KidLit Forum

This is the story of Marysia, a little jewish girl that lived in Poland during WW2 and how she escaped being killed.
It is heartbreaking to imagine how children see war, because here is not 'only' about bullying or discrimination, it is about extermination.
The despair and the fear was everywhere: 'The streets looked so normal, like on any other day; the
weather was beautiful, but here, in our hearts, were feelings of
helplessness, despair, and—fear'.
'The fear of the adults also infected us
children. Everyone talked and talked, and I listened without understanding.'
'They paid no attention to me and
talked about things I shouldn’t have heard, about poison having
been prepared, about the fact that they were ready to take it.'

Marysia remembered how her father cried with sobs, not being able to speak, and how she told her mother o run away when they sent her away.
She lived in several houses, with strangers, and some of them knew she was a Jewish, but she had to totally forget about this, and to assume her new identity, her first step she made in that way was to be baptized as a Catholic, without her parents knowing it.
'“So this is the girl; she doesn’t
look it.” (No, I didn’t “look it”;
“not looking it” in those days
meant not looking like a Jew.)'

“You are keeping a Jewish child! Yes, don’t deny it, I had a good
look at her while she was playing; she made such Jewish gestures
with her hands!” Mrs. Ch. kept her composure. “But, my dear
woman, don’t say that! The other children won’t want to play
with her!” The woman, taken aback by such a response, said
nothing more and walked off.

Being always questioned and hearing people's critics towards Jewish people, Marysia started to think that it would be more credible if she would talk the same, that she would clear up any suspicions.
She even half-believed in the inferiority of her origins:
'this time
it was a home for Jewish children. I looked at my new surroundings
with distrust and even with a measure of disdain. The
dark, curly hair and Semitic features of the children bothered
me. Weeks went by, and I slowly grew accustomed to my new
surroundings, but I never went to town with my new friends,
who looked Jewish.'
This is a common mechanism that happens also with immigrant children: some tend to change their name into a more 'local' alternative, (and we had this discussion in the book), they refuse to speak their mother tongue, or they pretend they don't speak it, (also happens here), and they detach themselves from their minority group, often saying "they" not "us". (from a Spanish study on immigrant accommodation in schools). Although here is understandable, because being a proud Jew meant a dead Jew.

Suddenly, on another street, around the corner, I saw a
mass of people, so dense that it almost didn’t seem to be moving.
There was something unreal about it. No sound was coming
from there, but when I looked more closely, I saw that this
mass was moving, heading in some direction. I could even make
out individual figures of women, children, and men, their bundles
and suitcases. I didn’t understand what it was, so I asked
Wanda’s grandmother. “They’re Jews, don’t look in that direction,”
she said. So these were Jews, and I was not supposed to look
in their direction. Obediently I turned my eyes away and didn’t
look “there” anymore, even though the streets ran parallel.