7. Birthday

Chapter seven

Birthday

"Are you coming?" Charlotte asks me the following morning. I can hear the people in the other apartments going down the stairs.

"Charlotte, something doesn't feel right," I look out the window and see people walking down the yard with their suitcases in hand, standing outside the registration office. The line is getting longer, and some put their luggage on the ground, and sway from side to side to warm up.

"This place doesn't feel right; not the east," she grabs her suitcase and looks at me. "I won't miss this cardboard-straw bed," she points at the discarded pieces of cardboard that had been our mattresses for the past months. "Let's go, I can hear everyone going down the stairs."

"Charlotte, we mustn't go east," I turn around and look at her and Rebecca, who is standing nearby, looking at me.

"Why not?"

"I haven't slept all night; my stomach hurts, and not from hunger," I look at her. "Something is wrong. "

"You're always afraid. You said that last night, and you also regretted being afraid then, in Paris," she lowers her voice so that Rebecca doesn't hear her, but Rebecca is right next to me; she can hear everything.

"Are we going to Paris?" She asks and smiles.

"No honey, we're staying," I walk over to my suitcase and pick it up. I put it down next to the piece of cardboard in a symbolic gesture. I'm tense. What if I'm wrong again? Why am I so afraid to go east? Why does it feel wrong? I try to explain this to myself so I can explain it to Charlotte, for her to understand why I'm so afraid. It doesn't feel like last time.

"Come on, don't worry," Charlotte says. "It's only a few days on a train, and we'll forget all about this terrible camp."

I struggle to find the right words and look around at the concrete walls. And then I understand.

"When have they ever asked us if we want to do something?" I whisper.

"What?"

"Aren't we going with Aunt Charlotte?" Rebecca asks me.

"When have the Nazis asked us if we wanted to do something?" I repeat and look into her eyes.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You understand exactly what I mean. You're German, just like me. We Germans are organized. Everything has a reason; nothing is accidental."

"So? You don't see the reason for moving us east? I do. If I remember correctly, the Nazis don't like us that much."

"Come here, Rebecca, we're not going, we're staying," I tell her to stay by my side. "I know they don't like us. That's certainly a good reason to move us to the east," I reply. "But what I can't understand is why are the Nazis so nice to us. Tell me, when have they become so nice?"

"What do you mean?" Charlotte asks, still holding her suitcase as if refusing to let it go. In the corridor, I can no longer hear people running down the stairs. They must have all lined up to register to go eastward.

"The Nazis hate us," I answer slowly, trying to organize my thoughts, which become clearer as I speak. "They call us rats and vermin, but more than that, they were never nice to us, they never asked whether we wanted to do something. They always ordered us, and reprimanded those who failed to obey. Has anyone asked you to wear a yellow badge? Has anyone asked you to leave your university? Or not to enter public parks? To stop practicing medicine, teach or research?"

"No," she replies after a moment.

"And has anyone asked you if you wanted to come here?"

"No."

"So why are they asking us now? Why are they voluntarily giving us extra food and chocolate?"

Charlotte remains motionless for a moment, considering what I had said. "You're wrong," she says after a while. "Your fears are preventing you from moving forward and doing the right thing. Just like you told me last night; you could have been in Spain right now with your husband," she takes a deep breath and continues. "I'm not like you, I always move forward."

"Please, Charlotte, don't go."

"Goodbye, Sarah," she puts the suitcase on the floor, approaches and hugs me. I can feel her warm hands almost crushing my body. "I'll try to save you a room in one of the houses they promised us. In the meantime, you can take the straw from my bed. The nights are getting cold," she whispers. I hug her back and my eyes well up.

"Don't go, please, don't believe them. Your place is here with us, on the straw on the floor," I whisper.

"Goodbye, Rebecca," she kneels and smiles at Rebecca. As she hugs her, I can tell her eyes are red with tears.

"Goodbye, Aunt Charlotte," Rebecca replies, hugging her back. Her small hands wrap around her neck and brown hair.

"Bye," she stands up, turns around and leaves with her suitcase. I hear her footsteps as she descends the stairs, until they slowly disappear.

"Why did Aunt Charlotte say we could have been with Dad now?" Rebecca asks after a moment.

