“You must.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could say a word, she began again. “Everyone who lives on a farm manages both.”
Both! More cabbages to be taken in, cut into strips and weighed down in brine for sauerkraut. Squash. A last row of potatoes. And long days of school with homework every night.
“All right,” I muttered, seeing her stubborn face.
I spent that night pouring bleach over my hands, scrubbing my face until it was raw and washing my hair under the pump.
The next day, Katrin came up the path, books in her arms.
Behind her, a truck stopped in front. One of the soldiers slammed out, and we hesitated, to go past him.
He came toward us. “Someone said you have a pig ready to be slaughtered,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
He motioned to two others and they walked up the path. “We’re here for the pig,” he said.
“Please.” I was almost whispering. “We have to eat.”
“So does the German army,” he said.
I saw Mémé at the window, shaking her head at me, so Katrin and I went back into the kitchen while the men dragged the pig away.
“How did they know? Who told them?” I asked.
Mémé’s face was stony. “We always have a pig. Everyone knows that.”
“Yes, everyone,” Katrin said. “We lost our pig to them yesterday. And the cow too.” She leaned forward, whispering. “We’re hiding food now, as much as we can. I think everyone will be doing that.”
On the way to school, I couldn’t stop thinking of the pig and the meat that wouldn’t be ours this winter. I thought about how all of us would manage to hide food.
We reached the square and stopped. The Germans had toppled a stone statue of a French soldier from the Great War. A cloud of gray rose from the base, and small chunks were scattered underneath.
I wondered if we’d be late, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was still outside the school, gathered around a paper taped to the wall: it was a long list with a huge black VERBOTEN printed across the top. Forbidden.
We couldn’t speak French anymore. Our names and street names would be changed to German. Wedding rings had to be worn on the right hand in the German way.
Katrin twitched her shoulder. “Not important.”
I stared at her.
“Many people here speak German all the time, especially those who were alive when Alsace belonged to Germany. Now we’ll all think German, speak German. We’ll have to be German.”
She pointed to the list with one finger. “Listen to this. Radios have to be turned in to the village hall. And something else . . .”
I leaned forward. On the bottom of the list I read: All books not written in German must be burned immediately!
Where were my books, one in French, the others in English, and my name in all of them? Who had them now?
All I could think of was that list and what it meant. I wouldn’t be able to keep my French name, and André had told me that Mémé had never taken her wedding ring off. Now she’d have to change it to her other hand.
Inside after art class, the principal came in, with a man following. The principal spoke in German: “Welcome your new history teacher, Herr Albert.”
“Where’s Monsieur Henri?” someone asked. It was what all of us were wondering.
There was no expression on the principal’s face. “He is no longer with us.”
The new teacher spoke up. “In prison, of course. He was a soldier, after all.”
The new teacher’s sleeves didn’t cover his wrists. His pants were baggy. He snapped his feet together, then raised his arm in the Hitler salute. “Guten Morgen.”
“Guten Morgen,” we parroted back, and sank into our seats as the principal went out the door.
Herr Albert asked our names, pointing from desk to desk. Immediately after the last student spoke, he repeated them, all of them correct. Herr Albert might look sloppy, but his brain was sharp. He wasn’t finished, though; he changed some of our names on the spot. Yvonne became Helga; I became Gerta.
He glanced at the tricolor flag hanging in front. With one motion he pulled it down and dropped it into the wastebasket. “No need for this anymore.” He ignored the gasps that came from the back of the room.
He reached into his valise and took out the Nazi flag with its swastika like a black spider. He unfolded it and, reaching up, threaded it into the holder.
Liane looked down at her desk and moved her fingers, playing an imaginary piano. Claude looked furious, and my chest felt tight, almost as if someone were squeezing me too hard.
Herr Albert rubbed his hands together. “We’ll begin our study of history now.” He pointed to the wall map. “Alsace is a strip of land between the Vosges Mountains and the Rhine River,” he said, as if every five-year-old in Alsace didn’t know that. “It was German from 1871 to the end of the First World War. Then, sadly, it became French.”
By this time he’d lost us. Katrin and I passed notes back and forth, choosing crazy names for everyone in the class. I jumped as I realized Herr Albert was standing in front of me. “There’s no time for gossip in my room.” He leaned closer. “In the seventeen hundreds you would have to walk through the village wearing the Klapperstein.”
What was he talking about? Katrin looked as confused as I was. But he went on. “A huge stone. Gossips wore it around their necks, weighing them down.”
Laughter bubbled up as I thought of our wearing it, inching our way through the village. Katrin bit her lip, trying to look serious.
Herr Albert’s face changed. No longer did he look like a messy teacher, but more like someone to fear. “We are German now,” he said. “And you will see change all over Europe.”
I swallowed and looked down at my desk as he crumpled Katrin’s note. If only this terrible day would end.
ten
The next Saturday, I came into the kitchen carrying cabbages, almost like babies, from the wheelbarrow.
Mémé locked the door behind me. “We have things to do.”
I nibbled at a square of cheese from the table as she dropped a rubber mat in front of the armoire. “You might as well know about this,” she said. “I’ll let you help me.”
