Crumpled leaves swept over Frida Hellman’s grave as if an invisible hand were sweeping crumbs from a table. Lisa sobbed, wiping the tears from her gray-blue eyes. Then she shifted in sudden modesty to pull her lacy black dress down a few centimeters. Her grandmother would have hated the sluttiness of her outfit.
“Oma,” she began. Her chin started to wobble and she played nervously with the skinny, blonde braid framing the left side of her face.
“Ach, Oma, ich vermiss dich so arg… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you here. I really do miss you so much, Oma. Talking to you helps, but—” Lisa’s breath caught, and she swallowed those stupid, ridiculous feelings that only came when she was here. Everyone had known about Frida’s bad heart, but her sudden stroke four months ago had come as a shock. The funeral was quick as the rip of a band-aid, but the gaping wound underneath hadn’t had time to close.
“I know I told you this when I came last Saturday, but I think Mami is repressing this more than I am. I wanted to talk to Dr. Huber after psychology, but that nosy Turk, Ishtak, was within earshot. Anyway, that’s not the point. I wish you could tell me what it’s like where you are, grandma, and if you’re with your mother. Obviously your dad’s not where you are. Nazi bastard… he’s actually why I’m here, though, Oma. Why did you hold on to his stuff? That stupid, wooden wardrobe is staring at me every day, and Mami won’t let me touch it. I don’t think you’d have left your father’s things to me if you didn’t want me to look through them. There’s nothing worse I can find out about my great-grandfather than I already know. Like you always said, everyone had to play at Nazism to survive, but it takes a real sicko to be great at it. I don’t care if what I find disturbs me… I want to know where I came from.”
Lisa sighed. She had said what she’d come here to say. Now her mother couldn’t stop her from opening that damn wardrobe because she’d cleared it with Oma first. She turned on her heel and then stopped short, her momentum almost causing her to stumble. That asshole Turkish kid with the perfect psychology grades was walking past the entrance of the small graveyard. Lisa would be embarrassed if he’d seen her cry, but she kept walking in his direction. She needed to catch the train, anyway, and she would really have been fine if the wind hadn’t picked up.
Ishtak, Wunderkind of the twelfth grade at Berlin’s Otto-Nagel-Gymnasium, turned his head to the right to avoid the gust of icy air, and his chocolate eyes connected with hers.
“Hallo, Lisa,” he said, almost inaudibly.
The haste with which Oma’s funeral had been arranged had resulted in a less than optimal placement of her grave very near the entrance. Lisa now realized yet another reason why such hurried funeral plans were detrimental to the living. Now she had to talk to Ishtak.
“Wie geht’s?” she said, “Did Huber email about the assignment?”
“That’s why I stopped to talk to you,” said Ishtak. This made sense because they’d never had a class together until psychology, and she’d been quite good at avoiding his acquaintance so far. Of course, even her dislike for him could not hinder their mutual obsession with academia.
“It’s a group project, Lisa. He partnered us up.”
“Oh, everyone’s got a partner? Okay, prima! I’ll check mine as soon as I get home so I can arrange something for the weekend. Bye, Ish—“
“No, Lisa, he partnered us up.”
When Lisa’s mouth turned into a thin line, Ishtak ran a hand through his short black hair. Of all the classmates who regarded him with animosity, she definitely topped the list.
“Oh,” Lisa said. She began to walk toward the metro station and Ishtak followed. “I think we should start work on it soon, then.”
“Today would be best,” Ishtak said. “It’s due on Monday, no?”
“Sure. Want to come to my house now?”
He hesitated, because he knew his parents would object profusely to his visiting a female without a chaperone present.
“Will your father be home?”
“Ha! No, he hasn’t been there in about nineteen years, but my mother’s home. She’ll be easy to spot. Two minutes into the conversation I’m planning, she’ll be yelling at me.”
“Okay,” said Ishtak. “As long as she is there.”
When the train pulled into the station, Lisa realized she was still grinning. She may not have appreciated Ishtak’s existence, but she could decide to be amused by his eccentricities.
***
“Lisa, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment! It won’t bring her back, and you know our family history is horrible. Horrible! Ach, herrje!”
As Lisa had predicted, Angela Hellman’s flair for drama was on full-throttle. Her mother stormed off, tucking a strand of frizzy brown hair behind her ear as she exited the kitchen.
“Alright,” said Lisa. “Let’s go to my room.”
Ishtak almost spoke, but then bit his tongue to avoid sounding like the stereotypical Muslim Turkish boy. Who the fuck cared if he went to a girl’s room?
His parents already disapproved of him enough because he didn’t dress traditionally. His position at the top of his class was partially for personal gratification, and partially for insurance in case he ended up doing something completely against their strict religious views. Like hanging out with girls whose hair was uncovered.
“Coming?”
Ishtak followed Lisa up the steps to her small room, and plopped himself down in her computer chair. He took a folder out of his green book bag and started reading over the assignment.
“So, we need to psychoanalyse each other,” he said awkwardly. “Where do we start?”
Lisa rolled her eyes and took the paper from his hand.
“Conduct an interview using the following questions, and then write a paper using any of the psychological theories we’ve learned this year. For extra credit, explain how and why this personal approach might invalidate your conclusions…” Lisa read aloud. “Oh, Holy Mary! Just give me a second. There’s something I need to do before we tackle this.”
