“What perplexes me is why I am not improving.” Mme. Bernhardt’s eyelids began to droop. “Is there food for you and your sister?”
“We’re fine. Rest now.”
Within moments, her mother was snoring. Nicole tucked the covers under her chin, then carried the soup back to the kitchen, where Liz-Bette sat at the table studying a chess problem. When she saw the full soup bowl, she perked up immediately. “May I have it?”
Nicole put the soup in front of her. “You could show some concern that Maman didn’t eat.”
“I am concerned. I am also hungry.”
Worry gnawed at Nicole as she watched her sister greedily shovel soup into her mouth. Liz-Bette had grown so thin. But everyone in Paris was hungry. The only people who weren’t ran food shops or were cooperating with the Nazis. There were pictures in the newspapers all the time of the actress Danielle Darrieux. She looked healthy, indeed.
Liz-Bette slurped up the last of the soup and stared for lornly into the empty bowl. “We need more food.”
“That is called stating the obvious, Liz-Bette. Shall we ask the ghost of Harry Houdini to conjure some up for us?”
Liz-Bette laughed, but it faded quickly. Nicole had to figure out a way to get more food—real food, with protein. Her mother needed it to get well. Even when her father brought home food from the hospital it was always vegetables, not the protein that her mother needed. And who was to say he was coming home tonight, in any case? There were times they did not see him for three days at a time, about which he would say nothing.
Though her parents had forbidden it, there was only one thing to do, Nicole decided. She headed for the living room. Liz-Bette clomped along behind her. Nicole grabbed the two ornate silver candlesticks from atop the grand piano. “What are you doing?” Liz-Bette asked nervously.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” From the coat rack, Nicole took an old coat of her father‘s, a yellow star sewn to the outside. She reached into the pocket and found a few francs. Perfect, she thought. Money for the metro.
“Nicole, you can’t sell Maman’s candlesticks on the black market.”
“Do you want to eat?”
“Yes. But we aren’t supposed to go out.”
“We aren’t supposed to starve, either.” Nicole stuck the heavy candlesticks into an interior coat pocket.
“If you are going, I am going with you,” Liz-Bette declared.
“No. You stay here. In case Maman needs you.”
“You are not my mother,” Liz-Bette said calmly, as she put on one of her mother’s jackets. It hung loosely, even with all the sweaters she was wearing.
The sisters stared at each other. The Gestapo and the Permilleux Service had taken to arresting Jews on the flim siest of pretexts, making no distinction between Jews of French citizenship and refugees. If they were caught ... Nicole pushed the thought from her mind.
“Come on, then.” Nicole grabbed a mesh shopping bag from its hook on the wall. “No, wait.” She replaced the mesh bag and took a small valise from the front hall closet, thinking that at least no one could see what was inside a valise.
Silently, they walked downstairs, passing the Einhorns’ old flat. A French family lived there now, the Duponts. After the Vel d‘Hiv roundup, the government had requisitioned the flat and allocated it to the Duponts, who had taken all the Einhorns’ furniture as their own.
Moments later, they were outside in the sunshine. It was chilly, but the air felt wonderful. Liz-Bette tilted her face to the sun. “We have no time for that,” Nicole said, though she felt like doing exactly the same thing. “Come on.”
They walked briskly to the Trocadéro metro station, paid their fares, and waited for the train to arrive, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. They boarded the last car—the only car in which Jews were allowed to ride—and took it to the Porte de Clignancourt station at the north end of Paris. Near the station was the flea market—well known as a site for black market dealings.
They joined the crowds strolling past the pathetic assortments of goods it was still legal to sell: old cosmetics, paper fans, household goods, costume jewelry, and the like.
“There’s no food here,” Liz-Bette grumbled.
Nicole eyed a nearby garbage bin. A young woman dangled from the top as she rummaged through it, her panties exposed. “Never,” Liz-Bette declared, catching sight of the girl. “I will not dive into garbage. It is disgusting.”
“We will see.” Nicole took her sister’s arm. People eyed their yellow stars—sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with contempt, most often with apathy.
