When a baby cries, you take care of it. Change its diaper, feed it, things like that. Just remember —”
“No talking,” both girls said at the same time. They started to giggle until Monica gave them a hard look.
“Stop it. It’s not a joke,” Monica said. “Now let’s get to work.”
They walked to their sections. Johanna read the names of her babies: Rebecca, Angela, Gertrude, and Joseph. They were all about the same age, between one and three months old.
During the next few hours, Johanna learned more about her charges. Rebecca was the oldest and the most restless. She liked to lie on her stomach, raise her head, and look around her with big, blue eyes. Wisps of thin blond hair covered her almost-bald head and she held onto Johanna with a fierce grip. Joseph and Gertrude cried almost constantly. Angela lay quietly in her crib, and didn’t seem interested in anything.
Johanna was determined to take good care of her babies, but it was harder than she had expected. No sooner was one baby quiet than another one would begin to fuss and cry. She felt like the juggler she had seen at the fair last year. She wished she could work on her lace, but at first she was too busy and then she was too tired.
A servant brought them lunch — bread, cheese, and milk. Later, another maid came into the nursery and took out the baskets of dirty diapers and clothes for washing. Johanna felt as if the day would never end. Finally, as it grew dark, the night girls arrived and the day girls were allowed to leave the nursery. They walked to the kitchen for the evening meal.
They washed their hands at the washbasin and sat down at the table. Johanna was amazed by the luxury she saw around her. Water was piped into the kitchen, and a huge earthenware stove called a kachelofen was used instead of the fireplace and hearth Johanna had at home.
“What do you think?” Cecile asked, looking around to make sure Monica was out of the room.
“It was a long day,” Johanna said.
“For me, too,” Cecile said. “It doesn’t seem natural, to be so quiet around babies.”
“I know. I wanted to talk to the babies. I had to stop myself every minute.”
“I felt the same. You know, I’m used to talking a lot. Mother calls me a regular chatterbox.”
“Not me. I like to read or work on my lace,” Johanna said.
“Then this place must be perfect for you.”
“I guess. But it’s hard for me to be so quiet with babies, too.”
Just then, Monica walked into the room. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.” Cecile said.
“Well, in that case,” Monica said. She sat down on the bench opposite the girls, a sullen look on her face.
“Here’s your supper,” Frau Hartmann said.
“What’s this?” Johanna asked, poking at a pale object in her stew.
Frau Hartmann answered, “Why, they’re potatoes, my dear. Have you never eaten ’em before?”
Johanna shook her head. “At home, Mama made stew with cabbage and onions, and sometimes turnips or carrots.”
“Try them. They’re delicious,” Frau Hartmann said. “My cousin grows them on his farm in Alsace. He says they’re like manna from heaven.”
“This stew isn’t manna, and this orphanage isn’t heaven,” said Monica. “Anyway, potatoes give me gas.”
“Watch your tongue, young lady,” said Frau Hartmann. “In my kitchen, I expect good manners.”
“Sorry.” Monica glared at Frau Hartmann, lowered her eyes, and picked at her food with her spoon.
“Try it,” Cecile urged. “We grow them in Denmark, too. They’re good.”
Johanna had heard people talk about potatoes. They said you could get sick from eating them; that you might even catch leprosy. She looked over at Cecile and decided. “All right. I will.” She picked up a chunk of potato with her spoon, blew on it, and chewed it slowly. “It’s delicious!”
“It is delicious,” said Cecile, between bites. “Frau Hartmann, is this pork? It’s my favourite!”
“Why yes, my dear. I was lucky this morning. Those were the last pork hocks the butcher had.”
Johanna choked on the food in her mouth. She started to cough.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Cecile. “You look green.”
“It’s nothing,” said Johanna, putting down her spoon. “It went down the wrong way.” Vomit rose in her throat. How could I have been so stupid? she thought. How could I have forgotten that the food here wouldn’t be kosher? I can’t eat pork. It would break all the rules I grew up with. But if I don’t eat it, they’ll know I’m Jewish. Only one day had passed, but she wanted to get up and run away and never see this place ever again.
Monica was looking at her strangely. “You act like you’ve never eaten pork before.”
“Of course I have,” said Johanna. She could feel her face getting red. “It just went down the wrong way.”
“Well, if that’s all it is,” said Monica. She leaned forward and waved her spoon in Johanna’s face. Johanna could smell the sour sweat from her unwashed body. “You’d better not be one of those Christ-killing Jews.”
“Leave her alone,” said Frau Hartmann. “Eat your supper.”
Johanna couldn’t speak. She could only shake her head. She felt ashamed — not because she was Jewish, but because she was pretending not to be. She sighed. She suspected that pretending not to be Jewish would be more exhausting than she had imagined.
“My brother says you can’t trust Jews,” said Cecile. “That they’re always trying to cheat him.”
“I hate Jews!” said Monica. “They’re dirty and always smell horrible.”
“I heard,” Cecile whispered, “that they have horns and a devil’s tail.”
“That’s so backward!” Monica sniffed. “People don’t believe that anymore. Shows you’re from the country.”
“I’m not! I’m from Altona!”
“Country enough.”
“It’s not!” said Cecile.
“That’s enough chatterin’ like a bunch of foolish birds!” said Frau Hartmann. “Be quiet and eat this good food I cooked.”
Johanna couldn’t listen to the horrible things they were saying about her people any longer. “I’m not hungry,” she said as she stood up. “I’m going to my room.”
“What’s the matter with her?” Monica said as
