Anne Frank and Me

by Cherie Bennett

  Liz-Bette sighed dramatically as she went to her mother. “I can still hear every word they say, you know.”

  “Well, pretend you cannot,” Mme. Bernhardt said. “It is called discretion, and it is very French.”

  Nicole and Jacques moved into Nicole’s nook and sat facing the wall. “I missed you so much,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “I feel the same.” He gently pulled her hands away. “Where is your father?”

  “Trying to find us food,” Nicole lied.

  “I wish he wouldn’t go out at night, Nicole. I will bring more food so—”

  “Shhh.” She put her finger to his lips. “No talk of food. It only makes me hungry.” She replaced her finger with her lips, kissing him softly.

  His mind was clearly elsewhere. “It’s just that it is so dangerous, Nicole. Do you want to hear some shocking news? Ten days ago some resistants exploded a railway bridge near Limoges.”

  She nodded emphatically. “Good.”

  “Good?” Jacques was incredulous. “You will not say that when you hear what the Boche did in reprisal.”

  “What?”

  “They picked out a small village nearby, completely unconnected to the Resistance, a place with hardly any Jews. They waited for the day the cigarette ration would be distributed, because hundreds of people would be coming from the countryside. They surrounded this village. They shot the men, put the women and children in the church and burned them alive. Then they burned down the entire town. Now there is no more Oradour-sur-Glane.”

  Nicole gasped. “Where?”

  “Oradour-sur-Glane. You know it?”

  Life is fine in Oradour-sur-Glane. I am planning my wedding ...

  The postcard from Claire Einhorn. Nicole had read it again and again.

  Should we serve smoked salmon or roast chicken?

  “Nicole?” Jacques touched her arm.

  “I knew someone there.”

  “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Cold fury welled up in Nicole—at Claire’s death, at the Boche, at day after day of being afraid, filthy, and hungry, hidden away in an attic. And there was Jacques. Clean. And free. No. He could never understand.

  “How dare you condemn the Resistance?” she hissed at him, wanting—needing—someone to blame. “They did not burn Oradour. They are risking their lives fighting Hitler.”

  “And I am risking my life, too, every time I bring you food!”

  “So, don’t come then!”

  They stared at each other, hearts racing, across some nameless abyss that neither could cross, faces barely visible in the dim attic light. Nicole wished she could take her stupid, prideful words and stuff them back into her mouth.

  Jacques exhaled slowly. “Be as obstinate as you want, Nicole. I will still come.” He took her hand. “Because I say yes to hiding people I love. But to attack well-armed Nazis with homemade bottle bombs? This is not resistance. This is insanity.”

  “No.” She wrenched her hand from his. “You are wrong. People must rise up and fight until France is free—”

  “Stop it!” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Don’t you understand? France will be free, but you’ll all be dead!”

  Horrified, she pulled away.

  “Nicole, please,” he whispered, his voice tortured, “I would give my life for you.” His hand found hers again in the dim light. “I will find a way to get you more food. But please, please tell your father not to leave your hiding place. If he’s caught, they will think he’s a resistant. They won’t just deport him, Nicole. They’ll kill him.”

  Hours later, Nicole snapped awake at the creak of the attic door. She fumbled for the matches, lighting one. Her father stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted.

  “Go back to sleep, little one,” he whispered. “It is late.”

  Nicole shook her head and lit a candle stub. “Jacques brought food.”

  “Good.” He sat heavily and removed his shoes. Nicole glanced at her mother and sister. They were snoring together on Maman’s blanket.

  “Papa ... did you hear about the massacre at Oradour-sur-Glane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Claire Einhorn was there.”

  Her father looked pained. “Yes, he said finally. ”I remember now”

  Nicole didn’t know what to say, so she rested her head on her father’s lap. “Do you think the Allies will reach Paris very soon, Papa?”.

  “By the end of July. August, perhaps.”

  “Can’t you just wait, then? We are all still together. If you would only stop now we will still be together and alive when the Americans come. And then—”

  “No.”

  Nicole sat up. “What is it, Papa? Is the fight more important than we are? Is it?”

