Genevieve's War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  Louis circled the cart, wanting to come with us. I ran my hand over his head and kissed his gray muzzle. “I’ll miss you,” I whispered. I climbed up, but Mémé still stood on the other side of the cart.

  I saw then how pale she was, her wrinkled face dotted with perspiration.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” She held on to the edge of the cart as she climbed up slowly, dragging her left foot.

  “What?” I asked again.

  “It’s just twisted . . . ,” she began, and didn’t finish.

  I looked down and saw a line of blood on the hem of her long dress.

  “How did you do this?”

  “Stop, Genevieve. We’ll miss the train with all your questions.”

  She flicked the reins lightly on Sister’s back. Then we were on our way, leaving the house with its red shutters, the cow, the chickens, the pig, the three-colored cat and Louis, whose thick tail wagged uncertainly.

  three

  Cypress trees lined the road on each side of us. Sister’s bells jangled, and with every step she took, I heard, Summer’s over.

  Nearby, the woodcutter was sawing in the forest. Sometimes I’d caught a glimpse of him, straps over his bent shoulders, pulling his cart along, with new wood piled high. He’d raise his hand in a gentle wave, then duck his head.

  We passed the Moellers’ farmhouse, where Katrin leaned against the window, waving. Yesterday we’d said a long good-bye, crying a little, hugging, promising to write and to be friends forever.

  Katrin was funny and warm. Her cheeks were round and covered with freckles, and her hair was a halo of curls. She never stopped talking . . . some of it about America, and all of it mixed up. She’d lean forward: “Do you see cowboys in New York City all the time?” Or “How about buffaloes? If I’m going to be a writer, I have to know these things.”

  I looked back over my shoulder until she and the farm disappeared at the turn of the road.

  Next to me, Mémé faced straight ahead, her lips in a thin line, her jaws clenched. What had she done to her foot?

  We made our way into the village square. Baskets of red and white geraniums were everywhere. Shop doors and windows in the upstairs apartments were open against the heat.

  Three old men in berets sat at a table in front of the bistro. They’d been in the same spot every day since I’d come, voices raised, arguing over one thing or another.

  “Let’s stop at the pâtisserie,” I said.

  Mémé twitched one narrow shoulder, as if she were asking why.

  “I want to say good-bye.”

  She pulled on the reins, and I tumbled out of the cart before she could change her mind.

  Inside the pâtisserie, I breathed in the smell of plum tarts baking in the oven. My mouth watered as I glanced at shelves filled with cakes and éclairs plump with whipped cream.

  Madame Jacques wiped her floury hands on her apron and reached into the case for a meringue for me. “My favorite,” I said.

  “Ah yes. Your father’s favorite too.”

  He loved meringues? My father with his grim face?

  “So, Genevieve.” Madame Jacques wiped her warm face, her cheeks like soft dough. “Summer is over, and you leave before the Germans come.”

  I nodded, the sweet meringue melting on my tongue.

  She tilted her head. “I think you will come back. Maybe not soon. It will be a long time.” She tapped the wooden floor with one foot. “The Germans remember that Alsace belonged to them once. They want us back.”

  She smiled then. “My son, Claude, is still sleeping upstairs. Lazy boy. Otherwise he’d say good-bye to you too.”

  From the window, I saw Mémé frowning at me. Madame Jacques gave me a kiss on each cheek. I went out the door and was barely onto the cart when Mémé snapped the reins again and the horse jolted forward.

  On the other side of the square, Monsieur Philippe lounged in the doorway of his shop, books piled up in the small window next to him. He looked at me impassively. His lips were impossibly thick, his teeth nut brown. He was nothing like Madame Jacques, who laughed at everything, touching your shoulder as she did.

  As we passed the pharmacy, Rémy stood at the open door. He mouthed something. Was it I will miss you? Did he look sad, thinking we wouldn’t see each other for a long time?

  As the horse labored up the hill, I looked back at the fairy-tale village. The houses were half-timbered, their stone walls painted yellow or pink, or green and the church steeple rose above all of it in a thin point.

