Waltraut

1

Too Much Attention

Stand up, Waltraut.

Twenty-nine heads turn my way like pointers to magnetic north on a compass. Even if I’m at the back of this grade five classroom, I’m now the centre of attention.

I want to sink to the floor, crawl into a crack in the speckled grey linoleum. Instead, I rise, conscious that my frayed sweater sleeves are too short and that my bony wrists are not at all dainty like Betty-Ann’s. She wears a silver charm bracelet that tinkles every time she raises her hand. Betty-Ann raises her hand a lot. The only thing around my wrist are the rubber bands I pulled out of my hair as soon as I reached the big tree near our house. Papi insists that if I want long hair, I need to keep it in braids, but nobody else at school wears braids.

Miss Maple calls out, Hold up your picture, Waltraut. She cranes her long, skinny neck toward me. High, so we can all see.

I take a deep breath to slow the patter of my heart. My drawing is ugly. The colours are too intense and nothing has a proper shape. It’s a jumbled mess. The others will think I’m stupid; I can’t even draw a proper sunset. I have only six oil pastels. I had to blend the colours together, but my yellow and orange–smeared sun now looks more like a burning fire. And my sky! I wanted it to look streaked, like last night’s sky. There’s too much black mixed with the purple and blue, and now it just looks angry, more like a stormy lake—a stormy lake in the sky. How wacko is that?

Miss Maple’s going to make me the example of how not to draw. She’d asked us to use our imaginations, but my imagination is not to be trusted. I turn my picture face down and try to swallow. My throat hurts with the effort of suppressing my tears. I will not cry. Not while standing here at the back of the room with everyone staring at me.

No, Waltraut, not face down. Up! she demands.

Miss Maple, tall like a tree, or maybe like the whooping crane we learned about during Nature Studies, swoops toward me. Her long arms flap like wings as she swipes at the others’ drawings, turning them her way for a passing view. My urge to shrink grows stronger as she reaches out a scrawny, blue-veined hand for my picture. I reach too, miss, and it floats to the floor, face up, exposed for everyone to see.

I’m not prepared for what comes next. My teacher’s pincer claws grab one of my slouching shoulders and I cringe, but her strong hand radiates support—even approval—with a warm squeeze. Then she lets go and returns the fallen drawing back to me, carefully, like she’s afraid to damage it.

Miss Maple’s dark, heavy glasses slide halfway down her long, bony nose. Smile lines crinkle around friendly blue eyes. Is this even Miss Maple? The Miss Maple who rules at the front of the class with her sword-like pointer ready to poke at any student who dares slouch, whisper, or nod off?

Hold your drawing up high, Waltraut. Let everyone see.

I gulp and follow her instructions. My picture flutters in my shaking hands like a flag in the wind—a meek flag of surrender.

There’s some snickering. Miss Maple’s nostrils flare like a dog smelling its prey. Brian? Was that you?

No, Ma’am.

Betty-Ann?

No, Miss Maple.

Miss Maple clears her throat. Waltraut’s drawing shows effort, creativity, and originality. Wouldn’t you agree, class?

Nobody says a word.

I study the linoleum, looking for the crack into which I want to hide. Where did it go?

Our Waltraut here is a little artist. She didn’t have a sixty-four–colour pack of pastels like some of you. Not even a twenty-four pack. Miss Maple glances at my desk, at my worn-down stubs, and she grabs my tattered box. Six broken pastels. Only six, and she created all this colour.

Nervous coughing spreads through the room. Eyes turn from my streaky-sky sunset to me—to my sagging knee-highs, my frayed shoelaces, and my scuffed, worn out shoes. The only new thing I have is the hole made by my big toe sticking out of my left shoe. Is my left foot going to be bigger than my right foot? Is that a sign that I’ll grow up lopsided?

Through this drawing, our Waltraut here expresses her uniqueness. You should all take heed.

Some heads turn down and look at their own drawings. Others keep staring at me.

Betty-Ann, Miss Maple says, you look puzzled. Will you hold up your picture?

Betty-Ann’s scowl deepens. Then she holds her drawing high, a smile brightening her face, like she’s proud to be chosen. Surrounded by daisy-like petals, her perfectly round sun, sliced in half, beams with yellowness from its perch on a smooth carpet of green grass.

