Odette's Secrets

by Maryann Macdonald

  Mama is always busy.

  I already know who will read the Encyclopedia to me.

  Nobody.

  No Eggs or Milk, No Jews or Dogs

  Aunt Georgette and my cousin Sophie come to live with us.

  I like Sophie.

  She shares all her outgrown clothes and toys with me.

  Sophie and I listen under the table

  while our mothers talk.

  Fear is in their voices.

  They always talk about the same things:

  their husbands are far away,

  and food is getting harder and harder to find.

  We dream of eggs, milk, and butter,

  but most of all real bread …

  the kind we eat now tastes like sawdust.

  Some people say it is made of sawdust!

  “French bread,” says Mama, with a groan.

  “Only the name is the same as it was before!”

  “Mama?” I say.

  I know I shouldn’t interrupt,

  but I’m hungry.

  “What now, Odette?” she asks.

  “Can’t you be quiet for even one minute?”

  Then she looks at my face and she’s sorry.

  She gives my cousin and me each a cookie.

  After that, she and Aunt Georgette talk

  in their old language, Yiddish.

  Sophie and I can’t understand the words,

  but we understand fear.

  It’s still there, in their voices.

  Later, Sophie and I walk to the park.

  A sign at the gate says, NO DOGS OR JEWS ALLOWED.

  Plenty of children are playing inside.

  I want to go in too.

  “How will they know we are Jews?” I ask Sophie.

  She doesn’t know, she says.

  But she doesn’t want to go to the park anymore, anyway.

  So Jews can’t go to the park now.

  They can’t go to the swimming pool, either.

  A girl at school told me

  Jews aren’t even allowed to have pets anymore.

  If I had a pet,

  I would never give it up!

  I still dream of having my own cat,

  a silky calico with a pink tongue.

  Not even Nazis can stop you

  from having pets in your dreams.

  Missing Papa

  Before long, Papa sends Mama and me a photograph,

  taken in his fine soldier’s uniform.

  The photograph is black and white.

  Mama puts it on the table beside her bed.

  I stare at it and stare at it.

  I wish I could see the brown in Papa’s eyes.

  I wish I could see the shine in them too.

  At last, a letter comes from Papa.

  He says he’s a prisoner of the German soldiers.

  My papa, in prison!

  How can this be?

  Papa says we can visit him

  in a faraway French town.

  We must bring a cake and a box of cigars, he says.

  I wonder why … will we be going to a party?

  I didn’t think they had parties in prison.

  Mama barely has enough money for food.

  My boots are falling apart.

  But we make the cake and get the cigars,

  just as Papa has told us to do.

  Then we buy train tickets to go see him.

  We meet Papa in a dark hotel room,

  but Mama and I blossom

  in the light of his smile.

  He brings us pure castile soap from Marseilles.

  We take turns smelling it in his hands,

  the hands we have missed so much.

  My family is back together again!

  Nothing else matters …

  not the awful sawdust bread without butter,

  not my ugly, worn-out boots.

  Mama and Papa talk and laugh and hug and kiss.

  Things are almost the way they have always been.

  But in the morning Papa is gone.

  He has taken the cake and cigars

  to the guard who let him visit us,

  for one night only.

  Mama rushes me to the train station before dawn.

  Rows and rows of French prisoners march past.

  Boxcars wait to take them to Germany.

  Those soldiers, the ones we saw in the film,

  guard them with guns.

  I see my father march past.

  “Papa!” I cry out.

  He turns toward my voice.

  Then a rifle butt slams into his back.

  My hair prickles.

  Mama’s hand tightens on mine.

  In a moment, Papa is gone.

  I look up at Mama.

  She stands motionless, not saying a word.

  Her eyes follow the train as it rattles down the track.

  When it is only a faraway speck, she sighs and looks at me.

  I shiver and bite my lip so I won’t cry.

  “Come now, Odette,” she says.

  “We must be strong.”

  She buys hot tea for us to share

  while we wait for our train home.

  But even if she bought me my own hot chocolate,

  it wouldn’t stop me from shivering.

  Running Away

  The enemy is on our doorstep, everyone says!

  That means the soldiers have marched almost as far as Paris.

  Most people are afraid our city will be destroyed,

  so they decide to run away.

  Madame Marie and Monsieur Henri stay calm.

  No, they say,

  they will stay in their home.

  Mama and Aunt Georgette can’t make up their minds.

  But at the last possible minute,

  they throw underwear and toothbrushes into a suitcase …

  we’re leaving!

  We run to the big train station.

