn’t let the refugees talk about the war in front of me, but I picked up bits and pieces. Midnight escapes, close calls, secret enemies. Like something out of an adventure book.

  “As a result,” my father explains, “Russia is now taking over this part of the country. So in a few days you’ll be learning Russian, with all new teachers. The good news is that the Iron Guard won’t be bothering us anymore.”

  Russian? That makes language number six. Now my language game will be even harder.

  “In Russian, you are a malchik,” he says. “Can you guess what that is?”

  “Boy!” I exclaim. The last part, chik, is the same as Ukrainian.

  “Excellent,” my father says. “It’s a beautiful language. Russia has some of the world’s greatest writers. Chekhov, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky …”

  Well, all this sounds like good news. So why is everyone on edge?

  My mother, as usual, guesses what I’m thinking. It’s mostly annoying, but it can be convenient in emergencies.

  “Yes,” she says, “we’re concerned. The change means we don’t know what the future holds. But then we never know the future in this life.”

  Lana, who’s serving the mashed potatoes, winks at me. She’s thinking about her American millionaire.

  “It’s my fault,” my mother adds with a sigh. “We could have been safe and sound in Montreal by now.”

  When I was five, my parents decided to move to Canada. Our relatives in Montreal described the city in their letters, and I used to go to bed imagining the skyscrapers, the motor cars, the big stores — and the huge mountain in the middle of the city. A million people, all in one place!

  I didn’t worry about missing Max back then, because I didn’t know him yet.

  Each week my father would go to the city and run from office to office, lining up for hours at each one, trying to get the necessary documents.

  At last he had everything he needed.

  But after all that, my mother changed her mind.

  “How can I leave my friends and family?” she asked, turning the palms of her hands face up, as if an answer might drop down from the sky. “How can I tear myself away from this beautiful house and our precious garden? We’d have to live in a tiny apartment and learn a whole new language. And how would we make a living?”

  I could tell Montreal scared her. Not because it’s a big city. Vienna, where she grew up, is twice the size of Montreal. She likes to tell us about the museums and concert halls of Vienna, and about the cafés on Praterstrasse where her father played chess with his friends.

  Our relatives in Montreal had promised to look after us. Montreal is so safe that people go to bed at night without locking their doors, they wrote in their letters.

  But my mother was afraid of being lonely in such a far-off place.

  Now, six years later, it’s too late.

  Everyone wants to leave now. But it’s no longer possible, with or without papers.

  I go to bed wondering what the new Russian teachers will be like. I’m glad Max will be there with me. His desk is right next to mine. As long as it’s the two of us against the world, I’m not afraid. I only have to catch a glimpse of his ear-to-ear grin and rolling eyes, and I know that the minute we’re alone, he’ll do imitations of all the adults and send me into hysterics.

  As I draw the blanket up to my chin, a thought occurs to me — the kind of thought Max calls a Sudden Flash of Genius. All new teachers means an end to Mrs. Bubu! She’ll be gone forever!!

  I let out a great sigh of joy. Everyone is going to be over the moon. One look from Mrs. Bubu and you feel you should probably offer to die, just to save time.

  4

  A Dog Barking at Birds

  It’s been four days since we heard the big news about Russia on the radio. My parents tune in to the BBC as often as possible and everyone asks them for reports on the latest news.

  Nothing much has happened, in fact, but this morning, when I come into the kitchen for breakfast, the first thing I see is a carved metal box on the table, next to the salt and pepper shakers.

  My father places his hand on the box and says, “Natt, we’re going to let you in on a grown-up secret, because you’re such a clever and mature boy now.”

  I sit up in my chair and do my best to look clever and mature.

  He lifts the lid of the box. There are gold coins inside! Real gold, like in Treasure Island. Under the coins lie a few American dollar bills.

  “Tonight, when it gets dark, we’re going to bury this box behind the barn. It will be our secret. Only Aunt Dora and Uncle Isaac will know where the treasure is hidden. We’re also going to hide a diamond ring and some other precious coins and jewels inside the lining of Mama’s coat. It’s good to have these things for emergencies.”

  Emergencies? What kind of emergencies? I don’t like the sound of this at all.

  My mother sees me not liking the sound of it.

  She reaches over and ruffles my hair. I force myself not to flinch or pull away. Luckily, it’s a short ruffle.

  “When countries are fighting,” she says, “there can be a lot of confusion. You can’t predict from one day to the next what will happen. Imagine a flock of birds sitting together quietly on a haystack, enjoying the fine weather. A dog runs up to them and begins to bark, and with a big squawk and a tangle of wings they fly away, up, up to the sky, in different directions. The war is the barking dog. But the birds will eventually come together again, and everything will return to the way it was before.”

