Mischling

"The Jew has dark, curly hair; thick, dark eyebrows; and a bent nose, shaped like a figure 6."

That's what our Lehrer taught us today. I repeat these marks of identification proudly to my papa, revising the contents of today's lessons as he packs his clothing into a suitcase. I recite the knowledge with my back straight and voice clear, replicating the stance I would hold at one of my League of German Girls meetings, the stance of a proud Nazi. As I do so, I study my father's face, noting his pale, wrinkled skin; narrow, but kind, blue eyes; and blonde hair combed neatly beneath his cap. I proudly remark that, as far as fathers go, he is the epitome of Aryan features, a clear archetype of the superior race. I wish he would accompany me to League meetings more often, or walk me to school like Ingrid's papa – her father has met the Fuhrer, and Ingrid never hesitates in reminding us of the Jews he's exterminated. I wish I could do the same for my papa, but a university professor is not quite worthy of boasting.

'Papa, have you ever killed a Jew?' I question upon finishing my detailed recount of today's classes. My father's brow rises ever so slightly, elevating from above the rims of his silver glasses.

'Why, my little Mausebär, what makes you ask that?"

"Because I think I would quite like to have a father who has killed a Jew. Ingrid told the class that her father has killed a number of Jews, and the Fuhrer gave him a medal. Have you, papa?"

Papa holds the trousers he is folding up to his chest, hesitating before he speaks. "I think that's a question that I cannot yet answer, little hase. Now, can you please pack your bags? The cab will be here soon and I have already asked you many times."

With a disappointed sigh and a slow pivot, I turn away from my father, walking towards the coat room; I know by now that asking again does no good. My love for papa is indescribable, but there are secrets that he will always withhold. For example, despite my eleven years of age and the ten years since it happened, he still has not explained the sudden leaving of my mother, which has always troubled me. I have faint memories of her holding me in her arms, but I'm not sure whether those memories are fragments of fact or dreams. My visions of her are lovely though; I walk out of the schoolyard, and there – arms linked with my father's, standing by the gates waiting to greet me – is my mother. She sports a flowing blue dress to match her equally striking eyes, and wears her beautiful, blonde hair pinned back in soft curls. In her hands she clutches a bouquet of lilies, which she gracefully hands to papa as she spots me coming and runs elegantly towards me. She'll envelope me in the warmest of hugs, and whisper to me, calling me by pet names like papa does. 'Oh, my little mausebar, how I've missed you so!'

My day dreams accompany me to the coat room, where I survey the small space, noting the slanted ceiling; the flickering gas lights; and my suitcase on the top shelf. Balancing on a pile of books and reaching to my full extent, I heave the suitcase from above my head and lay it on my floor, stirring the dust that has coated the shelves for so long. For a moment, I simply watch the light from the window illuminate the dust as it drifts and coats the shelves, before noticing a small wooden box behind the place where my suitcase had once been. Enthused by sheer curiosity, I glance each way before reaching up and grabbing the box.

"Are you packing yet, little liebchen?" I hear papa call from the living room. I jump, unaware of how quickly my heart had been beating.

"Yes, papa! Just grabbing my suitcase!"

Quickly, as to avoid conflict, I unpack the contents of the box. I'm sure it must be a poorly hidden Weihnachten gift, stowed away in a cupboard until December. Toys and items of interest have become scarcer lately and the excitement of something new is rather overwhelming, and I attempt to slow my breathing, afraid that papa may hear the beating of my heart.

Aware that my father could appear any moment, I open the lid of the tiny box, to find a tarnished silver necklace and a photo of a woman and a baby.

"We really must be going soon, my mause! The taxi cab will be here shortly!"

With shaking hands and sweaty palms, I reach into the box and pull out the photograph. The handwritten caption on the back reads, 'My two liebchen, November 1929.' The photograph is shaky, but I can make out a small child, less than a year old, wrapped in a pink blanket identical to the one in my room.

"Come on, little hase! It will not be safe for you here if we miss the cab!"

In shock, I stare at the woman, who smiles lovingly at the child bundled in her arms. She stands naturally in a field of lillies, most likely for a picnic, and wears a flowing blue dress. But that's not what shocks me.

"Hurry, liebchin! We must go!"

She has dark, curly hair; thick, dark eyebrows; and a bent nose, shaped like a figure 6

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