Please Stay With Me

Lavi's Story: The Reichspfennig That Changed My Life

I shudder. I look up at the air and see the crescent moon. I walk to the end of the street and find a small corner that is slightly covered. My decision to sleep here is made; the rain will not show until tomorrow morning. I quickly unpin that abhorrent Judenstern and pin it to the inside of my skirt where no one will be able to see it. Once I finish a mouthful of bread, I tuck away the loaf, and my eyelids start to close. “Hallo.”

I open my eyes to see the bright blue eyes of a Nazi stare back at me. The black and red swastika was like a deadly bloodstain. “Guten Abend Herr.” I say. He seems to be roughly seventeen or eighteen and his hair is a shade of blond in the night air.

“Kennkarte.” Your identity document. His eyes are full of expression, stern, but a bit scared anyways.

“Das habe ich nicht. Es tut mir leid.”I don’t have any, I’m very sorry.

“Warum hast du es nicht?”Why not? His voice is harsh, stern, perfected. I have an acceptable excuse. It has been on my mind for the last few hours.

“Ich lief weg.” I let my voice grow thick with acted tears. I ran away. I can see the innocence in this young Nazi. I won’t have problems now.

“Das ist nicht klug.” He says softly. “Was ist deine Name?”

My real name is too Jewish, too obvious. I swiftly think of a new one. “Mein Name ist Leni Fuchs.” German and all too believable. My real name is Lavi Brickner.

“Viel Glück, kleines Mädchen.” Good luck, little girl. He bends down and gives me a kiss on the cheek. His hand met mine and he put a fifty Reichspfennig coin in my palm. He then walks away without a look back. I watch him go, firmly gripping the coin. I look at the metal for a moment and then stuff it in my shoe along with my dagger. My eyes close happily.

I wake up the next morning. The early winter sun makes the frozen air sparkle. Near the myriad of glass and ruins, I realize that my façade of a runaway won’t last long. My picture is in all files. I slowly unpin my Judenstern from the inside of my skirt and fasten it to the indicated place near my heart on my jacket. I then take another chunk of bread and stuff it in my mouth. It is grainy and hard, but it feeds. It is silent. Only the usual quietness of the morning is heard.

Morning birds, babies, good morning nothings, screams.

More screams. Piercing, bloodcurdling. A gunshot. Crying.

I can hear their boots once again over the gravel and children. Whimpering children. A sickening sound to my ears. It reminds me of home. I stand up and just as my feet leave the ground to start running, someone grabs me by the shoulder. I halt, almost falling on my face. I look up and see, not a kind face, but one of a man too old and strict to care. “Bitte.” I croak.

“Mitkommen.” His voice is gravelly and harsh. I cannot help but stumble along, knowing the gun is being pointed to my back. He pushes me into a group led by the Nazis, and made up of people with the same filthy, yellow star.

I gaze at the boy, walking next to me. His hair is the bright yellow of lemons, and his eyes a murky seaweed green. “Hallo.” The boy says. There is brightness to his voice, a happiness that seems to spark with optimism.

“Hallo,” I mumble. His face is thin and covered in signs of dirt, exhaustion, and emaciation. I feel sorry for him and rip off a chunk of bread under my coat so I can pass it to him. Thankfully, the boy does not make a scene and discreetly stuffs it into his mouth. He is quiet, and after ten minutes of walking, he reaches over and grabs my hand. I don’t pull away, though that is my first instinct, I am happy for the warmth. His grip is nervous; he is scared of the inevitable. I look over and see his pale face taut with fear, staring out at the trains. His seaweed eyes are wide with cold and fear.

The trains are up ahead, smoke billowing out of their chimneys. There is a crowd of people standing near, emaciated, and starving. Some are crying, shaking. “Was ist deine Name?” I ask the boy what his name is. I need to take his mind off things. I know that the Nazis might hurt me, but I feel so sorry for the boy.   

“Aryeh,” His voice is shaky.

“Ich heiße Lavi –” Suddenly gunshots fall. The large crowd separates into groups, huddling together. Screams are heard through the enclosed spaces. The cluster of people that encircled me has suddenly disappeared. I stare around, gazing into the now empty space around me. I am in clear shot. A line of armed Nazis stand before me. I see the melancholy, blue eyes and bloodstained swastikas.

Unthinkingly and numb I reach down. They cock their guns; the metallic click is piercing in the cold. I grab the coin out of my shoe and hold it up. The remorse in his eyes is all too clear. I pocket the coin and point to the mustard-yellow star pinned onto my coat. I know that he is looking. Out of nowhere, I feel a hand grasping for mine. It is Aryeh. I take a final look at the line of guns, and follow Aryeh to the trains. I crawl into a nearly full cart. I see disease, age, terror, starvation. It seems to take over my senses and animalize them.

My eyes close, I take big breaths through my nose. Only the smell of sickness and hopelessness breaks through. Then the sound of screeching metal pierces the sounds of crying. They are closing the latches. I squeeze Aryeh’s hand as a flutter of movement to the left startles me.

A waving hand. A savior.