The Family Behind the Walls

5. Jordanna

FIVE

JORDANNA

JULY 28TH, 1943 – HAMBURG, GERMANY

The Gestapo, in their black, ash covered uniforms and with their threatening demands ripped Mama and Papa away from us just a moment ago. We’d only been down in the bunker a few minutes when they burst in through the door. Now, we’ve been left with only their cries echoing between the walls before they stepped back into the inferno. The orange flames outside the bunker door dance across the stones lining the top steps and cast a daunting glow over all of us down here.

The air becomes thicker by the second with fumes from burning wood and melting metal. We’re all coughing, gasping for air.

“We need to shut the door!” someone shouts.

“I’ll handle it,” another person says. “Give me a second to cover my face.”

They’re closing us back in, without Mama and Papa. They might not be able to get back in, and could be stuck outside.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be back,” Max says, trying to calm us down. Lilli continues to cry for our parents though—her emotions are my thoughts, ones I’m trying to keep inside.

“Mama,” Lilli continues to cry. My hand grips onto Lilli’s, her small fingers intertwine between mine as her clammy hand trembles.

“We need to be brave right now. They’ll be back,” I tell my sister.

We are all trying to be brave, but the taste of bitter tears seeps into my mouth. Max knows how to keep his emotions to himself, something he’s just managed to learn over the last few years. Alfie, though, he’s standing still, staring toward the stairs that lead up to the shelter’s exit. His eyes aren’t moving—it’s as if he’s paralyzed by fear. I reach for his arm, grabbing him to pull him back toward the three of us. “We’ll find them,” I say, gasping for breath.

Alfie doesn’t turn to look at me or shift his stare from the steps. It’s as if he’s turned into stone.

“Alfie, look at me,” Max says, grabbing his shoulder, shaking him a bit.

“Why isn’t he responding to us?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Max says.

I take Alfie’s hand. It’s burning hot, and tense. I tighten my grip, and he closes his hand around mine. I don’t understand what’s wrong. “Are you hurt?” I ask him. Still no response.

“Why won’t you answer us?” Max asks him again, stepping in front of Alfie, forcing him to look at him.

Alfie swallows hard and searches around the space, his eyes wide as if he’s looking for something. The lack of verbal response to Max’s question is enough to make me realize something is very wrong.

He pulls his hand from mine, shakes his head and grits his teeth then presses his hands to his ears. He clenches his eyes shut and yanks on his earlobe. His breaths become heavy, and he begins slapping the sides of his head repeatedly.

I clutch my chest, watching in horror, not knowing what’s happening. “Stop it!” I tell him. “Alfie!”

Max takes me by the arm and pulls me away, stepping in front of me so Alfie only focuses on him.

“Talk to me. Does something hurt?” Max continues his best efforts to find out what Alfie’s going through.

Nothing works. Alfie only glares back at him with an unblinking stare and a look of sheer horror.

Max rests his hands on Alfie’s shoulders. “Everything is fine. We’re safe here. You have us.”

No response.

With frustration coursing through Max, he scratches his fingers through his ash-coated hair and steps away, trying to make sense of everything. He stops short in his step, the rubber of his boot scraping against rubble. I move in toward him to see what’s caught his eye and find Papa’s robe, which he left behind just before the Gestapo made him leave.

Max throws himself to the ground, thrashing at the fabric before pulling out a rolled-up tube of papers. “Our papers. Papa has left them for us—I think I know what that must mean,” Max whispers then swallows so hard, I can hear the gulp. I can see he wants me to read the look on his face and understand what he’s thinking, but I don’t want to. Papa must not have been sure if he could come back for us. He wouldn’t want to leave us without our papers. But I don’t want to think that way too. We’ll find them. We must.

Max mutters and shoves the rolled-up tube under his waistband then pulls his shirt over it.

The bunker door creaks open, the metal thuds echoing between the walls along the descending steps. Maybe Mama and Papa have returned.

Please. Let it be them.

“You, children,” a Gestapo shines a light on us, causing us to recoil and cover our eyes. “You’re here without your parents?”

“One of you already took them,” Lilli shouts. “I want Mama and Papa.”

My heart shatters, knowing Mama and Papa didn’t want us to say a word when they left. A cold sweat creeps down the back of my neck as I stare through the blaring light.

“Ah, I see,” he says, pulling me up by my arm and dragging me to the stairwell. Max takes Lilli, and Alfie stays close to me, taking my hand back into his—his grasp feels as if he needs me this time. He’s never seemed to need me.

“Our parents will return soon. We should stay here,” Max says.

The Gestapo growls and shakes his head. “You’re not staying down here. Raus! Get up! Let’s go. Up the steps.”

“Are you taking us to our parents?” I ask, pleading through every word.

“Halt die Klappe!” he shouts at us.

“Don’t say anything else,” Max whispers in my ear. “He won’t warn you to be quiet again.”

Once more, we walk through tunnels of black smoke, unable to see anything on either side of us except each other. Alfie is staring ahead, not once blinking, and Max is carrying Lilli. Alfie squeezes my hand, sending me a signal of the terror he and I are both feeling.

We step over charred bodies, dogs and cats flat as pancakes, and other unrecognizable objects along blocks of cement from collapsed buildings.

Everything in the distance is still burning despite the cease of explosions, but no one is fighting the fires. Even cars are sinking lower toward the ground, the rubber from tires melting like wax. Will we melt too? A sunburn is nothing compared to the searing heat against my skin.

Every muscle in my body aches and my head is foggy. I can’t stop coughing, causing a sharp pain in my lungs and I don’t know how much further I can walk.

Max pinches his fingernails into my palm. “Keep going. Just keep moving,” he whispers.

“Papers!” someone shouts in the distance. “Papers. Show your papers.”

How could they care about identification at a time like this? With people charred to pieces on the ground.

Max jerks my hand to the side, but not to get my attention. I turn just in time to watch him whip the rolled tube of papers against a burning car—our identifications are reduced to ash within seconds.

“There’s no proof of who we are now,” Max mutters.

“Take these children,” the Gestapo in front of us calls out. “All of them. Their parents have been put to work.”