Black Radishes

by Susan Lynn Meyer

  “No, the beetle was attached to the spitball,” Gustave explained. “Marcel tied one end of a piece of thread around a spitball and the other end around the middle of a beetle. He shot the spitball at the ceiling through a straw, and it stuck there. The beetle looked so funny, dangling there, wiggling its legs!”

  “Ew!” said Nicole, giggling. “That’s disgusting! But, honestly, it really worked?”

  Gustave nodded, smiling. He and Marcel and Jean-Paul had all gotten into trouble that day for laughing in class, but none of them had told the teacher about the beetle, which stayed up there for at least an hour before falling down somewhere next to the teacher’s desk and scurrying away.

  “Do you happen to have any thread on you?” Nicole asked, her brown eyes gleaming. “Or maybe a piece of hair would work.” She yanked one out of her head, then looked at it, disappointed. “But we don’t have a straw to shoot the spitball with.”

  Just then a teacher rang the bell to call them in. Nicole waved and ran off to go in with her class, and Gustave lined up with his. None of the drops of baptismal water had landed on him, so he was still Jewish—even if it really was true that the water could have turned him Catholic. And Nicole was friendly and interesting.

  But Nicole’s class and his didn’t usually have recess at the same time. Gustave looked around for her at recess for several days afterward before he figured that out. Claude, the freckle-faced boy whose cousin had baptized a Jew, was in Gustave’s class, and he seemed friendly too, but he asked so many questions that Gustave wasn’t supposed to answer.

  “Why did you leave Paris?” Claude asked one day when he and Gustave were teamed up for a relay race.

  “Because of the war,” Gustave said. “My mother was worried about the bombs.” That was partly true.

  “So, are you going to go back now?” Claude persisted, panting, as he came back from running his leg of the race. “I wish I could go to Paris.”

  Gustave shrugged. “I don’t know.” Of course they weren’t going back, so that really wasn’t true. Claude didn’t seem completely satisfied, but he let it go.

  But one Monday morning, as Gustave slid into his seat, Claude looked over at him and asked, curiously, “How come I never see you at church?”

  Philippe sat on the other side of Claude. “Yeah, why not, Paris boy?” he sneered.

  Gustave froze. He couldn’t think of a single excuse, and his tongue wouldn’t move, anyway. He heard his watch ticking, slowly. He opened his mouth, about to mumble something—he didn’t know what, maybe something about Papa’s limp and the long walk—when Monsieur Laroche rang the bell to signal the beginning of class. Gustave’s breathing slowly went back to normal.

  But how could he make friends when he couldn’t tell the truth? With Philippe around, always butting in, making friends was just about impossible, anyway. Gustave’s thoughts whirled while Monsieur Laroche talked about grammar. Why did Philippe act like that? What if someone did find out for sure that Gustave’s family was Jewish? Could that be a problem even here, in the unoccupied zone? What did Maman and Papa think would happen here in Saint-Georges if people knew?

  13

  Gustave’s parents were having problems too.

  “Incroyable!” Papa shouted, shaking the newspaper one morning in October. He banged on the table, making the dishes rattle and almost spilling his cup of coffee. “Unbelievable! How can our own government do such a thing? It’s an outrage!” He read aloud from the paper. “ ‘Jews are forbidden to hold jobs in government, the law, and civil service. All Jewish teachers will be fired from the public schools. Jews may no longer work in radio or in film or as newspaper reporters or editors.’ ”

  “These are French laws, laws from our own government?” Maman asked, twisting a dish towel between her hands. “Not laws from the Germans?”

  “Not our government, Lili!” Papa exploded. “The new France with Vichy laws. I tell you, Maréchal Pétain and the Vichy government are worse than useless. And I closed up the store in Paris just in the nick of time. If we still lived there, it would have been taken away from us. The Germans are taking over all Jewish-owned businesses. What is happening to our country?”

  Pétain’s picture hung on the wall of every classroom in the school. Gustave usually tried to avoid looking at the stern old face with its bushy white mustache, but that morning he stared at it after he finished his page of math exercises, as if somehow the face could make him understand. Why would a Frenchman, a military hero, make so many Jews lose their jobs? How could people live if they couldn’t work?

