4. Danner

FOUR

Munich, Germany

I’ve never had so much time to sit and think, and I’ve come to the conclusion that spending this much time with only my thoughts is unhealthy. Every day for the last fourteen months that I’ve been staying as a guest in Felix’s house—ironically next door to where I grew up before being evicted by the Gestapo—I have spent hours sitting at his writing desk, staring at blank sheets of notepaper, imagining the words I could fill each one with. When I’m not staring at paper, I study hairline fractures along the honey-yellow walls of his bedroom until my vision blurs. That’s when the guilt returns, like clockwork.

I remind myself I’ve left Mama and my brother, David, with a promise to find Papa and bring him back to reunite our family. I shouldn’t have been so na?ve to think I would find him so easily after his arrest four years ago, especially knowing so many Jewish citizens have been branded as criminals based on false accusations and sent to labor camps to serve their punishment. He could be anywhere, more unfortunately, a concentration camp for criminals.

I push the wooden chair away from the writing desk, grating the bottom of the legs against the wooden floor. Whenever I step out into the narrow hallway, I consider making my way to the front window to look outside, wishing to be back in a time when my friends would be waiting outside. It never takes long to bring myself back to the present and realize I’m not in my parents’ house, which this one resembles so closely.

“Danner, is that you? Is everything all right?”

Felix’s mom, Frau Weber, worries whenever I move from room to room during the day while Felix is at the textile factory working alongside his father. She must feel responsible for me, even though I wish she wouldn’t worry so much. I promised to stay out of their hair and not cause them any extra work after they’d graciously offered to take me in.

“It’s that time of the day again,” I reply. “The porcelain throne awaits me and I mustn’t keep it waiting.”

“Danner, my goodness,” she says, laughing at my remark. The thought of only moving about during the day to use the bathroom is depressing, but also humorous when I call out the facts.

Upon arriving at my new destination, two steps down the hall and through the door on the right, I close myself into the square space and lean over the protruding sink basin below a scratched-up mirror outlined by a silvering copper frame.

I push my fingers through my hair and take a closer look at the red web of veins branching across the whites of my eyes along with the sight of my long nose, high cheekbones, and what Mama would refer to as Ashkenazi eyes—heavy eyelids with thick lashes that cast a shadow over my cheeks. My muddy blonde hair color and reddish freckles might deceive anyone who tries to draw a conclusion on my heritage. One thing is certain though…I don’t have the storybook features of a German Aryan and I no longer look like every other healthy twenty-two-year-old man.

People must think I’m closer to forty with the deepening worry lines branching out from the corners of my eyes and across my forehead. Every Jewish man, no matter what age they are, looks much older than they should. We live in a state of fear now, and it takes a toll.

It isn’t easy to find too many reasons to stall when in the washroom, but I prefer to be alone in here rather than anywhere else. It’s the one containment furthest away from the outside walls.

“If there’s ever a threat of an incoming air raid or attack, the most central part of the building, the washroom will be the best place to be,” Papa would often warn David and me. A man of the First World War generation was never less than prepared for the unexpected, until he was arrested.

I think of Papa’s words whenever I hear gunshots or roundups of the disabled, non-white, homosexual, and Jewish citizens of this town. I yearn for his worldly advice, his words of wisdom, even his lectures on how to be a proper respectable man. It’s all I have of him now.

I pull out the wrinkled, worn paper folded into a small square from my pocket and unfold the edges, one by one, careful not to tear it.Papa’s messy handwriting spans from one side of the paper to the other.

Danner,

I’ve gone to the bakery for bread. I’ll be back soon. Please switch out the water for the bees. I’ll be home soon, son.

Love,

Papa

The first time I read this note was the last normal moment of my life. The comfort I felt, the reminder to do something we did together every day, is something I never thought I would need to keep. Papa and I planned to grow the honey business and distribute within local territories, but that all came to a halting stop when the Gestapo decided to arrest him.

I pry my gaze away from the letter and back up to the mirror, and remind myself of what he would remind me if he were standing here:

I’m a proud Jew. This is who I am.

Except my passports and identification say otherwise. This letter in my hand burns against my skin, knowing the lies I hold on to as a safety harness.Without my altered identifications, I’m Danner Alesky, son of Sarah and Abraham Alesky, brother to David Alesky. With the updated papers, I’m Albert Amsler, living with a friend, Felix Weber, and his family in a city that is ridding its population of all Jewish inhabitants.I’ve been hiding under a fake name for so long that I question how many people could just look at me and see my truth.

A fist against the bathroom door causes a reflexive tremble in my knees. “Danner, is that you in there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” I say, drying my hands off on the hanging towel even though I’d dried them more than five minutes ago.

I open the door, coming face to face with Felix.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the lines in his forehead angled into the shape of a v.

“Nothing. I was washing up,” I reply.

Compared to him, his grease riddled white shirt and sweat-drenched red face and wet hair, I don’t have much reason for the use of soap. He’s just arrived back home after a long shift at the automobile factory. I would be working alongside him if I weren’t essentially hiding. The fewer people I face, the safer I’ll be. Felix thinks my passport shows no sign of forgery.

He checks his watch as if there should be a certain time of day I choose to wash up. “You look nervous.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, a habit I’ve gotten into every time someone asks me if I’m okay. Ironically, I’m not checking to see if my nose looks like one that belongs to a Jewish man—though it is long and accentuated with the dented scar I earned years ago—instead, I worry that it might be growing like the wooden puppet, Pinocchio’s, whose nose grew every time he lied. Mama used to read the story to me as a child in hopes that I would learn the importance of being honest. She wouldn’t approve of my actions now.

Felix tilts his head in disagreement and chuckles. “Your nose isn’t growing, mate. How many times do I need to tell you?”