She was impossible, I told myself for the hundredth time. I pushed back my chair and stood up as she straightened the mat with one foot. “We must move the armoire, and the stone floor can’t be marked.”
What was she talking about? How could we move that huge cabinet? How could I do it? She had no strength left.
“I moved this in the Great War with Gérard,” she said. “Push, Genevieve.”
Inch by inch, I managed to open a space behind the armoire, wide enough to squeeze through. I stared into that dusty space, almost the size of the pantry.
“But why . . . ,” I began.
“A place to store food, to keep us alive. Do you think I’d let the Germans come in here and take everything?”
I raised my hand to my throat.
She handed me a rag and I slid inside to wipe down the shelves. We went from pantry to armoire, filling them.
“Take only half. We have to eat, after all.”
Almost finished, I kept looking at the shelves. The vegetables inside the glass jars were almost like jewels, the green beans, the golden pears, the red peppers. I tripped and the last jar of tomatoes slipped out of my hands. Mémé wasn’t paying attention, though. It was as if she hadn’t heard the glass smashing, or seen the red swath spreading around the broken jar. She pinched my sleeve. “We can’t trust anyone. Tell no one, Genevieve.”
I thought of the people I’d met here: Rémy, Madame Jacques at the bakery, her son, Claude, even Monsieur Philippe, the bookseller, with his thick lips and unfriendly face.
Katrin and I talked about everything: how much money the bistro owner had hidden under his mattress, how many tarts Madame Jacques ate every day, how many hours Liane played the piano.
And Mémé. Of co
urse, Mémé.
I knelt to pick up the shards of glass.
“You’ll see,” Mémé said. “There are those who are French, and others who are German sympathizers.”
I nodded uncertainly.
“Promise me. Give me your word.”
“All right.” I crossed my fingers. I didn’t bother to look at her. Surely it was all right to tell Katrin.
Slowly I pushed the armoire back into place, thinking of my father doing this so many years ago.
There was only the half-filled pantry to tell us what we’d done.
eleven
In November, a mild wind swept over the field. “A good day to air the quilts,” Mémé said.
I came around the side of the house with a quilt to hang, and stopped. An officer stood there, medals weighing down his uniform. A soldier stood behind him, his face covered with freckles; he must have been André’s age.
I hugged the quilt to me. Where was Mémé?
The officer pointed, his boot resting on the bottom rail of the fence. “There’s a horse in the field.”
I glanced toward Sister.
He smiled with perfect teeth. “As long as we’re all Germans, we have to share everything. What’s the horse’s name?”
“Sister. No one rides her. We just harness her up to the cart . . .”
A mistake. I knew it right away, and maybe the young soldier did too. He bent his head.
“Ah.” The officer laughed. “I’ll just borrow them both.”
“Please,” I began, but I couldn’t stop him.
He climbed the fence, whistling for Sister. She came immediately, hoping for a sugar cube or an apple slice, and he opened the gate for her. He snapped his fingers at the young soldier. “Get the cart from the barn. Harness her.”
The young soldier’s face was red, his freckles standing out. Did he feel sorry for me?
Moments later, Sister and the cart were gone, rattling up the road toward the village. I felt tears of grief. What would André have done? Worse, what would Mémé say? I flew upstairs. She was in her bedroom, a mop in her hand. “Oh, Mémé, he took the horse.”
She looked up. “What are you talking about?”
“And the cart. An officer.”
The mop slid away from her. “My horse?”
Would she yell at me? Cry the way I was crying? Instead she clenched her hands into fists. “An old horse.” She raised her head. “A rickety cart.”
“Why are you saying that? She’s a wonderful horse, and without the cart we can’t go far.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Mémé said.
“Could we complain to someone?”
“Better to keep still. We don’t want to be noticed.”
It was too late; we had been noticed. Toward the end of the day, another German came, riding a motorcycle. He left it in front and strolled around to the back of the house, his boots heavy on the gravel.
Mémé was still in her bedroom. I called her from the stairs. “A German is outside.”
“I’ll be right there,” she said.
She came down a few minutes later, but she didn’t wait for him to knock. “Can I help you?” she said as she opened the door.
“You have a big house, with only the two of you?”
She barely nodded.
How did he know that? And then I realized. He must have been the German who’d spoken to Katrin!
“You have extra rooms, then,” he said. “Perhaps . . .”
He went past her, through the kitchen into the hall. “The stairs?”
“There’s a room down here,” Mémé said, the German words sounding strange on her tongue.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb you. Let’s see what’s on the second floor.”
What could we do? We followed him upstairs, Mémé walking slowly as she’d done all year. We watched as he opened doors and stopped at her room, his hand on the molding.
The painting was gone. A pale square against darker paint stood out on the wall. He noticed it too. He walked in, circled the bed and stared, his hands clenched behind his back.
Mémé started back down the hall toward the stairs.
“Frau,” he called after her, his voice sharp.
She turned, waiting. Louis padded up the stairs and stood close to her. Even the dog knew something was wrong. Mémé put her hand on his head.
