Unravelled Read Online Free Page B

Bully who dipped Hajna's pigtails in ink and called Zsolt "Dumbo" would be allowed to live in their own homes until the end of the war and we weren't. I reasoned that Papa was a good man. He treated sick people and tried to make them feel better. My mother was good, too. She even made pies for the 80-year-old woman next door on Sundays. And I hadn't gotten into any trouble so far this year at school and I'd been fairly good at home, only acting out when Hajna talked me into it. We were a nice family, so why did we have to move?
    "Curse the Germans," I exclaimed from under my hair, tears falling harder and faster.
    "That's not polite," Mama told me, putting a delicate hand on my shoulder and then rubbing my back, making small goose bumps form on my arms. "Like your Papa said, it'll just be for a few months. Then we can come back here and go on vacation to Vienna or Paris or Rome. Or maybe we can swim in Lake Balaton. How would you like that?"
    I sighed and wiped my face with the back of my hand, catching stray jam.
    "Fine!"
     
    Not even two days later, our family moved into what would come to be known as the Szeged Ghetto. It was like a somber parade, watching all of the city's thousands of Jews move slowly and mechanically through the streets with their possessions. Rich Jews with their furs and expensive purses clutched their material items close to their hearts as they gingerly trod through the streets, their expensive shoes making small clicking noises on the pavement. Poorer Jews from villages outside Szeged walked sullenly, as if apologizing for their existence, their tattered clothes hanging off of them, their faces smudged with dirt, their fingernails ragged and dirty. It was a stark contrast to the wealthier Jewish women of Szeged and their perfectly applied make-up and manicured nails.
    "Be good," Agata told Hajna and me as she helped hoist the last suitcase onto the wagon Papa had bought to aid us in pulling our items into The Ghetto. We weren't allowed our cars, he had said, forcing him to leave behind his pride and joy. Pity, even to this day, I can't remember the brand of the car, only that it was a beautiful black one that Papa shined every other day as religiously as some men davened or went to confession. On Sundays, he'd take us for a drive into the country, where we'd have a picnic if the weather was nice enough. We children would wave from our backseat perch at all of the Christians filing out of church in their Sunday best. Sometimes he would pull the top down and Mama would giggle, putting on her sunglasses and scarf over her head to keep her hair in place. But Hajna and I loved the feel of the wind in our hair as if it wanted to take us away with it.
    "Don't get on your Mama's nerves," Emilia told Hajna, buttoning up her tan spring jacket with the care and love she had given us since we were babies. "You know she needs her rest."
    "I don't want to wear this coat," Hajna protested, as if she hadn't heard Emilia's words of wisdom. She shrugged her shoulders and moved about, in an effort to free herself from its constraints.
    "Hajna!" Papa scolded through his teeth. He was busy concentrating on tying up the belongings we were taking with us. His brow was knitted and beads of sweat were forming in the frown lines across his forehead. He grunted as he tried again to secure two impossible strings together. 
    "It's too hot," she complained again, rubbing her hands over her tiny face.
    "We'll take it off when we get there," Lujza attempted to solace her, adjusting her own pink spring coat and combing back her red hair with her hands. Papa had bought that coat for her on a trip to Budapest at one of the fancy stores on Andrassy ut for her last birthday. Papa had picked it out for her and admired her as she stood in front of three mirrors, her reflection flickering back at her. Although I had to swallow a jealous knot in my throat, I admitted it did truthfully look nice on her. 
    "Let's go," Papa bellowed,