  My father nods. “War is when you get a chance to be a hero. Because every day that you get through it, you’ve done something heroic.”

  This sounds even worse.

  “Get through it how?” I ask.

  “Get through whatever comes your way,” my father says, flinging his arm as if he were brushing away some pesky flies. “And you, Natt,” he continues, “are definitely hero material. No matter what, you will always be courageous, keeping in mind that the birds, as Mama says, will find their way back after the war.”

  Courageous! My father must know I’m afraid of the dark, of tree branches at night, of creatures that don’t even exist. I’m scared of strict teachers and big kids who pick on little kids. Once I almost had a heart attack when an owl came swooping out of a tree and seemed to be coming for my hat. I ran for my life.

  Most embarrassing of all, as a treat for my fourth birthday, my mother took me to the city to see a movie, and when a train on the screen came charging at us, and the audience gasped, I began to scream. What a dope! My mother had to carry me out of the cinema and it took me half an hour to calm down. Luckily she didn’t tell anyon
e outside the family. What would Lana think?

  All of a sudden, we hear a huge rumbling that sounds like distant thunder, followed by loud voices and commotion. I jump out of my chair and clutch my father’s arm. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Such a soft egg!

  I quickly let go of my father and try to look unimpressed. In fact there’s something friendly about the sound outside. We hurry to the front door and peek out.

  A great big choir is coming our way. Russian soldiers are marching through the streets singing a loud, cheerful song. It’s the kind of song that makes you want to join in.

  “They have beautiful voices,” my mother says hopefully. An army that sounds like a performing choir can’t possibly be up to no good.

  “The Russians are very musical,” my father agrees. “They love to sing.”

  There are tanks, too, rolling along on their chains, and three or four trucks.

  I’ve never seen anything like this. Everyone comes out to watch the parade. The soldiers seem to be in a good mood, and they don’t look dangerous. They’re nothing like the Iron Guard.

  “What are they singing?” I ask my father.

  He translates some of the words for me:

  We were marching in the scorching heat

  For our teacher, our leader!

  We’ve been sent to fight for Comrade Stalin!

  Comrade means buddy or pal in German: Kamerad.

  “That’s a funny word to use for a leader,” I say. Buddy Stalin!

  My father nods. “In Russia, the word comrade means that we’re all brothers and sisters, and no one is better than anyone else. The French used it that way first, during the French Revolution.”

  Well, I know all about the French Revolution, when the people rose up against the king. I’ve read Beware the Guillotine!

  I also know about the Russian Revolution, which took place when my father was a teenager. But in Russia, a few months after they got rid of Tsar Nicholas II, the Communists took over.

  You don’t have to be Russian to be a Communist. We even have a few secret Communists in our town, or at least that’s the rumor. I don’t really understand the difference between the Communists, the Socialists, the Nationalists … it’s all very confusing. My parents don’t like to talk to me about current events. “Words can get you into hot water,” my father always reminds me. “Think before you speak.”

  The soldiers stop marching before they reach our house. They begin chatting with the townspeople. Some families hand them flowers and offer them food or mugs of tea.

  If the soldiers see a watch, they ask for it, and the person has no choice but to hand it over. Bad luck for Bruno the Bald, who always wears a pocket watch with the gold chain showing. He has to pull the watch out of his pocket and give it to a Russian soldier. He’s practically in tears. The watch belonged to his father.

  The soldiers are excited about their new watches. The bigger the watch, the more excited they are.

  I notice that quite a few of the soldiers have torn boots, with their toes poking out between the flaps. I feel a little sorry for them, even if they did take all those watches.

  Across the street, I see my friend Lucy, and I call out to her in German. She answers me in Yiddish.

  There’s an officer sitting on a tank nearby, and when he hears us, he calls us over — in Yiddish! He’s a Jew! A Russian soldier who is also Jewish. I’m feeling better by the minute.

  A dozen people immediately surround the officer and hurl a storm of questions at him. What’s going to happen? What do the Russians have in mind? Will the men be called up to join the army?

  The officer smiles as he answers our questions in Yiddish. He refers to Stalin as Hahver, friend.

  “Everything will be wonderful,” he assures us. “We are all Soviet citizens now, and Hahver Stalin will take good care of us.”

  5

  Comrade Martha and Comrade Minsky

  The holidays are over! We’re back in school. The same building, but all new rules. And new teachers, too.

  A skinny man walks into our classroom. His clothes are too big on him, and he has sad, anxious eyes that make me think of a rabbit. He looks scared of us, scared of the classroom, scared of his own shadow.

  We all start giggling. What a relief! We don’t have to be scared of a teacher who’s scared of us.

  Right behind our new teacher there’s a poster I’ve never seen before. It shows a man with a friendly moustache holding a cute little kid in his arms. The kid has a flag in one hand and white flowers in the other.