“Is the dog vicious?” the soldier asked.
“Certainly not.”
“Yes. We wouldn’t want to get rid of him.”
My heart was pounding. First Sister. Now Louis?
“What hung on the wall?” The German ran one finger over the pale square.
She didn’t hesitate. “A mirror. Shattered.”
He glanced at me, and my eyes slid away from him; I stared down at the floor. Was that the edge of the frame just under the bed?
He stood at the dresser now, running his fingers over Mémé’s necklace. “This room will do nicely. I’ll bring my things this afternoon.”
We couldn’t look at him. He’d just changed our lives.
“Perhaps I’ll see the shards from the mirror later,” he said as he went downstairs. “But in the meantime, hang something pleasant to look at.”
Mémé leaned against the wall, and I bent to bury my cheek in Louis’s fur. “It’s under the bed,” I whispered.
“Yes. But first, we want to be sure he’s gone. He can guess the painting is valuable.”
I went down to the hall window, and she was right. The motorcycle was still there. I edged my way along the hall, peering into the kitchen.
He was standing at the massive sink. I backed away and up the stairs. Moments later, I heard the roar of the motorcycle. “He’s gone.”
“We’ll use the space overhead,” Mémé said. “It was meant for workers a hundred years ago. A pull-down stair went up from your bedroom, but Gérard plastered it over during the Great War, so there’s only one way to get there.”
She slid the painting from under the bed and wrapped it in a pillowcase. “You’ll have to go out on the roof from your bedroom, Genevieve.”
How could I do that? The drop was terrifying. She stared at me, almost daring me to say I couldn’t do it. I knew what would happen. She’d try it herself, never mind the ankle that still gave her trouble. There she’d be, a bag of bones rolling down the slanted roof and hitting the gravel far below.
We went into my room, and I opened my window, staring out, trying not to look down.
“Climb onto the sill,” Mémé said.
It was much wider than the one at home. I put one knee up, then the other, crouching, moving outside, my hands glued to the bottom of the frame.
“Reach up, Genevieve. You’ll feel the ledge at the top of the window.”
I leaned back, one hand still clutching the frame, the other reaching . . .
And grasped it. It took forever to make myself stand on the top of the ledge, three stories above the ground. The wind pulled at my dress and hair; behind me came the steady tap-tapping of loose tiles.
I touched the window above and, stretching, managed to shove it open, my heart fluttering.
“Good.” Mémé held the painting up to me, the pillowcase flapping.
Then, the rumble of a motor. Was the officer back? He couldn’t have gone far.
I pushed the painting inside and saw him at the end of the gravel path. I scrambled into a small room, the dust thick on the floor, cobwebs like fine net stretched across the corners. I huddled there, shaking, the painting in my arms. Vaguely, I heard Mémé shut the bedroom window below.
After a while, I rested the painting against the wall, careful to avoid jutting nails. On the floor was a thin straw mattress, and I crouched down on it, trembling. “All right,” I whispered, “I’m all right.”
I ran my hand over the dusty floor at my side, feeling grit under my nails. And then I felt something else. Deep cuts had been carved into the wood, almost the size of my fists. I ran my fingers over t
hem, realizing they were letters, G.M.
My father’s initials, for his name, Gérard Michel. My initials too.
Without thinking, I patted the carving almost as if I might be patting Louis’s broad head. For the first time, I didn’t visualize a grim-faced man with a beard. I saw someone my age, kneeling there, carving.
The initials had been here all this time, almost as if they were waiting to find me.
And something else. As the sun began to set, it threw light on the opposite wall so I could see stick figures of two girls wearing enormous bows, and the face of a boy with a huge smiling mouth.
My father? A boy. Not the funny drawing of a grumpy man. I felt warmth spread through my chest. But I went back to thinking of the German soldier invading our farmhouse. Wouldn’t he want to know where I was?
twelve
Wrapping my arms around my waist, I tried to keep warm. I kept sneezing from layers of dust, but I must have slept.
I dreamed of a house, roses growing in front. Our own house in Springfield Gardens. Home.
I awoke to the sound of wind, stronger now. Outside, there was almost no light. I stood up, but I couldn’t see if the motorcycle was still on the path.
Was the officer in the house? I’d take a chance and slide down the roof, leaving the painting safe against the wall.
I could do it.
I climbed out backward, leaning hard against the sloping roof. I found my window ledge with one foot, crouched and grabbed it with both hands, my feet sliding down to the stone sill.
Mémé was there. She steadied my legs, then held my waist, guiding me into the bedroom. “I told him you were resting, that you had a headache,” she whispered. “We’ll go along the hall quietly, past my room, where he stares at a terrible painting I’ve placed on the wall, and soils my quilt with his boots. We’ll tiptoe downstairs and fortify ourselves for whatever we’ll have to deal with.”
What we dealt with first was arranging the extra bedroom beyond the kitchen for us both, pulling quilts and pillows out of the chest. We’d leave upstairs for him.
At the kitchen table, I made myself eat. I was worn out, and so glad André was safe at college in New York.
Genevieve's War Page 4