Liz-Bette shrank into Nicole’s side. “Maybe we should just go home.” Nicole ignored her, trying to come up with a plan. How was she going to find someone willing to trade food for her candlesticks?
From behind her, someone called, “Nicole! Nicole Bernhardt!”
Run! Her instincts commanded, but she fought them. Running would only focus attention on her and her sister. Instead, she calmly turned around.
It wasn’t the Gestapo, thank God. It was her former class-mate Suzanne Lebeau, whom she hadn’t seen since she’d left school. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Suzanne cried, throwing her arms around Nicole. “And you, too, Liz-Bette.”
When Suzanne stepped back, Nicole saw that her old friend was as beautiful as ever—sophisticated-looking, in fact. Her hair was held back with stylish twin combs. She wore a lovely red coat, red high heels, and matching lipstick. She even had on silk stockings. Nicole pulled her father’s shabby coat closer around her neck.
“Tell me, how are you doing?” Suzanne asked.
“Fine,” Nicole lied.
Suzanne frowned. “No, not fine. That was stupid of me. I am so sorry I haven’t been to see you but—”
“Mimi told me,” Nicole said stiffly. “Your parents will no longer allow you to associate with Jews. We should be going.” She reached for Liz-Bette’s arm.
“Wait.” Suzanne buried her hands farther into her fur muff. “What are you doing here?”
“Jews are still allowed here.”
“No, I meant ...” Suzanne hesitated. “I am here with my mother. Our rich relatives and their friends are coming to dinner tonight. I hate these relatives. But my mother is desperate for crystal goblets, to make a good impression. Do you understand?”
Was she saying her rich relatives were collaborators, their friends Huns? Was she offering to help them? But who knew if her parents weren’t collaborators, too? Nicole saw Liz-Bette shake her head imperceptibly, meaning she didn’t want Nicole to tell. The whole thing was a risk. But silence was not going to feed them.
“I have my mother’s silver candlesticks and I need to barter them for food,” Nicole said bluntly.
Suzanne tapped her rouged lips thoughtfully with the tip of one finger. “Ah! I know. Come with me. But take off your coats with the stars on them. Please.”
Nicole hesitated now. Was she walking into a trap? But she shrugged off her coat anyway, as did Liz-Bette, and then followed as Suzanne led them through the crowd at a pace that left undernourished Nicole and Liz-Bette breathless.
They halted before an elderly couple with leathery skin. Both wore farmers’ coveralls. Before them, on wood pallets, were handmade dolls laid out in neat rows. Suzanne began a whispered exchange with the woman, who whispered back, shaking her head emphatically. The woman’s finger stabbed the air at the yellow star peeking out from the coat draped over Nicole’s arm.
Suzanne turned to Nicole. “Go to the corner. Wait there.”
“But—”
“Just do it.”
Feeling helpless, Nicole took Liz-Bette’s arm and walked twenty paces toward the corner. “I’m f-f-freezing,” Liz-Bette said, teeth chattering. As Nicole gave her sister one of her sweaters, Suzanne brushed past them with the old man.
“Come on,” she hissed, over her shoulder. “Before he changes his mind.”
Out of the flea market and down a side street they went,
struggling to keep up with the old man’s brisk pace. “Where are we going?” Liz-Bette asked Nicole.
“I don’t know.”
“Then we shouldn’t go,” Liz-Bette insisted, hanging back.
“It’s all right,” Suzanne assured her. “Just hurry.”
The old man led them to a dilapidated building several blocks away. He let himself in, motioning that Suzanne should come with him but Nicole and Liz-Bette should wait on the street. Again, Nicole wondered if they were walking into a trap.
A minute passed. Two. They stamped their feet to try to keep warm. She was about to tell Liz-Bette they should leave when the front door opened and Suzanne appeared. “Come on!”
They walked up a dark stairwell that smelled of rotten cabbage. From someone’s phonograph, an opera played. On one floor, Nicole heard Hitler’s voice on a staticky radio mixed with the sounds of children laughing and playing behind the apartment door. When they reached the top landing, Suzanne knocked. The door opened. A young man with a cigarette hanging from his lip stood in the entrance, the old man behind him.
