T4 Read online

  T4

  Ann Clare LeZotte

  * * *

  Houghton Mifflin Company

  Boston 2008

  * * *

  Ann Clare LeZotte lives in

  Gainesville, Florida, with her younger

  sister and their three dogs and one cat.

  A graduate of Sarah Lawrence College,

  she has had her poems published in the

  American Poetry Review, the New Republic,

  and the Threepenny Review. She received

  fellowships from Hedgebrook, the

  MacDowell Colony, VCCA, and Yaddo,

  as well as a Rona Jaffe Foundation

  Writers' Award. Ann is completely deaf.

  This is her first novel.

  * * *

  This book is dedicated to the loving

  memory

  of my parents,

  Bess George LeZotte

  and

  Edward Harrison LeZotte

  Copyright © 2008 by Ann Clare LeZotte

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to

  reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions,

  Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South,

  New York, New York 10003.

  www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com

  The text of this book is set in Calisto MT.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  LeZotte, Ann Clare.

  T4 : a novel in verse / written by Ann Clare LeZotte.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When the Nazi party takes control of Germany,

  thirteen-year-old Paula, who is deaf, finds her world-as-she-

  knows-it turned upside down, as she is taken into hiding to

  protect her from the new law nicknamed T4.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-547-04684-6

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Deaf—Fiction. 3. People with

  disabilities—Fiction. 4. Aktion T4 (Germany)—Fiction.

  5. Germany—History—1933-1945—Fiction.] I. Title.

  II. Title: Tee four.

  PZ7.5.L49Taal 2008

  [Fic]—dc22

  2007047737

  Printed in the United States of America

  TK 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  The best and most beautiful things in the

  world cannot be seen or even touched—

  they must be felt with the heart.

  —Helen Keller

  Hear the Voice of the Poet

  Hear the voice of the poet!

  I see the past, future, and present.

  I am Deaf, but I have heard

  The beauty of song

  And I wish to share it with

  Young readers.

  A poem can be simple,

  About a cat or a red

  Wheelbarrow.

  Or it can illuminate the lives

  Of people who lived, loved,

  And died. You can make

  People think or feel

  For other people, if you

  Write poetry. In T4, the facts

  About history are true, and

  My characters tell the story.

  I was born

  In a little house

  On a street

  With tall poplar trees.

  I could see

  Bluish hills

  In the distance.

  That was my home.

  But my country,

  Germany,

  Was not my home.

  Our leader,

  Adolf Hitler,

  And the Nazi Party

  Hated

  People like me.

  When my mother was pregnant

  With me, she was exposed

  To rubella, or German measles,

  A common cause of hearing loss

  In infancy. I wasn't completely deaf

  Until I had a high fever at sixteen

  Months old. I don't remember what

  I heard before then. My mother said

  I clapped my hands when she spoke.

  I loved bird song and our cuckoo clock.

  In the beginning

  My small dog, Schatze, barked at my back.

  Later she learned to tap me on the leg

  When she wanted to be petted. She danced

  On her back legs so I would give her a bone.

  My parents and grandparents and my sister,

  Clara, loved me even though I was Disabled.

  Father painted roses on the wooden bed

  I shared with Clara. Mother baked fresh bread

  And let me have a piece while it was still warm.

  Grandfather played the fiddle. I held on to the

  Instrument so I could feel the fast folk music.

  Grandmother pointed at the night sky. I saw

  Bright Casseopeia, Orion, and a shooting star.

  Fair and dark

  I was fair like Father;

  Clara was dark like Mother.

  Father and I

  Loved being in the sun;

  Mother and Clara

  Sat in front of the hearth's fire.

  We were robust like horses.

  They were elegant and slinky like cats.

  We enjoyed eating big meals.

  They took small bites of a single radish.

  We snored like buzz saws

  Or a hornets' nest.

  Their dreams were silent

  And beautiful like flowers.

  I didn't learn to speak

  The way most children do.

  I put my fingers on the vocal cords

  Of my family.

  I wanted to feel

  What talking sounded like.

  I tried to open my mouth

  And make sounds,

  But nobody understood me.

  They said I should keep quiet.

  I watched the lips

  Of my relatives

  When they told stories.

  I could see words

  Being formed on their mouths.

  It's called lip-reading.

  I saw books and letters.

  I knew people were expressing

  Ideas with language.

  But when I was very young,

  I couldn't communicate.

  I was trapped in my silence,

  As if under a veil.

  This made me feel upset

  And angry sometimes.

  I put my face in my pillow

  And sobbed and sighed.

  What I Saw

  My visual

  Sense

  Was so

  Strong.

  If

  A breeze

  Shook

  The leaves

  On

  A tree

  I

  Would

  Shriek

  With

  Delight.

  If

  People

  Ran fast

  Past me

  It looked

  Like

  A tidal

  Wave.

  Even

  The motion

  Of

  A hand

  Waving

  Goodbye

  Startled

  Me.

  Father Josef

  The Catholic priest in my town

  Decided to teach me my name.

  He drew the letters

  P-A-U-L-A B-E-C-K-E-R

  On a sheet of paper.

  He pointed to the words

  And then to me.

  I tried to trace the letters

  With a piece of charcoal.

  He held my hand

  In the correct position.

  I stared at my name,

  Paula Becker,

  Until I memorized it.
r />   I made hand signs

  For the objects I saw around me.

  I put my fingertips against my lips

  When I was hungry.

  I rubbed my eyes

  To show

  I was tired.

  I shook my head

  And snorted

  In imitation

  Of a horse.

  I bared my teeth and crept

  Across the floor like a wolf.

  A rock was made with my fist.

  I waved my arms to say "the wind."

  I put the palm of my hand

  On top of my heart

  And then pointed at my mother

  And father and sister

  And grandparents.