  Maman was upset every evening when the mailbox was empty. The Germans had finally decided to let mail cross the demarcation line between the two zones of France, but you could send only preprinted postcards with messages to circle or cross out, saying things like “We are well” or “We are ill.” Maman bought one in the village, circled a few messages, and sent it to Aunt Geraldine. But the Nazis let only a few of the cards go across every day, and people were saying that many were getting lost or thrown away at the border. No cards had come yet from Paris, nothing from Aunt Geraldine or from Marcel’s mother, Madame Landau.

  One evening, as the weather was getting cooler, Gustave saw that Maman had tears in her eyes as she ladled soup into bowls at dinner. “There’s just no food here,” she said. “How am I supposed to make a meal with yesterday’s bread and rutabagas? That’s all I could buy today. The shopkeepers say that the government takes all the food directly from the farmers to give to the Germans. The only reason I can get rutabagas is because the Germans don’t like them.”

  “We have nothing more in the garden?” asked Papa.

  Gustave scooped up a spoonful of stringy mashed rutabagas, stuck it into his mouth, and quickly gulped water so that he could swallow without tasting it. He hated rutabagas too, but they filled his stomach.

  “All that work for nothing,” Gustave said. Practically every day all summer, Maman had made him weed that garden.

  “Well, not for nothing,” said Maman. “We harvested those tomatoes and green beans. But I wish we had gotten just a few radishes. Those would have kept over the winter, and they would have made the bread taste more interesting. But I think those seeds were no good. They just didn’t grow. Or maybe something ate them.” She sighed.

  Gustave bit into his stale bread, imagining how much better it would taste with creamy butter and the spicy tingle of black radish. He and Maman both loved those radishes. So did Aunt Geraldine. One day last fall in Paris, Gustave, Jean-Paul, and Marcel had been the first to see that black radishes were for sale in the outdoor market and that people were lining up to buy them. The three of them had waited in line for ten minutes to buy some. Their mothers had been delighted when they’d come home. Gustave’s family had invited Jean-Paul’s and Marcel’s over for lunch, and they had shared the first gnarled, twisty black radishes, peeled and sliced very, very thin, on buttered chunks of bread.

  “How thick a piece of radish can you eat just plain?” Marcel had asked Jean-Paul, cutting himself a slice twice as thick as usual, biting into it, then quickly swallowing water. Jean-Paul had sliced one as thick as his thumb. He held the radish piece in front of his mouth for a moment, grinning at Gustave and Marcel, before taking a huge bite. The other boys had watched, fascinated, as Jean-Paul’s face slowly flushed a deep scarlet.

  “Ah!” he screamed, running for the bathroom to spit it out.

  “Boys, please don’t waste food,” Maman had said pleasantly as Jean-Paul gulped down almost the whole pitcher of water to cool his tongue. She wouldn’t say that so calmly now, Gustave thought. The chunk of radish Jean-Paul had spat out that day last fall would have been enough to flavor his bread and Maman’s and Papa’s for several meals.

  “Some of the farmers must have hidden food away from the Germans,” Papa said, gripping the table so vigorously that Gustave’s spoon fell out of his soup. “And I have all that leftover stock from the store. It’s time to start making use o
f it. People need shoes and cloth as much now as ever, and there’s nothing in the stores.”

  “Oh, Berthold, be careful,” Maman whispered.

  Papa lowered his voice. “Wait and see. Tomorrow maybe I’ll be able to find a farmer who will trade a nice, plump chicken for a pair of good leather shoes.”

  Maman anxiously twisted her napkin between her fingers. “That’s the black market, Berthold,” she whispered again. “You know that the government has declared that sort of trading illegal.”

  “As a Jew, I can’t run my business now,” Papa said fiercely. “And I’m certainly not going to let good leather shoes rot while we starve.”

  Dinner the next night was much more filling. Papa came home with a whole sack of potatoes and three eggs that a farmer had given him in exchange for two pairs of children’s shoes. Maman made hot, crispy potato pancakes. A week later, Papa came home with something even better.