"She didn't mean it," I sit next to her on the floor. "Dad isn't here."

"Is she going to meet him?"

"No, she isn't going to meet him," I wipe my tears away.

"Will she come back?"

"No, she won't come back. She's going to a place called ‘the East.'"

"We won't get chocolate like all the people going there?"

"I promise you I'll find you chocolate," I stroke her hair. I've broken so many promises that I've made to her. What if I'm wrong, and Charlotte is right, and I'm afraid to move forward? I want to look at her from the window for the last time, but I can't. I can't join her either; something feels dangerous; although I can't put my finger on it. I'm going to miss her so much.

"Aunt Charlotte," I hear Rebecca call out. I look up. Charlotte walks back through the door and puts her suitcase down as Rebecca runs to hug her.

"I really hope you're right," she sighs and sits beside me.

"Me too," I wipe my tears away; unsure if they're tears of joy or sorrow.

"Let's take a quick look at the empty rooms. Maybe we can get some more straw for winter," she reaches her hand out.

I stand by the window and watch the convoy of people leaving the camp through the gate and on their way to the train station. They're surrounded by armed policemen and several German soldiers in gray-green uniforms. I gently caress the Star of Life and Death sewn to my dress. I very much hope that I've made the right decision.

Two weeks later, Rebecca and I stand next to the fence and watch the bus leaving the camp on its way back to Paris after dropping off more Jewish fugitives. They walk slowly towards the complex, looking around with fear, and I avert my gaze. I don't want to look them in the eyes.

"Maybe tomorrow," Rebecca says as the bus disappears behind the faraway houses.

"Maybe tomorrow," I answer and hold back the tears, like I do every day. She no longer asks about the suitcase, and waiting for the bus has become more of a ritual. "Let's go eat what Aunt Charlotte saved for us," I hold her hand as I walk past the policeman leading the new people to the registration office. Since they started sending people to the East, they have reduced the food rations as promised. We have to fend off the thieves. I also give some of my food to Rebecca to keep her strong.

"Today is May twenty-second," I hear one of the people waiting in line office say to another woman. I cringe.

"Time is meaningless in this place," I say later that night to Charlotte. Rebecca has been long asleep, and the voices in the neighboring apartments have also fallen silent.

"What do you mean?" She asks while drawing on the floor by candlelight. I look at her drawing of people waiting in line for food behind a barbed wire fence.

"It's Rebecca's sixth birthday in three days. I almost forgot about it," I answer. I'm too ashamed to tell her about the people in line who happened to mention the date.

"And what will you do for her birthday?"

"Do you think it matters to her? In this place?" I answer and make sure to look at the door. If we hear someone approaching, we immediately put out the candle. The women from the apartment across the corridor must not know about Charlotte's painting.

"If you were a child in here, would it matter to you?" Then, after a moment I add. "There's something I can do," I go to the corner, take a knife, and sit down. I start to unravel the hidden pocket in my dress. I have already used two gold coins to buy food. I have one more coin left, the birthday coin .

"I need you," I say to Mr. Charpak the following day as I walk past the man who guards the entrance to his apartment. This time, Mr. Charpak sits alone by the upside-down wooden box and plays solitaire. He places the cards in neat rows. The upside-down wooden buckets on which his friends would usually sit are currently unoccupied, as if waiting; but no one is there.

"What do you need?" He looks at me. His cigarette protrudes from between his lips, filling the small room with smoke.

"Your services." I show him the coin in my hand. "Where is everyone?" I gesture at the empty buckets.

"Some of them went to the East," he puts down a card and stands up. "Some of them are preparing for tomorrow, they're on the list. Let's go somewhere else and you can show me what you brought," he approaches and leads me to the side room where we always talk.

"What list?" I ask him.

"They ran out of volunteers to go east, so now they're making lists," he answers and throws the cigarette to the floor, crushing it with his shoe. "They probably have a lot of houses in the East." He says with a bitter smile. He approaches me and I can smell the cigarettes on his breath. "What did you bring me?"

"Why aren't you going east?"

