Too soon, Jacques ended their kiss. She buried her head against his chest, in the perfect spot just under his chin, as he stroked her cheek. “André will be home for dinner tonight. I have to go.”
“ ‘I have to go.’ Those are the ugliest words in the entire French language.” She snuggled against him again. “But thank you again for bringing us wine. You cannot imagine what it means to have wine for our Passover seder tonight.”
“I was happy to do it. I should be able to bring vegetables from my uncle’s farm in a few days.”
“When will you come back? Can you come tomorrow?” She heard the neediness in her voice, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“I have to study. I’ll try.” He kissed her again and she clung to him.
Suddenly, Mme. Genet’s door swung open. “Celebrating liberation already?” she sneered. “Don’t think that I am blind to you two rutting dogs. I should report you to the authorities.”
Though she knew they weren’t violating any laws, Nicole’s face burned. She felt sure that Mme. Genet would love to denounce her family and grab whatever was left in their apartment.
Jacques stepped toward the concierge, hat in hand. “Excuse me, Madame Genet,” he began politely, “but I was only saying good-bye to my girlfriend.”
Mme. Genet sniffed. “A boy like you with a girl like her. It should be illegal.”
“But it is not, much as your friends in the PPF would like it to be,” Jacques said pleasantly. “One day, when Nicole and I become engaged, I am sure you will be amongst the first to wish us well. Unless of course you are in Berlin living in Hitler’s bunker.”
The concierge narrowed her eyes. “The Allies have not yet landed.”
“Your Boche saviors of the Republic are losing the war, and you know it,” Jacques scoffed. “Are you planning to become a Resistant of the Last Minute? I can already see you on liberation day, dancing on the Champs-Élysées, draped in the tricolor: ‘Long live de Gaulle, long live freedom, long live France!’ ”
The concierge quivered with indignation and slammed her door shut.
Nicole jumped into Jacques’s arms. “You were wonderful!”
“She is a mean-spirited fascist cow, eh?”
“Did you ... mean what you said?”
He pretended to misunderstand. “Sadly, I do not think Mme. Genet will ever congratulate us, Nicole.”
“That is not what I meant and you know it.”
“Oh, you mean the ‘when Nicole and I become engaged’ part? But of course. Don’t you remember? I asked you to marry me in third grade. I told you that one day I would become a fine doctor and practice medicine with your father. You said yes to this entire plan. It is far too late for you to back out now.”
“I’ll have to think about it. It’s just that I have so many offers.”
He tickled her ribs, which stuck out too far these days. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her until there was nothing in the world but him, his hands, his mouth, and this moment.
“Jacques...”
Into her neck he breathed, “Yes?”
“What you said ... what you want ... I want it, too.”
“Someday when all of this is over, we will—”
She pulled away so that she could look into his eyes. “Not someday, Jacques. Now.”
“But—”
‘There is no’someday,’ don’t you see?”
“Yes, there is.” He tenderly touched her cheek. “Nicole—”
“Tomorrow afternoon. My mother will be out shopping and my father will be at the hospital. We can go to his study.”
He pulled her to him. “I wanted our first time to be so much more than that. Candlelight and rose petals and champagne—”
“I don’t care about those things,” she insisted. “Don’t say it isn’t right, jacques. It’s the only right thing in my life.” This time it was she who kissed him until there were no more words.
Nicole sat on the couch; Liz-Bette at the window seat, blinking nervously. Both had resolved not to look at the grandfather clock anymore, but couldn’t help themselves. It was five minutes before eight and their father was not home yet. On any other night, this would not be a great cause for concern—he could be late at the hospital, he could be on a mission. But tonight? The night different from all other nights, the sacred first night of Passover? He had assured them he would be home by seven.
Everything was ready. They were dressed in their least threadbare outfits and the table was set for the seder, the religious meal that began the eight-day Passover holiday. The precious bottle of wine Jacques had brought for them waited by her father’s setting. Next to it was the ornate silver kiddush cup used only on Passover.