Can I explain it? Betty-Ann asks eagerly.

Certainly. Go ahead.

For my sun, I used the colour called goldenrod. There’s none called sunshine yellow, but if you use your imagination—she pauses and glances at me—you’ll see that my sun looks like a flower.

Miss Maple nods in agreement or encouragement.

Betty-Ann continues. For my sky,—she pauses and looks at the others—"I used the pastel labelled sky blue."

Me too, some voices shout.

Quiet. Let Betty-Ann explain.

And for my grass I used forest green. Betty-Ann clears her throat. My box doesn’t have grass green.

That’s quite fine, thank you. Miss Maple pushes her glasses up her nose as if to regain her teacher authority. Well done. She turns to peer at me through her pushed-up, thick lenses. Do you want to explain your colour choices, Waltraut?

I shake my head. How can I explain my colours? I invented them. Maybe when I get home, I’ll think up some names.

Betty-Ann’s still holding up her picture for all of us to admire, and I study her colours. Sky blue is beautiful, a perfect shade for the sky. Light and airy. Her grass looks perfect too. It doesn’t look like forest green. More like moss, like something to roll on. My grass looks prickly, its jagged lines dabbed with brown. Except for the yellow splotches which are supposed to be dandelions. Messy looking grass that no one would want to even sit on.

These are two different styles by two different artists. And yes, you are all artists.

An artist? Me? I’m no artist. I want to be a detective like Nancy Drew. I’d rather hide inside a book than be on stage with my art.

Miss Maple keeps talking. You are each unique and there is no right or wrong way to draw a sunset. There is no right or wrong way to be you. I want you to know, each of you, that you should never judge a picture by the number of colours in the artist’s box. Miss Maple takes both of our drawings and pins them to the strip of cork above the chalkboard. I’m embarrassed to have my work stared at, and worse, compared to Betty-Ann’s.

Betty-Ann, though, looks smug.

Miss Maple clears her throat. Both of these students followed my instructions. I asked you to draw a sunset. Study these drawings and come to your own conclusions.

As I jam my broken pastels back into my box, I sense Marko staring at me from across the aisle. He’s an immigrant from somewhere in eastern Europe, and everyone avoids him because he has cooties. I sure don’t want his germs contaminating me.

I sniffle but snot still dribbles out my nose. Thankfully, the buzzer goes just as the snot hits my desk. I pull my sweater down over the heel of my hand and smear the slimy shame away.

Art class is over.

Out on the playground, most of the swings have been thrown over the top bar. Betty-Ann squeaks slowly back and forth on the only usable one, while her friends wait their turn.

I stand by the doors, unsure of where to go.

Your shoelace is undone. Betty-Ann points at my feet, her charm bracelet jingling.

I look down at the offending lace, grimace, and bend over to tie it. This will take concentration because my fingers jiggle like jelly.

The swing stops squeaking.

She’s so clumsy.

I look up, unsure who’s spoken. Four girls stare down at me, the whites of their eyes cold like snowballs, irises beady like crows.

I crouch lower and huddle over my laces. When I glance around again, four sets of shiny black patent leather shoes have formed a semicircle around me—white socks brilliant in the morning sunlight. Their feet are like words on a page—eight words, black on white—each icy and accusing.

What’s taking you so long to tie a shoe? Definitely Betty-Ann’s voice. Giggles join her charm bracelet’s tinkle.

I focus on the stupid lace. It’s frayed and won’t fit back into the eyelet. I stick it in my mouth to moisten it and make it pointier.

Did you see that? Betty-Ann again.

Yeah. Disgusting.

I look up. That was Barbara. I thought she’d be kinder. She’d smiled at me earlier, but maybe now she knows better.

I finally get the stupid lace into the stupid eyelet and tie a stupid double knot instead of a bow. It’s faster—for now—but I’ll regret it later.

And she can’t even tie a bow. Betty-Ann again. Let’s go find something more intelligent to watch than a clumsy artist.

Good idea, Barbara says. Immigrants are boring.

Immigrant! Why can’t I lose that label? I’ve been at this school as long as any of them. I was even born here, but I’m still the outcast.

