Call Me Hope Read online

  “This is the famous diary of a girl just about your age, who lived in hiding for two years, fearful of discovery by the German Nazis, who moved past rules and restrictions to removing Jews from their homes, placing them in ghettos, slave-labor camps, and death camps.”

  Mr. Hudson’s voice had softened until he practically whispered death camps. “To begin our unit on European history, we are going to study the Holocaust, a very serious time in world history when human beings did horrific, inhumane things. No, there isn’t a County Commission on Youth Safety, but maybe there’s something less obvious lurking out there. More than anything, I want you to watch for prejudices in our lives today, compare them to events of the Holocaust, and observe how unspoken attitudes grow into a loud, collective voice.”

  He looked at us for a moment, letting the words sink in. “You are excused, now, to the library to get your own copy of Anne Frank’s diary. Please study all the introductory photos and read to September 29, 1942, by Monday.”

  After checking out my book, I headed for Noelle and Jessica, but my steps slowed as I glanced at the cover, at Anne Frank’s bright, unsuspecting eyes. May not. Must. Only. Banned. Mr. Hudson’s words echoed in my ears. Forbidden. Lived in hiding. Suffering. My heart pounded faster, louder. Surely everyone could hear. I took a deep breath. It wasn’t enough. Another breath and my legs and arms went limp. I told you. You never listen. A different voice now. You’re a pathetic loser. My head spun in confusion. Hopeless. A woman’s voice. Helpless. Clueless. My mother’s voice! But why now? In the school library? And why did the sound of her voice make me sick? Could eleven-year-olds have heart attacks? Was I going crazy? I moved in slow motion, praying for an empty seat.

  A red blob loomed before me, and with steady urging, my rubber legs shuffled three, four more steps. Then I dropped into a soft, squishy nest, which swallowed my shaking body. I sat there, eyes closed, head spinning, the drumbeats in my ears slowly fading and my body sighing. Something nudged my arm and I cracked one eye open, expecting to see, of all people, my mother standing there, pointing her finger at me, telling me to shape up or ship out.

  Instead, it was the half-free body of a mashed teddy bear. I rocked to one side, pulled him out, and allowed my arms to wrap around his fat chest, my head melting into his fuzzy, thick neck.

  I’d made my way to the kiddie corner, empty and quiet. Something hard jabbed my other side. Now what? I pulled out a picture book with pale blue stars and a big full moon, orange dancing flames in a black fire-place, and a cow jumping through the night sky. Goodnight Moon, sang the bright yellow letters. “In the great green room,” I whispered to Bear, pulling him closer; turning the pages; floating on words about mittens and kittens, clocks and socks; stirring my first Goodnight Moon memory: Annette’s sixth birthday and my first slumber party. I was so excited to be invited, to play games, eat cake, and sleep on the floor. But the best part was the bedtime story. Annette’s mother sat on the sofa with Annette on her lap. A couple kids were cross-legged on the floor, one girl was on the sofa next to Annette’s mom, and I was on the other side.

  “Let’s snuggle,” said Mrs. Stuckey, hugging Annette. I inched closer and felt her mother’s warm body next to mine. She began reading Goodnight Moon in a sparkly voice, stopping to show us the pictures and letting us find the mouse. She leaned forward and put her finger on her lips to whisper “hush.” Then she slipped her arm around my shoulder, letting Annette turn the pages. An Angel Mom.

  “Mr. Hudson’s class — return to your room, please,” came our librarian’s voice. Kids jumped up, chairs slammed against tables. “Quietly.” I gave Bear a tight hug, left Goodnight Moon on his lap, and walked back to class, relieved that my heart had slowed down and my legs had sped up.

  That night I sat in bed, my lamp sending shadows around the room. I stared at the words I’d just read in Anne Frank’s diary; honest, regretful words about her friends only having fun and joking, like they were stuck in one spot and could never get closer.

  I thought of Noelle and Jessica and our conversations about school and teachers, music and movies. But what about deep, serious thoughts? I should have some by now. Shouldn’t I? My only thoughts were getting through each day and staying out of trouble. And going to Outdoor School! That was enough. For now.