Mme. Bernhardt set a Haggadah—the book that retold the story of the Exodus from Egypt and contained the seder service—on each plate. As she put down the last one, the sirens that signaled the Jewish curfew began to wail.
“Maman?” Liz-Bette asked. “Where is Papa?”
“She doesn’t know, Liz-Bette,” Nicole said. “If she knew, we would know.”
“But we can’t have Passover without Papa.” Liz-Bette looked desperate. “I know why you are not answering me, Maman. It is because they took Papa away on a big bus and I’m never going to see him again!”
“No,” their mother said, but there was fear in her voice.
“You’re lying!”
Nicole went to her. “He’s safe, Liz-Bette.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Liz-Bette blinked rapidly. “It’s true that no one came to say Nightbird.”
Mme. Bernhardt finally found her voice. “Yes, I am sure that he is in a safe place, doing important work to defeat the Nazis.”
Abruptly, she went to the kitchen; Nicole and Liz-Bette sat by the window, perfectly still. The only sound was the relentless ticking of the clock. Time was a thief, sneaking forward. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Their mother returned and sat wordlessly in the upholstered chair. Twenty. Twenty-five.
The clock gonged half past eight. Mme. Bernhardt stood. “We will begin our seder,” she announced.
Nicole was incredulous. “Now?”
“Passover is the festival of freedom our people have celebrated for thousands of years. Even Hitler cannot change that. Come.”
The girls followed their mother to the table and opened their Haggadoth. “ ‘We are here to celebrate once again the very first festival the Jewish people ever observed,’ ” Mme. Bernhardt read aloud. “ ‘We retell the ancient story of how Moses led us out of Egypt and out of the house of bondage. As we remember this moving chapter in our people’s past, may we learn to appreciate more deeply the freedom we now enjoy.’ ”
Nicole’s heart hardened at the familiar words from the Haggadah. How bitter and ironic they were tonight. How could she learn to appreciate something she no longer had? What was the point of saying it?
Her mother’s hand touched hers. “Nicole, so long as we say these words and have this seder, they have not defeated us. Do you understand?”
Nicole nodded. Her mother returned to the Haggadah. “ ‘In gratitude to God,’ ” she read, “ ‘we rise now to recite the kiddush blessing over the first of the four cups of wine.’ ” Mme. Bernhardt poured a tiny bit of red wine into each goblet, then stood. “Before we say the festival kiddush, we will say a special prayer for your father. Liz-Bette, will you lead us?”
“Dear God,” Liz-Bette began uncertainly. “Please ... let Papa be all right. And let him come home to us and not get taken away on a big bus forever, because ... because .. Her voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Because we love Papa as much as we love freedom,” Nicole continued, “and because he is brave enough to do what is right. Amen.”
“Amen,” her mother and sister echoed. Nicole pretended not to see as Liz-Bette fisted the tears from her face. They raised their glasses and Mme. Bernhardt chanted the Hebrew blessings over the Passo
ver wine. “L‘chaim, to life,” she concluded.
“L‘chaim.” They each took the smallest sip of wine. Nicole stared at the front door, willing it to open. Her father would take off his coat and apologize profusely for arriving late on this night of nights. The metro had been running late. Someone had gotten sick at the hospital. He’d wash his hands and kiss his family and lead the seder as he always did. But the door did not open.
Mme. Bernhardt continued. “ ‘We have thanked God for the wine, which adds joy to life,’ ” she read. “ ‘On Pesach we thank Him especially for the precious gift of freedom. And we thank Him for—’ ”
She was interrupted by the pounding of feet on the stairs, followed by a fist slamming against the door to their flat. They sprang to their feet. This was the nightmare—the Gestapo at your door to take you to Drancy. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide.
“I will go,” Nicole forced herself to say. She went to the door, marveling at how if you just put one foot before the other, no matter what terror you might feel, you reached your destination anyway.
