I lean back, away from the cradle, watching Isla read. Her eyes aren’t following lines though. She’s just staring at the words. “What book are you reading, Isla?” I ask.
She peers over the soft edges then stiffens before gazing up at me. “Der Giftpilz,” she says.
I toy with the German words in my head, trying to make sense of the title:The Poisonous Mushroom.
“What is the book about?” I ask.
Isla thumbs through a few pages to an illustration of a little boy handing an older woman something in the woods. “It’s about spotting differences between a poisonous mushroom and one safe to eat because it can be hard to tell the difference.”
“Ah, I see. That makes sense.”
“Mushrooms are like Jews and non-Jews. It’s hard to tell them apart, but?—”
“Oh goodness,” I say, interrupting her before my exasperation slips out in another way. I press my hand to my mouth, stunned by the vulgarity of it.
Nothing should surprise me after three years in an occupied country, but she’s ten. And she’s already learned to treat hatred like intellect. That book isn’t a warning, it’s a weapon.
If Julia ever caught wind of this book, she’d press it into a priest’s hands, with tears in her eyes, and ask how something so vile could exist in God’s world. I want to scream then rip the pages out and do the same to this book as the Germans have done to the books of Jewish authors. This should burn. Not the others. Instead, I smile and breathe through my rage before speaking.
“Isla, I think the real lesson here is that we’re all different. That’s how God made us. You can’t always see who’s good or bad, but if you listen closely, to how someone speaks and what they say, you’ll learn far more than your eyes ever could. Could you imagine if we were all the same? How boring that would be?” I chuckle softly, adding a smile I hope will help her understand.
One of the women in the kitchen clears her throat, seemingly calling for my attention. The woman still standing as if she’s a guard in the corner stares back at me, shaking her head, her lips pursed and nostrils flaring.
I push myself up from the ground and make my way through the kitchen, up to the woman in what I now know to be an Auschwitz uniform. “Are you not appalled by what that child is reading?” I whisper to her in Polish, curious if she speaks the native language.
She huffs a laugh and narrows her eyes. “You’re ungrateful for your privilege,” she replies in Polish.
Privilege. I’ve never been accused of that before. Not as a baby left behind on the stone steps of a church. Not as a domestic servant. And not as a Polish woman prohibited to experience even a breath of freedom.
Then, my thoughts simmer rather quickly as I notice the embroidered Star-of-David on her armband beneath the German word, KAPO. Kapo means overseer. I glance back at the woman now dishing out food from a pan onto plates, spotting another Star-of-David badge on her chest.
Maybe she’s right. Compared to them, the hunger in their eyes, the sag in their shoulders, the dirt-covered uniforms, I should consider myself lucky.
“I have no concern with reporting you to Frau Schäfer,” the kapo woman says, her voice rising in volume.
I don’t understand. Both women appear to be Jewish, but one is in charge of the other? I was defending Jewish people in my comment about the book being appalling, so why the angry response?
Without another word, I make my way back to the children’s sides, still baffled.No conversations between servants and prisoners, I remind myself. She might abide by the rules. Both of them, I suppose.
I must shake the thought out of my head and refocus my attention on the girls. The clock in the kitchen catches my attention. Noon is in just fifteen minutes. “Girls, your lunch should be ready soon,” I say, according to the booklet. “Why don’t you both go wash your hands.”
Isla drops the book to the floor and Marlene drops her crayon and jumps up to her feet. I make my way back to the cradle, finding baby Flora still awake and staring up at the exposed wooden beams above her head.
“Are you hungry too, sweetheart?” I coo at her before flipping through the booklet to the instructions on preparing her bottle.
The woman who cooked the older girls’ lunch is placing the plates down on the table. She moves to one of the cupboards and retrieves two glasses then a pitcher of water from the refrigerator.
I’m studying the two tall cupboards on either side of the stove, debating where I might find a pot to boil water. I’m not sure if the two women will remain in the kitchen while the girls eat or if they’ll go somewhere else. I don’t want to end up in another confrontation with the kapo.
The booklet dangles by my side as I stride into the kitchen and head for the nearest cupboard. The kapo’s stare burns into me as I open the bottom doors.
I find a small pot, grab it, fill it at the sink and bring it to the stove. Behind a glass-paneled cupboard, amber-colored baby bottles catch my eye. The canister of powdered milk sits on the shelf below.
While the water heats, I set out a bottle, remove the nipple, and reopen the instruction booklet:
~Lastly, add three drops of chamomile
I’ve heard of this antidote. There had been a couple of babies at the orphanage with digestion troubles and the housemothers were advised to use a couple drops of chamomile. I flip through a few more pages, searching for information on what finger foods Flora is allowed. At ten months, she should be able to eat something simple alongside her sisters. But there’s nothing to be said.
