LITMIR.BIZ

      School is great. I copy the other children all the time. When the teacher says, “Sit in a circle,” I sit on the floor with the other children. When she says, “Go to your desks,” I watch the other children and imitate. Of course there is much I don’t understand. When the teacher reads to us, I recognize only occasional words and when she asks me questions I often shrug. I don’t understand many questions or instructions. Some of the children call me “dummy” and poke fun at the slow kid. My pronunciation causes many giggles. Yet I know that I am learning and I’m ecstatic despite the teasing. The teacher praises generously when I succeed at something.

      One day our teacher reads a book about jumping frogs. I have no clue what the story is about. Then she has three of us come to the front of the room and stand in a line. She gives some instructions and then says, “One, two, three, jump.” “Four,” I shout just as the other children jump.

      “Can you jump?” asks the teacher.

      I shrug.

      “Jump,” she says and gives a little hop.

      “Yump,” I say and imitate the teacher’s jump. Student giggles.

      “Wonderful! Now say ‘jump.’”

      “Yump.” The class is almost out of control with laughter. I try desperately to hold back the tears but a few escape. I quickly wipe them on my sleeve hoping that no one notices.

      Our teacher makes some weird sounds, slowly saying all the parts of ‘jump.’ There is a sort of ‘d’ sound followed by a sort of ‘g’ sound. Does she know that the sound she wants from me doesn’t exist in German? I have never heard it.

      “Now, say, ‘jump,’” she encourages.

      “Dgump,” I try and she claps and all the children follow her cue and applaud. Slowly I am the butt of fewer and fewer jokes.

      We sing Christmas songs and I help the students pronounce O Tannenbaum. There is a short Christmas vacation during which I try to read books the teacher has lent me. Mutti helps. Her English from high school is so good that she can read almost all the words. With some of the food money from the HIAS, Mutti buys a Wörterbuch that has words in English and in German. She teaches me to say Wörterbuch in English: “Dictionary.”

       XI. THE EYE PATCH

      1940 STARTS WITH MUTTI finding a job in a flower factory. She makes flowers out of paper and hates it. But she earns some money.

      Then Papa finds a job as a helper in a large commercial bakery. He fills in wherever he’s needed. He earns a little money, is delighted to be working and loves the camaraderie of the large bakery. Every night he comes home dirty and has to take a bath. Mutti insists that he walk directly from the front door to the bathroom. Then she makes him leave his clothes in a bag.

      One evening, the HIAS lady visits and tells Mutti that she has made an appointment with an eye doctor. Mutti takes a day off from work and we go to a very fancy office with framed pictures on the walls and leather chairs and magazines all around. The doctor insists that there is nothing wrong with my eye. “It’s just lazy.”

      The doctor gives me an eye patch to cover the good eye. “This will strengthen the weak one.” With my left eye covered, I’m totally blind. I bump into walls and chairs and into Mutti. I cannot see anything but a tiny bit of light through my right eye. I cry. I scream. I throw the patch on the floor. “I won’t wear this. Ever.”

      The doctor and Mutti persuade me that it’s for my own good. I should try. One day my vision will be perfect because I tried. At dinner I spill everything. I can’t find the food. Mutti believes that I’m sabotaging the plan for a cure. I eat a piece of bread. Then I’m sent to bed.

      The next morning Mutti puts the eye patch on my face as soon as I wake up. I can only eat a piece of bread for breakfast. Our landlady, Mrs. Strauss, suggests an apple. That works.

      Mutti and Papa go to work and tell me to be careful when I walk to school. I hold on to the railing as I feel my way down the steps. Somehow, from memory, I get to the first corner without falling. Then I’m stuck. I know there is a traffic light but I can’t see it. I don’t dare cross against the light. I wait and think. Finally I decide to remove the patch.

      Once across I have to make a difficult decision. Shall I cheat by simply keeping the patch off until I get to school—or even until I get home at the end of the day? I can’t cheat. I replace the patch after orienting myself carefully. I reach the next corner without any great calamity. I bump into just one person.

      I remove the patch to cross the next street and continue to school. After several bumps and falls, I find my way into the school building. A classmate guides me to the correct room. The teacher wants an explanation and half in English, half in German, I try to explain.

      I sit quietly at my desk. I can’t read. I can’t find my own way to the bathroom. I certainly can’t jump. During the first few days the children feel sorry for me. “Poor Freddy.” “Can I help you with your lunch?” “I’ll help you find your coat.” After a few days my classmates lose interest in helping me. Then I become bait for teasing. They taunt me by reciting Three Blind Mice over and over.

      And I’m not learning. I alternate between sulking and crying. One evening I ask our landlady’s son, Walter, clearly older, wiser and more experienced, if I should cheat. We sit on his bed with the door closed and I ask if it would be OK to put the patch in my pocket when Mutti isn’t watching.

      I’ve never seen happy-go-lucky Walter look sad. However, his response to my question is a sad look. He seems about to cry. His lip quivers. “Manfred,” he says, speaking to me in German and using my German name, “We German Jews are different. Our parents have suffered a great deal and they are starting a new life in a strange land. They have left their hopes and dreams, their families and friends, in Hannover. We are the only children they have, the only family they have, and we have to be extra good. It isn’t fair to us but we are their future. They’ve placed all their dreams in our laps. You and I have to be extra good and extra smart and extra successful.”

      Tears come like a sudden torrent. I don’t understand everything Walter said. But I feel the enormous burden he has put on me. The weight makes me feel small—compressed. I sob.

      Walter puts his arm around me and holds me close. He’s much taller than I am. He’s taller than Papa and Mutti. “I know how you feel,” he says. “I’ve tried to cheat, but I couldn’t disobey either. We’re destined to be good boys. Blame it on the Nazis.”

      The next day is no different, nor is the next week. I listen as the lessons continue and I hear the other children at their many activities. I refuse to leave my seat and, of course, I can’t read or write or draw. The teacher assigns different children to help me with lunch and with my coat. She assigns one boy who lives near me to walk me home.

      After a month, I know some tricks to survive. I count steps. I learn to walk along walls to find the end of a hallway. I learn to dress and eat by feel. I learn to recognize voices. But I’ve pretty much stopped learning language and I’m very unhappy. The teacher tries to cheer me up, but I’m deep-down sullen. I won’t talk much and I sit with my head on the desk and I cry. I blame myself for being lazy. The lazy eye must be my fault.

      About two months into the torture, Mutti visits with the teacher. The HIAS lady is there to translate. “I’ve called you in because we can no longer keep Freddy in our school. The principal agrees that Freddy is a disruption to the class and is unable to learn while he cannot see.” She explains that before the

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