  “Look what I have today!” he said to Maman, kissing her on the cheek. “A whole kilo of butter and a bag of apples! I traded the farmer for a pair of slippers.”

  Maman made a rich, buttery apple tart that night, and for the next several weeks, the food was better. But after the first frost, Papa came home with less and less.

  Then one day, Gustave was sitting on the living room floor, working on a jigsaw puzzle picturing the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, when Papa bounded in, beaming.

  “Voilà!” he said. “Look what I have for us tonight!” He pulled a plucked chicken out of his sack.

  “Chicken!” Gustave’s stomach rumbled. They hadn’t eaten meat in months. “Where did you get it?” he asked joyfully, jumping up from the floor to get a better look. “I can’t believe it, Papa!”

  But Maman was frowning in the doorway. “Where did you get it, Berthold?” she asked, with an edge to her voice.

  Gustave glanced from one of his parents to the other. Why was Maman upset? He ducked back down to the floor and flipped over puzzle pieces, looking for a corner. He only needed to find the fourth corner piece to complete the frame.

  “It comes from just over the river,” Papa replied calmly. “The farmers on our side of the Cher mostly cultivate grapes for wine. But what we need is food. There’s more at the farms on the other side of the demarcation line.”

  “You crossed over the line into the occupied zone?” Maman’s voice was high and thin. “What if the Nazis had given you trouble?”

  “I’m not going to let the Germans stop me from crossing a French river,” said Papa evenly. “I used my Swiss identity papers. I tell you, the farmers and the men I meet at the cafés envy me for having Swiss papers and being able to cross the line.”

  Maman sighed. “I don’t like it. It isn’t safe.”

  “We have to eat, Lili,” said Papa, throwing himself into one of the armchairs. Maman sighed again and went into the kitchen.

  When she was out of the room, Gustave fit another piece into his puzzle and looked up at his father. “Why is it good to have Swiss papers?” he asked quietly.

  “You know how the Germans are letting some French people cross the line now?” Papa answered. “You can apply to them for a pass to cross the line, but I hear it is a big runaround to get one. But with Swiss papers, I don’t need a pass. I can cross anytime, since Switzerland is a neutral country, not fighting in the war.”

  Gustave ran his finger over the edge of a puzzle piece. “But then why can’t Jean-Paul’s family and Marcel’s just get passes and leave the occupied zone?” he asked.

  Papa leaned back, and the armchair creaked. “The Nazi officials give those passes to a few of the French people who apply for them,” he said. “But not to Jews. They won’t do any favors for Jews.”

  Soon the house was filled with the delicious smell of roasting chicken. But everyone was quiet at dinner. Gustave chewed the rich, tender meat, watching his parents. Finally, Maman said, “You’re right that we need to eat, Berthold. But please be careful. And next time, I’ll write a letter to Geraldine, and you can mail it from the other side of the line. Even though that’s illegal too. But that way, there’s more of a chance she’ll get our letter, even if we can’t hear back from her.”

  Papa smiled, rubbing her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The Germans want to stay on the good side of the Swiss government. The guards at the line won’t bother me. I’ll only go if we really need the food.”

  So every now and then, Papa bounded into the house with something special—a full dozen eggs, a bunch of carrots, or a wheel of cheese. One night, Maman slit open the seam of a cloth bag, tucked in a letter to Aunt Geraldine, and sewed it neatly closed. Papa took the letter across to mail it. On the days when he came back from his bartering trips with something particularly good, he acted the way he used to in Paris when he had had an especially good day at the store: he kissed Maman and whistled around the house, and sometimes he played with Gustave after dinner. One cool fall evening, Papa even pulled himself up the ladder in the garage to admire Gustave’s fort.

  The road in front of the school was full of exuberant children on the last Thursday in October, the day before La Toussaint. As Gustave made his way around a group of girls with their arms linked, who were singing at the top of their lungs, Claude ran toward him.

  “Think fast!” He threw a pinecone at Gustave’s head.

  “Hey!” Gustave picked it up and threw it back.

  Nicole and a girl named Celeste, who was always playing hopscotch at recess, broke away from the group of singing girls and joined him and Claude. The four of them started toward home.