"The Japanese attacked the Americans at Pearl Harbor. The whole world is at war. They send all the sick people to the East. No one has gotten word from the people who moved east, and yet they keep insisting that it's good for us. I don't believe them. You didn't go either. Do you believe them?"

I shake my head.

"Where are you from?" He asks. He has an unpleasant smell.

"From Germany, I lived in Berlin," I reply and take a step back.

"I wasn't born in France. I was born in Russia," he says. "We Jews were never liked there. When I was a child, my father would sit me on his lap and tell me stories." He says and stops talking for a moment, "He would tell me how he hid in a closet when the Cossacks came to kill Jews, how he would sit there as quiet as a mouse and tremble with fear. He taught me even then, as a child, to trust only two things."

"And what are they?"

"God," he says softly and raises his finger to the sky, "and Charpak," he points his finger at himself. "I don't believe in anything else, neither the French nor the Germans. And now, what did you bring me? You didn't come here to get to know me and hear my childhood stories."

"This," I open my fingers a bit and show him the gold coin, careful not to let him grab it. "This is my last coin."

"I thought last time was your last coin."

"I was born in Berlin to a wealthy family," I answer. "My father was a doctor, he attended Dr. Sigmund Freud's lectures at the University of Berlin. Later, they'd sit together in their suits, smoking cigars, drinking coffee and having Torte cakes in a café on the Unter den Linden Boulevard. When I was a child, no one told me stories about pogroms," I pause for a moment and look into his eyes. "But I'm a woman, and I'm here in this camp. I had to learn fast to trust no one but Him," I point to the sky, "and myself," I point to my chest.

"You definitely learned who to trust," Charpak laughs bitterly, "unlike all the Jews who followed the Nazi's promises. What do you want for your coin?"

"I want flour and oil and sugar, like last time, but there are a few more things."

"What?" He reaches for the coin, but I close my hand tightly and hold it behind my back.

"I want an old, old fabric. But you'll give me this one for free."

"Charpak doesn't give anything for free," he holds out his hand.

"A brown old fabric and gouache colors."

"Why do you need gouache colors?"

"It's none of your business, and I want chocolate."

"Chocolate is hard to find these days. It costs more."

"You want my coin. It's worth a lot more than that, you know it. You won't get more than that," I say to him. I'm tense. I have to make him agree.

"Why do you need chocolate?"

"Because it's my daughter's birthday, and she should be able to trust Him," I point to the sky.

"Come tomorrow," he holds out his hand, and I place my last coin in his palm. His thick fingers close around it, and the coin disappears forever.

On the way back to our room, as I walk through the large yard, I see the people lining up in front of the registration office. Charpak was right. They make lists every day, informing people that they must go to the East the next day. They also add the sick to the lists. This place became a transit station between the buses that continue to arrive from Paris and unload people, and the trains that take them to the East. Where are they taking them?

I notice a young woman and her daughter standing among the people. They're just like Rebecca and me. What are they thinking now? I stop for a moment, but then I look away and continue walking. They haven't sent us yet, and my daughter has a birthday. I have to think about that, not about the trains going east.

"Happy birthday," I whisper in Rebecca's ear and wake her up gently. "Happy birthday, my beloved girl, you are six years old," I smile at her, sitting by her side and hugging her tightly.

Rebecca smiles and sits up, looking around as if searching for something. What is she looking for? A cake or candies and gifts like we gave her two years ago in Berlin?

"Look what I brought you," I hand her three pieces of chocolate. She takes one piece and puts it in her mouth, savoring its sweet flavor.

"Mommy, can I eat another piece?" She asks after a moment.

"Yes, sweetie, they're all yours." I smile at her but want to burst into tears .

"I'll eat one now and save one for later," she takes both of them and puts one in her dress pocket and the other in her mouth.

"That's a good idea," I comb her hair with my fingers. The rest of the chocolate I had received from Mr. Charpak is hidden in the suitcase. I'll give her a piece every now and then if they cut our food rations again. Last night, my hands were shaking when I held the package of German army chocolate he had given me. The wrapping was stamped with an eagle holding a swastika in its claws.

"Happy birthday, Rebecca," Charlotte hugs her and hands her a drawing she drew of her.

"Aunt Charlotte, can I keep it?" Rebecca holds the plain brown paper and looks at the drawing.

