Once We Were Home: A Novel

1

ROGER

1946

In the hills above Marseille, in the Convent of Sainte Marie de Sion, Roger cups his hot, throbbing ear with one hand and stacks prayer books with the other. Palm flat, patting the edges, he straightens the piles so the books won’t tip over and tumble. If they do, he’ll get another ear twist or worse. At seven, he knows better than to bother Sister Chantal at lauds—but yesterday he couldn’t help it, his ankles itched him to distraction and the question sprang from his mouth: Why, if God is good, did He create mosquitoes that sting and bite us?

Roger finishes his stacking, a final pat pat of the books, with the feeling of eyes at his back. He looks around for Sister Chantal—or was it God watching?—before he rushes out the door, ear still pulsing. He wishes he’d stayed quiet, held his question for Sister Brigitte, as she was always encouraging him to do. There is so much he doesn’t understand.

Why are some potatoes purple?

Does a tiger’s skin have stripes beneath his fur?

Can a person cry under water?

(This, Roger wondered before his baptism.)

He didn’t want to cry. The babies cried, even though they were cradled in their parents’ arms and held at the side of the basin, not dunked into it. Madame Mercier told him he was lucky baptism was possible at all, as he was born to parents whose religion killed Jesus. Being baptized would keep him ever in the Christian fold and secure his life in God’s kingdom. He wanted that.

But on the morning of the ceremony, Sister Brigitte looked like she was crying, huddled with Father Louis and Brother Jacques. Why? he wanted to ask, but then Madame Mercier showed up with a crisp white robe folded over her arm and shuttled Roger to a church off the Sainte Marie grounds.

At the altar, an unfamiliar priest gripped Roger’s shoulders and twisted him around, back to the font. Roger thought again of the babies on Sundays after Mass, water dribbling gently down their cheeks.

Isn’t baptism for babies? Roger asked.

The priest, one slate-blue eye magnified larger than the other behind his glasses, flicked a look at Madame Mercier then back at Roger and answered, By God’s grace, it’s meant to happen now.

Roger is sure he’ll always remember the shock of cold water, the shiver he’d wished to conceal but knew he couldn’t hide from God. Ears pooling with the holy water, he couldn’t hear the priest’s words, only saw him signing the cross, his big eye glinting. Afterward, soaked at the collar and dripping, Roger tried not to wriggle as Madame Mercier fussed over him with a towel, the expression on her face like she’d gobbled up the entire croquembouche she’d brought for the occasion.

Roger still didn’t understand why Sister Brigitte was crying earlier, or why they waited the four whole years he’s been at Sainte Marie’s—and just weeks before his first Communion—to have him baptized. But he was happy for the sweet, caramelized ball of dough he got to eat. And he was happy to be saved.

Across the cobblestone courtyard. Past the cupboard with Mary inside, marble robes flowing to her feet. Around the stooping oak tree and up the stairs. Roger pulls open the heavy refectory door with both hands, releasing a flood of echoing chatter, and edges onto a crowded bench hardly wide enough to hold his bottom. He chews the morning’s baguette, swallowing quietly, scratching at his stung-red ankles and stealing glances around the room. The other boys joke and jostle as their mouths move around their ration of bread. A new boy named Henri looks Roger’s way and gives a small smile. His hair and eyes are golden, reminding Roger of the croquembouche. He smiles back.

After breakfast, Roger collects his lesson books from the dormitory room. His uniform shorts are too big for him; he has to wrap the belt twice around to cinch them. Then he wets his hands at the sink and pats down the cowlick at the top of his head so Albert won’t tease and call him hedgehog. All the boys rush so as not to be late. Roger heads down the hall, gripping the thick banister to steady himself. His shoes sound on the stone stairs, slap slap slap.

They cross the courtyard to class. Already, the day is hot and sticky. Some of the younger boys extend their arms like airplanes, swerving through the thick summer air, making noises with pursed lips. "Sheeew! Roger joins in, veering this way and that. He misses Georges, his friend since nursery, who was moved to Saint Michael’s after making up a game of dangling books, tied in their carrier straps like bombs. Sister Brigitte called Georges a prankster and reminded Roger that he can’t afford to get into trouble. You must keep to best behavior—I mean it, Roger."