  I remembered the ancient stone tower with its messy storks’ nest. I hate to desert Mémé, André had said. Did I say it aloud? She turned to stare at me sharply, but I pretended to glance at the field. We didn’t speak for the rest of the way.

  At the station, I pulled out my suitcase and the string bag of books. I tucked my purse under my arm, wondering where I’d left my gloves. I jumped down, and with my hand gentling Sister’s back, I glanced at Mémé. “Thank you,” I managed. What else could I say? “The farm is beautiful.” I realized it was true: the field in the morning, green and washed, the Vosges Mountains in the distance.

  She leaned forward. “You may come again after the war, Genevieve.”

  I blinked in surprise, then glanced down. Her foot turned in and there was a drop of blood on her sock. But before I could say a word, she was turning the cart on her way back to the farm.

  four

  Dust rose from the cart. I watched until Sister trotted around a curve; then I dragged my heavy suitcase and the books into the station.

  Inside, the wooden benches were filled. People leaned against the walls or sat on the cement floor, boxes and bags at their feet. A buzz of voices rose and fell like angry bees.

  The four Grossmans, a Jewish family, the mother and father and two children, were pressed together in a far corner. Katrin had told me they were leaving for safety. How terrible that the Germans hated them. And why? I waved but they didn’t see me.

  Madame Thierry sat on a bench, eyes closed, mouth opened, asleep.

  I stood nearby, next to a stanchion. The ceiling was open to the sky; pigeons flew back and forth, wings whirring, feathers drifting. A cloud changed shapes: an old man, an angel’s wing, a giant shoe.

  I closed my eyes. The train to Le Havre, the ship. Then New York. The library, black-and-white ice cream sodas with Aunt Marie! I swallowed. No! I’d have to find another library near Ellen, Aunt Marie would be far away, and André wouldn’t be scrambling eggs on Saturday mornings. Gen, you’re my best customer!

  Next to me, a woman was eating a buttery crêpe. It was folded in four, and sugar dotted her dress. My mouth watered. I had a few francs left, so I went to find one at the shop.

  I returned to my place, a warm crêpe in my hand. Katrin had taught me to make crêpes, but she was so busy talking she’d burned the first two. If only she lived in New York. Ah, Katrin!

  And Rémy.

  I brought the crêpe to my mouth; I smelled the butter, but I didn’t taste it.

  The first snow in New York. Christmas! Aunt Marie would be home by then, and André for the holidays. And I’d be there.

  A family sat on the bench next to Madame Thierry, surrounded by packages and even an empty birdcage. The man’s feet rested on a metal trunk. Their daughter, maybe five years old, inched her way closer, her eyes on my crêpe. She held out her hand, but her mother reached for her. “Non.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, smiling at the little girl.

  The mother leaned down toward her. “She’s saving her crêpe for later.”

  Why couldn’t I eat it?

  I heard the chug of the train, the shrill whistle. People rushed for bags, for trunks. Someone called, “Where are you, Charles? Hurry.”

  I tapped Madame Thierry on the shoulder. “Time to go.”

  She jumped. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Sure! “Sorry,” I said as I helped her to her feet.

  T
he train pulled in, and pigeons flew up, feathers floating.

  I remembered leaving Katrin. “I’ve always wanted to see a buffalo. I’m going to write books,” she’d said. “Tons of them.”

  And Rémy: “Don’t go back, Gen.”

  But Mémé!

  How had she managed to hurt herself before I left? I didn’t love her. I didn’t even like her. I felt a stab of anger. But could she have broken a bone? That miserable woman would have to harvest the beans, the squash, the cabbages by herself. But suppose she couldn’t do all that? What would she eat this winter? I ran one hand over my arm, summer muscles.

  Ridiculous.

  Suppose there really was a war? I shivered. Maybe, maybe not.

  Why didn’t I hurry? Why didn’t I take those steps as the train door opened?

  Aunt Marie! “It’s not always thinking of being happy. Doing the right thing will make you happy.”