"Of course, honey, it's yours," she replies.

"Charlotte, I also have something for you," I take out of the suitcase a small package. It's wrapped in brown paper and tied with a thin rope. I hand it to her.

"But it's not my birthday," she holds the package and looks at me awkwardly.

"I didn't know when your birthday was. Open it."

"I haven't gotten a birthday present in so many years," Charlotte softly says as she unties the string. "Thank you," she wipes the tears away.

"Mommy, what did Aunt Charlotte get for her birthday?"

"Ask her to show you."

"What is it?" Rebecca takes the metallic tubes from Charlotte's hands.

"These are gouache colors. Each tube is a different color. Do you see what it says on the package? "

"Blue," Rebecca manages to read.

"Exactly, I can use this blue to paint the sea."

"I've never been to the sea," Rebecca says.

"One day we'll go to the sea, and you can swim in it," I tell her and promise myself that I'll take her to the beach when all this is over.

"What's it like at the beach?" She asks.

"It's wet and salty," Charlotte laughs.

"Ugh..." Rebecca grimaces. "Mommy, can I eat the last piece of chocolate? And can I hang up Aunt Charlotte's painting?" Rebecca reaches into her pocket to grab the last piece of chocolate.

"Yes, you can eat it, and maybe we should keep Aunt Charlotte's painting under the cardboard you sleep on, so it won't crinkle up. What do you think?"

"Okay," Rebecca answers as she puts the piece of chocolate in her mouth, smiling again as she savors the sweetness.

"And I have one more present, especially for you," I tell her. "Last night, when you were sleeping, the bus came especially and brought you a birthday present," I take out a brown bear doll that I sewed all night, from the old fabric Mr. Charpak gave me, until my fingers hurt.

"Sylvie," Rebecca stretches out her arms and hugs the bear. "Sylvie, the bear."

"She came especially from Paris. She was bored there and came to be with you," I wipe my tears away as she hugs the ragged bear and kisses its tattered ears and nose.

"I knew you would come in the end," she whispers to the bear. "I knew you would come out of the book and manage to escape the hunters who were chasing you. "

"And now, take your new friend, and we'll go to school." I stand her up and tie her hair with a ribbon.

"Do I have to? I don't feel well." She sticks her tongue out and shows it to me.

"You are perfectly healthy, and you can have Sylvie sit with you in class."

"But she doesn't have a ribbon in her hair."

"After school, we will sew a ribbon for her." How did I forget this is a female bear, not a male bear?

"Sylvie, did you hear that?" She whispers to her. "Our teacher, Mr. Gaston is always angry, so pretend like you don't understand what he's saying when he yells at you."

"Are you ready?" I tie her shoelaces and stand up. I hold her hand.

"We are ready." We both go down the stairs on our way to the improvised classroom.

"They tore my Sylvie," a teary Rebecca rushes into our small room at noon.

"What happened," I extend my arms to hug her.

"They took Sylvie from me and tore her," she stands in front of me sobbing. Her eyes are red, and her nose is runny. "They said she wasn't a bear girl, they said she was a boy, and she didn't come from Paris," she holds Sylvie's remains in front of me. The bear I had sown was now nothing more than a wrinkled lump of cloth. One of its ears was torn off, one button eye is missing, and its nose is also almost torn. Why did they do this to her?

"Who did it?"

"Alexadrin and her friends. They're older than me. "

"Did you say anything to them?" I wipe her nose and clean her cheeks.

"They said I was a German like the Nazis and that I should be expelled, and that Sylvie is a French bear, and I shouldn't have her," she continues to sob. "And I pulled their hair after they snatched Sylvie away, and Mr. Gaston, the teacher, yelled at me and hit me with the ruler," she bursts into tears again.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," I hug her and sit her on my lap. "First, we'll send Sylvie to the clinic and fix her up, like in a hospital."

"And later?" She sniffles.

"Later, we'll figure out what to do," I retrieve the thread and needle from the suitcase and start repairing Sylvie, reattaching her nose. A few minutes later, I remove a button from the sleeve of Rebecca's coat, fashioning it into a new eye for the teddy bear, albeit slightly different in color and size than the original. "Here, she's all fixed," I finally hand her the bear after sewing it up as best as I can.

