Odette's Secrets

by Maryann Macdonald

  I poke her so that she knows when to stand and kneel,

  and when to say, “Lord, have mercy,” and “Grant us peace.”

  “Watch now, you do it this way,” I say.

  I have to show her how to make the sign of the cross,

  over and over again.

  Mama, who is so good at so many things, is clumsy at prayer.

  She’s grateful when I help her, though.

  “You must never, ever tell anyone our real name

  or that we are Jewish,” Mama says.

  “This is a matter of life and death.

  But I trust you.

  I know that you can keep secrets.”

  She’s right.

  I’m an expert now at keeping secrets.

  Signs

  One day, dogs bark to tell us that Nazis have arrived

  to camp in a nearby meadow.

  My friend Simone and I run to see.

  The soldiers came in big silver trailers.

  We watch them unload …

  beds and tables that unfold,

  shiny lanterns and stoves.

  The soldiers have boxes and boxes of food.

  They offer us candy.

  “Don’t take it!” adults have always warned us.

  “It might be poison.”

  But Simone and I take the sweets anyway.

  We almost never get candy,

  so we are willing to take a chance on being poisoned.

  I hide my candy from my mother

  and eat it alone.

  Anyway, I think people here worry too much

  about poisons, curses, and sickness.

  They protect themselves with herbs and leeches.

  Leeches are slimy worms.

  The villagers use them to suck out bad blood.

  The peasants also think that Jews bring bad luck.

  I try not to think about that.

  What would happen to us if they found out

  Mama and I are Jews?

  Maybe if I do more good deeds

  the saints will be on my side.

  God will send me a sign that everything will be all right.

  What happens next

  does not seem like a good sign.

  Kittens are born in our village.

  Five are homeless. No one will adopt them.

  By tradition, children take the unwanted ones to Père René,

  the oldest man in our village.

  He has the biggest ears I’ve ever seen.

  Does this mean he can hear better than anyone?

  Père René throws the kittens into a black pond,

  one by one,

  with his six-fingered hand.

  The tiny kittens struggle.

  “Just look at them!

  Not even a day old and they think they can swim.”

  The children who watch him laugh.

  I feel a dull pain in my chest.

  “Ah, so you’re scared, little ones?”

  Père René says to the kittens.

  “Won’t be long now.”

  A big boy named Paul throws stones at them.

  One by one,

  the kittens go under.

  Soon the black pond is still.

  “Time for my nap,” says Père René,

  and with a yawn and a stretch,

  he leaves.

  The children go off to play.

  Everyone else accepts that these animals must die.

  It’s the way of the peasant world.

  But me, I go back into my house

  and hug Bijou

  until she scratches her way out of my arms.

  However, before long a good sign comes.

  Mama wants to mail a package to Madame Marie.

  She sends my godmother food when she can.

  The post office is in Saint-Fulgent.

  So my mother and I take the long walk there together.

  I go to school that afternoon while

  she goes to the post office

  and buys things she needs.

  That day, our teachers take us into a field to look at the clouds.

  “What do you see?” the nuns ask.

  “Oh, a bear!” a little girl says.

  “No, it’s a furry dog,” another one says.

  But I see a sewing machine!

  Seated at it is Madame Marie.

  I know she’s there to protect my mother and me.

  This is the sign I’ve been watching for!

  When the school bell rings,

  Mama’s waiting for me.

  She has two straw baskets.

  One is full.

  Inside is lamp oil, flypaper, new knitting needles,

  and a loaf of fresh bread.

  The other one is almost empty

  except for a few cabbage leaves.

  Mama gives the empty one to me to carry.

  We walk along the quiet, dusty road back to our village.

  An oxcart trundles by.

  When it passes,

  I follow Mama into a field of rutabagas.

  She shows me how to pull them up.

  I take one here, one from a few feet away.

  Mama tells me to hide them in my basket under the leaves.

  I know I’m stealing, but my mother told me to do it.

  We need vegetables, and there are so many here.

  Surely it won’t matter if we take just a few?

  Soon we are back on the road and all seems well.

  Madame Marie will get a package of good country food:

  meat, sausages, and pâté.

  Mama has her new knitting needles

  and fresh bread from town.

  I carry the stolen rutabagas but also a wonderful secret …

  the most powerful of all good omens.

  Madame Marie has appeared in the sky.

  We are safe.

  Accused

  When the fruit trees blossom pink,

  it’s time to build a village shrine to the Virgin Mary.

  Père René, the old man who drowned the kittens,

  divides his barn in two.

  He puts his cows on one side.

  On the other side, a statue of Mary moves in.