Betty-Ann leads her pack across the asphalt to a bucket of sports equipment. Who wants to try the hoola hoops?

I stay close to the ground, undo my knot, and let more tears fall. Maybe I can hide down here.

A raggedy pair of shoes, laces dragging, step into my range of vision. A boy!

I look up. It’s Marko. Marko, who saw my tears before and now sees more of them.

Hey! he says.

I quickly drop my head again.

Don’t bother tying them. Look. Mine are untied, and I don’t care.

Teacher gets mad, I mumble to the concrete.

So? You don’t have to be perfect.

I don’t? The idea of not trying to be perfect seems wrong. We have to try. Isn’t that why we go to school? Aren’t we all trying for 100 percent? To learn how to be perfect? Perfect speller, perfect artist, perfect reader—perfect!

I’ll never be perfect, especially not in arithmetic.

I keep my eyes on my shoes. Marko gets into a lot of trouble at school. Just being around him could get me into trouble. Marko’s cooties might spread.

You still crying? He cranks his head into an awkward upside-down tilt until we can see each other eye to eye. He grins, showing buck teeth, then straightens back up.

I stay down. The knot is now undone, and I make two perfect loops for a perfect bow. For a brief moment, I savour the feeling of success.

The loop on the left is bigger than that one. Marko points at my shoes.

Go away! I sniff. They’re good enough.

So why are you still crying, huh? You had the best drawing. You should be happy. What’s wrong with you? His brows knot and his voice softens. Huh?

I don’t know. Still crouching, I jump enough to extend my other foot. The shoe on that foot is nicely tied, but I undo it and retie it anyway.

You’re strange. I’m an immigrant too, just like you. Who cares?

My heart beats loudly, all the way to my ears. Marko’s like me? No. We’re not the same. I was definitely born in Canada, so I can’t be a DP—a displaced person. I stay crouched down.

I like myself just the way I am. He nudges one of his dirty, untied shoes closer to mine. Besides, why are you down there untying your tied laces? You definitely have a problem. Then the scuffed shoes shuffle away, frayed laces dragging behind.

I take a deep breath, admire my bows, and stand up.

Betty-Ann and Barbara spin with the hoops. Other girls play at skipping, their loud rhythmic chants of easy, ivy, o-ver interrupted by boys shouting on the soccer field.

Marko swings by himself on a monkey bar. Someone points at him and sings, "DP monkey! Eee, eee, eee."

Someone else calls out, Where’s your tail, Big Ears?

I move away from their taunts, feeling sorry for Marko. Mostly, though, I feel sorry for me. What day is it? Only Wednesday? Saturdays never come soon enough. That’s when I see my friends at German School,

Finding a stick, I run it along the chain-link fence, wishing I were on the other side. Anywhere but here, at Riverview Elementary.

2

Classroom Visitor

I don’t like myself. Not when I’m on this side of the chain-link fence. Not when I’m at English school. At English school, I’m stupid, ugly, and lonely. I have no friends. Marko doesn’t count.

The end-of-recess buzzer rings and I line up with the other Grade Fivers. They giggle, shove, and whisper. Everyone has a friend.

Here, you can cut in front of me. I don’t mind. Marko tugs at my sleeve and pulls me into the line just as the recess teacher walks by.

Mr. George slaps his baton in his hand, making sure the line is straight. I’ve no choice but to stand there in front of Marko. I don’t like getting this much attention from someone like him, someone who’s—

"Hey, DP, your girlfriend’s a Kraut."

I turn as Jason shoves Marko’s shoulder.

Me? Jason, the tallest boy in class and the best runner, is talking about me and Marko? Anger boils over. I am not!

Heads turn my way. I should have kept quiet.

In a singsong voice, Jason’s shadow, Shaun, teases, Marko and Waltraut sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

Mr. George is too near the end of the line straightening out stragglers to hear Jason’s taunt.

I clench my fists and open my mouth, about to shout something at Jason, when Marko puts his hand firmly on my elbow. Just look straight ahead and ignore them, he mutters.

I jerk my arm elbow away from his DP cooties, but I follow his advice.

Back in the classroom, after hanging up our jackets, we settle at our desks. I pretend to scratch an itch and rub Marko’s cooties from my elbow while studying the blackboard. It’s covered with numbers. Not arithmetic. Dates and other numbers.