Roger drops his arms now, bringing his books close to his chest. He has new questions that popped into his head last night.

Do bats have upside-down dreams?

Why do stars twinkle?

Does Heaven get full?

He spots Sister Brigitte, small in the folds of her habit, pink-tipped nose and eyes like sea-blue marbles, standing outside the classroom building. Roger begins asking her his questions, and though she shushes him—Not now, you’ll be late for lessons—she pulls him in for a quick hug, fabric rustling, and presses her soft cheek to his.

The schedule is always the same:

Wake up, lave, make the bed, and morning exercise

Lauds and breakfast

Lessons

Lunch and washing dishes

Afternoon rest

Arts and crafts

Chores by rotation

Supper

Vespers and bedtime

Roger has Sister Brigitte’s permission to spend rest time in the garden. Stepping-stones spiral like snail shells around tall stalks of purple iris and white lilies. Beyond the iron-slatted gate, mounded hills dabbed with wildflowers. Roger sits on the rock bench, looking past the gate, wondering who might come, and writing stories on spare pieces of paper that Sister Brigitte saves for him.

He writes about a boy who wishes to do nothing all day long, but in wishing to do nothing, he does something. He writes about two friends, a moose and a deer, who believe they are the same until they come to a lake and see their different reflections. One day Roger writes about a girl—a real girl he spots carrying a basket of dug-up plants over the hillside. In his story, she drifts to sleep dreaming of planting a garden and wakes the next morning in a full-grown flower bed.

After reading his latest, Sister Brigitte says, "Be proud of that wild imagination you got from your mère et père."

Roger wishes to write even wilder stories.

Hey, sissy, are you writing in your diary? Albert says, walking past, freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks.

The adults think Albert is angelic, but the kids know he is a bully. He’s always mocking Roger for using the private stall in the boys’ bathroom, and for turning around to undress, even as other boys chase each other, naked, hurling pillows. But Roger is doing what Brother Jacques, praising modesty, told him to do. He angles his paper away and continues writing.

The new boy, Henri, takes a seat at the far end of the bench. His shorts pouch like Roger’s do, and he has nearly as many mosquito bites on his ankles. Roger keeps to his writing. Henri gave a smile earlier, but maybe he’s fallen in with Albert.

I like stories that are funny. Do you write funny stories? Henri asks.

Not really, Roger says.

Henri looks toward the chapel. Have you noticed that Brother Nicolas’s eyes are bloodshot?

Roger looks up. What’s that?

When there are red lines in the white part.

Like tiny lines of a map, Roger says.

Like the roads to good and evil, Henri says, his voice pitched high in imitation of Sister Chantal.

Both boys laugh, then look around to be sure no one heard. Maybe Henri is a prankster, too, but he doesn’t seem eager to get in trouble.

I’ll show you some of my stories anyway, Roger says.

Henri scooches closer on the bench.

There is only cold water at Sainte Marie’s, so once a week Brother Jacques leads the boys through town to the public bathhouse. Roger and Henri walk side by side now, inhaling the street smells: fried fish, pipe smoke, garbage, the salty sea air. Brother Jacques, straight and tall like a tree, doesn’t talk much, but he also doesn’t quiet the boys as they chatter on their way. Henri knows lots of riddles, and he tells them to Roger. Roger doesn’t know the answers to any of them, so Henri supplies them.

What goes up and down without moving?

Stairs.

What is as light as a feather but the strongest man cannot hold for long?

Breath.

Where can you find cities, towns, and streets but no people?

A map.

With the roads to good and evil, he and Henri both blurt at the same time.

The boys clatter into the bathhouse, wriggling out of their coats and shoes, leaving them in heaps in the outer changing room. Brother Jacques ushers them along, quietly directing most of the boys to the showers, Roger and Henri to individual tubs. Roger feels lucky he gets a tub again. This is how he knows he must be Brother Jacques’s favorite.

The first thing Roger does in the bath is dunk himself all the way under the water and cross himself, to make himself really clean. Then he soaks and floats, trying to think up riddles to tell Henri. He watches steam rise above the water like the Holy Spirit and adds his own warm breath to it.

