Good Night, Maman

by Norma Fox Mazer

  We saw signs of the war everywhere. Stumps where trees had been. Burned fields, broken houses. We came across abandoned military trucks and even some tanks tipped over on their sides.

  I was startled by our freedom, startled and frightened by how alone we were, the way we passed down these strange roads, reeling through an almost empty world.

  Sometimes, even with my eyes open, I knew I was sleeping, and the world seemed to tremble and shake in the darkness. I staggered after Maman and Marc. To walk and yet sleep became almost ordinary. To walk at night and sleep in the day did become ordinary. It was one more bit of the world turned upside down and inside out.

  So much came to me like that now—in doubles and in opposites, as yes and no, as one thing and then another.

  We were free and unfree.

  We were in our own beloved land, but it was not ours.

  We moved loosely, even boldly, our feet eating the miles, but in a single moment we could lose everything, freedom and one another.

  We wanted the darkness, but we feared it. Dogs barked in the night. Roads were unfamiliar. And to be discovered in the night would shout out who we were—Jews, running away.

  Asleep on the floor of an abandoned shack, an arm over my eyes, or curled on the ground in a weedy field, I dreamed of dark streets and of the beach near the ocean. I dreamed of flying, of leaping through the sky. I dreamed of Papa and my cat and cookies. And always I dreamed about food. I was hungry all the time. In my dreams, I ate huge meals, but when I woke up, I was still hungry.

  It was always the same when I was awake. Wanting food. Looking for it. Food and water. Water—a pond, a puddle, a brook—any water. And when we found it, we would drink and wash, sit beside it, and be happy in the little moment. And then we would walk again.

  8

  THE OLD MAN

  We reached Valence at last. We were hungry and not very clean. I was stunned to be among buildings and people again, and frightened at how exposed we were, how everyone could see us.

  At the address where Maman had hoped to find her friend, the man who opened the door said, “Who?”

  “Paulette Ophels,” Maman repeated, her hand to her chest. She was breathing hard from the climb up three flights of stairs.

  “Never heard of her.” He looked us over carefully. “What did you say your name was?”

  Maman had not said.

  My chest was suddenly tight. The man had recognized us as Jews. “Maman.” I tugged her hand. “Let’s go.” I bolted down the stairs.

  Outside, we walked quickly away. In a square filled with people selling things, we stopped at a fountain and drank and washed our faces. A group of soldiers came toward us. “Maman,” I said.

  “Italian,” Maman murmured. “Not German.”

  The outdoor market filled the square and spilled into the side streets. People were crowded together, their wares laid out on wagons and tables, on boxes and on blankets spread out on the ground.

  Marc found us a space between a woman selling meat pies and another selling a pair of children’s shoes. On a sheet of newspaper, we laid out an embroidered handkerchief, a tortoiseshell hair clip that had been Grand-mère’s, and a little leather purse. We had nothing else of value except Papa’s watch, which Marc kept on a loop on his belt.

  We waited for customers. People passed and glanced at our things, but no one stopped. Maman sat on the ground. Marc wandered off.

  I stayed standing. The meat pies nearby smelled so good. I remembered stories I’d read about starving people boiling shoes to make soup. Maybe we’d have to boil the little purse. Make leather soup.

  An old man stopped. He was dressed in black: a black suit, black hat, black shoes. “A fine handkerchief,” he said, squinting.

  “Hand embroidered, monsieur,” I said. The linen square had a flower in one corner and tiny leaves worked around the edges. “My maman did it.”

  “Embroidery is an art,” the old man said.

  “I agree, monsieur,” Maman said.

  “Excellent work, madame. I congratulate you. Yes, yes, excellent!”

  Buy it, I wished at him. As soon as he paid Maman, I would buy a meat pie and break it into three parts. Or maybe it would be better to buy three eggs. A man farther down the aisle was selling peeled hard-boiled eggs from a jar.

  The old man told Maman about a trip he’d taken to Paris when he was twenty-one, or was it twenty-two? No, no, twenty-one; he was a boy then, and so naive, madame! “And you and your children come from Paris, too, madame,” he said. “I can hear it in your voice! I know accents. I do. I do.”

