The Brushmaker's Daughter by Kathy Kacer

The Brushmaker's Daughter by Kathy Kacer

Author:Kathy Kacer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Second Story Press
Published: 2020-09-09T15:36:11+00:00


Chapter 10

That evening, Papa and I walked home from the factory in silence. The image of the little jacket was still there in my mind, refusing to leave as if it were stuck inside.

“What is it, my darling?” Papa asked.

I smiled sadly. “You always know when something is bothering me, don’t you?”

“That’s what fathers are for. It’s my job to know.”

The streets were busy with people rushing past. A little boy ran right by us, pushing past Papa and making him stumble.

“I’m fine,” Papa protested as I reached out to stop his fall. Papa was so proud; he hated having anyone look after him. He always insisted that he could do everything on his own.

“I’m fine,” he repeated and continued walking. “Now, tell me why you’re so troubled.”

I took a deep breath and began to tell Papa about the little jacket and all the clothes that I had helped Herr Weidt pack up.

“Children are in those concentration camps, too,” I whispered. “Even babies.”

“Yes,” Papa replied. His voice sounded as sad as I felt.

“But why do the Nazis hate the children? They haven’t done anything wrong. No one has. But little children! It doesn’t…”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Papa finished my sentence.

And then, we walked in silence once more. Nothing could explain what was happening in the world or why Jewish people were so hated.

A conversation with Ruth played through my mind, a memory of another time.

“Did you hear what Leon said to me in the playground?” Ruth asked one day, as we lined up to go inside the school building.

“No.” I glanced around. Leon was a boy a grade ahead of us. We never mingled with the older kids, and they never paid much attention to us.

“He pushed me—hard! I waited for him to say he was sorry. But, instead, he said, ‘Watch where you’re going,’ as though it were my fault. And then, he screamed, ‘Jew!’ really loud, like it was a dirty word.”

“Are you sure he meant it? Maybe it was just an accident.”

“It was no accident. He sounded like he hated me, hated all of us!”

The light was fading. Streetlamps were beginning to light up, casting dusky shadows across the pavement. My breath, when I exhaled, hung in the air like an icy cloud. Snow began to fall in fat flakes that clumped together and settled on top of each other. I wanted to get home quickly. I hoped Hetti would have hot tea or, better yet, hot soup waiting for us. It was probably selfish of me to wish for food when the Jews who were in concentration camps had nothing.

We were close to Alexanderplatz. One more block, and we’d arrive at Hetti’s apartment. But, as we turned the last corner, a truck suddenly pulled up, revving its motor and then squealing to a stop right in front of us. I froze and yanked on Papa’s arm as two police officers got out of the truck.

“What—”

“Shhh, Papa!” I whispered. “Police!”

Papa sucked in his breath, and his face went white as ash.



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