by Kathy Kacer
“There is one last thing to complete the picture,” said Mère Supérieure. “Your parents were killed in a fire. That’s why you have come from Paris to live here. It’s all part of your new identities.”
Hearing the nun say the words your parents were killed in a fire sent shivers down Helen’s spine, even though she knew it wasn’t true. Beside her, Henry’s face went completely white. She reached out and placed her hand on top of his arm, squeezing tightly. Henry didn’t move and he didn’t push her away.
“I know this is a lot of information to take in,” Mère Supérieure continued. “Practice your new names. Remember your new identities. There can be no mistakes here,” she added. “The safety of every child in this convent—the safety of us all—depends on each one of us.”
With that, she stood as if to dismiss them. Helen rose as well, pulling Henry up with her. Then the head nun stopped her.
“Claire, I’d like you to stay behind a moment. Andre, you may go.”
Helen found it disturbing to hear Mère Supérieure address them by their new names. Beside her, she could feel Henry stiffen before he finally turned and shuffled from the room. Mère Supérieure waited for the door to close before beginning to speak again.
“I’m concerned about your brother—his silence.”
Helen gulped. She was worried about that, too. “He’s not himself, ma’am … um … Mère Supérieure. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Of course, she wasn’t sure about that, but she couldn’t let the head nun know.
“It’s just that he must fit in like everyone else.”
Helen frowned. If Henry didn’t fit in, then what? “He’s scared, Mère Supérieure. We both are,” she added, her voice dropping.
“I understand,” Mère Supérieure replied. “But he must learn to adjust or we will have to … we will have to rethink your situation.”
Helen didn’t like where Mère Supérieure was going with this. If Henry didn’t adjust, if he didn’t start to talk, then would the two of them be sent away? Or just Henry? And to where? Germany, where they had come from, was completely unsafe. And Maman had said there was no other place here in southern France. Even Mère Supérieure had told her that Nazi soldiers were roaming the towns and villages looking for Jews. Helen knew that she had to take care of Henry; Maman had told her that. But this responsibility was feeling bigger by the minute.
“Please, Mère Supérieure,” Helen said, glancing once more at the portrait of Jesus. “I’m sure my brother isn’t the first boy who’s had trouble settling in.” It was bold of her to confront Mère Supérieure like this. But what other choice did she have? She had to stand up for Henry. “Everything is so different here—for all of us. And he’s so young.”
Didn’t this head nun understand how hard it was for them to have been uprooted and brought to this strange place? Even Helen was shaking on the inside, even though she might have appeared calm on the outside. And I’m fourteen, she thought. Helen understood that Henry’s silence looked like defiance. But behind the clenched fists, and glares, she knew he was simply scared.
“Henry’s not trying to be difficult, Mère Supérieure,” she added. “He just needs time.”
Mère Supérieure sighed deeply. “It’s Andre,” she said. “Please remember that.” And then she waved her hand, signaling that Helen was free to go. But not before adding, “Not too much time.”
CHAPTER 5
Henry
Henry sat in a small classroom with other children his age. At the front of the room, one of the nuns—the nice one, Sister Cecile—was teaching something that she called catechism, a bunch of questions and answers that the children had to memorize.
“What is the chief purpose of all people?” Sister Cecile asked.
“To glorify God and enjoy him forever,” the students replied all together.
Henry wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was hunched over a small notebook, gripping a pencil. Sister Cecile had given him the notebook, saying that maybe if he didn’t want to talk, he could use it as a diary and write down his thoughts and feelings.
Henry didn’t like the idea of having a diary. Diaries are for girls, he thought. Helen had owned a diary back in Frankfurt. She had practically exploded with anger the day Henry snuck into her room and got his hands on it. He just wanted to peek inside. But Maman and Papa had been more cross with him than they had ever been before, telling him he was not allowed to go into Helen’s room without her permission—EVER! Helen’s diary hadn’t even been that interesting as far as Henry was concerned, just a bunch of boring notes about sunsets and food, and dresses that she wanted to wear. No, he didn’t like the idea of having a diary. His would be a code book, for important ideas and secret thoughts that no one else could see.
Henry stared down at the white page. And then he lowered his pencil and wrote, My name is … He paused, staring at the blankness that followed. Finally, in large block letters, he wrote HENRY ROSENTHAL. He paused again, hovering his pencil above the page for a moment before lowering it to carefully draw a small Star of David—first a right-side-up triangle and then an upside-down triangle over it. There had been a big star just like this one hanging over the door of their synagogue back in Frankfurt. It had been destroyed the night Papa was taken. Finally, Henry sat back in his chair, examining his work. Henry Rosenthal was his name, not that new one the tall nun with the pointy nose and bushy eyebrows had given him—Andre. She had told him that he had to change his name just the way Maman used to tell him to change his socks. But how could he do that? It was like asking him to take someone else’s head and stick it on his body. That would be impossible!