Outside, hair hanging lank—not like in winter, when it dries straw-stiff, even more like a hedgehog—Roger and Henri keep to the back of the line to avoid Albert. Then, with their hands cupping their ears, elbows swinging, they take exaggerated jerky steps, pretending they’ve been boxed on both ears by Sister Chantal.

Roger’s assigned chore for the week is peeling potatoes. He sits over a bucket, the musty smell of earth in his nose and on his fingers. Nuns scurry between the stoves, fretting over the watery soup. One constantly looks over to make sure the peelings land in the bucket, every scrap worth saving. Roger’s hands turn red-raw as he peels one slippery potato after the next. Outside, the sun sifts through the clouds, splaying light beams as if from Heaven into the steamy kitchen. He thinks of the religious paintings that dot the hallways and wonders,

Are there really roads to good and evil?

Why did my parents take the wrong road, like Madame Mercier said?

Can I really be saved if they weren’t?

2

ANA

1942–1943

Mira doesn’t want to promise she’ll watch over her little brother, but her mother’s eyes are welling with tears, and this scares her into a cautious nod. This, and everything else about the strange morning. They went to the bathhouse early, as soon as the Rapoports and Kohns left, and her mother had soap, which she almost never had, not since they moved here. But then Mama bathed them so quickly, scrubbing and drying. No time for splashing or floating or dribbling water on Daniel’s cheeks to make him giggle.

Now, back in the apartment, Mama keeps pulling shirts over their heads, more than they need for the spring day.

I can’t move! Mira says, working to straighten her bunched-up, twisted sleeves.

Her mother hushes her, Don’t wake your papa, and darts about the tiny room, stuffing things into a satchel.

Are we bringing all that with us shopping? She doesn’t understand why her mother is delaying. The Rapoports and Kohns left straightaway for the food lines. If they don’t go soon, all the bread will be gone.

Her mother doesn’t answer but instead lifts Daniel onto her lap and spoons something into his mouth. He barely turns to her. The violinist upstairs is practicing, and Daniel is in thrall. What three-year-old loves the violin so much?

What are you giving him?

Shh, it’s all right, Mama says.

In a few minutes, her brother blinks heavily, still reluctant to stop listening to the music. His head droops.

Why is he going back to sleep? We just woke up.

Come, Mama says. I need you to carry the satchel. She lifts Daniel with one arm and takes Mira’s hand with the other.

Mama walks them down the back stairs, sour-smelling and creaky, her sure steps at odds with her doubtful face. A truck idles in the alley; their friend Bluma is in the driving seat, her dark hair knotty, her eyes the color of hulled chestnuts. Mama opens the passenger’s side and takes the satchel while Mira climbs in.

Get in and crouch along the floor space, there, Bluma says, a bit brusquely. Mira looks at her mother.

It’s only for a little while, until it’s safe, Mama says.

"What’s only for a little while?" They were going to the market, and that’s just a walk.

Mama leans over the seat, and as she hands sleeping Daniel over, she kisses his cheek, his shoulder, his side, his bottom. She holds on to his foot a moment, then lets go. Bluma wraps his body around her middle, and Mama spreads a thick-knit shawl over him, smoothing it across Bluma’s lap. Bluma looks like she’s wearing all of her clothes, too. Or else having a baby.

Mira, her mother says, turning to look at her squarely, eyes flooding now. You are my girl, and I will always, always love you.

Mama, what’s the matter? Where are we going?

Please, promise again you’ll take care of Daniel.

But we can’t leave Papa! When her father shivers, Mira is the one who pulls the blanket to his chin.

Bluma puts a hand on Mira’s shoulder. Get down. I’m going to cover you. We have to move.

Mama, get in! Mira says.

Her mother’s voice is a choked whisper. I have to stay with Papa while he gets better, and I need you to be safe until I can come get you.

Mira is scared of the way her mother’s face is crumpling, so she huddles down, clutching the satchel. Bluma presses her lower to the floor. Keep quiet, not a sound.

She is covered over with heavy blankets and cannot see. The truck jerks over the cobblestones, then stops. She hears Bluma say, I have a permit to travel to the municipal hospital.

