Little Girls, Big Guns

I am often asked,

“you were so young, weren’t you scared?”, or “why did you do it?”

“I did what I had to do.” I’ll lie.

It was not what ‘I’ had to do, I did what had to be done. I woke up and walked down the same streets that I had sauntered through my whole life and when that fateful day came… the once familiar streets were stomped upon by heavy black combat boots. I remember the day I heard that first clunk.

They were clunky. Everything about them.

I will never forget the very first time they knocked on our door. I had never heard that kind of knock before, the kind that sounds like it could knock your whole house down. A forceful presence busted through the door as his lifeless gaze met mine. His stare was like nothing I had ever seen before. It was… empty. A smile emerged from one cheek to the other as he clasped his hands behind his back and peered through our home. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

I couldn't help but wonder why. Why are they here? Why is he here? We were so careful. Just relax, it could just be a random check. I felt my sister looking at me as entire body tightened. Move. I couldn’t.

My mother turned to us, “stay downstairs my little ladies. Please sir let me show you the second floor.”

My heart dropped so quickly it practically fell right through those thin plywood floorboards. Just breathe. I hoped they were. I couldn’t hear a peep.

My thoughts were interrupted by the alternating sound of the soldier’s boots, clunk, clunk, clunk, descending the staircase. Just breathe. And just like that he clunked right out that door.

The thick air filled my lungs once again as my mother, sister and I fell into a pile of relief filled hugs. It took a moment to find my feet again but as we stood up my mother turned to us and said,

“We made it.”

This time. I thought.

I felt my sister’s smile, “Come on, let’s get to work.”

He’s just a bully, not so scary, just like any other bully. Like Patty Bakker.

Patty Bakker was the daughter of the butcher down the street. Mama always made my sister walk with me to the butcher shop. No bullies ever tried to take her down, she was tough, like Mama.

Me, eh, not so much.

I can practically hear the patter of Patty’s footsteps echoing through my head as I rerun the memory of her barreling towards me while I brace myself for the tackle. I try to run away but she knew the streets just as well as I did. When my sister found out what Patty was doing, let's just say she was not happy. The following day, my sister insisted that she accompany me to the butcher shop. As the pitter of Patty’s little feet approached. My sister's words pierced Patty’s little bullying spirit so effectively that she never bullied me again.

They’re just bullies… that's all.

Another knock interrupted the flow of memories encircling my mind. It was that special knock. The knock that gives me both hope and fear of uncertain death. Who knows, death is probably better than living in this waking nightmare.

Mama fixed us some tea, she laid out six cups and delivered the same knock to the plywood floorboards. Our visitors emerged in a fit of dust and creaking sounds. Their eyes filled with relief as they surveyed the kitchen and joined us at the table.

When I look at them, I remember. I remember when Patty Bakker’s father was dragged from his store as if he was nothing, not even human, just another piece of meat. All because… why? I don’t think I will ever understand why the Nazi’s feel entitled to our home, to take our belongings, our business, our lives, all because we are Jewish. I’ll always wonder what happened to Patty Bakker, I was young and weak then.

I will never be weak again.

Mama’s hands traced my soft freckle filled cheeks as she weaved my hair into tight braids.

“It’s time girls,”

I sat in silence, looking into the eyes of our visitors.

“Wh-what if I can’t do it.”

I turned to the little five year old girl sat across the table in front of me. Her innocent eyes framed her pale round face as she stared at me with tears welling.

Her voice broke, “Miss.”

All five remaining pairs of eyes were fixed on little Mary. She hadn’t uttered a sound since she arrived. Shocked, Mary had the full attention of the room.

I tried my best to let the shock fall from my face, “Please, call me Janet.”

“Okay, Janet,” she continued. “My sisters told me that we are alive because of you.”

“Oh that’s hardly true, it was my–”

My sister interrupted, “It was you. I never would have made it out of there without your quick thinking, I never would have thought to say I was looking for our ‘dog’”

“ Well I guess I–”

“Saved us, yes you did.”

“Hardly.”