"But her eyes are different," Rebecca holds and examines her carefully.

"That's because she got hit in the eye, but the important thing is that she's still smiling," I touch the teddy bear's eyes, one black and the other burgundy. "Now listen to me, sweetie, and listen carefully," I tell her. I need to teach her to protect herself from the other children.

"Yes, Mommy," she continues to stroke Sylvie but looks up at me.

"Just as Sylvie watches over you, you must watch over her."

"Okay, Mommy," she nods, though I'm not entirely sure she understands .

"You have to. You have to protect her."

"Okay, Mommy," she sits down and plays with Sylvie, and I sigh and watch her. What will the girls in class do to her tomorrow?

"She'll be fine," Charlotte reassures me quietly at night after Rebecca falls asleep, "that's how kids are."

"She seems so vulnerable. The older girls in her class are bullying her."

"She needs to learn to defend herself."

"I hope so. She's still so young."

"You'll see, she'll find her way."

"Did you learn to defend yourself when you were little?"

"There was one boy, Franz, who wouldn't stop bullying me," Charlotte says after a pause, and I try to picture her as a child.

"And what did you do?"

"I survived. We all do, even those who are bullied by the toughest kids. I found my own way."

"And what about Franz? What did you do to him?"

"I escaped from the bullies into a world of imagination and paintings," she places her hand on mine, "Thank you for bringing me colors."

"It's for your birthday and for protecting us when we were new here, even though I didn't trust you."

"Thank you. Now I can paint this place in colors, not just with pencils."

"Aren't you afraid of them?"

"The Nazis?"

"Yes," I nod, "Afraid they'll find out. "

"I can't stop. It's beyond me," she says after a moment.

"Why?"

"You know, I've been drawing people, families, thoughts for years," Charlotte says, pausing to gather her thoughts before continuing. "But since they arrived, I've changed and started drawing them."

"What do you mean by ‘them'?" I ask, feeling a chill run down my spine.

"Them. Their parades, their swastika flags flying in the streets, the Jewish women they humiliated. All of it in colors, colors of freedom under the shadow of evil."

"In Nice?"

"Yes, until they banned and sent me here, with nothing but the dress on my back. And now you've brought me colors."

"Aren't you afraid they'll find out one day?" I ask again.

"I am afraid of them.Everyone here is afraid of them. That's why I want to paint so much," she pauses again to collect her thoughts, "I want my paintings to be a testament of me. No matter what happens in this detention camp, I want to leave behind paintings that capture the reality of life here: the orders, the hunger, the struggles. Not just smiling faces who pay me with cigarettes and pose for me on an upturned bucket. My legacy will be these paintings, because neither you nor I know what tomorrow will bring."

"Aunt Charlotte, can I have a pencil for school?" Rebecca asks her the following morning while I comb her hair. I look at her with apprehension. What will the other girls do to her today?

"Why do you need a pencil?" Charlotte hands her a pencil from her bag.

"I need it, and a sharpener too."

"Okay," Charlotte retrieves a small metal sharpener and passes it to Rebecca. Rebecca carefully sharpens the pencil, occasionally checking its tip before continuing.

"Let's go, you need to get to school," I finally tell her. I don't want her to be late and give Mr. Gaston a reason to punish her again. I fear what he might do to her.

Rebecca stands up, holding the pencil in one hand and the newly fixed Sylvie in the other.

"Are you sure you want to take her with you?" I ask.

"Yes," she nods. "I promise to take care of her."

"Remember not to fight with the older girls and to look after Sylvie. Do you promise?" I remind Rebecca outside the classroom door a few minutes later. From inside, I hear the voices of children who have already arrived, and Mr. Gaston yelling at them to be quiet.

"Yes, Mommy. Bye, Mommy," she says, entering the classroom and closing the door behind her.

I follow her with my gaze as she disappears behind the wooden door, but after a moment, I hear laughter inside. "Here comes the German girl with her ugly bear."

What should I do? How will she handle them? I turn around and open the classroom door, peering inside .