  I crawled out of bed to the jumble of stuffed animals in the corner by my closet and chose my yellow and green turtle. She joined me back in bed, sitting on my lap, gazing at my bedroom walls — a dough map of Oregon with half of Mount Hood broken off, my Jefferson County mural from fourth grade, a poster of a sunflower, and my first-grade star chart. The shiny stars — for keeping my school desk clean, remembering my homework, walking in line to the cafeteria, and being a good listener at circle time — marched across the paper.

  When Mrs. Atkins gave me my chart at the end of the year, she said, “Good job, Hope. Keep it up.” I suppose she meant keep up the good work, but maybe she meant keep the chart up on my wall. I don’t know for sure, but I do know it still makes me proud to see all those silver and gold and purple stars.

  “Goodnight, stars,” I said, smiling at the silliness. “Goodnight, map. Goodnight, Turtle, on my lap.” Ha! Not bad. I closed my book and turned out my light. “Goodnight, Anne,” I whispered, respecting the silence of her hiding.

  CHAPTER 4

  Stupid

  The next day was Mom’s birthday. I told her “happy birthday” at breakfast and gave her a card I’d made with gold glitter and pink sequins.

  “That’s very sweet, Hope. Thank you, darling.” She smiled, planted a kiss on my cheek, and put the card on the fridge with a heavy-duty magnet and a sigh.

  “Happy over the hill,” said Tyler, dropping bread into the toaster.

  Mom eyed him. “Not funny.” She sat down at the table with another, louder sigh.

  I poured a bowl of cereal and whispered to Tyler, “What’s over the hill?”

  “You’re anciently old,” he whispered back. “It’s all downhill, one foot in the grave.” His toast popped up. “It’s a joke.” Then he raised his voice. “But not everyone can take a joke.”

  Mom ignored him. She pulled something out of her bathrobe pocket and flicked a lighter. A cigarette! I’d never seen my mother smoke. Maybe it was a fortieth-birthday thing. Over the hill with a cigarette. I stood there staring as she sat there smoking and looking out the window.

  So I ate my cereal, Tyler ate his toast, and we exchanged glances while Mom smoked another cigarette. I guess I couldn’t blame her if she wasn’t feeling so hot. I mean, 40 isn’t exactly a great number. The 4 looks like it can’t decide which way it wants to go and the 0 is that circle business again.

  I put the Wheaties and the jug of milk away, made my bed, brushed my teeth, and was heading for the bus —

  “Hope Marie Elliot! COME HERE RIGHT NOW!”

  I froze. My heart sank. My brain raced for a defense, but what was there to defend? Mom always liked the beginning of a new school year. Back to a routine, she said every September. And I’d been role modeling like crazy, smiling and saying hi to the fifth graders, keeping my room picked up and my radio turned down. There’d even been good numbers: 6:42 when I went to the bathroom (I love even numbers!), 10:10 at bedtime. Things had been good, and I’d wished for the zillionth time that they’d stay that way. Forever.

  “HOPE MAAARIEEE!”

  My pounding heart reminded me once again of the rhythm of my life. Good, then bad. High, then low. Cautious, then careless. As I returned to the kitchen, my entire body hit high alert, braced for the changing tide. The tidal wave.

  Mom leaned against the sink, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes locked on mine, eyebrows raised, aimed, ready to fire.

  “What do you see on the table?”

  Warning. Trick question. Warning. Mind to mouth: Take your time. Get it right. Be sure. “Place mats… newspaper… jam… salt and pepper…”

  “Don’t be smart with me, young lady.” Her finger stabbed the air i
n time with the sharp words. “You are so damn stupid. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  My mind whirled faster and faster like one of those carnival rides, spinning, twisting, turning upside down. I held my breath. Heat throbbed up my face and down my neck. If I knew exactly what she was talking about, why didn’t I know the answer?

  Maybe I should just give up, surrender. Mind to eyes: sad, sorry, will never do it again. I stared at the white puddle resting undisturbed in the bottom of my cereal bowl. What would it be like to float in a pool of silky, cool milk, gazing up at —

  “You dumb shit! I am not the goddamned maid!” Mom snatched the bowl, milk slopping over the rim and down her bathrobe. “I have picked up after you for eleven lousy years. I’m sick and tired of it. You don’t appreciate a single thing I do. You never listen. Get out! Get outta my sight! GET!”