She opened the door. Standing there, disheveled and gasping for breath, was David Ginsburg. “Davidl” Nicole hugged him hard, giddy with joy and faint with relief. “Oh, David, you’re still alive! I haven’t seen you in such a long time. Are you all right? No one knew what happened to you. I am so happy to see you!” She knew she was babbling but she didn’t care. She tugged him into the apartment. “Come join our seder!”
He would not move. “David?” Nicole asked. “David?”
Finally, he spoke one word. “Nightbird.”
twenty-eight
NOTES FROM GIRL X
14 April 1944
To the people of Paris,
Greetings from Girl X and her family, now in hiding. They can shut me away, but they cannot shut down my voice. The proof is in your hands. Read this, then pass it on.
As this missive could easily get in the hands of the Boche, I must be extraordinarily careful to say nothing about our location. Suffice to say that it is big enough to hold a Jewish family that would rather hide like mice in the wall than allow themselves to be deported.
The place is tiny. I cannot go more than nine paces in any direction without banging into a wall. At one point the wall slopes inward, so you have to duck to get under it. This is the nook where I have decided to sleep, next to LB.
Monsieur L gave us two valises when we arrived. In them was food, four blankets, some candles and matches, and a table setting. There is one bedraggled chair that bites you with its sharp springs. That is it. Oh yes, our bathroom: a bucket covered with a tight lid.
J and M know where we are. J is the boy I love. M is my best friend. They bring us food. Thank God for that. M also smuggles out these Notes from Girl X.
On Passover we were warned by D to flee from our apartment. He said nothing more no matter how much we begged. We knew what to do, correct? He did not wait for us to leave, but ran downstairs immediately. D got word to J and M about where we were. A miracle.
We fled, wearing layers of clothes, carrying nothing. I took one journal in my waistband and some ink and pens in a pocket. We crossed Paris praying no patrol would stop us. When we arrived here, Monsieur L was waiting. He led us to our hiding place.
Papa returned to us forty-eight hours later. It was the happiest moment of my life. But he still goes out at night. Sometimes to do Resistance work, sometimes to look for food and water. We have practically none. Every time he leaves, I am so afraid for him.
We have one window, covered with old newspaper. I fashioned newspaper chess pieces, then drew a chessboard on the floor. LB and I play game after game to pass the time. Other than that, there is nothing to do but pray for the Allied invasion. J and M bring us war news. The Allies bombed near Normandy. Perhaps that is where the invasion will come. What are they waiting for?
And now I shall write about love. On Passover we say: Why on this night do we eat bitter herbs? On the eve of Passover, I made a decision that J and I would make love for the very first time the next afternoon. I felt so strong. How could I know that the very next afternoon I would be here, shut away from everyone and everything? If only I had told him sooner, even one day sooner, it would have happened. Now J and I can never be alone. Passover ends tomorrow. But the bitter taste in my mouth won’t end with it. I still don’t know what it’s like to be completely his, in every way. I don’t feel powerful anymore. Is this the Huns’ victory? How mighty they must feel, then, to have robbed me of my dreams.
twenty-nine
NOTES FROM GIRL X
1 June 1944
To the people of Paris,
To be in hiding is boring. And yet I am always tense. I think about j all the time. Even when he is here he is like vapor, escaping through the cracks until he is entirely gone again. To be with him but never to have privacy is torture. Sometimes we sneak a kiss. Maman pretends not to see. We can go no further. It makes me want to scream. J weaves fantasies for me that always begin, ‘After liberation ...” Yesterday he said, ”After liberation we will stay in the finest hotel in Paris, drink champagne, eat caviar, and make love once for every night we missed during the war.“ When he says such things, I close my eyes, and for just a moment, I believe him. But when I open them, I am the same filthy girl stuck in the same filthy place. I have not had a bath in almost two months. I cannot wash my clothes. I know I smell wretched, because sometimes I get close to the covered window and put my nose by a crack in the glass, where I can breathe in air from outside. When I move away from the glass, I am nearly asphyxiated. I reek, we all reek. Yet J says nothing about this. He simply continues to weave magical spells that begin, ”After liberation ... ”
But ... how can he love me when I am like this? How?
