I follow the road until I reach the sign announcing my arrival in Créteil. Just off the main street, I see the café with the green awning—the one Luc told me about. My contact is supposed to be waiting for me at a table by the door. I lean my bike against a lamppost, take off the basket, and go inside.
There is a handful of tables one could consider being “by the door,” each with a patron sipping some watery concoction meant to replicate coffee. But only one of them is a middle-aged woman in a pale blue coat and matching cap. She is examining her lipstick in a compact mirror, just as Luc said she would be.
I approach the table.
“What a surprise to see you.”
The woman smiles politely.
“Why don’t you sit for a moment?”
So far, so good. I lower myself into the chair and place the basket under the table, next to her valise.
Then the woman asks, “Did you get my card?”
I reach into my pocket for the small fragment of paper Luc gave me on Wednesday, while the woman slips hers out from under the powder puff in her compact. We slide the two halves of the train ticket together on the surface of the table, our hands obscured by her cup. They fit.
She leans in and places her hand over mine, the way close friends might share a secret. “Go to the counter and order a coffee with milk,” she says in a measured tone. “The owner is one of us. He will go into the back room, and when he comes back, he will tell you he’s all out of both. Then you may return to the table, take your basket, and leave.”
I do exactly as the woman commands. I drum my fingers on the counter, waiting for the coffee I know isn’t coming—and out of the corner of my eye, I see her reach under the table. I can’t make out exactly how the woman pulls it off, but when I pick up my basket and bid her farewell, I don’t feel the spool rolling around inside it.
When I walk in the door an hour later, Papa looks up from his armchair in the drawing room. He’s holding a copy of Les Nouveaux Temps, the French newspaper favored by supporters of Pétain. Sometimes when we’re all together in the drawing room, I catch him staring at a page without moving his eyes, his mind clearly elsewhere.
“Did you have any luck?” he asks.
I’m perplexed by his question, until I realize he isn’t asking about the delivery. “I’m afraid not,” I tell him, remembering my cover story. “The baker ran out just before I got to the window. I’m sorry we won’t have any bread on your birthday.”
Papa sighs, and I feel a sharp pang of guilt. On top of his terrible nerves, he has a daughter who lies to him. I know it has to be this way, but it doesn’t make it any more bearable. Lying to two German soldiers is easier, in a way, than lying to your own family.
“It’s no matter. I’m grateful that you tried at all,” he says vacantly. When Papa isn’t having a nervous spell, he seems to detach from his surroundings as a means of self-protection; I suppose the less he’s aware of what’s going on, the less his mind (and body) can react to it. “And besides, it sounds like your mother is preparing something interesting,” he adds, nodding toward the kitchen before turning back to stare at his newspaper.
I find Maman at the counter, preparing an apple cake for tonight’s dessert. She is grinding up a gnarled pile of apples to use as a sweetener, even though she never has any trouble finding sugar from her various contacts involved in the black market.
“I saw the recipe in one of Suzette’s columns,” she says, referring to her favorite writer in Les Nouveaux Temps. “I expect it will end up tasting dreadful, but I thought it would be fun to try it out.”
I consider pointing out that for most Parisians, these makeshift recipes are a matter of necessity, not fun, but I don’t want to hurt Maman’s feelings when she’s trying to do something nice for Papa’s birthday. Maman can be somewhat blind to reality, even if her intentions are pure. As she mixes the batter, her new silver charm bracelet dangles from her wrist. I was with her when she told the jeweler she wanted something to commemorate the struggle we were all going through—something to show her solidarity with the other housewives in the bread line. The charms are shaped like tiny baskets, one for each item of food the Germans have rationed.
“I’ll tell you it’s delicious either way,” I promise her.
Maman kisses my cheek.
“Of course you will. Your sister, on the other hand, will no doubt tell me exactly what she thinks of it.”
