The Blood Years by Elana K. Arnold

Author:Elana K. Arnold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-07-25T00:00:00+00:00

Part III

A Very Lucky Girl

June 1941–May 1942

One

The Nazis

Many families leave with the Russians, the Oppenheims among them. They’d so publicly aligned themselves with the Soviets—loudly praising communism, reporting on the rest of us, and getting close with our house manager and his wife—probably they felt they had no choice. Whether or not they were ever true believers in the communist movement, they’re smart enough to know that whatever happens next, Soviet supporters are going to be in danger.

So are the rest of us, with the Germans coming.

Before they leave, Mrs. Oppenheim knocks on our door. When I open it, she’s holding Mitzi. It’s a large, fluffy cat that looks like it’s eaten more over the last year than my whole family put together.

“Frederieke,” Mrs. Oppenheim says, and her tears began to flow. “You must promise to take care of my baby. It’s impossible to bring her with me.” She holds out the cat.

I take a step back. “Oh, Mrs. Oppenheim. I don’t think that is a very good idea.”

“It’s the only idea,” she insists, shaking the cat a little to emphasize her point.

I don’t know why I nod. We have no money to feed it. But what else can I do?

Mitzi seems completely apathetic about this exchange; Mrs. Oppenheim, though, burbles with tears and kisses the cat, one cheek, then the other, then the first again. “What is the world coming to?” she says, to no one in particular, and then she leaves.

I’m certain that my family will be furious with me—after all, we don’t even have food enough for ourselves—but instead, they’re delighted.

Astra rushes to me, pulling the cat from my arms. She coos like a mother with an infant, cradling her, rocking her back and forth. Immediately, Mitzi purrs like a motor. I swear the cat even smiles.

Marcel is happy because Astra is happy, and I think Mama and Opa are glad for the distraction, too.

“But what are we even going to feed it?” I ask, crossing the room and sitting down. My cough has been better, or at least not as frequent, but I still feel weak with illness.

“Her,” corrects Astra. “Mitzi is not an ‘it.’”

“What are we going to feed her?”

“We’ll make do.” Opa scratches the cat’s head.

“You said the Oppenheims are already gone?” says Mama.

“I think so. Mrs. Oppenheim looked dressed for traveling when she brought me the cat.”

Astra raises an eyebrow, sets Mitzi on a footstool, and opens the apartment door. She crosses the hall and knocks on the Oppenheims’ door. No answer. She rattles the knob. “Locked.”

Marcel, who has been standing back, watching, looks up and down the hallway, then throws his shoulder against the door. With a loud crack, the doorjamb splinters, and Marcel falls forward into the Oppenheims’ apartment. Mama gasps; Astra, though, laughs and claps her hands. A moment later, we hear Marcel exclaim, “Will you look at that?”

I get up, and Opa, Mama, and I cross the hallway, too.

There, in the front room, is Opa’s beautiful Turkish rug, covered in cat hair, just as I imagined.

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