Free My Canary Yellow Star by Eva Wiseman Page A

The entire time I kept thinking, Who is this Wallenberg? What is a Schutz-Pass? How can I get one?
    I was afraid to get on a streetcar again, so I alternately ran and walked the rest of the way. By the time I arrived at the Café Peace, I was an hour late, hot, sweaty, and totally exhausted. Would Peter already have left?
    I forced myself to stop for a moment to regain my breath before descending the well-worn stone steps to the café. A few minutes earlier, I had slipped into a public bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. Nobody was aroundto see me emerge with my hair neatly combed and my white sweater buttoned up to the chin, covering the yellow star on my blouse. I wasn’t able to see the back of my legs easily, but my seams appeared not to be smudged. I had also put Judit’s lipstick to good use.
    Peter was sitting at a corner table sipping raspberry juice and looking anxious. The sudden delight that filled my heart at the sight of him made me feel shy.
    “Thank God you’re finally here. I was worried sick when you didn’t come,” he said.
    “I was scared that I’d missed you, that you wouldn’t wait.” Peter’s response was a wry lift of his eyebrows that made me feel much happier. I collapsed into a chair. “Let me rest a couple of minutes, then I’ll tell you what happened to me.”
    Peter ordered a glass of raspberry juice for me. I drank it greedily and felt much better. Then I told him everything that took place on the streetcar. “Who is Raoul Wallenberg? Have you ever heard of him?” I asked.
    “No, but my father might have,” Peter said. “I’ll ask him.”
    “Please don’t tell him I’m the one who wants to know.”
    “Of course not. I know I can’t tell him. Does your mother know you’re here?”
    “No. I want to tell her, but I’m scared.”
    “Why? We’ve been friends for ages.”
    “How about these reasons: you’re not Jewish, and it’s dangerous.”
    Peter sighed. “What do you want to do today, Marta? Do you want to go for a walk?”
    “Let’s do something else, something that’s really crazy. I am so sick of the war. I just want to have some fun.” I thought of the young woman and the frantic child.
    Peter laughed. “Fine. We’ll do whatever you want.”
    “Do you really mean it?”
    “Of course. Just tell me what you want to do.”
    I didn’t have to think before answering. “I want to go dancing. I even know where I want to go – the Casino on Margaret Island.”
    Peter paled under his tan. “Marta, we can’t. I was at the Casino with my parents last week. The show doesn’t start until nightfall, long after your curfew. If you are caught by the police or the Gestapo, do you realize what will happen to us?”
    I knew very well – the threat of deportation loomed large. But I didn’t care. For once, I wanted to forget about the war. I just wanted to enjoy myself. “We won’t be caught. I feel lucky tonight.”
    “It might be dangerous.” Peter looked worried.
    “You promised. You said you’d do whatever I wanted to do. I guess you didn’t mean it.”
    Peter groaned. “Of course I did, idiot that I am. Allright, I’ll
go.
But I want you to know that it’s not the sensible thing to do.”
    “I’m sick of being sensible,” I told him. I jumped up and pulled Peter out of his chair before he had a chance to change his mind. He sighed resignedly and followed me out of the café.
    Twenty minutes later, we were on the number 6 street-car as it bounced over the bridge to Margaret Island in the middle of the Danube. I had never been to the island, a beautiful park full of hotels, theaters, outdoor swimming pools, and cabarets. When the streetcar stopped in front of the Casino, just past the bridge, we got off. The Casino was the most elegant and popular dancehall in the entire city. It was also a jazz lover’s paradise, especially if you were lucky enough to get a garden table.
    We entered the tall white building through wide-open wrought-iron