"Nobody touches my Sylvie," I hear Rebecca yell as she charges at a golden-haired girl at least two years older than her, brandishing the pencil she took from Charlotte that morning. "Sylvie belongs to Rebecca!" she shouts in German, raising the pencil and forcefully striking the golden-haired girl on the head with it. The girl starts screaming in pain as a red stain spreads across her head.

"Rebecca!" I shout, but she doesn't turn to me.

"Sylvie is mine, mine!" She continues to jab the screaming girl with the pencil, her brown hair flying in all directions as if she's a bird of prey, while the girl flees across the classroom in tears. All the other children stand up and shout until neither Mr. Gaston's nor my voice can be heard over the chaos in the room.

"She's crazy. Get her away from me!" The golden-haired girl continues to run between the tables as Rebecca pursues her, until she stops, one hand still clutching the pencil and the other holding Sylvie by the ear. Finally, Rebecca stops panting and looks around at the other children, who fall silent under her gaze. Then, she quietly returns to her seat.

"Rebecca Bloch, to the blackboard, now!" Mr. Gaston bellows at her in the now silent room. It seems he doesn't even notice my presence. I watch her get up quietly and approach him slowly. The children in the class are as silent as stones, saying nothing as she passes between the tables. She will be punished now. I can't bear to watch. I turn and leave the room, quietly closing the door behind me. Outside, in the yard, I wipe away my tears, but I also smile. I hope they won't seek revenge on her.

As evening approaches, I hear voices outside our room, either from the stairs or neighboring apartments. "Where are the Germans?" someone asks, and I tense up. More steps and murmurs echo in the stairwell.

"Rebecca, come here right away," I call her softly. "Charlotte," I signal her with a nod.

Charlotte is lying on the floor, painting on a brown piece of paper. With her brush in hand, she paints with swift motions a German officer standing in front of a group of people getting off a bus. She freezes and stares at me.

"They're right there. This is their room. Why are you looking for them?" Someone says.

"Charlotte," I whisper to her, and she hurries to hide the colors and the unfinished drawing under the cardboard she sleeps on.

"This is where you are?" A woman I don't recognize removes the sheet that serves as our door and enters the room. Her light hair is sloppily pulled up, and she has a simple brown belt around her gray dress. Several women stand behind her, as well as two men.

"Yes, we're here," I reply politely and stand up. "But you know the rules here. It's polite to ask before entering apartments. Nobody in this place has doors, including you."

"Polite?" She starts yelling at me. "Your daughter injured mine. Mr. Gaston said she chased her with a knife and wounded her," she advances threateningly. "You," she points at Rebecca, "you tried to kill my daughter."

"Don't speak to my daughter," I position myself between the woman and Rebecca to shield her. "Your daughter has been bullying mine day after day. She calls her a German." I try to keep my cool. I want them to get out of here and leave us alone.

"Because that's what you are, German," she shouts.

"Yes, they're German. They shouldn't be here," another woman joins in.

"We're Jewish, just like you," Charlotte responds, pushing the woman away while gripping her paintbrush. "Get out of here. Go back to your holes."

"That's exactly how Germans speak," someone shouts from behind.

"Why do you have a paintbrush? What are you doing with it?" One of the women tries to grab it from Charlotte's hand.

"It's none of your business," I retort, pushing her back. I don't have a choice. They keep closing in on me. More and more people from neighboring apartments join the commotion until the room is crowded. Charlotte and I step back, shielding Rebecca with our bodies. I see the loathing gazes of all the people surrounding us. I feel like an animal caught in a cage, unable to defend itself. We have to protect our belongings, so they don't steal them. The room is full of people, they're all shouting and watching us.

"Look what I found," a woman in a black dress raises a drawing above her head, one Charlotte had tried to hide. "She must be working for the Nazis," she declares, showing it to everyone, "documenting what they're doing here. "

"It's none of your business," Charlotte tries to take it back, but it rips.

"That's everyone's business if you're collaborating with the Nazis," a man in a brown coat accuses. "She must have more paintings. Look for them."

"We are prisoners here, just like you," I answer. I must protect us, but it seems futile. All the people around us seem like one mass of voices and shouting. I feel Rebecca's hands clinging to my legs. Where is her pencil? I search the floor for the dinner knife near where I sleep.