  “How can you possibly understand?” Dr. Bernhardt struggled to find the right words. “Once I put my trust in other men, Nicole. To protect me, my family, our people. God, I was such a fool.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I was a fool,” he repeated. “And a coward. I did not want to believe that such terrible things could happen. Now I will never trust someone else to fight my fight again. Not France, not the Allies, not anyone.”

  “But it will all be over soon. It has to be.”

  “Does it? This is an enemy who rounds us up instead of committing every man to the fight. That is how deeply they hate, Nicole. It does not stop just because the Allies are on French soil.”

  “So you throw bottle bombs on a public street? What good does it do?” she cried in frustration. “Do something that matters. Go free the Jews in Drancyl”

  “And where would we get the gasoline to get to Drancy? We have no fuel, no food, no money. We are invisible soldiers of the night, and we do what we can.”

  “If they catch you, Papa, they’ll kill you.” Her eyes searched his. “I know it is a war. And I know how selfish I am. But I would rather we go to a work camp than die.”

  “A concentration camp is not just a work camp, Nicole.”

  She was taken aback. “What is it, then?”

  Her father didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the window, peering through the sliver of cracked glass under the newspaper at the bottom. “It is amazing, isn’t it?” he said softly. “The same stars and the same moon just keep shining. Terrible things happen, things too awful to even believe. But the stars keep shining just the same.”

  “What terrible things, Papa?”

  With infinite tenderness he enveloped Nicole in his arms. “Go to sleep, little one,” he said. “Dream about the stars.”

  thirty-two

  25 July 1944

  Nicole stared at a miracle: six pastries. Two lemon tarts, two napoleons, and two éclairs. Mimi had attended a party on the Île Saint-Louis the night before, in honor of the opening of Monique’s latest play. She had managed to sneak the pastries out of the party in a discarded cigar box.

  “Go ahead,” Mimi urged. “The Allies are coming at any moment. We will start our celebration early.”

  Liz-Bette coughed fitfully, eyeing the pastries. She had a respiratory infection that she seemed unable to shake. “But if I eat even one, it will be gone forever.”

  Her mother held up an éclair. “Eat, darling.”

  Her darkly circled eyes grew huge as she took a bite. “Oh, Maman, it is so good!”

  Mme. Bernhardt nodded and put one lemon tart aside. “We will save this for your father.”

  Nicole bit into the remaining tart. The taste was amazing—sugar and flour and butter, and the soft lemony center stinging her tongue. “Astonishing,” she rhapsodized. “This is the most delicious thing I ever tasted in my life.”

  “I’m happy to have liberated them from the enemy,” Mimi said proudly.

  “Tell us more about the party, Mimi,” Nicole urged. “Jacques was the handsomest boy there, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Did he dance with a lot of pretty girls?” />
  “Only with Monique and Maman and me,” Mimi assured her. “But the party was completely decadent. The Boche pig ambassador was there. There was champagne, and real coffee—”

  “Real coffee,” Mme. Bernhardt echoed wistfully. “To taste real coffee.”

  “Maybe Mimi can steal that for you, too, Maman,” Liz-Bette joked, her eyes fixed on the napoleons. Her mother pushed one in her direction. She snatched it up and took a big bite.

  “Liz-Bette, I must tell you about the most embarrassing thing that happened to me at the party,” Mimi said, clearly seeking to distract the girl from the fact that two small pastries could not begin to satisfy her hunger.

  “What?” Liz-Bette mumbled through her chewing.

  “Well, it was a very formal event. Since I did not happen to have a spare ball gown, my mother decided to sew me one from the drapes in our kitchen. How humiliating! It was much too big in the bosom. She said I would grow into it. a.”

  “That’s all right,” Liz-Bette commiserated. “I don’t think I’ll ever get a bosom, either.”

  “So,” Mimi continued, “I stuffed myself with socks to make it look as if I had a bosom. And when Monique’s brother asked me to dance, the socks fell out, right in the middle of the dance floor!”

  Liz-Bette shrieked with laughter. “What did you do?”