In school, I learned that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and that is exactly how I would describe Maman and Chloe’s relationship. The more Maman tries to make the best of the Occupation, the more Chloe reveals her desperation to resist it. Recently, my sister has taken to hanging out at the Café Pam Pam with a new group of friends—zazous, they call themselves. I’ve started seeing them around, the girls with their short skirts and bright lipstick; the boys with their big, billowing jackets and long hair slicked back with vegetable oil. Chloe says they’re protesting the Vichy government’s idea of how young people should dress and behave. The whole idea, she proudly explained to me when she got home the other night, “is to show that old skeleton Pétain that we’re not going to follow his rules.”
I laughed when she said “old skeleton,” for it was the perfect descriptor for the ancient marshal. A rattling bag of bones without a brain or a heart.
“Just make sure you stay out of trouble,” I told Chloe. “When you’re all dressed up like that, keep away from les haricots verts.” (This was another name we’d taken to calling the Germans, because they looked just like string beans in their gray-green uniforms.)
“I will,” my sister said breezily. Then she flashed me a bright red smile. “Admit that you like the lipstick, though.”
“I do like the lipstick.”
Chloe giggled. “I know. I borrowed it from your room.”
When we are finished with dinner, Maman sets the cake down on the table. Papa is the first one to take a slice, it being his birthday. When he swallows his first bite, he doesn’t say anything—just furrows his brow and reaches for his glass of water. I try some for myself, and it immediately becomes clear why Papa had no comment. The cake is dry and tastes oddly like soap.
“It’s good,” I tell Maman.
Then it’s Chloe’s turn. Tonight, she’s wearing her blond hair in a big bouffant that must be six inches high, and her lips are a garish pink. I watch them as she chews the foul-tasting cake, bracing myself for whatever bomb is about to go off.
“I tried one of Suzette’s Ration Recipes for fun,” Maman announces to the table. “It has no sugar at all!”
Oh no. It didn’t take long. Chloe stops chewing, sets down her cutlery, and swallows the cake in what appears to be a long, tortured process. After washing it down with a sip of water, she rounds on Maman.
“This is a disgrace,” she snaps.
Papa looks stupefied. Maman is livid.
“How could you—”
Chloe cuts her off.
“How could you just skip out on sugar when you have a perfectly good bag of it sitting in the cupboard? Do you know what some of my friends and their families would give for—”
“Your friends aren’t poor either,” Maman fires back. “They’re just spending their money on ridiculous costumes. It’s no different than—”
“It is different. We’re protesting. You’re just finding ways to make the Occupation fun.”
Maman’s lip trembles for a fraction of a second. She only wanted Papa to enjoy his evening. Chloe can be somewhat blind to reality, too; she forgets that our parents are also trying to survive this war, in their own way. She and Maman have some iteration of this fight at least once a week, and it always ends the same way.
“Clear your dishes and go to your room,” Maman orders.
My sister is about to object when the noise from outside makes everybody stop what they’re doing. It’s the sound of a car rolling to a stop.
What could the Germans be doing on our street,
at this time of night?
Oh my god. I lied my way past a checkpoint and smuggled a concealed message to Créteil today.
What if they’re here for me?
The argument over the apple cake is forgotten. “Odette . . . ,” Papa murmurs, and Maman leaps out of her seat to attend to him. As his hands start to shake, she helps him to his feet and steers him into the hall, probably toward the quiet of their courtyard-facing bedroom. I rush to turn off all the lights, and Chloe and I hurry to the window to peer out from behind the curtains. Down on the street is a sinister-looking black automobile. The front doors open, and out step two men in unmistakable gray-green uniforms. But they don’t turn in our direction. Instead, they barge through the front door of the building across the street. I’m safe. I feel a rush of relief, which is almost immediately followed by terror for our neighbors.
Minutes go by in silence. I wonder how many others are watching from their windows like we are. All is eerily quiet down on the darkened street. And then—
“YOU CANNOT TAKE HIM!”
The doors of the building fly open and four people come spilling out onto the sidewalk. Two are the hulking Germans in their big black boots. One is the old man in pajamas the Germans are forcing—violently—toward the car. The fourth is the old man’s wife, reaching for him and shrieking at the top of her lungs. The bigger of the two Germans pushes her against the wall, while the other shoves her husband into the back seat. The woman continues to scream.