I drop my hand, defeated that I’ve been called out by him once again. When a person has been friends with another for seventeen years, since the age of five, there aren’t many ways to keep secrets. “I feel uneasy today. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but my mind has been spinning in circles since I woke up this morning.”

The sluggish sway of his shoulders tells me he wonders what I could be so worried about. Felix is aware of all that goes through my mind but feels confident I’m safe here, living under a false identity in their apartment. I don’t think his parents feel the same as he does.I’m taking food from their mouths and unable to financially contribute. I try to take the bare minimum, but his mother isn’t the type to allow a man in her house to be hungry, despite the rations we’re subject to.

“Ed is having people over tonight,” he says with a sigh.

Ed’s become his closest friend in the time I was gone and Felix is trying to split his time between ensuring I’m not going stir-crazy here and hanging out with his friends like most twenty-two-year-old men want to do.

“Don’t worry. I told him I couldn’t make it. I don’t want to leave you here after sitting in my room all day.”

“You should go,” I tell him.

Felix mentions this friend daily. They work at the factory together. He doesn’t want to sit around here. I can’t ask him to do that.

“No, no, we can play cards here or something, you and me,” he says, patting me on the shoulder.

“I’m not up to playing cards. Go and have fun. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

Felix tosses his head back, torn between his decision to be loyal to me or to live the life he deserves—and is free—to live. “You need to promise you aren’t going to sit on the mattress popping open your father’s pocket watch repeatedly as a form of entertainment. Or worse, stare at the radio like it’s going to tell you what you want to hear?”

I’m certain the radio won’t tell me where my father is being held prisoner, or if he’s even still alive. I’m also sure I won’t get much of an update about my mother or brother in Poland either. I’m not deluded enough to think it will tell me what I actually want to hear. My only hope is that the German radio station will be intercepted and the public informed that someone is making headway in stopping this war.

“Boys, dinner is almost ready,” Frau Weber calls down the hallway to us.

I move away from the washroom so Felix can step inside to clean up before dinner. “You’re going,” I say, pushing him into the washroom and closing him inside.

The letter from my father is still hanging from my pinched fingers behind my back, so I fold it up and place it in my pocket and head down to the dinner table to help Frau Weber.

“Danner, you’ve been so quiet this afternoon. Is everything okay?”

Walking up behind Felix’s mother reminds me of when I would walk up behind my own, offering to help set the table or offer a hand with whatever she needed. She would wear her hair the same way, in a low knot, pinned to the base of her neck. Mama’s hair is deep brown and Frau Weber’s hair is a light honey shade of blonde. That’s the only obvious difference, telling me I’m in someone else’s home, approaching a woman who isn’t my mother. Poland might as well be on the other side of the world considering how far I feel from Mama and David. This house is similar to how my home used to feel and I’m so grateful they took me in, but at the same time, the nostalgia constantly highlights what I’ve lost and am missing dearly.

“Of course, Frau Weber. I was just reading.”

Well, I was trying to read, but my thoughts wouldn’t allow me to absorb more than a sentence.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I was reading Felix’s copy of Cold Comfort Farm again.”

“I have other books you might enjoy. I’m happy to dig them out of my trunk if you’d like.”

“Maybe some time,” I say, taking the first two dinner plates out to the table.

“Did you hear about the questioning next door?” Herr Weber asks while turning the corner toward the dinner table. “Oh! Danner. I—I thought you were my wife.”

“My ugly mug must have given you quite a scare then,” I joke while acknowledging what he mistakenly asked me instead of his wife.

“You’re just as lovely,” Herr Weber quips back with laughter.

I can’t get myself to laugh along with him. Not while I’m wondering what he was going to say. “What were the neighbors being questioned about?”

Herr Weber flaps his hand at me, then brushes his fist beneath his nose. “Oh, it was nothing. Nothing to worry about.”

Which means it is something concerning. I appreciate them trying to protect me and keep me safe, but not being aware of what’s happening around me isn’t helpful. I should be aware if there are Nazis or Gestapo on the prowl in our enclosed neighborhood. Or at least have a sense of what they are looking for.

“What was that?” Frau Weber asks, joining us at the table with the other two dinner plates.

“It was nothing, dear.” He lifts his brows in her direction, a gesture she must understand, and I don’t, because she drops the subject. Normally, she would press for more information if he brushed a topic away.

“I’m going to visit Ed tonight. He’s having people over,” Felix says as he walks into the dining room with a clean face, combed hair, and a fresh pair of pants and shirt.

“Ed from the factory?” Herr Weber questions.

“Yes,” Felix says, taking his seat. “You can lock up the house. I have a key.”

Herr Weber clears his throat. “Why don’t you stay in tonight? Keep Danner company.”

“It’s fine, Herr Weber, I told him he should go. I’ll probably go to bed early anyway,” I say, taking my spoon to the bowl of stew.

I catch a passing glimpse between Herr and Frau Weber, the look making more sense than their last exchange. Herr Weber closes his eyes for a moment and offers a subtle headshake as if fighting a chill.

“I think you should stay in as well, Felix. You’ll see Ed at work tomorrow, won’t you?” Frau Weber adds, giving Felix the same look Herr Weber just gave her.

Felix lifts his napkin and wipes it across his mouth. “Okay, I’ll stay in,” he agrees.

“What are you all being so discreet about? There’s something you aren’t saying.” I frown.

“There’s nothing for you to lose sleep over, son. You have the proper papers and no reason to worry. The Gestapo makes rounds all the time.” He wouldn’t be concerned about us walking down the street tonight if I truly had nothing to worry about.Since the age of thirteen, all I’ve been able to do is watch my next step in hope of not falling into a trap.

The remaining moments of dinner fill with an orchestra of clanging dishes and silverware, slurps of stew, guzzles of water, and my heart hammering against my rib cage.