  That meant I loved them.

  I counted on my fingers,

  And when the number

  Was more than ten

  I made markings on a stick.

  Old Marthe

  Lived on a farm

  Outside town.

  Some people said

  She was a witch.

  She always wore

  A long brown coat

  And galoshes,

  Even when she slept.

  She gave

  Remedies

  To the sick

  And Disabled.

  She made them from

  Items she gathered

  In the woods: flowers,

  Bark, weeds, nuts.

  She trapped small

  Animals for food

  And wore their bones

  Around her neck or

  Boiled them for soup.

  In my sixth year

  My mother took me

  To her place.

  I was scared

  But fascinated

  By her

  Ramshackle house.

  Marthe melted a candle

  In a pot

  And poured hot wax

  Into my ears.

  It hurt a lot.

  She made me sit

  On a stool

  As it cooled.

  Then she took

  A paring knife

  And carefully

  Removed the hard wax.

  Marthe cupped her palms

  Over my ears,

  Said a prayer, and quickly

  Removed her hands.

  She was yelling

  And stomping her feet

  Like she was dancing.

  Her black cat,

  Mittennacht,

  Ran out the door.

  Mother and I were

  Hoping she could

  Make me hear,

  But she couldn't.

  On the way home

  My mother cried.

  And I still wanted

  To be a regular girl

  Rather than a dumb animal.

  In 1939

  I was thirteen years old.

  My family and our neighbors

  Had learned to accept me.

  I was the deaf girl with pigtails

  In a red and yellow calico dress.

  Father Josef taught me

  To write the whole alphabet.

  I could read a couple of books.

  I carried a pad and pencil

  To write down answers

  To questions I was asked

  Or to ask for a pound of

  Sugar or butter at the store.

  Many people in town had

  Learned my word signs.

  It was still difficult

  For me to speak.

  I moved my lips

  When I prayed in church.

  I could feel the organ

  Playing through the floor.

  It shook

  My whole body and soul.

  At home I helped

  My mother cook, clean,

  And look after

  Clara and Schatze.

  It would seem

  That my life was good.

  But something terrible

  Was about to happen.

  Action T4

  Was the Nazi program that

  Almost cost me my life.

  It was named after

  The address of its

  Headquarters in Berlin,

  Tiergartenstrasse 4.

  T4 was run by doctors

  Not soldiers

  Or the Gestapo,

  The secret police.

  The directors were

  Dr. Philip Bouhler

  And Karl Brandt,

  Hitler's private physician.

  They were not good doctors

  Who wanted to help people.

  They were under direct orders

  To kill the mentally ill

  And people with disabilities.

  It made no difference to them

  If we were children or adults.

  It was just a job to them.

  Eugenics

  The Nazis believed that certain people

  Were superior to other people.

  They wanted the human race

  To become an "Aryan" race.

  They wanted to get rid of people

  Who they thought

  Polluted the gene pool.

  This is called eugenics,

  Or "racial hygiene."

  They wanted perfect people

  To give birth to more perfect people.

  They imagined Germany as a master race

  Who would rule the world.

  They attacked Jews, people of color,

  Homosexuals, and Gypsies, among others.

  And they decided

  Disabled people

  Were "useless eaters"

  Who were "unfit to live."

  Patients in institutions

  Were the first to die.

  The Nazis knew that many Germans

  Would be opposed to Action T4

  If they knew the whole truth.

  So they had to hide the facts.

  They said "specialist children's wards,"

  But they meant children-killing centers.

  They said "final medical assistance,"

  But they meant murder.

  Euthanasia

  Is the act or practice

  Of killing or permitting the death of hopelessly sick

  Or injured people or animals with as little pain as

  Possible for mercy reasons.

  It is a controversial procedure and sad

  For everyone. A decision is usually made

  By a patient or her loved ones.

  The Nazis claimed the Disabled

  Were so miserable in their lives

  That they didn't care if they lived or died.

  They pretended they were helping us.

  But I wanted

  My life.

  I liked being a part

  Of the larger

  Everything.

  My parents were aware

  These things

  Were happening

  In our country.

  But they didn't tell me.

  I used to play

  Outside all day.

  I'd jump rope, climb

  Trees, and pick the tart

  Little apples to eat.

  I'd lie on the grass

  And study my picture

  Bible or the newspaper.

  But now they wanted me

  To stay in the house.

  The seasons were changing.

  Our roof sprang a leak

  And the rain fell

  Into buckets and the bathtub.

  Schatze and I were bored.

  But the adults were

  Always

  Looking out the window

  And waiting for a knock

  On the door.

  A Knock on the Door

  One night

  In March 1940,

  Father Josef

  Came to our house.

  It was snowing and raining,

  Making the roads icy.

  Mother sat him by
the fire

  And gave him a glass of hot cider.

  He smoked a long pipe.

  After he warmed up

  His thin face was still pale

  And his hands were shaking.

  He told my parents

  To put me back in bed with Clara

  Before he spoke with them.

  I went to my room as I was told.

  But many years later

  My mother told me what he said.

  That was the night

  Terror came into our home.

  Although I was so young,

  I knew that moment

  Was a dividing line

  Between my childhood

  And whatever came next.

  The Story of Anny Wodl

  Father Josef had visited Austria.

  He met a woman named Anny Wodl.

  She told him this story.

  "I bore a Disabled child in 1934.

  He had trouble walking and talking.

  The doctors could not tell me the cause

  Of his disability.

  I didn't know if he was suffering.

  I put him in an institution

  When he was four years old.

  I became aware of the policies against

  Disabled people.

  I was afraid for my son's life.

  The Austrian authorities

  Would not help me,

  So I appealed to Berlin.