Odette's Secrets

by Maryann Macdonald

  proving our fathers are prisoners.

  I haven’t seen an orange in a long time.

  I can’t wait to tell Mama.

  Mama isn’t as excited as I am.

  I can tell she doesn’t like Marshal Pétain.

  But the next day she takes me to get my orange anyway.

  We have to climb up some stairs

  and wait in line at an old building.

  The crates of oranges are emptying fast.

  At last, it’s our turn.

  Mama shows the papers that prove my father is a prisoner.

  The lady puts a big round orange in my hand.

  Mama kisses me good-bye

  and rushes down the stairs to go to work.

  I carry my bright orange carefully through the gray streets.

  A crowd of neighbors has gathered at our Métro station.

  Leah, the corner grocer’s wife, is there.

  She’s smiling, holding hands with her little one-armed son, Noe.

  A tall boy I know, Leon, is there too.

  I wonder what the crowd is looking at.

  I tug on Leon’s shirt.

  “Odette!” he says. “Want to see?”

  I nod.

  First, he takes off his cap and plops it on my head,

  grinning at me.

  Then he lifts me up onto his strong shoulders.

  He holds my feet with his hands

  so I won’t fall.

  I feel safe and happy with Leon.

  A gypsy is showing off his trained goat.

  The goat climbs a ladder, and stands

  at the top, hooves shaking.

  He can’t finish his trick

  until everyone puts something in the gypsy’s hat.

  I feel sorry for the goat, but all I have is my orange.

  I’m not giving that up!

  “Put me down,” I whisper into Leon’s ear.

  “Please.”

  I give him back his cap and he winks at me.

  It’s time to head home.

  I show my orange to Madame Marie.

  “Oh, my!” she says. “How splendid.

  Take it upstairs and share it with your mama after supper.”

  I put the orange in the middle of our oak table,

  the one with the animal feet.

  Then I open our shutters and look out at the square.

  The girls from the convent school aren’t there today.

  Maybe they are in church praying to God the Father,

  the one they say created the world in seven days.

  They tell me he takes care of us.

  I’m not sure about this.

  He never gives us oranges like Marshal Pétain.

  An Empty Bag

  Mama’s at the door,

  holding a bag made of tied string.

  Inside it I see onions and potatoes … and crumpled paper.

  Just then, Madame Marie comes in from the courtyard.

  “What did you find at the market today, Berthe?” she asks.

  Mama shrinks.

  She looks like a schoolgirl caught cheating

  when she slowly opens her bag.

  It’s stuffed mostly with the newspaper.

  “Mon amie,” says Madame Marie, “I’m surprised at you!”

  She takes the bag to her kitchen and brings it back.

  Now it’s filled with cheese, bread, and homemade jam.

  “If you can’t find food, you must ask me,”

  Madame Marie tells my mother.

  Mama nods.

  We climb the stairs together.

  As long as Madame Marie is around,

  we are not allowed to go hungry.

  Mama’s Story

  At supper, I ask Mama if what

  the convent girls have told me is true,

  that there’s a God the Father who cares for us?

  “No,” she says.

  “Then who made the world?” I ask.

  “Who was there at the very beginning?”

  Mama says she will tell me the story if I finish my supper.

  I pick up my fork and she begins.

  “In the beginning was a beautiful meadow.

  In the meadow was a cow, the Original Cow.

  She had lots of milk.

  Two babies, a boy and a girl, drank the cow’s milk.

  They grew up strong and healthy.

  Then they married and had children.

  Those children grew up and had more children.

  Soon there were lots of people all over the world.”

  My plate is empty now.

  It’s time at last to eat my orange.

  I peel it carefully and eat just one section.

  Its juice fills my mouth with sharp sweetness.

  I give a piece to Mama and think about the story she told me.

  I’m pretty sure she made it up, just for fun.

  Cows are nice, but I know they don’t give you oranges.

  God never gives them to us, either.

  Not like our good father, Marshal Pétain.

  Two More Secrets

  Mama, like Papa, joins the fight for France.

  She tells me her work is secret.

  She gets money for guns to fight the enemy soldiers.

  She helps find hiding places for children in trouble.

  Sometimes visitors come.

  I hear them whisper secret passwords at the door

  before Mama will let them in.

  “You must never tell anyone about our visitors,”

  says Mama.

  “If the wrong people find out, it will be the end of me.”

  I promise her I will never tell anyone.

  Mama tells me another big secret.

  She and her friends have made a plan

  to keep their own children safe.

  “You know the Nazis don’t like Jews,” she says.

  Of course I do!

  Jews are not allowed to own or use telephones.