If they are at the ghetto gate, guards are there, soldiers. She has seen them.

What are the blankets for? A man’s voice.

They’re from a sick house. I am incinerating them in case of typhus. Do you wish to inspect them?

A grunt. No, get going. Go.

The truck shudders along twisting roads. Mira grows more frightened with every jostle. Where are we going? Finally she peeks out from a tiny corner. She sees Bluma driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other curled around Daniel’s body at her middle.

As soon as Bluma stops the truck, Mira throws off the blankets. While Bluma unwraps Daniel—still asleep, his cheeks rosy, his hair slick—Mira scrambles out from below the seat and looks around. She is staring at a farm. Fields and a barn. A house with painted shutters, like others up and down the lane. Red poppies dot the side of the road.

Bluma, where are we? Why are we here?

Your mama and papa need you to be safe, Bluma says. Her voice is soft and raspy now.

A couple are hurrying toward the truck. Mira recognizes them. She knows them from the market. And the man came to their house once, before they had to move to the ghetto. Mira was little then, only five, but she can still remember him, tall in the doorway, pacing foot to foot. His wife was dangerously ill. She’d lost a baby and was still bleeding. You’ll need to watch Daniel until Papa gets here, her mother had told her, rushing around the kitchen, gathering herbs and leaving with the man. Later, he brought a chicken as payment. His wife sought Mama out at the market, frail, her eyes sad. Reaching with a quavery arm for a squeeze of Mama’s hand. She looks better now.

Come in, right away. The wife lifts Daniel out of Bluma’s arms and ushers Mira toward the house. The husband takes the satchel and closes the passenger door. Mira whips around to face the road—she doesn’t want this; she wants to be back with her parents. But Bluma is already turning the truck, driving away.

In a Polish farmhouse nestled among rolling green fields, forest woods, and a wide winding river, Mira stares about the kitchen, scrubbed clean. The walls are hung with bright embroidered linens and dark wooden crosses; high shelves hold decorative plates and a large box engraved with flowers. The air that wafts in from the open window smells of cows. No scent of drying herbs, as in their kitchen at home, or the rolled-together smell of earth and fire from her father’s blacksmith shop. No ghetto smells, either.

How long are we staying here? When will our parents come for us?

The woman is holding Daniel, still asleep. I am not certain, she says.

How could Mama send us away to strangers?

Fighting tears, Mira peers into the satchel. She finds clothes for her and her brother; Dani’s nappies and toy bear; a small, framed photograph of their parents. Her mother looks young, a dark-haired beauty; her papa, healthy and strong. Mira is glad to have the picture, even as she puzzles over why her mother packed it. They weren’t going to forget their parents’ faces in a few days.

At the very bottom of the bag, her wood-carved spinning top.

The woman—scurrying between the kitchen and the table, hair in a braid, apron tied at her waist—seats Mira with a glass of fresh milk. Mira takes a small sip, thick and foamy, and her stomach practically jumps to get the rest. She gulps it down, its richness bringing a flicker of gratitude.

I remember your beautiful hair, the woman says, putting a gentle hand to Mira’s head.

Thank you, Pani… She trails off, trying to be polite, but not knowing the woman’s name.

"It’s best if you call me ciocia."

But you’re not my aunt.

The woman’s cheeks go pink.

You will call me Ciocia Agata. And I will call you Anastazja. This will be your name from now on, and your brother will be Oskar. These are the names of my sister’s children, my niece and nephew. We’ll say you’re here because my sister, Jadzia, is ill. You mustn’t, under any circumstances, use your other names. You’re here to be kept safe. Do you understand?

Anastazja nods.

Good. Now would you like another glass of milk?

Yes.

Yes?

Yes, Ciocia Agata.

An unsettled quiet. Anastazja stares at the colorful embroideries on the wall—red flowers on green stems, yellow-breasted birds with green feathers perched around the cheery words Dzień Dobry—wishing it felt like a good day. She looks over at the closed door, wondering when her mother will arrive to take them home.

When Oskar wakes, he cries out. The sound sends Agata’s eyes jumping to the window.

Anastazja stands to tend to her brother.

It’s all right. Drink your milk, Agata says, gently patting Oskar’s