  “I stepped right over them and kept on dancing.”

  Mme. Bernhardt applauded. “Good for you, Mimi.”

  “Dancing,” Nicole said wistfully. She gazed at the newspaper-covered window as if she could see through it, all the way to a fancy theater party. “I miss dancing.”

  “When all of this is over, you and I shall go dancing every night,” Mimi declared. “We will have sexy high heels with leather soles—”

  “And real silk stockings—” Nicole added.

  “With seams,” Liz-Bette put in.

  “We’ll dance and dance and dance,” Nicole murmured. She closed her eyes, hearing music in her head. “I will be in Jacques’s arms—”

  “And I will be with a handsome Resistance fighter,” Mimi said.

  Liz-Bette flung her arms wide. “And I will be with Clark Gable!”

  They all laughed, then Liz-Bette began to cough again. Her mother rubbed her back until she could catch her breath. There were no workers downstairs at this hour, so Nicole didn’t worry so much about the noise. But she did worry about her sister’s cough, which seemed to worsen every day.

  “Do you know what I saw today on avenue Foch?” Mimi asked. “Some wart-faced Huns packing documents into a lorry. They looked so nervous. It was wonderful. The Occupation really is almost over.”

  Nicole nodded. “Papa says a month at the most.”

  Liz-Bette fingered her filthy hair. “Maman, do you think my hair will ever get pretty again?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “In that case, after the war, I want it styled like Hedy amarr.”

  Mimi chucked Liz-Bette under the chin. “Liz-Bette, you will be a devastating beauty, breaking the heart of every young man in Paris. And if you still want to be editor of For Her, you shall be that, too.”

  Liz-Bette nodded. “Most likely.”

  Mimi checked her watch. “I have to go. I am supposed to meet my brothers in ten minutes. André is on duty near here. He wants us to try to catch our dinner in the Seine. Can you picture me reeling in a fish?” She shook her head at the ridiculousness of the concept. “But Jacques says that I must help, it increases our chances. My brothers are maddening.” She reached for Nicole’s hand to pull her friend to her feet. “Promise me that when you two are married, you won’t let him boss you around.”

  “There is no chance of that,” Nicole assured her. “Maman, excuse us a moment.”

  “Of course. Liz-Bette, come sit with me.”

  Liz-Bette shuffled over to her mother as Nicole and Mimi crawled into the recesses of the nook, their backs turned to the others. Nicole slipped a hand into her pocket and passed Mimi the latest edition of Notes from Girl X; Mimi hid it under the waistband of her skirt. “Perhaps the Allied paratroopers will arrive tonight and this will be your last one,” Mimi whispered.

  “I hope so.”

  Liz-Bette’s voice rang out. “What are you two doing?”

  “It’s private,” Nicole called back.

  “That is extremely rude,” Liz-Bette said.

  Mimi kissed Nicole on each cheek. “I will see you soon.”

  “Give Jacques a big kiss from me.”

  “Why anyone would want to kiss my brother is beyond me, so I will let you deliver that message yourself. Liz-Bette?”

  “Yes?”

  Mimi went to her. “Next time I come, you and I will have a secret discussion, eh?” Liz-Bette nodded and Mimi kissed her good-bye.

  “Be careful that no one sees you leave, Mimi,” Mme. Bernhardt warned.

  Mimi grinned. “I will be like the Lone Ranger and ride on the wind.”

  Nicole watched Mimi disappear out the secret half-door, aching to follow her. She could so easily picture the two of them walking on the rue de Passy, stopping in Alain’s cafe, going to the movies. Or just being together in her room in the apartment on avenue de Camoëns. How wonderful it would be to be back home again, to sleep in her own bed. How wonderful simply to open her window on a July morning.

  “I wish I could go with her.” Liz-Bette’s voice was small. Nicole turned. Her sister was staring at the half-door, blinking.

  “Me, too,” Nicole admitted. “She’s meeting Jacques. I miss him so much. Even when he’s here, I miss him. I know that sounds stupid.”