“WHAT IS HIS CRIME?! TELL ME WHAT HIS CRIME IS!”
“He is a Jew,” snaps the man who pushed her. “Now get inside before we arrest you, too.”
I want to go down there and kill the Germans with my bare hands. I want them to die. Right now. Chloe must feel the same way. She’s bitten her fingernails down to the quick. Her breathing is all shallow. I can feel our two bodies trembling against one another. And then, in one impulsive movement, she wrenches open the window, sticks her head out, and screams into the night:
“LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU MONSTERS!”
Chloe. No. I don’t know why I wasn’t thinking. I should have thought to pull her away before she did anything careless. My world goes dark at the edges, and all I can see is my sister, exposed. Someone is going to see her and recognize her big bouffant. My heart hammering in my chest, I seize her by the waist and drag her onto the floor before anyone can tell where the cry came from. We land with a crash, and Chloe’s forehead collides with one of the wooden table legs.
“What the hell is the matter with you, Adalyn?” She untangles herself from my grip and clambers to her feet. There’s a thin trickle of blood above her eyebrow, which she wipes away with the back of her hand. “You’re acting like Maman,” she spits. “It’s like you’re perfectly fine with all this!”
If only she knew. If only.
“I’m not fine with all this. I’m just trying to keep us both from being killed,” I hiss back.
Chloe spins on her heel and stalks off to her room. The car outside drives away. I’m too shocked to cry, too scared to move. I sit on the floor with my knees tucked against my chest until Maman tiptoes in to see if I’m all right.
Chloe and I have never been able to stay mad at each other for long. The following day, after ignoring me on our way to and from school, she finally changes her mind and comes knocking at my door before dinner.
“Come in!” I say immediately, recognizing the sound of her footsteps. I put down my novel and sit up in bed, eager to talk to her again.
As soon as Chloe enters the room, an apology bursts from her lips. “I’m so sorry, Adalyn. Can we please be on speaking terms again? I hate this.”
“Of course we can. I hate it, too.”
The tension between us melts away. Thank heavens. I pat a spot on the quilt, and my sister comes and joins me on the bed. She crosses her legs carefully and looks down at her hands.
“I was just so angry, I couldn’t keep it in,” she confesses. “It makes sense why you pulled me away from the window.”
“I was just worried about you, that’s all.”
“I know. It was the right thing to do.”
“I’m sorry I made you hit your head.”
“It’s all right. It was better than getting caught.”
It feels good to be back to normal—so good, I slide over and rest my head on her shoulder. Her hair mixes with mine, blond and brown woven together as one.
“Chloe?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“I was angry, too.”
For weeks, I can’t get the arrest out of my head. I think about it all day at school, while the other girls talk excitedly of our upcoming graduation. I even have nightmares about it, my brain coming up with terrifying visions of where the man from across the street could be now. Is he in prison? Is he still alive? It especially haunts me when I’m with Arnaud, for if it could happen to our innocent neighbor, who’s to say it couldn’t also happen to my friend?
I think Arnaud is worried, too, even if he tries not to show it. Besides arresting Jewish people for no reason, the Nazis are enacting one repugnant law after another. Next fall, when Luc, Pierre-Henri, and Marcel begin studying for their bachelor’s degrees, Arnaud won’t be able to join them, as Jews are now forbidden from enrolling in university.
“This is absurd,” Marcel protests on a warm Monday night in June, when he first learns the news.
“I know, but it’s the law now,” Arnaud says. “Like how my dad can’t work at the hospital. And how they make me ride in the last carriage on the metro.”
“It’s evil, is what it is,” says Pierre-Henri darkly. Luc and I both nod in agreement.
“Listen, it’s fine,” Arnaud insists. “I’ll just have more time to work on everything we’re doing here. I’d rather resist the Nazis than try to get through the first year of medical school anyway. Believe me, I’ve heard stories.”