  On the way, I see the strangest sights …

  a young woman pushes an old one down the street

  in a baby carriage,

  a man carries his dog in a shopping basket,

  and a shopkeeper pulls his cash register along

  like a child in a wagon.

  So many people are headed for the train station.

  When we arrive, it’s crammed.

  People try to get on any train,

  no matter where it’s going.

  A sea of taller people hems me in, pushing, shoving, shouting.

  Bryzzt!

  A voice crackles over the loudspeaker:

  “No more trains! The last train leaving Paris is full!”

  People cry and faint and curse.

  Lost children shriek for their mothers.

  Somehow, Mama and Aunt Georgette and Sophie and I

  drag ourselves out of the crowd.

  We head to the subway, the Métro.

  The scratchy seats, the squeal of the wheels, comfort me.

  We’re going home.

  Bombers

  Bombers fly over Paris at night.

  Wailing sirens announce their arrival.

  We rush into the basement shelter.

  We huddle in the dark,

  holding our breath,

  waiting for crashes.

  One lady wearing a lace nightgown

  thinks she can hear them nearby!

  But then the all-clear siren comes,

  and we creep back up the stairs.

  Our building is still standing.

  We go back to our beds.

  At first it’s just once in a while,

  but then the bombers come more often.

  Each time, it’s down to the shelter we go again …

  until Mama hears about a building that collapsed.

  People were trapped in the shelter underneath.

  After that, we stay upstairs.

  Finally, Aunt Georgette and Sophie can’t take it anymore.

  They have Chr
istian relatives in the country.

  They write a letter

  asking to stay with them.

  Before long, the relatives write back.

  Aunt Georgette and Sophie are welcome.

  So they pack their things and hug and kiss us good-bye.

  They go to hide with their relatives.

  Mama and I are alone again.

  Sophie leaves me some colored pencils

  as a going-away present.

  I draw pictures of bombs falling on Paris,

  of parks with signs that say, NO DOGS OR JEWS ALLOWED,

  and of trains traveling far, far away.

  What Dangerous Looks Like

  Everywhere we look now, we see soldiers in Paris.

  Some strut past us, some thunder along on motorcycles.

  Still others roar past in big cars.

  They all wear huge black boots

  and stiff uniforms belted with shiny buckles.

  Some have lightning bolts

  on their collars.

  Mama says they are dangerous.

  Most of them don’t look dangerous to me.

  They are young, blond men.

  I see their blue eyes follow the pretty Parisian ladies.

  The soldiers put up new street signs in German.

  They take the nicest homes for themselves.

  But they don’t destroy Paris.

  No, they stroll along the boulevards.

  They eat juicy beefsteak

  and drink red wine in the sidewalk cafés.

  They buy fine French perfume

  and pretty clothes to send home to Germany.

  Some of the soldiers speak French.

  They try to make friends with children.

  They offer us candy.

  “Don’t take it,” Mama warns me.

  “Don’t take anything from them, ever.”

  Lonely

  Aunt Georgette, Sophie, and Papa … all gone.

  One sad morning,

  I meet Jakob, a Jewish boy I know,

  on my way to school.

  “I just got some toys from a cousin who left Paris,”

  Jakob tells me.

  “Let’s go to my apartment and play with them.”

  I know I shouldn’t skip school, but I need a new friend.

  I go with him.

  We have to be quiet and not turn on any lights,

  so the neighbors won’t know we’re there.

  They would tattle to his mother,

  “Your son was playing at home while you were at work!”

  Jakob shows me his new toys:

  trucks, tanks, airplanes, and lots of soldiers.

  Some are German, some are French.

  He lines them up on the floor.

  “Do you want to be German or French?” he asks me.

  “I’ll be French,” I say.

  But I don’t know how to play this game.

  I make my soldiers do all the wrong things.

  “Stupid!” Jakob says, taking my soldiers away.

  “The French wouldn’t fight like that.”

  He turns his back on me.

  I wish I were at Madame Marie’s!

  She never calls me stupid.

  If I were there now, I’d play with Charlotte,

  make her a shawl.

  “I’m leaving,” I tell Jakob.

  “Close the door after you,” he says.

  He dives his airplane down at the Nazi soldiers.

  “And don’t make any noise.”

  I have escaped the war!

  I’m free!

  My Mistake

  I skip home through day-lit streets.

  But when I run into our building

  and pull open the door of Madame Marie’s apartment,

  I know I’ve made a big mistake.

  Madame Marie’s sharp eyes look at me in surprise.

  She turns and checks the old wooden clock.

  Too early, it says.

  Too early for Odette to be home.