  Liz-Bette spun around crazily and then dropped to her knees. “Oh, Jacques, Jacques. I love you so.” She imitated Nicole, kissing up and down her own skinny arms. “I want to smooch you all over!”

  “Shhh,” Nicole cautioned, because their mother was already snoring softly. They sat in the nook.

  “Nicole? What is it like, to kiss a boy?”

  Nicole smiled. “Wonderful.”

  Liz-Bette put her head in Nicole’s lap. “But what if ... promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I promise.”

  “What if—by mistake—you spit in his mouth?”

  Nicole bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I have never heard of a girl spitting into a boy’s mouth before, so I don’t think you have to worry.”

  Liz-Bette looked up, worry lines creasing her forehead. “I could be the first.”

  “Practice on the back of your hand.”

  Liz-Bette looked dubious. “Really?”

  “It’s what I did.”

  Liz-Bette held her hand out, then moved it close to her lips. “Oh, Clark, we mustn’t let your past, or your mustache, come between us.” As she began to smother her hand with kisses, her body was wracked by coughs.

  “Why don’t you rest, Liz-Bette?” Nicole asked. “You need to get rid of that cough in time for liberation.”

  “All I do is rest.” Liz-Bette pouted, but she stretched out on the blanket. “Don’t cover me. It is far too hot in here already.”

  She was right. The attic was hot. Stifling, in fact. “All right, no blanket,” Nicole agreed. “But close your eyes.”

  “I don’t want to close my eyes.”

  “You have a very obstinate nature, Liz-Bette.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You are not my mother.”

  Frustration welled up inside Nicole. Suddenly, she could not stand it one moment longer—the sameness, fear, hunger, heat, and filth. She didn’t care if the Allies were arriving in an hour or a day or a lifetime. She had to have five minutes in the open air, to breathe like a human being, or else she was sure she would lose her mind.

  “Liz-Bette?”

  “What?”

  “I am going to tell you a secret. You must promise never to tell Maman or Papa.”

  “What?”

  Promise first.”

  “I promise. What?”

  Nicole glanced at he
r mother, to make sure she was asleep, then leaned close to her sister. “I am going up on the roof.”

  “What?” Liz-Bette sat up quickly.

  “Shhh! There’s a ladder to it. And a trapdoor at the top. I will be gone for five minutes only.”

  “I’m coming, too.”

  “No. And don’t say I’m not your mother, either. What if you started coughing up there and someone heard you?”

  It was a long moment before Liz-Bette spoke. “I admit you are right. But I remember what Paris smells like in summer. Like flowers.”

  “I wish I could bottle the air for you, but I can’t.”

  “No,” Liz Bette agreed sadly. “You can’t.”

  Nicole put a finger to her lips, reminding Liz-Bette to be silent, then tiptoed to the half-door and opened it. There was the ladder. She climbed it rung by rung until she reached the top. There was the trapdoor. She pushed. It opened easily. And she was outside.

  The fresh air tasted like champagne. She climbed out and sprawled on her back, inhaling, exhaling, swimming in the deliciousness of it. She wished she could tear off her disgusting clothes and fling them from the building, to let the clean air touch her everywhere.

  Giddy with oxygen, she crawled to the building’s edge and looked down. Though the light was fading, Nicole could make out people walking on the street, people on bicycles, all going somewhere. It would be so wonderful, she thought, just to be going somewhere.

  Behind her on the roof, there was a loud noise. Her heart lurched. She lay still, not daring to look.

  “Nicole?”

  Maddening! She should have known Liz-Bette wouldn’t listen. Nicole stabbed the air with her index finger in the direction of the trapdoor, meaning that Liz-Bette should go back this instant. But her sister ignored her and strolled over as if she were walking in the Luxembourg gardens.

  “Crawl,” Nicole hissed. Liz-Bette dropped to her hands and knees. Nicole held up two fingers, meaning Liz-Bette could stay on the roof for two minutes. Her sister held up five in response, negotiating for extra time. Already, she was edging close to the parapet wall of the building, to look at the street below. Nicole was about to drag her backwards when they were both startled by the sound of three quick explosions. They froze.