We all do our best to laugh for Arnaud’s sake, and the mood really does lighten when Pierre-Henri shows us the new camera his grandfather gave him as a graduation gift. Arnaud asks if he can see it, and proceeds to take a photo of himself with his tongue sticking out. This time, everyone laughs for real.
Still, when I say goodbye to Arnaud later, he does something he’s never done before: He hugs me.
“I’ll see you next week?” he asks.
And even though he shouldn’t have to wonder, as I’ve seen him nearly every Monday since the fall of 1940, I sense he might need a little reassurance.
“Of course you will,” I tell him.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. A week later, I show up in back of the shop and tap out our secret code on the door. It creaks open to reveal Arnaud’s bespectacled face, bearing an oddly disoriented expression—no, worse than that. It’s as if somebody has snuffed out the bright light usually shining behind his eyes. My first thought is that something happened to Luc or Marcel or Pierre-Henri, but no . . . I can see all three of them in the room beyond.
“Arnaud, what . . . ?”
But then I spot it. It’s sewn onto his shirt, directly over his heart. A six-pointed yellow star with the word “Juif” in the middle. I touch the fabric gingerly with my fingertips, like it’s a wound.
“Why . . . ?”
“Another new law,” he says flatly, stepping aside to let me in. The four of us watch silently as he trudges over to a chair and sits down, his face in his hands. I know how hard Arnaud tries to keep his spirits up, how he doesn’t want to make it any harder for his parents or his two little brothers. I try to imagine how he must feel right now. I can slip from one disguise to another to suit my needs; Arnaud is stuck with a dangerous label he can’t take off.
Luc draws up some more chairs, and we all sit in a semicircle around our friend. I rub his back, and Luc pats his knee. Arnaud reaches up and unpins the yellow star from his breast pocket. Holding it in his lap, he stares down at the awful thing with a mix of sadness and contempt.
“You know, I thought about refusing to wear it,
” Arnaud says quietly. “But then I saw my parents going out into the street with their heads held high, and I thought, I must not be a coward. I will wear this star, and I will be brave. What do I have to hide? I am proud to be a Jew.”
“And we are proud to know you,” I whisper.
“Thanks, Adalyn.” He sighs, twisting the yellow fabric this way and that. “Things are getting really bad. It feels like we’re being . . . hunted.”
This time, Marcel chimes in. Though his heart is in the right place, and he’s easily the best at operating the mimeograph machine, he isn’t the brightest of the group.
“I’m sure you’ll be okay,” he says. “You were born in France, right?”
“I was,” Arnaud says, “but my parents came here from Poland. And besides, it doesn’t matter who’s French and who’s not. At the end of the day, we are all Jews, and they would prefer it if we didn’t exist. Don’t you remember the exhibition?”
Everybody winces. Last winter, we all witnessed the grotesque advertisements for Le Juif et la France, some revolting exhibition at the Palais Berlitz about the Jews’ supposed thirst for world domination—organized by the Germans, of course. The five-story sign plastered to the front of the building showed an old man with a hooked nose and a clawlike hand clinging to a globe. It was grossly unrealistic and meant to be frightening. Between that, the new laws, and the senseless arrests that keep happening, there can’t be any doubt that Arnaud is right. I put on a brave face for him, even as despair creeps in.
“Well, I’ll kill any damn Nazi who comes near your family,” says Pierre-Henri, who’s become very fixated on the prospect of killing Nazis. Arnaud laughs weakly, but it sounds to me like he’s dangerously close to crying. I feel so helpless, and scared, and angry that no matter how many flyers I spread, nor how many secret messages I pass along, there’s nothing I can do to take away Arnaud’s pain. He was the one who brought me into this whole world. I would trade places with him if I could.
Then Luc, of all people, claps his hands enthusiastically.
“Okay, enough of this for now,” he declares. “It’s beautiful outside. We shouldn’t be cooped up in here. Who feels like a trip to the park? I know I do.”
The Paper Girl of Paris Page 9