  I’m excited to be in a mixed class for the first time. Until now, girls and boys were in different classrooms.

  It’s more fun this way. In fact, Lucy’s desk is right next to mine, which means I’m sitting between my two best friends. Lucy turns to smile at me. I smile back and inhale deeply. Now I can enjoy the sweet smell of lavender soap all day long.

  Our new teacher leans against the wall without saying a word. Every few seconds he glances at the door as if he’s expecting someone to come and rescue him.

  And that’s what happens. The door opens and in marches a woman who is the exact opposite of the timid man. She looks strong and healthy and sturdy. She’s wearing a pretty green-and-white dress and there’s a small picnic basket on her arm.

  All our teachers so far have been either strict and mean or (in rare cases) strict and nice. But this woman acts as if she’s an older sister who adores us. Her smile is so wide it makes her eyes shine.

  “Hello,” she says in Ukrainian. “Dobroye utro! That’s good morning in Russian. I’m Comrade Martha. Welcome to your new school, where we are going to learn to be good citizens so we can do our duty and serve our leader.”

  She turns to the poster of the man with the moustache, and her eyes get even shinier.

  “This is our great leader and father, Comrade Stalin, and he has a little present for you.”

  She lifts the lid of her wicker basket and hands out candy canes! This is definitely our lucky day.

  More good news follows.

  “There is absolutely no hitting of children allowed in this school. Our glorious leader loves children. You are our future. And I know you all want to be Pioneers. That is our goal, to be Pioneers. And whoever passes all the requirements and becomes a Pioneer will be rewarded and will get the chance to do lots of fun things. Whoever misbehaves loses that chance and will be very sad, because no one will want to be friends with that little boy or girl.”

  We look at each other with astonishment. The worst part of school is rulers on hands or pulling of ears (Mrs. Bubu’s area of expertise). Or even, in some cases, the strap.

  Max reaches over and squeezes my arm.

  “We will no longer have morning shift and afternoon shift. Everyone will study together, from eight in the morning to mid-afternoon, Sunday to Friday, with Saturdays off. Sundays are half-days and will be devoted to fun games and revolutionary activities.”

  We’ll have to let Mr. Elias know. Our Hebrew class will have to move to after school.

  “And I’m afraid you all have to repeat grade four,” Comrade Martha adds.

  When we hear this, we’re speechless. Did we all fail? How is that possible?

  A girl in the corner begins to sob. It’s Mariana, the smallest girl in the class. She’s nearly always barefoot, unless it’s actually snowing, and she cries at the drop of a hat.

  Comrade Martha goes over to Mariana and lifts her in her arms. She gives her a kiss and says, “It’s only because you will be learning in Ukrainian and Russian now.”

  “But I already know Ukrainian,” Mariana sniffles, and everyone laughs, including Comrade Martha.

  “Don’t worry, you will learn all new things. Comrade Stalin wants you to be happy. And we are going to find you a pair of shoes, dear. Are you happy?” she asks.

&nbs
p; Mariana nods, and Comrade Martha lowers her gently back into her chair. Then she joins the scared little man at the front of the classroom and places her arm around his shoulder.

  “This, my young friends, is Comrade Minsky. He is going to teach you all your subjects, including Russian. You are very, very lucky, because Comrade Minsky is a professor who taught at a famous Moscow university. And now here he is, coming all this way to teach you! I want you all to say, Bolshoe spacibo, Comrade Minsky, for coming to teach us.”

  We repeat the words after her. Comrade Minsky tries to smile, but the smile is so crooked it reminds me of a twig mouth on a snowman.

  “There will be many treats in your future, if you work hard,” Comrade Martha promises. “And when you are Pioneers, you will get a red kerchief to wear around your neck. We’ll have a special ceremony in the courtyard to swear allegiance to Comrade Stalin and the Communist Party. Our great leader loves outdoor activities and wants you all to get lots of fresh air. We’ll be playing games outside as often as we can.”

  The entire class cheers, and Max begins to play imaginary drums.

  Then, without warning, Comrade Martha raises both her arms, and her basket slides down to her shoulder. She looks so funny with the basket dangling there next to her ear, and her arms up in the air as if she’s Moses parting the Red Sea. But no one dares laugh.

  “Long live the great Stalin!” she shouts. And we all repeat after her, “Long live the great Stalin!”

  After Martha leaves, Comrade Minsky asks us to say our names one by one. But we can tell that he isn’t really listening.

  To my amazement, a tear rolls down his cheek.

  I’ve never seen a teacher cry! I’ve never even seen a grown-up man cry.

  Lucy raises her hand. “Are you homesick?”

  Comrade Minsky is so startled by her question, he staggers backwards a little. She obviously got it right.