  We can’t have bicycles, either.

  What’s next?

  Will we be forbidden to play ball?

  To jump rope?

  Mama goes on.

  “If it gets too dangerous in Paris, Odette,

  you must go to a safe place in the country.

  Cécile and Paulette and Suzanne will go with you on the train.”

  I like these girls.

  They are friends of my family.

  A train trip sounds like fun too.

  But I could never go away and leave my mother!

  “I want to stay here with you, Mama,” I say.

  “I don’t care if it’s dangerous.”

  “For now you will,” says Mama.

  She strokes my hair.

  “For now, we will be together.

  But we have a secret hiding place planned for you.

  Just in case.”

  Mama tells me how I will get to the country …

  a lady she trusts will take me.

  I hope “just in case” never comes.

  My father is already gone.

  I can’t live without my mother!

  The Raid

  Am I dreaming?

  It’s the middle of the night.

  But I hear a thunder of footsteps on our staircase.

  A fury of knocks at our door.

  I’m awake, but too frightened to move,

  so I pretend to be asleep.

  I listen in my bed while Mama stumbles to the door.

  Soldiers burst in.

  They say they are here to arrest Mama …

  and Papa too!

  “M-m-my husband is a prisoner of war,” Mama stutters.

  “Look,” she says. “Here are his letters.”

  All the while, the men bang open

  cupboards and drawers,

  searching for who-knows-what?

  Just then, another voice.

  Madame Marie arrives at our door.

  “For shame,” she sc
olds the men,

  “disturbing the home of a French soldier!

  Don’t you know the wives of prisoners

  are to be left in peace?”

  “Excuse us,” says the leader.

  “There has been a mistake.

  Your letters, Madame.”

  He and his soldiers stomp out.

  “Marie,” says my mother, her voice still shaking,

  “I have money and papers hidden here.

  If they had found them….”

  She never finishes her sentence.

  Madame Marie soothes Mama.

  “But they did not,” she says, “and they never will.

  We’ll find a better place to hide your papers.

  Thank God the child slept through this all.”

  Soon, Madame Marie leaves and our front door closes.

  Mama comes back into the room we share.

  She touches my shoulder …

  her hand is cold and trembles.

  My heart pounds so hard I am afraid she might feel it

  right through my nightgown.

  But Madame Marie said it was good that I was asleep,

  so I still pretend I am.

  I hold Charlotte and keep my eyes shut.

  At last Mama climbs back into her bed.

  I lie awake for a long time in the dark.

  I listen to the shuddery sound of her breath.

  The soldiers didn’t say anything about me.

  If my father weren’t a soldier,

  would they have taken Mama away

  and left me alone?

  I don’t know the answer to this question,

  and I can’t ask anyone.

  “Wake up, Odette,” Mama calls in the morning.

  “Time for school.”

  She irons my dress as usual,

  but her hands are still trembling,

  just a little,

  as she smooths it.

  I put my dress on while it’s still warm,

  and eat the bread and jam on my plate.

  I look for my homework, but it’s not where I left it.

  Mama finds it with Papa’s letters.

  I don’t ask how it got mixed up with them.

  Mama pins back her hair and puts on lipstick.

  She locks the door when we leave.

  We both pretend

  it’s just another day.

  Trouble

  Soldiers slap posters up on the walls of Paris.

  All Jews, aged six and older,

  must sew yellow stars on their clothes for everyone to see.

  The only reason for this, it seems to me,

  is to make it easy to find Jews

  and make life even harder for them.

  Mama and I go to the police station and get six stars …

  three for her and three for me.

  “Can you believe they made me pay for these?”

  she asks my godmother.

  Madame Marie shakes her head.

  Mama shrugs.

  What can we do?

  Madame Marie checks the stitching on my star

  before she sends me off to school the next day.

  “Don’t try to cover it up,” she warns me.

  “You could get into trouble for that!”

  I creep along next to the buildings on my way to school.

  My star is too bright.

  It screams to everyone I pass,

  “See this girl?

  She’s a Jew!”

  I clutch my schoolbag close to me.

  Suddenly, two huge soldiers loom on the sidewalk in front of me.

  Without thinking, I cover my star with my schoolbag.

  One soldier sees me.

  He grabs my schoolbag,

  tears it away,

  and throws it on the pavement.

  Will he beat me?

  Kick me?

  Take me away from Paris and my mother?

  Things like this happen to Jews every day now in Paris.

  “No!” I say. I put up my hands.

  “No, please….”

  But this time the soldier and his friend just laugh.

  Together they stagger away.

  I can’t move.

  I just stand and stare after them.