  “No homework for a week!” Celeste said gleefully, tossing her blond head and glancing at Gustave with vivid blue eyes.

  “Do your families have food for the All Souls’ supper?” Claude asked the others. “Are you having bacon? We don’t have any left, so we’re just having pancakes, cider, and pears. But bacon is the best part!”

  “We have some,” Celeste said. “My mother’s been saving it. But we have eight people coming, so there won’t be much for each. Do you have any? Or any rillettes?” She looked straight at Gustave.

  Gustave’s throat tightened with disgust at the thought. Bacon or rillettes? Of course not. Both were made from pork, and Jews didn’t eat pork. La Toussaint was a Catholic holiday, and none of the kids from his neighborhood in Paris celebrated it. He didn’t even really know what Catholics did on La Toussaint, just that for everybody, it was the beginning of a week off from school. But he couldn’t say that. Nervously, he shoved his hands into his pockets, frantically trying to think of something to say.

  “Wake up, Gustave!” Claude knocked on his head. “Anybody in there? Celeste asked if your family has bacon for the All Souls’ supper.”

  “We don’t!” Nicole jumped in. “I’m just glad that we have enough eggs for pancakes. I like the cider and hazelnuts and pancakes best, anyway. Oh, and I really love the roasted marrons. I always smell those chestnuts that Monsieur Arnaud sells outside the cemetery when we’re saying the prayers over the graves. Once, my father let me buy some when we came out, but when my aunt comes to visit, she tells my father not to spoil my appetite. As if it would! My aunt is so annoying! When she and my uncle and cousins visit, she always tells my father that I’m a hooligan and that he isn’t raising me properly. She never likes the dresses I wear when we go to decorate my mother’s grave. Anyway, could you buy a pot of chrysanthemums to decorate the graves with? We couldn’t, but I know where some purple aster is growing. I think it’s pretty, and my mother loved wildflowers, but my aunt will never approve. She doesn’t even approve of colored chrysanthemums for my mother’s grave, only white.…” Nicole went on and on, hardly stopping to take a breath.

  Startled, Gustave looked at her. Nicole sure could talk. And she didn’t have a mother? Gustave hadn’t realized that.

  Celeste put her arm around Nicole’s waist. “I’m sorry,” she said when Nicole paused. “For a minute I forgot about your mother. It must be a hard holiday for you.�
��

  “I miss her when I think about her,” Nicole said, more quietly. “But I was so little, only three, when she died. But my aunt,” she continued, more cheerfully, “you should hear her going on about my hair, and my table manners, and the people Papa associates with, and my bicycle riding, and my bedtime.…”

  Nicole chattered on and on until Claude came to his turnoff. Then Celeste, hiding her face behind a curtain of blond hair, tugged Nicole’s arm insistently, and the two of them ran off, saying that they were going to the boulangerie.

  “Goodbye, Gustave!” Celeste called over her shoulder, giggling.

  Gustave nodded and headed toward his house, wondering what Celeste was giggling about. Nicole seemed a lot more sensible. It must be hard for Nicole, not having a mother. But he was glad that she had talked so much after Celeste had asked about bacon and rillettes. It almost seemed as if Nicole had deliberately chattered so much so that he wouldn’t have to answer.

  But then that must mean that Nicole suspected he wasn’t Catholic, Gustave thought nervously. Why had she noticed when the others hadn’t? Did that mean that she realized he was Jewish? But if she did, why was she helping him hide it?

  14

  The first few days of the La Toussaint school holiday were sunny, but then the weather turned bitterly cold. On Wednesday morning, after Maman left for work, Gustave was huddled on his bed, wearing his warmest sweater with the wool blanket over him, rereading The Three Musketeers for the hundredth time, when Papa came in.

  “I have an adventure for us,” Papa said, smiling.

  Gustave jumped up from the bed. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going bartering,” Papa said. “A farmer yesterday told me about another farm where they have ducks and need woolen cloth. It’s about thirty kilometers away, and he offered me a can of gasoline in our exchange yesterday, so this time we can take the truck.”