  I handed my crêpe to the little girl, the lump in my throat choking me.

  The train began to fill and the platform emptied. Madame Thierry walked ahead.

  Still time.

  “Genevieve?” she called.

  I waved. “Go ahead. I can’t . . .”

  She didn’t wait to hear the rest. Shaking her head, she stepped onto the train. The doors were closing.

  Grab everything, I told myself. Run! I didn’t do that; I stood still.

  The train began to move slowly, to pick up speed. I put my arms around the stanchion as if it were alive, as if it could comfort me.

  five

  How could I take that endless walk back to the farm?

  Folle, Mémé would say. Crazy.

  The sun beat on my head as I dragged everything along. At the top of a hill, I moved aside as a cart lumbered by. If only I’d spent those francs on something to drink.

  I’d have to leave the suitcase and the books, but not where anyone could see. I walked farther and found a spot for them in a wooded area, dotted with evergreens. I’d come back tomorrow with Sister and the cart.

  I sank down next to an old tree and leaned my forehead against the bark. I saw Aunt Marie’s face, her small glasses framing her blue eyes, her dark hair in a pageboy.

  One day when I was little, I’d noticed our glass doorknobs. “Diamonds,” I’d whispered. “We must be rich.” Aunt Marie had put her warm arms around me. “Any house is rich if you’re in it,” she’d said.

  What would Aunt Marie think when she found out what I’d done? The right thing!

  What would André think?

  I walked farther into the woods and sat on a fallen tree trunk. My sobs were so loud that anyone coming along the road might have heard me. I wept until there were no tears left; then I left the suitcase and the string bag with the books under a patch of thick bushes.

  I walked for what seemed forever, my feet blistering in the stiff patent leather shoes, the comfortable ones still inside the suitcase.

  I passed the school and reached the village square, hurrying now. The shops were closed except for the bistro, where André had spent most of the summer chopping onions and carrots, washing endless dishes, and loving it all. The old men still sat in front, heads together, arguing.

  Rémy opened the pharmacy door. “Gen?” In two quick steps he was standing next to me, reaching out to hug me.

  For just that second I felt a burst of happiness.

  “But the Germans—” he began.

  The war! “I have to go.” I could hardly talk.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  I nodded, then turned and kept walking. From the last hill I saw the tile roof of Katrin’s farmhouse. A moment later, she came down the path, arms out. “What happened, Genevieve? Why—”

  I held up my hand, out of breath. She led me toward her house. Her brother, Karl, poked his head out the door and smiled. Her mother was shelling beans at the table, her head turned, talking to someone in the next room. Were they speaking German? She looked up. “Genevieve!”

  Katrin poured milk for me and I drank it leaning against the counter, gulping it down. “Thank you,” I managed when the glass was almost empty.

  “Why, Gen?” Katrin began, but I just shook my head. She danced around the table. “I’m so glad you stayed. I’ll put you in the first book I write. In the meantime, we’ll celebrate the fall together.”

  I was filled with homesickness, but when I listened to her, I felt better. I held the cool glass up to my hot forehead, then drank the rest.

  The church bells chimed the Angelus.

  Six o’clock!

  I jumped up. “I have to go. But thank you for the milk.” I backed out the door. Mémé might be sitting at the kitchen table, a thick stew in front of her, Sunday’s leftover chicken shredded into it, with a handful of juniper berries for flavor.

  What would she say?

  I went along the road until her farm was in front of me: the house with the pointed roof, the barn, Sister in the field, the filthy pig rooting nearby.

  Louis barked, his tail thumping, telling Mémé I was home. I knelt down beside him, my head on his, my arms around his thick fur. I hopped over the three-colored cat on the step, then went inside.

  Mémé wasn’t at the table. She was stretched out on the long bench next to the hearth, her foot raised. When she saw me, her hand went to her mouth, my long-dead grandfather Victor’s ring loose on her finger.

  I sank onto a chair, easing off my Sunday shoes, wiggling my toes in the heavy stockings.