  Think Happy Thoughts. That’s hard to do when you’re sitting in the principal’s office, but that’s what the framed sign said, stitched in red and blue Xs.

  I wondered if principals had happy thoughts. At least Mrs. Piersma had a happy office: flowery wallpaper, a flowery bulletin board, flowery curtains, plus real flowers in a green vase. I spotted the clear glass bowl on the corner of her desk filled with red-and-white striped peppermint candies. One of those would give me happy thoughts.

  I took a deep breath and sat back in the soft chair. With the door closed, I could barely hear office voices — probably Mrs. Piersma telling the secretary my mom would be coming soon.

  I shuddered. Of all days. I’d already made her mad. Forgetting my cereal bowl! How stupid was that? How could I have missed it? Probably laughing at one of Tyler’s jokes. Now she had to come to the principal’s office and do her acting thing. Thank goodness she had the day off and was going out to lunch with her old high school friend, Lydia Bishop. Or, maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. I didn’t know anymore.

  Now the principal’s door opened and Mrs. Piersma walked in. She closed the door and smiled. Her red lipstick matched her earrings. “It’s good to see you, Hope. How are you doing?”

  I shrugged and looked down at the carpet (no flowers).

  “Am I kicked off the bus?”

  Mrs. Piersma pulled a chair next to mine and sat down as if we were going to have a friendly little chat. She smiled again, like a grandmother smiles at her grandbaby.

  “You know, Hope, about our zero-tolerance bus behavior?”

  I nodded. But did she have to call Mom?

  “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to ride for a week. Can your mother bring you to school?”

  I cringed, knowing Mom’s reaction: “Hope is such an inconvenience,” like I was some 7-Eleven store that had closed at ten.

  “So,” said Mrs. Piersma, trying to sound all cheery, “how does it feel to be a sixth grader?”

  “Okay,” I muttered.

  “And you have Outdoor School next spring. I bet you’re looking forward to that.”

  I nodded. Yeah. Terrific. I’m probably already on the Bad Role Model, One-More-Mistake-And-You’re-Not-Going list. My gut twisted.

  I heard Mom’s voice as she talked to the secretary. I gripped the chair. The door whipped open and Mom’s eyes nailed mine.

  My head jerked back.

  Mrs. Piersma stood up and offered her a seat, but Mom didn’t move, her fists mashed into her hips. “Hope is so damn irresponsible. What did the little brat do this time?”

  “Ms. Elliot,” said Mrs. Piersma, lowering her voice, “I understand you’re upset, but could you please refrain from swearing in the school?” Mrs. Piersma stood taller and straighter, like she was guarding Eola Hills Grade School.

  I sat there, mouth open, eyeballs jumping back and forth, waiting for a fight.

  Mom suddenly smiled sweetly, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. “Excuse me, Mrs. Piersma,” she said very businesslike. “It’s my birthday today and I’ve got a lot on my mind. Could you please tell me again why Hope is in trouble?” She gave me a fake smile. “Can’t Hope cope?”

  Breakfast threatened my throat.

  Mrs. Piersma spoke carefully. “I’m sure Hope didn’t mean what she said on the bus. She has apologized to the girl and she’ll be doing some cleanup work around the school. But she won’t be able to ride the bus for a week.”

  “What in the world did you say, Hope?” I felt my mother’s hot glare as I stared at Think Happy Thoughts. I tried thinking bad thoughts, about something happening to Mom, but it didn’t make me feel better, just sad. I mean, there were some good times.

  “Hope Marie.” There. Just like that. A gentle voice, a soft hint of care. A happy flash. I longed to stay with my mother in that very moment, in Mrs. Piersma’s office, forever.

  I closed my eyes. “I called Danielle Moffat a ‘dumb shit.’”

  “Oh.” It came out a relieved oh. My eyes opened.

  “An accident,” she said, turning to Mrs. Piersma. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure it won’t happen again. Hope will be punished at home, but could she still ride the bus? It would be extremely inconvenient for me to drive her to school.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Elliot, but this is school policy.”