Maman had often told him that he had been named after her father, whom Henry had never known. His name had been Aharon. She had said that it was an honor to carry her late father’s name. What would his grandfather Aharon have thought if he knew that Henry was being forced to give it up now? Where was the honor in that? Besides, he knew that the name Henry meant “ruler of the home.” Papa had always joked that Henry was the real head of the household. “You rule the roost, my little Henry,” Papa had always said. Henry didn’t know what the name Andre meant, but it probably wasn’t as special as ruler of the household.
Sometimes, Papa had called him by the nickname Henny, which Henry had to admit he didn’t always like. He was afraid that someone might shorten that to Hen and make fun of him—maybe by walking around clucking like a chicken. He would have pounded anyone who had tried that. But a nickname was different than changing your name altogether. A nickname was something someone gave you because they loved you—like Papa did. DOES, he corrected himself. He had to keep hoping that Papa was somewhere safe, thinking about Henry as much as Henry was thinking about him.
He bent over his page again and wrote the word safe. The nun with the pointy nose had said that this convent was going to be a safe place for Henry as long as he followed the rules. She said that many children were being harbored here. The word harbored was a new one for him. He knew that boats could sit in a harbor, where they were protected from the sea. But he hadn’t thought about that when it came to people.
The lesson was continuing at the front of the classroom.
“What do the scriptures principally teach?” Sister Cecile was asking.
“What we are to believe concerning God, and what duty God requires of us,” the children droned.
It had been more than a week since Henry had arrived here with his sister. No, he corrected himself, when he had been left here with Helen. Arrived made it sound as if they had come for a vacation—like the time he and his family had gone to the Baltic Sea for a holiday. Being here was nothing like being on vacation. In the time since Henry had been left here, he had pretty much kept to himself. The other boys in his room seemed friendly enough, but Henry couldn’t bring himself to talk to them, or to anyone, for that matter. He hadn’t even said a word to Helen, though she begged him every day to say
something—anything! She even told him that if he didn’t start to talk, they might not be able to stay at the convent. That was fine as far as Henry was concerned. Maybe then, Maman would have to come and pick them up. He knew in his heart that that probably wouldn’t happen. But just the same, it felt better to stay quiet. Keeping everything inside was better than letting it all out. Maybe he was harboring his feelings inside of him, protecting them, the way the children were being protected here. He would talk again when the time was right.
Henry bent over his page once more and wrote the word harbor.
There were so many new routines to follow at this place: getting up at dawn when the bells rang, eating meals in the grand dining hall, going to classes, always staying together as a group, always listening to the nuns when they spoke to you. One of the things he didn’t mind was going to church services. The chapel was a quiet place where no one asked you to talk or explain yourself. He didn’t even mind crossing himself, although at first, that had seemed so strange. But he had quickly learned to take his right hand and touch it first to his forehead, then his stomach, then each of his shoulders. Once, he had made the mistake of touching his stomach before his forehead. The head nun with the pointy nose had corrected him. “Don’t make that mistake again,” she had said. “No one else sees you here in the convent. But if that were to happen out there”—she pointed somewhere beyond the chapel windows—“someone might guess that you don’t belong here.”
Henry picked up his pencil and once more wrote his name, Henry Rosenthal, this time in bigger, bolder letters.
The thing that Henry liked most about church was talking to God—not talking out loud, but talking to God in his head and in his heart. It didn’t matter that he was a young Jewish boy sitting in this Catholic chapel with that gigantic statue of Jesus Christ towering like a mountain on top of the pulpit. It was quiet in this church, and peaceful. He prayed for Maman to come back for him as quickly as possible. He prayed that Papa would be safe and would come home soon. He prayed that they would all go back to their house in Frankfurt and everything would go back to normal, the normal that he had known before all those laws and rules had been passed against Jewish people. He even prayed that Helen would stop treating him like a baby. He believed that God heard him even if he didn’t say a word.
Henry stared back at the page in front of him. Finally, in very small letters, he wrote the name Andre Rochette. He sat back and stared at the strange new name, outlining the letters with one finger. Then, he quickly crossed them out with thick black strokes. He sighed, a deep, long exhale of his breath. And then finally, he wrote the new name again.
CHAPTER 6
Helen
Sister Agnes was reading a story to the class. “The Ant and the Grasshopper” was about an ant that diligently collected food to store for the approaching winter. A playful grasshopper mocked the ant, telling him that he should forget his work and come play instead. But the ant refused, warning the grasshopper that it would be sorry when winter was upon them and the grasshopper had nothing to eat. Sure enough, when winter arrived, the grasshopper came to the ant begging for food, but the ant would not help him.
The story was childish, and well below the level of reading that Helen had done back in Frankfurt. At home, she had devoured complex books about history and science and other countries in the world. Still, she wouldn’t have minded hearing such an easy story, were it not for the fact that Sister Agnes was such a slow and tedious reader. Helen marveled at how anyone could take a simple tale like this one and turn it into such an agonizing experience!
