Birthdays, Bread and Buccaneers

Birthdays, Bread and Buccaneers

By

Peter Alexander James

“What books are you going to take?” Henri asked before turning his gaze to the scab on his knee.

“She won’t have room for books, Henri,” Tova snapped. “She needs dresses.”

“She’s still gonna need something to read,” Henri answered, picking the scab.

His picking reminded her of the previous summer, when she had found him crying on the stairs after being bullied for being chubby. She had sung the lullaby her mother sang to her every night while stroking one of his hands. With the other, he picked at the thread of his socks. Henri was a good friend to have in the neighbourhood, because leftover pastries from his father’s bakery often found their way to the kids hanging about the courtyard. The courtyard was a perfect place to eat treats as they could wash their sticky fingers and lips in the water pump before dinner.

“Are you going to London on your own?” Louis asked.

“No, silly, Papa, Mama and Benjamin are coming with me,” Malka laughed.

“When are you leaving?” Tova asked. “Not before my birthday, I hope.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your present before I go,” Malka sighed.

“Good, because I really put effort into finding a doll that looks like you. Every mother wants a daughter that looks like her. But I’m sure your mother got over it.”

Malka rolled her eyes and caught Louis looking at her chest.

“Will you have to wear that star in London?” Louis asked.

“I don’t think so, I’ll ask and if not, you can have it. I really don’t understand why you like it,” Malka answered, picking at the thread that kept it sewn to her chest.

“It looks like a medal, and until I earn a medal of my own for saving Paris, that would do,” Louis grinned.

“It ruins every outfit,” Tova said, placing her hand on top of her star.

“But what books are you going to take to London?” Henri asked again.

Malka smiled, staring up at the sky ablaze with the dying tangerine rays of midsummer. Amongst the clouds that soaked up the warm colours, birds flew back to the quieter parts of the city to settle for the night.

Malka’s gaze fell from the heavens to Henri.

“Well, we’re sailing to England, so a book about the high seas seems fitting,” Malka said, smiling with all her charm to him.

His round face turned pink and he grinned at her.

Henri had worked a month in his father’s bakery to save up to buy Malka a copy of Treasure Island, his favourite book. He fancied himself a swashbuckling buccaneer, his plan B, should his father pass on the bakery to his older brother Pierre instead of him.

“Malka, come up now please,” her mother called from their apartment.

“Five more minutes Mama,” she yelled back.

“Why would I say now, if I meant in five minutes Malka?”

Malka sighed. “See you tomorrow.”

“Can I walk you up?” Henri asked.

“You can walk me up, Henri,” Tova said, straightening her dress.

“Nah, your apartment smells weird.”

Tova huffed and turned to Louis, who kept quiet.

“Thank you, Henri,” Malka said, smiling towards Tova.

On the stairs Henri stopped. “I’m going to miss you while you're away,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I’m not good at writing, but I’ll do my best if you want to write.”

“I’d like that,” she said, slowing down to keep pace with Henri. “But keep in mind, I’ll be watching plays in the West End most nights, so I might take awhile to answer.”

“That’s alright, I’ll wait,” he panted. “But if you see a skull-and-crossbones flag on the way to England, remember to tell Captain Smollett.”

“Who?”

“Captain Smollett, from Treasure Island. He’ll keep you safe.”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

The door to the apartment was ajar and both kids walked in. The family was sitting round the dining table ready to eat.

“Henri, go wash if you are joining us,” Mama said.

“No, thanks Mrs. Dreyfish. Mother says I’m not to eat at other people’s houses anymore.”

“It’s Dreyfus,” Papa said, chuckling.

“It doesn’t matter what you’re having Mr. Dreyfish.”

A moment of silence drifted through the room as no one knew how to move the conversation on.

“Bye Henri,” Malka said and took her place at the table.

“Bye Malka,” he said and dashed out of the apartment.

“What a strange boy,” Mama said and served the food.

After supper and a lullaby, Malka was tucked into bed, but before her mother turned off her light Malka sat up.

“Mama, what is Treasure Island about?”

“Pirates, my sweet. You can read it tomorrow,” she said and turned off the light.

“I’m gonna have to read it, aren’t I?” Malka whispered into her pillow.

Mama had left the window open to allow the cool air to drift into her room. Malka liked to listen to the sounds of people on the street.

It was unusually quiet this evening. All she could hear except for the odd car rattling over the cobbles was the Friedmann's son playing his violin. Tonight the notes that fell from his bow seemed slow and sad.

They bore with them a reminder that she was leaving. She was excited to see a new city, but the thought of missing Henri and the others made her hug her duvet tighter. To ease her mind she turned once again to imagining Henri sitting beside her in a West End theatre, his face beaming at her as the lights dimmed. Tonight, she leaned over and held his hand in the darkness.

