Free Pastel Orphans by Gemma Liviero Page A

back and reminding it.”
    I take one of Femke’s storage tins from the kitchen and hope she doesn’t miss it. Then both Greta and I write our notes on pieces of paper, secretly, and place them in the tin. We bury it in the earth.
    “This can also be a place in the future to leave messages,” she says excitedly.
    I think then how intelligent she is—much more so than me. And I think that this will be the last time for tricks, that she is worthy of much better.
    It is the first day at our new school. I am thirteen and Greta will be turning eight later in the year. Mama is driving us there and picking us up afterwards for the first week. It is a long walk because our farm is on the outskirts of the town, past the brewery. Mama, with the help of a neighbor, is building an extra seat on the back of the bike so that I can take Greta to school and back.
    The school is a big square brick building with two floors and classrooms off to the side of a long hallway.
    Mama greets the teachers. We take Greta to her class first.
    It is a school that has both Catholics and Jews. Mama says that we are Catholic and the teacher looks at me longer than she does at Greta, as if she is waiting for me to agree or give a sign of the cross to confirm this. I do not understand adults sometimes.
    Mama tells the woman in charge, in Polish, that the children only speak German. And the teacher nods. The teacher says to us in German that we will be speaking Polish soon enough.
    Greta perhaps thinks she is only here to look at the school and then go home again. The other children look at Greta as if she is a new jewel. They are excited but Greta isn’t. She doesn’t like being looked at and turns her face into Mama’s arm. There are paintings around the classroom and toys on the benches to the side. Without the pictures, the room would be very dull, with scuffed, pale walls.
    The teacher shows Greta her desk, but when Mama tries to walk away, Greta starts crying. Mama turns back to her but the teacher draws Mama from the room. I go to Greta and crouch beside her.
    “My classroom is next to yours, all right? And whenever I can, I will come and see you.” From my pocket I take my handkerchief, which Mama has spent many unnecessary minutes ironing, and wipe Greta’s face.
    Then I go to my classroom. Mama puts her arm around my shoulders. I am still a head shorter than Mama. I wish I could grow faster and be tall like Papa. Mama says it will happen soon, that I need patience. I am embarrassed when Mama kisses me on the cheek in front of everyone.
    There are more boys than girls in the class, and the teacher is a man with shiny hair like my father. I am given a spot at the end of a long bench seat at the front of class. Everyone has writing books and a pencil, except me. The teacher talks in Polish and I struggle to understand his directions. The children lift the lids of their desks, the bases of which are all joined together. Other students pull out their books. I lift my lid but there is nothing inside. The teacher passes me his book. The first lesson of the day is German. The next lesson is mathematics, then Polish, and then it is art class.
    The teacher comes to my side and says that it is all right for me to just observe for the first few days, but he hands me some paper and pencils to draw with.
    The children break off into groups at lunchtime. Some talk to me but they don’t speak German. Some know a little bit of German but are not really interested in talking to me. Then there are some Jews who speak another language to one another. It is awkward and not like in Berlin, where I could make friends straight away. I find Greta and we sit on a bench together to eat our bread with cheese and bacon.
    We have to draw the teacher, and the class becomes talkative and enthusiastic.
    I concentrate on the shading around his small, unusual face, with the large cheeks and beard, and tiny round eyes. Because he reminds me of a cat, I draw some whiskers