  “What are you doing here?” She almost bit off the words.

  What could I say? “Your ankle?” I asked.

  “You’ve missed the train, the ship. Headlong! Do you ever think?”

  The tears in my eyes were tears of rage. “I came back to—”

  “Help me?” She blew air between her lips.

  I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “No!”

  “All that money for tickets,” she said. “Wasted!”

  I caught my breath. Aunt Marie saving money for months, all for my trip. But not for André. He’d used his restaurant money. Why hadn’t I remembered that? I felt sick to my stomach.

  I stamped over to the hearth and heated two bowls of chicken stew. I sawed off two slabs of bread and brought hers over to the small table next to the couch.

  “You’ll have to write to the cousin,” Mémé said, not touching the stew.

  I wanted to cover my ears. I slammed my bowl down on the large table. I sat with my back toward her, so I couldn’t see her angry face, and spooned in the salty stew, suddenly not hungry.

  “A disruption in my life,” I thought I heard her whisper.

  At home, André cooked every Sunday, thick beef stews in the winter, cold tomato soups on hot summer days. We’d sit around the kitchen table, the three of us, talking, laughing.

  I had to stop thinking of it. I couldn’t let myself cry again. I left the kitchen a little later, seeing that Mémé hadn’t touched her food.

  Upstairs, I threw myself on the bed. A piece of straw poked through the mattress, and I pulled it out. At home every night, I’d hear the mournful wail of the Long Island train as it passed the Higbie Avenue station. I’d cuddle deeper under the covers, cozy and warm.

  André would have put his arms around me and told me not to cry. Everything will be all right, he’d have said.

  But it wouldn’t be all right. I turned my head into the musty pillow. I’d made a terrible mistake.

  six

  It was barely light when I threw on a dress I’d forgotten to pack and scrambled under the bed for the wooden sabots. No more feeling sorry for myself! No more thinking about the ship sailing west. There was nothing I could do about it but write to Cousin Ellen. I’d tell her I was staying in Alsace. I’d say that Aunt Marie would be happy that I’d be with my dear grandmother. Dear grandmother. Such a lie!

  I’d write to Aunt Marie too, a letter that would stay in the mailbox at home for months. I’d remind her of doing the r
ight thing. I’d promise we’d be together by Christmas. After all, how long could a war last? A couple of weeks? A month or two?

  André’s note would be easy. He always understood everything, so I’d barely have to explain.

  Louis lay on the rag rug, his dark eyes following me as I moved around the room. “Oh, Louis,” I said. “I forgot to put you out last night.” I was glad, though. I was beginning to love this dog!

  We went down the narrow stairs together. No matter how early I’d been up all summer, Mémé was always awake, dressed, her hair in a tight bun. Elsie would be tethered out back, already milked. Sister would be frolicking in the field after her quiet night in the barn, and the pig would be wandering around, snuffling and snorting.

  But not this morning. Mémé still hadn’t moved from the bench, and the stew had congealed in the bowl.

  “You can’t lie there forever,” I said, ready to ask how I could help her.

  “You’re thirteen years old. Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Impossible.

  I tried again. “Can I get you something for your ankle?”

  She stared out the window. “The animals,” she said. “The horse, the cow . . .”

  I nodded. “Do you need a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “It will heal by itself.”

  I grabbed a chunk of bread, slathered it with jam and went outside. The three-colored cat stared up at me with her great yellow eyes. I grinned at her. “Not too friendly, I see, but how about a quick pat?”

  I reached out, but she was having none of my friendship. Claws unsheathed, she raked my hand.

  “Next time,” I said over my shoulder, and hurried to the barn. I gave Sister her oats and scattered seed for the chickens. Slop went into the pig trough, and I managed to milk the cow. I wouldn’t have known how to do any of it early this summer. Still it took half the morning.

  “Genevieve,” Katrin called, and trudged up the gravel path.

  I went to meet her and we sat on the stone steps outside the kitchen door.

  “My poor friend,” she said, her face earnest. “You’re the best person I know. Staying here for that old woman.”