A terrible banging startled Malka awake. The banging stopped. She turned to her window. It was shut and the board that blocked the light from exiting the room was firmly closed. The hammering started again. Someone was pounding on the front door, pounding so hard it vibrated throughout the apartment.

She sat up and saw light seeping in from behind her bedroom door. She could hear her parent’s muffled voices passing her room.

A loud voice yelled. She couldn’t understand it. It was followed by a terrible commotion of crashing and screaming.

She slipped under her duvet and held her hands to her ears. The voices grew louder. She pressed her hands harder, so tight it felt like her head might pop.

Her bedroom door burst open and her mother darted to her bed.

“Malka, wake up. Get your suitcase and pack an outfit and one toy.” Mama's face was pale and her lip was trembling. “Quickly, please.”

Malka nodded and slipped out of bed and over to the wardrobe.

She plonked her flower-pattern suitcase on the bed. They must be leaving for England now, so she packed her London dress, the burgundy one she had imagined wearing in the West End.

She piled in socks and underwear too. Her prettiest doll was placed on top and she grabbed her favourite book, Babar the Elephant, from her bookshelf. The book beside it on the shelf fell with a thud.

Treasure Island.

Henri would be heartbroken if she didn’t read it. She grabbed it and crammed it into her little suitcase. The suitcase wasn’t built for clothes, dolls and books, so it wouldn’t shut. She was forced to climb onto the case to close the lid.

She pulled the case from the bed with both hands and dragged it out into the kitchen. Benjamin was watching their parents discussing something.

“What did you bring?” Malka whispered to Benjamin.

“Not now Malka,” Benjamin said, not taking his eyes off Mama and Papa.

“Come children,” Mama said, putting on her fine fur coat.

“Papa, tell Mama it’s much too hot for that coat,” Malka said.

Papa knelt down to Malka, his eyes glistened. “She looks beautiful in that coat. She wore it the day we moved in.” He smiled. “I think we should let her wear it.” He looked back at Mama, smiling through tears. Papa wiped his cheek before turning back to Malka.

“I think both my girls should look stunning this morning.” He pulled a silver necklace from his pocket and put it round Malka, locking the latch behind her neck. “There, beautiful.”

“It’s Mama’s.”

“You look after it sweetheart,” Mama said.

As Mama passed Papa his hat, their fingers intertwined, which seemed to steady his shaking hands. Their eyes locked for a brief moment. He whispered to her and their foreheads touched before he kissed her.

They hurried down the stairs, meeting the Friedmanns and their son before entering the dimly lit courtyard.

Men in blue uniforms ordered them to wait in the middle of the courtyard as other families from the apartments joined them. Tova was in her father’s arms, still asleep. Her mother was stroking her hair trying to rouse her.

“Mr. Dreyfus!” a voice yelled from one of the stairways. It was Pierre, Henri’s older brother. He rushed towards them with something in his arms, but a man in a blue uniform intercepted him, pushing him back.

Pierre exploded into a rage, yelling and pushing back. Both men exchanged angry words before Pierre pushed past the man in the uniform and made his way to Papa.

“Here,” Pierre said, still huffing from the argument. “From my father.” He passed a small basket wrapped in cloth to Papa.

Papa unwrapped the basket and the sweet smell of bread rose amongst them.

“Thank you Pierre,” Papa pulled him in and hugged him tight.

Over Papa’s shoulder, Pierre’s eyes met Malka’s.

“He’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered to her.

Two blue men pulled Pierre away and Pierre swore and gestured rude signs to the men before moving back towards the stairway.

A whistle blew and the uniforms ushered the families out of the courtyard and into the street where a lorry was idling.

As they drove, Papa shared out the bread to them and the other passengers. Dawn began creeping over the Parisian buildings and by the time the lorry stopped the sun was sharp and the sky crystal sapphire.

The blue men ordered the passengers out of the lorry. As Malka landed on the cobbles amongst hundreds of families she found herself next to Tova. The blue men pushed them towards the bustling crowds. Whistles cut through the voices that cried out for help and people were pushing and shoving. One man tripped and knocked Malka to the ground, scuffing her knee.

Her suitcase burst open, spilling its contents onto the street, but she kept her eyes locked onto a pair of black boots in front of her. One boot rose and pushed her onto her back. Five claw-like fingers grabbed Treasure Island from the ground and Malka followed the book as it rose up past the long dark coat.

Malka looked up and saw a tall thin man glaring down at her. His cold eyes that seemed carved into his thin crow-like face scanned the book. A thin grin spread across his face before dropping the book onto Malka's lap.

On his head he wore a cap with a skull-and-crossbones which he adjusted before turning his attention to the crowds surging around them.

Mama pulled Malka up and pushed her back in line next to Tova, whilst Papa grabbed her suitcase.

“Pirates, Tova,” Malka whispered. “We’ve been captured by pirates.”

As they joined the masses moving towards a large building with a curved roof, she held Treasure Island tightly to her chest, scanning the crowd for Captain Smollett.