The Wrong Boy Read Online Free PDF Page B

her right hand to reveal a metal film canister, “… this, we didn’t talk about.”
    “You with the blond hair. How old are you?” A man with a shaved skull and a weeping eye stepped into the queue beside me. He wore the same striped rags as the porters, and a yellow star was stitched over his left breast.
    “Fifteen.”
    “You’re sixteen.” He looked me in the eye and spoke slowly. “Remember. Sixteen.” And then he was gone.
    Mother, Erika and I neared the front of the queue. A tall man in a long, black, leather coat was directing the women and children in front of us to his right or left. He had dark, stony eyes and perfectly parted hair. In his gloved hand he held a stick, which he wielded like a baton. He reminded me of the conductor of the Budapest Philharmonic Orchestra.
    Erika turned to me. “The conductor just sent that woman with the limp to the left, that little boy too. If you’re an adult and you’re fit,” she whispered, taking a step forwards, “he points you to the right. If you’re a kid or you’re sick he sends you to the left, to those factories over there.” She pointed to a cluster of low brick buildings.
    “So, the left is factory work,” I whispered, “and the right … hard labour?”
    In front of us, the young girl from the cattle car stood before the podium, the tube of red lipstick clutched tight in her hand. The conductor glanced at her, raised his baton and pointed to the left.
    “
Anyu
and I will be sent to work outdoors. We won’t have a choice,” Erika spoke quickly. “You do. Say you’re fifteen.”
    I looked to my left, at the row of squat buildings, the last of which belched smoke from a giant chimney. The sky had grown light and I was dizzy with hunger. I thought of mother’s stovetop and the fried eggs she’d cooked for me the morning we’d left the ghetto, and how I’d left them on my plate, untouched. Maybe I’d be put to work in the factory, maybe soon I’d be fed.
    We stepped up to the podium. The conductor beckoned Mother and Erika forwards.
    “I’ll find you,” Erika whispered, pulling her hand from mine. The Conductor glanced at them and waved his wand to the right. Mother didn’t turn around to say goodbye.
    It was my turn. I blotted the sweat from my face with my sleeve and stepped forwards. The conductor took one of my braids in his gloved hand and smiled.
    “
Goldenes haar
.” He looked into my eyes. His voice was smooth, a honeyed baritone. “
Bist du Judin
?” I nodded. Yes, I was a Jew.
    “
Wie alt bist du
?” I opened my mouth. The conductor wanted to know how old I was.

    I was directed to join the women on the other side of the podium. Erika frowned when she saw me. “You said you were sixteen?”
    I nodded. “I couldn’t leave you to look after Mother alone,” I said. But I was lying. Erika didn’t need me. I needed her. I needed my big sister to keep looking out for me. Father couldn’t, Mother wouldn’t, and I didn’t know how to take care of myself. Not here.
    Erika took my hand and I took Mother’s, and together we walked towards a sign that read
Work Camp
, and through a door marked
Reception Block
. A large, grim woman with a green triangle on her dress took our names and told us to wait. Dozens of women waited beside us. The summer sun shone through the windows and seeped through the walls and the room grew hot. The sound of a dripping tap echoed across the room. A note above the tap warned against drinking the water. A woman cupped her hands under the spout.
    “
Kannst du nicht lesen, du idiot
!” A girl with a green triangle on her dress and mud-coloured eyes grabbed the woman by the back of her collar and yanked her from the sink. “Can’t you read?” she yelled, and then she punched her. “
Wer kann Deutsch
?” She swung around to address us, wiping her bloodied fist in the folds of her skirt. She wanted to know who amongst us spoke German. I’d studied the language at school but I kept my head down.