War history! My favourite! Betty-Ann claps. My father was a pilot for the Royal Air Force. Her chin goes up and her head tilts as though she’s telling nobody in particular, and then she says, He got a medal for shooting down Germans.

I’m sure that statement was meant just for me.

My father was in the Royal Navy, Barbara says. He got medals too. Three of them. She glances over at me and whispers something to Betty-Ann. They both turn and stare at me with narrowed eyes.

Class, quiet now, Miss Maple demands. She jingles the brass bell on her desk. Everyone, find your seat. We have a special guest this morning, and I want you to be on your best behavior. Desks cleared off. No distractions.

She waits as we shuffle our notebooks away. Then she clears her throat. This morning, I want to welcome a Holocaust survivor, Rachel Bernstein.

Holo . . . what? Jason blurts out.

Shaun, always Jason’s mimic, explains. "Holo-ween survivor."

That’s enough, boys. Miss Maple clears her throat. We are going to listen to Mrs. Bernstein’s story about the war. It will be our introduction to the study of World War Two, a war that killed millions of innocent people. She points to the board with her index finger and smudges a long line of numerals. Was that a five, a six, or maybe an eight at the front?

Betty-Ann turns around and glares at me. I take deep breaths and stare at the figures on the blackboard until she turns away and whispers with Barbara.

There’s a hesitant tap on the classroom door.

Everyone, quiet now. Miss Maple’s heels click toward the door in a rhythmic staccato.

I continue rubbing my elbow, still feeling contaminated by Marko’s touch.

Do you know what the Holocaust is? Betty-Ann whispers loudly to Barbara.

Murder of Jews. Marko glances sideways at me.

Nazi stuff, Brian explains, also looking my way. Like with that Auschwitz trial from the news.

Now it seems like everyone’s looking my way. Not that I’m looking at them. I’m not looking at anyone, not even rubbing my elbow anymore. I feel like a rabbit spotted by a dog. Maybe if I stay motionless, if I don’t breathe or blink, I’ll be invisible.

Luckily, I’m saved by Miss Maple’s heels and another set of click clacks echoing behind her. We all look to the front. Tall, skinny Miss Maple stands beside a curvy, dark-haired woman who is short in spite of her heels. She’s got big eyes, exaggerated with makeup, and ruby red lips.

Children, please stand and say hello to Mrs. Bernstein.

We scratch back our chairs and rise. Good morning, Mrs. Bernstein.

Good morning, boys and girls. Mrs. Bernstein smiles with her whole face. Somehow, I expected a war survivor to look more beaten. Maybe even wounded. Papi has a jagged scar over his right eye, and once he showed me his leg wound. Sometimes it oozes pus and then he goes to the hospital. He never stays long, which is a good thing. Mami says we’d starve to death if he wasn’t working. Mami worries about food all the time because she starved after the war. Mrs. Bernstein doesn’t look hungry or wounded. Maybe her wounds have healed. Papi told me not to judge people by how they look.

Class, you may be seated. Miss Maple extends her long, blue-veined hands toward us.

Chairs screech and voices murmur.

Silently. I did not give you permission to talk.

Mrs. Bernstein flashes another big smile revealing gold fillings and lipstick on her teeth. Maybe she was biting her lips. Maybe she’s nervous.

Dear children. Tears brighten Mrs. Bernstein’s eyes and slowly meander down her rouged cheeks.

No one makes a sound. Not even a hiccup from Burpy Bruce, who always finds sounds to make that aren’t technically talking. He’s more animal than human, but even he has forgotten to be rude.

My children, when I was your age, I didn’t sit in a classroom. I didn’t wear pretty dresses and shiny shoes. I had no ribbons in my hair. She pulls a hand through her thick curls. I had no hair.

A sigh escapes Betty-Ann, and heads turn her way for a moment. I try to imagine a bald Betty-Ann but it’s impossible.

When I was your age, they shaved all the hair from my head. All my beautiful dark tresses. She bites her lips again. I was bald like a baby or maybe like an old man. When I was your age, I was old and sick. I wasn’t a child when I was your age.

Mrs. Bernstein shakes her head sadly. A siren outside cuts through the silence, drawing closer