“Silver candlesticks were mentioned?” the young man asked.
Nicole nodded, pulled the heavy candlesticks from her coat, and gave them to him.
“You have a valise?”
She gave him that, too.
“Now wait.”
Suzanne slipped inside, then the young man shut the door in Nicole’s face. Liz-Bette blinked furiously, a new nervous habit. “Maybe they’re stealing the candlesticks from us. Maybe we should leave.”
Suddenly, the door reopened, and the young man with the cigarette thrust the valise at Nicole. She took it, shocked at how heavy it was. “Go,” he commanded, practically pushing Suzanne out before slamming the door once again.
“Come on,” Suzanne urged. “Let’s go!”
Quickly, they descended the stairs. “What’s in the valise?” Nicole asked. “My arm feels like it is about to come out of its socket.”
“Foie gras,” Suzanne answered. “My grandfather’s brother-in-law runs a factory in Meaux. The old man sends the factory goose liver and gets tins of foie gras in return. You now have forty half-kilo tins. I hope you like goose liver.”
When they reached the street, Nicole hesitated. On the black market, the candlesticks were worth perhaps two kilos of foie gras, not twenty. “All this for two candlesticks?”
“I augmented their value a bit,” Suzanne admitted. “Not very much.” For ten times their worth, she must have augmented them a lot. With what? Gold coins? Diamonds? Nicole held the valise out to Suzanne. “You must take some of this.”
“No,” Suzanne said sharply, as she backed away from them. “I am ashamed to say what some members of my family do and who their friends are. I am not a fine enough person to refuse to benefit from their largesse. But it gives me great satisfaction to know that you are now a beneficiary, too. God bless you, Nicole.” She turned and ran until her coat was a red dot in the distance.
By the time Nicole and Liz-Bette reached the Trocadéro station, it was nearly dark. Nicole had but one goal as they left the last car—to get home as quickly as possible. They were in violation of a host of anti-Jewish laws and some that applied to non-Jews as well—even though everyone did it, trafficking in the black market was a serious offense. Fortunately, the avenue de Camoëns was just a few blocks away.
“I wish I could put my coat on,” Liz-Bette said, as they trudged along. “I am freezing.”
“You know we can’t let anyone see our stars now. Not with this valise. We’ll be home in just another minute.” She switched the valise to her other hand. “When Maman is better, she can trade some foie gras for other food. But she will ask what we did to get so much of it.”
“Can’t we just tell her the truth?”
“No, because the truth sounds unbelievable. She will be angry enough that we went out without—”
“Nicole?”
Something in Liz-Bette’s voice made Nicole look up. Approaching them were two young men with black berets, not much older than Nicole. One had blond hair, the other brown. Their coats flapped open, exposing dark shirts with narrow ties. Their trousers were tucked into high black boots.
Nicole’s breath caught. Permilleux Service.
The Permilleux Service was a special anti-Jewish police force created by a French government agency. It was notorious for being as sadistic as the Gestapo.
“Keep your head down, just keep walking,” Nicole said softly.
The two militiamen blocked their way. “What have we here?” the blond young man asked jovially.
“Excuse us, please,” Nicole said, cocking her head in the vague direction of home. “We live a few streets from here and we are late already. Come on, Liz-Bette.”
“Liz-Bette. What a pretty name for a pretty girl,” the other man said. “I am Antoine, and this fellow is Serge. Shall we escort you two young ladies home?”
“No!” Liz-Bette squeaked, edging closer to Nicole.
“A shame. In that case, identity cards, please.” He held out a beefy hand. They had no choice. Both girls took out their identity cards, stamped JUIVE, and handed them over.
The one named Serge laughed nastily and poked his partner in the ribs. “Well, well, Antoine, we have before us two members of the chosen people trying to pass themselves off as pure French girls. Trust you to find a Jewess pretty!”
Antoine’s face reddened as he glared at Nicole and Liz-Bette. “Stupid Jew cows. Trying to make a fool out of me, eh?”
“No, sir, my father has an Ausweis,” Nicole explained quickly. “And we were just going—”
“What is in the valise?” He jerked it from Nicole’s hand and popped it open. Tins of foie gras spilled onto the sidewalk. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it? Or is it from the black market?”