She stifled a yawn and glanced over at Michelle, who sat at the desk next to her. Just the day before, Michelle had gone on one of those special outings to town and had returned with the most beautiful deep green ribbon, which she wore today, wrapped around her ponytail and tied in a big bow. Helen gazed longingly at the ribbon, wondering when she, too, would have a chance to go to town—to walk out the doors of the convent, even if only for a few hours. None of the nuns had offered her that chance yet. As Helen stared at the ribbon, Michelle leaned her head onto one arm, her eyes fluttered shut, and her mouth went slack. She was asleep! If Sister Agnes caught her, she would have a fit. Helen shifted in her chair and cleared her throat, hoping Michelle might hear her and wake up. No such luck! Helen wanted to reach across the aisle and nudge her friend but she was afraid the movement would draw Sister Agnes’s attention to the two of them. And that would be no help at all.
Over the last few weeks, Helen’s instincts about Sister Agnes had proved to be correct. She was indeed the nun to be feared at the convent. She sneered at everyone. She doled out punishments before you had even realized what crime you had committed. Everyone was afraid of her, but Helen most of all. It appeared that Sister Agnes was making Helen her special project, singling her out for the slightest infraction of the rules. Helen tried to steer clear of this nun. But that was proving difficult.
“And so, the lessons that we learn from this fable are the following,” Sister Agnes droned from the front of the room. “It is always best to be prepared. And one must have compassion for others in times of need.”
Compassion! Helen almost laughed out loud. What about having some compassion for us? Just the day before, Sister Agnes had stopped her in the hallway to tell her that her skirt was wrinkled. It was true that she had forgotten to hang it up the night before. But what was she supposed to do with a wrinkled skirt? She had smoothed it down as much as possible, but that obviously wasn’t enough for Sister Agnes. As punishment, she had made Helen wash all the dinner dishes. And for what? A skirt with a few creases in it! It had been nearly midnight before Helen had finally fallen into bed.
“Open your notebooks and write the words compassion and charity,” continued Sister Agnes. “And then list ten ways in which you will practice these virtues.”
The door to the classroom suddenly opened and an older girl came in. She walked up to Sister Agnes and whispered something in her ear.
“I must go and attend to some matters in Mère Supérieure’s office,” Sister Agnes said. “I expect you all to work in silence until I return.”
Once she had left the classroom, the students released a big collective sigh, and they all began to whisper.
“She makes me so nervous,” Helen said, turning to Michelle, who was now awake, stretching and yawning beside her.
“She makes everyone nervous.”
“But I feel as if she has it in for me in particular.” Helen reminded Michelle about the incident with her wrinkled skirt. “And that’s just one example.”
Michelle looked sympathetic. “You can’t take it personally. She likes to pick on the new ones—teach them a lesson. It’s sort of like your initiation into this place.”
“But how long will it last?” Helen wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take.
“Usually until someone else arrives.”
At that, Helen groaned.
“She’s coming!” The boy posted as lookout at the classroom door relayed the message to the class. The chatter came to an abrupt stop as everyone grabbed their pens and bent over their notebooks, scribbling furiously. Helen looked down at the words, compassion and charity. She thought for a moment and then wrote, I will try to have more patience with Henry.
Her brother had still not spoken a word, though several weeks had passed since their arrival here. She continued to believe that he would end his silence soon, just as he had in the past. Still, she was trying to avoid Mère Supérieure these days, afraid that the head nun would announce that Henry had not fit in after all and was going to be sent away. Oh, if only Maman were here, thought Helen for the millionth time. Not that her mother could ever persuade Henry out of his silence either. No one could. But at least Maman could comfort him—and her. But there had still been no word from her mother.
Sister Agnes reentered the classroom and began to walk up and down the aisles, stoppi
ng now and then to look at a student’s notebook. Helen stiffened as the nun approached her desk and paused. She bent forward to read over Helen’s shoulder and then straightened.
“You have only written one line,” she began. She sniffled and took a tissue from her pocket, dabbing her nose. “And what, may I ask, have you been doing in all the time I was out of the classroom?”
“I-I was … I was thinking, Sister Agnes,” Helen stammered.
“Less thinking and more action would do you well,” the nun replied.
Helen lowered her head. “Yes, Sister Agnes.” She hoped that was it. She prayed that the nun would continue her walk around the classroom and leave her alone. But that was not to be.
“Please stand,” Sister Agnes commanded.
Helen squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and slid out from behind her desk. She glanced over at Michelle, who gave her a compassionate nod. Sister Agnes was staring at Helen, examining her from head to toe like an army general inspecting a troop member. Finally, her eyes came to rest on Helen’s shoes.
“They’re filthy, full of dust,” Sister Agnes said, scrunching her nose and sneering.
“I’m sorry, Sister Agnes,” Helen whispered. “The yard was muddy this morning. I was going to clean them later, when I had a chance …” Her voice trailed off and she stood meekly, head bowed.
“Excuses are not good enough.” Sister Agnes folded her arms across her chest. “As punishment, you will mop all the floors in the upstairs hallway today. Strong hands make for a strong mind. You may sit.”
With that, Sister Agnes continued her walk around the classroom. Helen sank into her seat. Several other girls looked away. Michelle gazed sympathetically as Helen pressed her hands up to her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She refused to show any weakness before this nun, no matter how difficult she was making her life. Michelle said that all this would stop when someone new arrived. That couldn’t happen soon enough.