"I found more paintings," someone shouts. I can't tell who it is anymore. I keep searching until I find the knife. I rise to my feet, holding it in my hand. I have to do something.

"No one touches the paintings!" I scream, holding the small knife in front of the man's face. "Leave them at once." Stepping forward, he throws them on the floor. "Everybody out of the room, now!" I wave the knife in front of the golden-haired woman who started the chaos.

"Stay away from her; she's crazy, like her daughter," she says, taking a step back.

"Leave them alone," someone else says, perhaps it's Mr. Charpak's voice, but I'm not sure anymore. Charlotte stands by my side, panting, and as soon as they retreat a few steps, she quickly starts collecting the paintings thrown on the floor, hugging them tightly.

"Get out of here now!" I continue to scream like a wild animal in a trap. "Get out of here."

"Let's go, but you, keep your daughter away from mine," the fair-haired woman takes a step back .

"And you, teach yourself to behave politely and ask for permission before breaking into someone's home," I answer angrily. "And teach your daughter not to bully younger girls." I continue to hold the knife in front of her face.

"It seems to me that the Germans have learned their lesson," says one of the men as they all slowly leave the room, leaving us alone.

Once they all leave, I look around. They've tossed the pieces of cardboard that we sleep on, and the straw is scattered all over the floor. Some of Charlotte's drawings, hidden underneath, are ripped and left on the floor. But where is our luggage? In the chaos, our luggage was stolen. What should we do?

"Mommy, did they go?" Rebecca continues to hug me, and I look at her. She holds her sharpened pencil in her small hand, the one that started the whole havoc.

For a moment, I want to slap her for everything she has done, but then I look at Charlotte, leaning on the floor, picking up her torn paintings and sitting beside her.

"Charlotte, are you okay?" I ask her, still gasping, my whole body tense. "They stole our luggage."

"I'm fine," she answers, trying to straighten a crumpled painting. "It could have been worse. I've had worse." But when I put my hand on her shoulder, she sheds a tear. What will we do without our luggage? Rebecca's coat is in there.

"Aunt Charlotte, take it," Rebecca hands her a crumpled drawing from the corner.

"Come, sit on my lap," I hug Rebecca. "It's not your fault," I kiss her.

"They hate us because we're Jewish? They also have the Star of Life and Death. "

"They hate us because we're different. People don't like different people."

"That's why the hunters didn't like Sylvie the bear?"

"Yes, exactly, because she's different."

"But I love her," she hugs the ragged bear.

"Because you're special, and you protect her," I kiss her forehead. "Now help Aunt Charlotte put her paintings back in order." I get up and go to the door of the room, still holding the knife. In the other apartments, the conversations return to their normal tone, as if the quarrel never happened.

While I'm fixing the dividing sheet at the entrance door frame, I hear footsteps going up the stairs, and I tense again. My hand tightens around the knife handle, and I wait.

"It's yours. Someone took it from you," Mr. Charpak walks up the stairs and places the two suitcases at my feet. He wears a dirty white tank top and suspenders holding up his brown pants. He's lost weight in recent months.

"Why did you return them?" That's all I ask him, even though I have to thank him.

"Because I'm a dealer, not a thief," he stands close to me in the dark corridor. I can smell the pungent cigarette smoke on his breath. Few people have money left to buy cigarettes.

"I want a knife, a real knife," I whisper to him.

"You need a man to look after you," I can see his eyes fixed on me in the dark corridor.

"I'm done trusting men. The man I married isn't here to help me. I want a knife."

"Can you pay for the knife?"

"No, but I will. "

"You can always pay me," he smiles, "after all, you have something that I want."

"I'll find a way."

"I know you will," he walks away and starts to go down the stairs, but after a moment, he turns around and goes up again. "You better keep your daughter out of the classroom. The other mothers don't like her."

"She has to go. She's a girl. She needs to learn French. Otherwise, how will she learn to get along with people who hate her?"

"She'll have to learn to get along, like you," he extends his hand as if debating whether to touch my body but regrets it. "Just keep an eye on your daughter," he says and returns his hand, turns, and goes down the stairs, disappearing into the darkness.