  Shaking her head, Madame Marie puts a stool against the wall.

  “Sit there,” she commands me.

  “Face the wall.

  Don’t look back.”

  I stare at the clock.

  Its ticking goes on as though nothing has happened.

  But Madame Marie, who loves to talk, says nothing.

  Her silence is terrible.

  I know I’ve done something wrong.

  What if Madame Marie tells Mama?

  After a long while, Madame Marie says,

  “What did I tell you the heart is like?”

  “The heart is like an apartment,” I tell her.

  “And how often do you have to clean it

  and put everything in place?” she asks.

  “Every single day, Madame Marie,” I reply.

  She picks up another sleeve, lines it up with her needle.

  “All right then,” she says,

  “clean up the mess in your heart.

  Take a good look and see what needs to be done.”

  I do what my godmother tells me to do.

  I think about what I did that was wrong.

  Instead of going to school,

  I listened to a boy who told me not to go.

  Jakob made it sound like it would be fun

  to play with his toys.

  But it wasn’t!

  And it wasn’t fun getting caught, either.

  I know better now.

  I’ll never skip school again.

  I want my mother and Madame Marie to trust me.

  My heart feels cleaner now,

  and I feel better.

  I take a deep breath.

  Can I smell the flowers

  Madame Marie told me about?

  She turns from her sewing machine

  and glances at me over the tops of her glasses.

  Still she doesn’t say anything.

  “You won’t tell Mama, will you?” I ask her.

  “Will this happen again?” she asks.

  “Never,” I say.

  “Then there’s no need to worry your mama,” she replies.

  I have one more question.

  But I wait a minute before asking it.

  “What if Mama asks me about school today?”

  “Then you must do what your heart tells you,”

  says Madame Marie.

  I sigh.

  I know what my heart will tell me.

  But I don’t want to think about that yet.

  “You can climb down from that stool now,”

  my godmother says.

  She bites through the thread she has been unspooling.

  She angles it into a needle.

  “Would you like to learn how to sew on a button?”

  What a grown-up thing to do!

  “Oh, yes,” I say.

  So Madame Marie shows me how to guide my needle

  in and out,

  in and out,

  through the holes in the button.

  I do it over and over and over again.

  Then she shows me how to make a loop

  and slip the needle through.

  The knot pulls tight.

  The button won’t fall off.

  “Well done,” says Madame Marie.

  Her praise is rare.

  I know I have done a good job.

  I sew on four more buttons

  before Mama comes through the door that evening,

  Madame Marie shows her what I have learned.

  “My, these are strong!” Mama says,

  testing the buttons.

  “I couldn’t do a better job myself.”

  Mama hums a tune she likes

  as we climb up the stairs to our apartment.

  She does that when she’s happy.

  She forgets to ask about my day at school.

  I decide I’ll never, ever skip school again!

  A Second Secret

  One day, Mada
me Marie asks me to come into her kitchen.

  Together, we fill a box with food to send to Papa.

  Now that he is a prisoner in Germany, not France,

  we don’t get many letters from him.

  “I registered myself as his godmother too,”

  Madame Marie tells me.

  “That way I can send him packages,

  just like your mama does.”

  She fits cans of beans and meat together.

  I drop in some candies I have saved,

  wrapped in red and gold.

  Madame Marie covers the box with paper

  and winds string around it …

  once, twice, three times.

  I put my finger on the string for her so she can tie it tight.

  “Is Germany far away?” I ask her.

  “Very far,” she says.

  “Will Papa come home one day?”

  “But of course!” she says. “I’ll tell you a secret.

  When your papa left for the army,

  I made a yellow blanket for him, just like yours.

  I stitched a holy medal on it,

  one of Saint George, the dragon slayer.

  He’s the patron saint of soldiers.

  I told your papa that whatever happens,

  he must hold on to that blanket.

  He promised me that he would bring it back home.

  So don’t worry.

  Your father will keep his promise.”

  What a good secret!

  Saint George is looking after Papa.

  They have the same name.

  My blanket has kept me safe so far.

  Maybe Papa’s blanket will work for him too.

  My Orange

  Our teacher hangs a photograph of Marshal Pétain on the wall.

  “He’s the good father of France,” she tells us.

  “He makes sure every French schoolchild eats lunch.”

  Lentil soup.

  Boiled rutabagas.

  Kidney beans with lard.

  These are what our good father gives us most days.

  But tomorrow, our teacher says, will be different.

  Marshal Pétain will show special fatherly love to some.

  Children like me, whose fathers are brave prisoners,

  will get an orange!

  All we have to do is show papers