Ishtak’s jaw dropped when she tossed her jacket onto her sky-blue comforter and hopped toward the door. Lisa grabbed the doorframe and propelled herself around the corner. As soon as she was out of Ishtak’s sight, she stopped her merry bouncing and walked with purpose toward the end of the hall. She expelled a long breath before walking into the last room.
***
He’d had enough. If Lisa disliked him so much that she needed thirty-seven minutes to prepare to spend time with him, then he had the right to go find her. The words on the assignment sheet were burned into Ishtak’s brain because he’d read them over and over. What else could he do alone in a girl’s room that wasn’t creepy?
He threw the paper at her desk, and it floated softly to the ground. When he got to the door at the end of the hall, he wrenched it open without knocking.
Lisa was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a huge, wooden wardrobe whose top doors were open and whose two bottom drawers were extended almost to the breaking point. Old books and clothing had been haphazardly stuffed back into place, and the only item that had remained outside was the yellowed piece of paper in Lisa’s hand.
“I’ll just see myself out, then,” said Ishtak.
Lisa twisted around, looking wide-eyed over her right shoulder. She said nothing, and Ishtak took a few careful steps in her direction. She handed the piece of paper to him and he sat down.
“Part of my great-grandfather’s diary,” she said. “Not that this is any of your business, but I think I need your help…”
Ishtak nodded, then took a look at the scribbled cursive.
18 Mai 1944
Oh Gott, my poor little girl almost lost her father today. I think the Gestapo has been….
…don’t know how I can survive like this, but I must try to go on for Sandra and our Fridalein. The war is almost over, and so is the horrible life of the Schneemann. By God, I can no longer risk myself like this.
Meine liebe Sandra, meine kleine Frida, if you are reading this, I have been found out. I am sorry and I love you.
“Wow,” Ishtak said. He knew about Lisa’s infamous family history, and this was a bit hard to grasp. If her great-grandfather had been the Schneemann, that changed everything. He didn’t know if she was as aware of the implications of that name, but she started to talk too soon for him to explain it.
“I know this is weird, okay? Just hear me out. My grandmother hated him! She told us never, ever to take a man at face value because her father’s Nazi life caused both her parents’ deaths. She was only four years old! Oma went to go live with her mother’s sister, who probably also blamed my great-grandfather for the deaths, and…”
It was now that Ishtak noticed the tears brimming in Lisa’s eyes. He had wondered why she was opening up. Now he thought it was probably just the fact that the psychology assignment was an adequate excuse to show emotion. He ignored her tears. If he said anything, it might push her over the edge, and neither of them wanted her to have a breakdown.
“…and, she just died without ever reading this. My poor Oma had to spend her entire childhood with her dad’s dumb, locked wardrobe in her room because her aunt wouldn’t get rid of it. I don’t understand what’s happening. He was responsible for so much death but he loved her! And why was the Gestapo after him? And—“
Ishtak took her hand in his.
“Slow down. So, your great-grandfather’s way of life got your great-grandparents killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Then your grandmother and this wardrobe, right here, were sent to her aunt’s house?”
“Ja, Ishtak.”
“Okay, I understand. There’s something you should know.” He said, “I took a course about the history of Berlin last year. I know what the Schneemann is.”
“What? What do you mean? I know what a Snowman is, Ishtak.”
“It’s a code name. Your great-grandfather was sharing information with the Allies. Only a few people ever heard of the Schneemann, and he disappeared soon before the end of the war. I think at least a few scholars would be amazed to hear it was Friedrich Hellman… I mean, that’s not the point, though…”
Ishtak turned red, and removed his hand from Lisa’s.
“I have to go tell my grandmother.” She said.
***
It was Sunday, and Ishtak hadn’t seen Lisa since she threw him out to go to the graveyard. He’d wanted to make sure she was all right but hadn’t forced the issue. They weren’t really friends, and she was kind of racist.
He scratched his chin, and typed the last few words of his bullshit psychoanalysis essay. Ishtak wanted to be angry at her for making him imagine how she’d answer the questions on the survey instead of just hearing her real answers. It had been kind of fun, though, to construct a wild fantasy of the conversation they could have had.
His phone rang. It couldn’t be Lisa because they’d never exchanged numbers, but he decided to pick up anyway.
“Ishtak, I bummed your digits off Maxi. Are you busy right now?”
He stormed from his sparsely decorated room to the coat rack at the front of the apartment, slipped into his shoes, and left without saying goodbye to his mother. It was a short walk. He saw her as soon as he got there.
“Isn’t a graveyard kind of an odd place to meet?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s appropriate for this peculiar bond we’ve developed?”
He smiled.
“How did your grandmother take the news?”
“Well, oddly enough, she didn’t respond,” Lisa gave a sheepish grin. “but I think she probably feels bad about having been so bitter about men. I seem to have inherited that along with her ironic tendency toward racism…”
“Oh God, white girl, calm yourself. I think a healthy break from psychology would do you some good. Everyone’s racist, and your grandmother is fine where she is.”
They stared at each other for a moment, their smiles shining through the cautious assessment in their eyes.
“I’m not sure I like this new side of you, Ishtak. Aren’t good Muslim boys supposed to be conservative with their opinions?”
“You don’t like any side of me because you don’t actually know any side of me.”
“It’s because you have better grades.”
“It’s because you’re hot for me.”
Lisa took a folded piece of paper from her pocket.
“It’s the address of this guy I called about my great-grandfather. He said he wants to see me today. You in?”
Ishtak disregarded a sudden mental image of his Baba having a heart attack, and reached out to run a strand of Lisa’s golden hair through his fingers.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m in.”