  She wears her light blue robe and her golden crown.

  All during the month of May,

  people visit her and bring flowers.

  One May morning,

  I walk to school with other children.

  A meadow shines with silver.

  We’ve heard pilots sometimes drop tinsel over fields at night.

  Are these shell casings?

  No one seems to know for sure.

  Could the shiny paper have chocolates inside?

  We have to go see!

  No, there’s no chocolate, but the silver paper is so pretty.

  We toss handfuls of it into the air

  and watch them shimmer down.

  One boy collects a huge pile of silver papers.

  He sits down under a tree to count them.

  The rest of us just grab as many as we can.

  Someone says,

  “Let’s decorate the Holy Virgin’s shrine!”

  We run back to the village with our treasure.

  Patient as ever,

  Mary lets us decorate her with tinsel.

  It shines on the white tablecloth in front of her,

  and on the bouquets of rosebuds

  in their milk cans and jars.

  The cows are out for the day,

  but their smell lingers with that of the roses.

  A sheepdog comes in to see what’s happening.

  “Old Père René’s dog!” someone whispers.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  But before we can escape,

  the wrinkled old man blocks the barn door.

  He shakes his six-fingered hand at us.

  “Not in school?

  Not in the fields?

  The day’s still young and there�
�s plenty of work to do.

  But do you help your parents?

  No, you make a mess of the Virgin’s shrine.”

  “We’re decorating it for her,” says the oldest, bravest girl.

  “Look at the silver.

  Ours will be the prettiest shrine in any village.”

  Père René shakes his head.

  “Anything to get out of all the work God planned for us

  from the day Adam left the Garden of Eden. Bah!”

  At the village center, I meet my friend Simone.

  She’s playing hopscotch.

  But when she sees me coming,

  she drops her marker and walks away.

  Why, I wonder?

  I follow her.

  At first she won’t speak to me, but then she says,

  “I can’t play with you anymore.

  People say you and your mother are really Jewish.

  Are you hiding from the Germans?”

  Silence.

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  My mouth drops open,

  but no words come out.

  Who thinks we’re Jewish?

  How did they figure it out?

  But I don’t have time to think about this.

  Not now.

  I swallow hard and reply.

  “Jewish?

  How could I be Jewish?

  Lots of Christians have left Paris since the war began.

  We had no eggs, no meat, no milk, no butter!

  We had to hide in bomb shelters at night.

  It was awful.

  We came here because it’s quiet and peaceful,

  and there’s lots of good food.”

  “I knew those people were lying,” says Simone.

  “You’re too nice to be Jewish.”

  She smiles at me.

  “Come on,” she says as she pulls my hand.

  “Want to go see my new baby brother?

  He’s the ugliest one yet!”

  I feel faint with relief.

  For a moment, I can barely see …

  everything looks blurry, as if we’re under water.

  I grab Simone’s hand and let her pull me along,

  blinking until my sight clears.

  Who are the people who suspect us? I wonder.

  Should I run and tell Mama right now?

  No, I’ll act normal, I decide.

  I’ll wait until tonight to tell Mama everything.

  Attacked

  Like all the houses in our village,

  Simone’s house has two rooms.

  One has a fireplace and a big table,

  and the other a huge carved bed.

  Simone’s thin mother rests in the bed with her sleeping baby.

  “Look how blessed I am with all these fine children, Odette!

  Simone can keep house and milk cows as well as I can.

  I don’t know what I’d do without her!

  In fact, I need her today.

  Can you take the cows to the pasture this afternoon?”

  “Of course,” I say, proud to be asked.

  Simone packs ham and rye bread for me for lunch.

  She puts it in a satchel with some cider.

  “Now, Odette,” says her mother.

  “You know where the cows are, behind the house.

  Take them to the stream.

  You can keep your cider cool in the deep water there.”

  At the stream, the four cows are happy

  with all the water, grass, and shade.

  After I find a good place to put my cider,

  I pick wildflowers for Mary’s altar.

  Then I take off my rubber sandals

  and wade into the water to look for frogs.

  But a sound behind me makes me jump—is it the cows?

  No, it’s the village children marching toward me.

  One look tells me they’re not here to play.

  They look like farmers ready to chop down a big tree.

  Paul, the big boy who threw stones at the kittens, is the leader.

  He has no family.

  The old lady he lives with works him too hard,

  almost as hard as a grown man.

  Simone walks beside him.

  I thought she had to help her mother.

  Something must have happened.

  She looks at me as though she’s angry,

  as though she knows I’ve lied to her.

  I stand still and wait for them.