  Mom’s face turned as hard as those presidents’ faces carved in cliffs. She stood up. “Then Hope will just have to walk.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Life Is Crazy

  I was a mess the rest of the day. I was so tired I just stared at the whiteboard, or at Mr. Hudson’s bald spot, or at the windy showers of dried-up maple leaves. What a relief when Mr. Hudson pulled down the blinds and centered the TV/VCR in front of the room. Good, I could go to sleep.

  Mr. Hudson held up the video cover. Life Is Beautiful, it said on it, with a man, lady, and little boy, all laughing and smiling. “This is the story of a Jewish father’s daring imagination and quick thinking to protect his young son from racism and save him from the Nazi gas chambers.”

  He slipped the movie into the player. “How many of you have seen a foreign film?”

  Silence.

  “Okay. This is how it works. The actors will be speaking in Italian, but their words will appear in English at the bottom of the screen.”

  “Like you were deaf?” asked Katie Shelton.

  Mr. Hudson nodded. “Yes, Katie, like closed-captioned TV.”

  “So we have to read?” Justin Thayer winced. “While we’re watching the movie?”

  “And write,” said Mr. Hudson. “In the first part of the movie look for two signs of racism, and in the second part look for three survival strategies.”

  Darn. So much for my nap.

  “Survival strategies?” Justin asked again.

  “You know what a strategy is, don’t you?” said Mr. Hudson.

  “Like in basketball,” said Brody. “We have offense and defense strategies.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Hudson. “A plan. A means to reach your goal. And survival?”

  “How you’re going to live through something,” said Brody.

  “Right, again.”

  “Yeah, like surviving this assignment,” said Justin.

  We laughed.

  “There are some funny moments in this story,” said Mr. Hudson, “but humor is meant to open your heart so you can see beyond the moment to the bigger picture: the craziness, the sadness, and the tragedy.”

  I had my paper on my desk and pencil in hand, ready to find the answers, but both were soon forgotten as I fell into a rhythm, listening to the Italian dialogue, reading the English subtitles, and trying to keep up with this guy named Guido who’s always cracking jokes and doing wild things to make people smile or laugh.

  One time he pokes fun at the Race Manifesto, which declares non-Jewish Italians are of a superior race. Before you know it, Guido is taking off his clothes, down to his underwear, and he pulls up his T-shirt, saying that Italians have great belly buttons.

  Funny Guido marries sweet Dora and they have a little boy, Joshua. It seems the perfect life in t
his small Italian town, with sunny days and flowers and Guido always teasing and laughing with Dora and Joshua.

  But I found my stomach tightening, sensing things were about to change. Just like for Anne Frank.

  The little signs, like Mr. Hudson said, began showing up. Like the Nazi soldiers, marching down the streets. And a poster in the bakery: “No Jews or dogs allowed.”

  All of a sudden, Guido and Joshua are forced onto a Nazi army truck and hauled off to a train station. Guido tells his son they’re going on a trip for Joshua’s birthday, and they’re so lucky because they got the last tickets for the train and they get to stand real close together because trains don’t have seats.

  But I knew different. I knew by now those trains led to a nightmare — the German concentration camps. I sat there in my safe classroom, so worried for Joshua, who had no idea that people hated him and wanted to kill him just because he was Jewish. Get off the train! I desperately wanted to warn them. Run! Hide! Before it’s too late!

  Then, out of nowhere, comes Dora, all dressed up for Joshua’s birthday in this red suit and hat and high heels, telling the guard that she has to get on the train with her husband and son. The guard checks the list and says her name isn’t on it (she’s not Jewish). But she won’t give up. She demands to get on the train. They finally let her climb into one of the packed box-cars. Joshua sees her through the metal grille of a nearby car and cries out, “They stopped the train to let Mama get on!”

  When they reach the Nazi concentration camp, Guido tells Joshua they’re playing a game and if they win, they get first prize. “What is it?” asks Joshua. Guido names Joshua’s favorite toy, an army tank. “But I already have one,” Joshua replies.

  “A real one,” Guido quickly responds, and explains the rules. They must accumulate one thousand points by not asking for a snack or wanting to see Mommy, or crying to go home. A plain piece of bread with no jam is worth sixty points.