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“First of all, I want to congratulate you, Miss Wolff, for being our top nursing student,” she said as she poured the tea. “You’re graduating at the very head of your class.”
“Thank you.” I had heard this surprising news from my instructors, who had all praised my accomplishment.
“I invited you here because I would like to ask you about your future plans.”
“Well, I agreed to work at the hospital to repay what I owe for room and board, and I have every intention of doing that. That is, if the authorities will still allow a Jew to work here.”
She set down her teacup and leaned toward me. “Gisela, we know how your people are being treated by the Nazis, and the administration here at the nursing school as well as the authorities in the church are all refusing to yield to their pressure. You are welcome to continue working here—and living here—for as long as you like.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how reassuring it is to know that we aren’t alone.”
“As for next fall,” she continued, “I would like you to consider continuing your studies with more advanced nurse’s training. You’re capable of doing so much more than bedpans and sponge baths. The war has created a need for surgical assistants and wound-care specialists and nurse practitioners who can assist with triage. I believe you would excel in any specialty.”
“Won’t I need to work to repay my room and board fees first?”
“You can do that by filling in for nursing shifts part-time, whenever you’re needed. We won’t overwork you while you’re studying, I promise. But tell me, might you be interested in continuing your training?”
I stared down at my hands, folded on my lap, as hundreds of thoughts and feelings raced through my mind. I loved nursing, and the idea of further studies excited and challenged me. Yet it seemed absurd to continue studying for a career and a life that I probably would never have. My life here at school with classes and hospital duties was completely different from the one my fellow Jews lived, huddled inside their apartments in a foreign land, waiting for the next Nazi pogrom to begin. Yet hadn’t Sam said that God might want to use my nurse’s training someday?
I looked up at Sister Veronica. “Yes, I think I would like to study more,” I told her. “Thank you for giving me a chance to do that. But first, would it be possible for me to visit my father? The last time I was home, he was very ill. My mother has been caring for him this spring and I would like to spend some time at home to help her.”
“Of course, Miss Wolff. I’m so sorry to hear about your father. Take as long as you need. I’ll wait until you return before asking the head nurse at the hospital to assign you to the day shift.” It was settled. For now, I had a future, of sorts.
I graduated with my nursing certificate that afternoon. The ceremony took place in the Catholic school’s chapel. The other students’ parents and loved ones watched with pride as we earned our nurses’ caps. Antwerp was still too dangerous for my parents to risk attending, even if they had a way to get here. I heard the other girls chattering about their plans afterwards, some starting new jobs, others marrying their sweethearts or returning to their hometowns, and I felt very sorry for myself, envying their freedom. I had lived through two pogroms and feared there would be more. Yet my conversation with Sister Veronica this morning and the possibility of studying to be a surgical nurse were reasons enough to celebrate.
I had started to weave through the happy crowd to return to my room in the dormitory when I heard one of my roommates calling to me. “Gisela! Gisela, come here and pose with us!” Her father had a camera, and she and a group of our classmates were posing for photographs. I put my sweater and diploma on a chair and joined them, and we took several group photos with our arms around each other, all wearing our new nurses’ caps. My roommate did an amusing imitation of one of the stodgier doctors at the hospital, and when I couldn’t help laughing, her father chose that moment to snap a picture of me. “That was perfect, Gisela,” my friend said. “You look so beautiful when you smile. I’ll give you a copy when the roll is developed.” I thanked her. I would frame the picture and give it to Sam.
I went back to retrieve my things and saw that my diploma and sweater had slid to the floor and were lying in a heap. The yellow star was clearly visible. I hurried over to scoop them up, but a girl from my class named Lina Renard reached them before I did. She had a look of surprise on her face as she held up the sweater, examining the star. “That’s mine,” I said quickly. “Thank you for picking it up for me.” But Lina wouldn’t let go of it.
“Well, well,” she said with a sly smile. “It looks like you’ve been keeping a little secret from us, Gisela.” My stomach rolled as I struggled for a reply. Lina seemed different from the other girls and had never been friendly toward me. She was very competitive and had made it clear that she had hoped to graduate as the top nursing student.
“I-I didn’t think it was a secret,” I finally said. “I thought everyone knew.”
“Then why not wear it openly, for everyone to see?” she asked, holding it high. She had everyone’s attention now as she displayed the star. I felt my face grow warm.
My roommate snatched the sweater from her. “Shut up, Lina,” she said. She handed it to me and I hurried away.
I packed a small suitcase after my classes ended, prepared to walk home wearing the sweater with a yellow star sewn onto it. I had just emerged through the front door when Sam called to me from the bushes. “Gisela! Over here!”
I ran to him, my purse flopping off my shoulder, my suitcase banging against my leg in my haste to be in his arms. “Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you!” I said as I dropped everything.
He lifted me off my feet and spun me around. “I’m here to take you home. I remembered that you graduated from school today. Hop on my bike.”
Sam steadied the rusty used bicycle that he had scrounged and helped me climb on. I perched on the bar in front of his seat, hanging on tightly to the handlebars with one hand and balancing my suitcase on my knees with the other. I wondered how he would ever manage to steer the rickety old bicycle, but it only wobbled a little bit before Sam found his balance and pedaled off. He had learned his way around Antwerp during the past three years and had figured out how to avoid the Nazis’ patrols and their favorite gathering places.
And soon we were home. It was wonderful to see my family again, but the changes that had occurred since I’d seen them six months ago shocked me. Everyone was noticeably thinner, their clothes hanging on them like they belonged to someone else. Vati was as pale as death and coughing more than ever. Mutti and Ruthie resembled frail, worried sparrows who startled at every sound in the streets outside as if expecting another pogrom. But the biggest change was that Sam’s family had given up their apartment and moved in with my family to save money on expenses. Mrs. Shapiro now shared the bedroom with Ruthie, and Sam slept on a mattress in the living room with his brothers when he was home. Both of our families had been comfortably well-to-do back home in Germany, and to see them reduced to near squalor enraged me. I longed for God’s vengeance on the Nazis for what they had done to us. But I swallowed my outrage and sat down with these loved ones to celebrate Shabbat and my return home.
“We’re so proud of you, Gisela,” Vati said when I told him about graduating at the top of my class. Then I told them about Sister Veronica’s offer to study for an advanced degree, and his happiness seemed to overflow. “I would dance for joy at this news if I was strong enough,” he said. “You have to accept her offer, Gisela.”
“But it’s going to mean living away from everyone for even longer, and I’m so lonely there. I miss all of you.”
“And we miss you, darling girl,” Vati said. “But it gives me great pleasure to hear of your success in spite of Herr Hitler’s efforts to degrade and diminish us. You would be doing this for all of us.”
After dinner, Sam and I offered to clear the table and wash the dishes, giving us a chance to talk alone in the kitchen. “I’ll be starting work in the hospital when I return,” I told him, “and earning a small salary, minus what I owe for my room and board. I want to send you as much as I can to help pay for food and expenses. But how should I send it? By mail?”
“No, don’t trust the mail. Let me give it some thought.”
“I feel like a traitor, living in relative ease with food and freedom while everyone is crammed into one tiny apartment.”