  When they come close, the children trap me in a half circle.

  “You thought you could fool us!” shouts Paul.

  “We’re not stupid.

  We know if a Jew comes into your house, someone will die.”

  “And now that’s happened!” yells a younger boy.

  “As soon as your mother rented that house from my parents,

  my brother Marcel got sicker and sicker.

  Now he’s dead … just like Jesus.”

  So our neighbor Marcel has died.

  But that can’t be my fault.

  He’s been sick since before I came to the village.

  “I’m not Jewish!” I yell back.

  “And how could I kill Jesus?

  I’m not old enough.”

  Paul shouts, “Let’s throw her in the water.

  Shove her face under until she drowns.”

  The children all rush at me.

  I remember what they did to the kittens.

  I must run from the stream, get away fast …

  anywhere!

  I throw things—food, cider, rocks, flowers.

  I use my sandals to beat back my enemies.

  Then I run as far as I can get from the water.

  The children catch me at the hedge next to the pasture.

  I scratch, spit, kick, scream.

  “You killed Marcel!”

  I hear the children say.

  “We’ll tell the soldiers about you.

  Throw her in the thorn bush!”

  Thorns are better than water, I think.

  Anything’s better than drowning!

  Paul and the other boys roll me in the thorns.

  Then, like hunters done with their prey, they leave me.

  Simone grabs her satchel.

  Without even a glance back at me,

  she herds the cows home across the fields.

  Bruised and scratched all over,

  I roll away from the thorns into thick grass.

  I lie there and pant in the sun until my heart stops pounding.

  Then I reach for a daisy and pull off its petals, one by one.

  “They’re gone, they’re not gone, they’re gone,”

  I repeat to myself.

  When the last petal tells me that they really are gone, I get up.

  My blue cotton dress is torn.

  I find my sandals and put them on.

  Then I kneel down to pray.

  “Thank you, God, for saving me.

  Please watch over my mother.”

  I go back and find all the flowers I picked.

  I’m going to take them straight to Mary.

  On the way, I pass an old woman.

  She’s collecting twigs for a broom in her basket.

  I might frighten her

  with my tangled hair and torn dress,

  covered with cuts and sores.

  So I slip behind a tree

  and wait until the old woman passes.

  Why are all the children against me,

  even my best friend, Simone? I wonder.

  Maybe it’s true that Marcel is dead,

  but Mama said you can’t live with tuberculosis forever.

  I say all my prayers,

  go to Mass,

  and do well at my lessons.

  What am I doing wrong?

  I put my hand on the left side of my chest.

  My star has been gone since I left Paris.

  Did God punish me because I told a lie,

&
nbsp; said that I was not Jewish?

  But my mother told me to lie.

  “It’s a matter of life or death,” she said.

  And the priest tells us to obey our parents.

  Will the children ever play with me again?

  Will I have to walk to school all alone?

  Or worse, will people tell the Nazis we are Jews?

  Will they send Mama and me somewhere far away?

  If that happens, will we ever come back?

  The sun goes down.

  Crickets start to sing,

  and the trees raise their arms like spooky ghosts.

  I shiver in my thin dress.

  Heartbroken

  At last!

  Here’s the door to Père René’s barn.

  In the cold twilight I fall on my knees.

  Our Lady’s calm presence

  and the mooing of the cows soothes me.

  I put my flowers in one of the clay pots

  farmers use for liverwurst.

  Streaks of silver pierce the half darkness …

  the shiny paper we used to decorate the altar this morning.

  Mary stretches out her arms to me,

  loving as always.

  “Our Lady of Mercy,”

  I pray, “I’m scared.

  You know I didn’t kill your son, or Marcel.

  Why did even Simone turn against me?

  Forgive me for my lies.

  My mother made me promise

  never to say that we are Jews.

  Please watch over us.”

  I am so tired, and the barn is warm.

  I feel faint.

  But I hear a noise behind me …

  is someone else in the barn?

  Not Paul, I hope!

  No, but I do see the hunched figure of an old man

  leaning on a carved stick.

  He holds a lit candle in his right hand,

  a hand with one too many fingers.

  Père René, the kitten drowner, watches me.

  His face looks as pale as a turnip

  in the candlelight.

  How long has he been here?

  Did his huge ears hear my prayer?

  Père René takes his time, then speaks.

  “You are a sight, Odette …

  oh, those children!

  Always in fights over nothing.

  Come now, child.

  Make yourself useful.

  Help me light the rest of the candles for Our Lady.

  Then you’d better go on home.

  Your mother’s been looking for you everywhere.

  If you hurry,