“A friend ... gave it to us,” Nicole stammered.
“No,” Serge said. “You are mistaken. A friend gave it to us. Gather up the tins and put them back into our valise.” Nicole and Liz-Bette did what they were told, leaving the valise on the sidewalk before them.
He smiled coldly. “Now that your mysterious friend has made this lovely gift to the true defenders of pure France, there is the matter of your contravention of the Jew statute of May 1942. You are not wearing your stars. However, we may be persuaded to look the other way. There is something about which I have always been curious. I hear that Jewesses have fur all the way to their navels. A sort of animal pelt. Is it true?”
Nicole froze.
“I asked, Is it true?”
Nicole forced herself to speak. “No.”
The dark-haired man cocked one eyebrow. “Prove it, and we shall let you go.”
“Please, keep the food. Just let us go.”
Suddenly, the blond one grabbed Liz-Bette by her hair, jerking her so hard that she cried out. “You have broken the law, Jew whores. Do you want to go to Drancy?” He jutted his chin at Nicole. “Lift your skirt, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. Now. Or else I will make your pretty little sister lift hers instead.”
With trembling fingers, Nicole reached for the bottom of her skirt.
“What do you think, Antoine? We should be enjoying a Dubonnet with the floor show,” Serge joked. “Proceed, mademoiselle.”
Slowly, Nicole began to raise her skirt. Past her calves. To her knees—
An air-raid siren sounded.
Antoine cursed. “Where’s the closest shelter?”
“Trocadéro,” his partner said. “What about them?”
“Forget them. Let’s go.” The sirens wailed as Antoine grabbed the valise and ran toward Trocadéro, his partner right behind.
Nicole took Liz-Bette’s hand. “Run, Liz-Bette. Run!”
They had lost everything—the candlesticks, the valise, the food—but none of that mattered now. As they reached the avenue de Camoëns, they heard the distant thunder of the Allies’ bombs falling. Nicole said a silent prayer of thanks. Many times, she had prayed for
the Allies to come quickly. Tonight, they had come just in time.
twenty-five
NOTES FROM GIRL X
7 January 1944
To the people of Paris,
Today, I give you irony. We are starving Jews who could be taken away at any moment, for any reason or no reason. Yet my parents still felt they must punish LB and me for disobeying them and going to the black market. Here is the irony : What could they take from us that had not already been taken? The cinema? Cafes? Walks in the park? Evenings with friends in their homes? All are already forbidden.
So this is what our parents did—they took away our books, pens, paper, and chessboard for an entire week. You cannot imagine what it is like to be trapped in an apartment without these things. There was nothing to do but nurse Maman back to health and play the piano.
And now, for some excitement. On Day Six of our punishment, two representatives of the CGQJ paid us a visit. We were reminded that under the law of 22 July 1941, French authorities are permitted to seize Jewish property and sell it for the “benefit of France.” In other words, legalized stealing. Four workmen came and took away our piano.
Dear reader, if you purchase a grand piano and find a small brass plaque on the inside etched with a Jewish name, then you, too, are a thief. Think of Girl X when you play your stolen piano. By the way, her favorite piece is Für Elise.
twenty - six
NOTES FROM GIRL X
2 March 1944
To the people of Paris!
Today, I speak to those of you who are young like me. Do you love someone with all your heart and soul, as Girl X loves J?
If you do, you will understand. I want him to undress me with more than just his eyes. I want him to touch every inch of my flesh. I burn. If you are young and in love, you know what I am feeling as I approach my seventeenth birthday. If you have forgotten, I pity you. And I think that perhaps Girl X, a Jewish girl, is freer than you are.
twenty-seven
7 April 1944
They kissed breathlessly in the hallway outside Mme. Genet’s apartment. In Jacques’s arms she could be anywhere, even America. She could be at a movie star’s party in Hollywood, doing the jitterbug with Jacques. Everyone would say they were the best dancers there. And food! So much food that she would say, “No, thank you, no dessert for me, I couldn’t bear another bite.”
Anne Frank and Me Page 12