thirty
NOTES FROM GIRL X
8 June 1944
To the people of Paris,
The invasion of France has come, and the Allies are fighting their way east from Normandy! Girl X hides in a Left Bank attic with her Jewish family. She is hungry, she is filthy, but she lives. She believes with all her heart that the Huns will be defeated and she will dance in the sunshine of her beloved Paris once more. God bless General Eisenhower. God bless General Montgomery. We will be free!
thirty-one
18 June 1944
Nicole? Are you awake?“
“No.”
“I have a question about Scarlett O‘Hara.”
“I’m sleeping, Liz-Bette. Leave me alone.” Nicole was in a terrible mood. So what if the Allies had invaded France? They were nowhere near Paris. Her own situation hadn’t altered at all.
Liz-Bette raised herself up on one bony elbow, blinking rapidly. “How can I leave you alone, Nicole? There is no other place to go.”
“You are such a pest.” Nicole turned over. “Well? What is your burning question about Scarlett O‘Hara?”
“Just this,” Liz-Bette said, all seriousness. “Did she dance as well as you?”
Nicole instantly regretted having taken out her frustration on her little sister. Things were not easy for her, either. She brushed some hair from Liz-Bette’s cheek. “She danced better than me. Scarlett was the most wonderful dancer in all of the state of Georgia.”
“Scar-lett,” Liz-Bette said dreamily. “Such a beautiful name. After liberation I shall change my name to Scar-lett. I hate the name Liz-Bette. It sounds terribly childish.”
“All right, Scar-lett,” Nicole declared. “If you want to be known as Scar-lett, Scar-lett you will be.”
Liz-Bette grinned. “I will have beautiful ball gowns like Scar-lett had before the War Between the States.”
“A different one for every dance,” Nicole embellished. “Because a magnificent beauty like Scar-lett Bernhardt cannot possibly be seen in the same gown twice.”
“The first one will be blue, to match my eyes,” Liz-Bette decided, as she cuddled up next to Nicole. “Boys like you if you can dance, right?”
“Some
times.”
“Will you teach me to dance when we get home?”
“Absolutely.”
“I want to learn how to jitterbug, where the boy flips you and your skirt flies into the air.”
Nicole laughed. “Scarlett O‘Hara did not jitterbug. You want your skirt to fly into the air?”
“I will wear very beautiful silk lingerie underneath,” Liz-Bette explained. “Why wear beautiful lingerie if no one but you sees it?”
“Excellent point.”
Liz-Bette yawned. “Do you think this is the night that the Gestapo will come?”
“No.”
“What will they do to us if they catch us?”
“We will go to Drancy. And then to a work camp, I suppose.”
“Will we all still be together?”
“I hope so.”
“Promise?” Liz-Bette asked sleepily.
“I can’t promise because I don’t know.”
“Promise anyway.” Liz-Bette’s eyes drooped shut.
Nicole took in her sister’s tiny frame. The idea that the Boche would have any use for a girl with no strength to work was incomprehensible. “I promise,” she whispered. “Now sleep.”
There was soft knocking on the attic door—three fast raps, silence, then two more. Mme. Bernhardt awoke with a start. “It’s okay, Maman,” Nicole assured her, as she scrambled to her feet. “It’s Jacques, I’m sure.” She pulled the door open. Jacques entered. He and Nicole clung to each other.
“I brought food,” he said quietly. “I am sorry. It is only potatoes and apples.”
“It is food, thank you.” Mme. Bernhardt took the mesh bag from Jacques. “Liz-Bette, come over here, please, and give them some privacy.”
Anne Frank and Me Page 13