  When they lurch around the corner into the next street,

  I slump down on the curb.

  I sit there until my heart stops pounding.

  When I can breathe again,

  I stand up and walk to school.

  But even at school it’s not safe.

  On the playground, children attack me.

  They try to shove my face in the playground toilet.

  A teacher comes to help.

  After that, I stay close to her.

  But still these children hiss at me:

  “Coward! Teacher’s pet! Jew!”

  I hide inside during recess.

  On the walls are pictures of country children in costume.

  The ones I like best show children from Alsace and Brittany.

  They have kind, soft faces.

  Why can’t I live there?

  Those country children wouldn’t beat me up, would they?

  What about the other Jewish children at school?

  Are bad things happening to them?

  I don’t know because I don’t dare ask.

  I’m afraid to tell Mama about what’s happening at school too.

  She has enough worries.

  So I tell Charlotte, but I tell her to keep it a secret.

  Charlotte is good at that, and so am I.

  My Cousins

  On Thursdays in Paris, children don’t have to go to school.

  That is the day I visit my cousins,

  the ones who live near the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

  Mama never says so,

  but I know these cousins are poor.

  They don’t have a toilet in their apartment like we do.

  All they have is a stinky room with a hole in the ground,

  way down the hall from their apartment.

  They have to share it with other families too.

  One Thursday, I try to sneak down the narrow back streets

  that lead to my cousins’ apartment.

  I stay away from the soldiers

  who strut along the avenues.

  But I do have to cross one big street.

  I hold my breath

  when I pass in front

  of the motorcycles, cars, and trucks.

  On the other side,

  a soldier darts out of the bakery right in front of me,

  eating an éclair.

  I almost bump into him!

  Startled, I jerk back for an instant,

  then recover.

  I try to look calm as I walk toward the Passage des Amandiers.

  But inside, my heart still pounds.

  Past the bakery, I enter that dim alley.

  It smells like cooked cabbage and urine.

  Babies scream, workers hammer, women yell.

  No soldiers can be seen, but I’m still afraid.

  Anything can happen in a neighborhood like this….

  but above the din,

  I hear the sweet sound of my cousin Serge’s violin.

  I follow it to safety.

  I’m always hungry to hear Serge’s music!

  We never listen to music at home.

  Jews had to hand over their radios to the police,

  but Mama hid ours in the closet.

  We listen to it only for the BBC news.

  Serge sees me across the courtyard, but he keeps on playing.

  I don’t want him to stop.

  When I’m close enough, I sit down cross-legged at his feet.

  I feel like a small frog before a secret prince.

  I look up at Serge’s deep-set eyes,

  his delicate fingers holding his violin and bow.

  The music makes everything else—

  the dirty a
lley,

  the shouts and screams—

  fade slowly away.

  When Serge is done,

  he lifts the violin from his shoulder.

  Seeing his bright yellow star jolts me back to here and now.

  I touch my star to make sure it’s where it’s supposed to be.

  Serge places his violin in its case,

  closes the cover,

  and clicks the latch shut.

  I follow Serge into the two rooms

  where his whole family lives and works.

  The first room is the only one with a window.

  That’s where Uncle Motl and my big cousin Maurice work

  on their noisy knitting machine.

  Above it is a loft, where the younger children sleep.

  The second room is where everyone

  eats, washes, cooks, plays, reads, and gossips.

  A long table fills the center,

  with chairs around it and beds on the side.

  At least one lamp glows there all the time.

  Aunt Miriam’s sweet-smelling onion soup

  simmers on the stove.

  Maurice lifts me up to see their calendar.

  It has a joke printed on it for every day of the year.

  “The waiter puts coffee on the man’s table,” Maurice reads.

  ‘It looks like rain,’ he says to his customer.

  ‘Tastes like it too,’ says the man.”

  Everyone laughs.

  Fake wartime coffee is terrible.

  My younger cousins beg to see tomorrow’s joke.

  “No,” says Maurice. “Let’s save it.”

  So Uncle Motl shares a joke with us.

  “Did you know Hitler’s dog has no nose?” he asks.

  “No?” says Charles. “How does it smell?”

  “Terrible,” says Uncle Motl.

  Maurice pinches his nose.

  He pretends to march like a stick soldier.

  Sarah, Charles, Serge, and I all fall in line behind him.

  Around and around the table we go.

  Aunt Miriam helps little Henriette

  clap time for us.

  The soldiers are scary,

  the alley is dirty,

  my cousins’ apartment is dark and crowded.

  But when we’re together,

  nothing can stop us from having fun.

  Henriette Melczak, almost three years old