“I’m so sorry you’re hurt.” He takes the handkerchief away from his nose, finding the fabric soaked in blood. I take it from his hand and carefully dab up the blood on his lip too. “You’ll be okay.”
“I will. And you know what…at least I’ll always have a scar now to remind me of today, you…making your first batch of honey on the same day I realized you will absolutely be the best nurse this world will ever have.”
FOUR
DANNER
FEBRUARY 1942
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 naïve 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 GermanAryan 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.