  If only he would stop talking and take out his purse. “The handkerchief. Would you like to buy it, monsieur?” I asked. I almost added, Yes or no? but caught Maman’s glance.

  “I’m considering buying it. Yes, yes, I am.” But on he went, talking about Paris and staring first into Maman’s face, then mine.

  I looked away. There was something strange about this old man. He was stoop shouldered, with a tangled salt-and-pepper beard. Why would he be so interested in an embroidered handkerchief? Maybe he was a police spy. People like that were all around, like dogs, sniffing out Jews.

  I saw Marc walking back, weaving through the crowds with a loaf of bread under his arm. As soon as he saw us, he began tearing off chunks. He gave a chunk to me and another to Maman. I stuffed the bread in my mouth. “Where’d you get it?” I asked him.

  “Never mind.”

  The old man had been talking to Maman. Now he bent over and helped her up. “My name is Jean Taubert, madame,” he said in a low voice. I had to strain to hear him. “I am officially stupid. Harmless.”

  Marc and I glanced at each other. Officially stupid?

  “I have an offer.” The old man picked up the handkerchief and examined it again. “Shelter.” He said this word so softly I wasn’t sure if I had really heard him.

  Maman stuffed our things into the knapsack. The old man took it from her, and they walked off.

  I stood there, staring. It didn’t seem real, Maman walking away with a stranger, leaving us.

  “What’s she doing?” Marc said. “Who is that man?”

  I grabbed his hand, and we broke into a run.

  9

  A TALL, NARROW HOUSE

  Monsieur Taubert lived in a tall, narrow house in a cobblestoned alleyway. It was a dark, old man’s house, with lumpy furniture and stacks of newspapers in the corners. Three other people lived there, Jews like ourselves. Redheaded Simone, her uncle Leo, and Bernard, a little boy. They looked us over coldly.

  Monsieur Taubert said we were hungry. Simone brought a pot from the stove and set it down on the table. She put out three spoons, three bowls. The soup was good. There was bread, too. I asked for a second bowl of soup and got it. Then suddenly, I wanted to sleep more than anything in the world.

  For the first time in weeks, I was inside, in a house, in a room, safe. And there was a bed against the wall. I lay down. I heard Maman say something. I heard Simone answer, “No, Uncle Leo and I are from—” And then I fell asleep.

  Later I found out they were from Rouen. Simone and her uncle Leo were all that remained of their family. They had escaped a transport. The boy, Bernard, had lost his parents and sisters, and found Simone and attached himself to her. He was a funny little boy. He hardly said anything. When he did speak, his voice was high and squeaky.

  Monsieur Taubert had taken them all in off the street.

  “He’s a saint,” Simone said.

  Maman agreed. “A genuine human being.”

  I was suspicious and uneasy, but they were right. Just as Maman said, Monsieur Taubert was a good man. It was as simple as that.

  Maman tried to keep us to our routine, but she wasn’t well. Almost from the day we began living in Monsieur’s house, she grew weak. It was as if she had held herself together until we were safe and then let go.

  When she could, she taught us—including Bernard—our lessons. Sometimes Marc was there, sometimes not
. He had begun to leave the house, to go off on his own. He wouldn’t say where. “Here and there” was the way he put it. “Only God knows” was the way Maman put it.

  Marc said he looked for work around the market, carrying bundles or unloading wagons. Sometimes he brought back money or food. Once he brought us three oranges, which we divided among us all. We each had almost half an orange. They were marvelous. We couldn’t stop talking about them.

  Marc’s voice was changing. Before he went out, he would say in his new deep voice, “Maman, be easy. I’m careful.” As if saying that would stop her from worrying. He knew better, but it wasn’t only his voice that was changing: He’d become a little bit selfish. He did what he wanted. He was often gone for hours.

  “Let me go with him, Maman,” I said. I wanted to go out, too. When I thought of the weeks we’d traveled, I forgot about being hungry and scared and only remembered how free I’d been. “I’ll stay with him, Maman,” I said. “I’ll watch him and keep him safe.”

  “No,” Maman said. “I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. You think you’re missing something, darling?” A coughing spasm shook her. It was the damp in the house, she said, that made her cough and feel tired all the time.

  “You think it’s safe out there?” she said. “It’s not.”

  She was right about that, too.

  Monsieur had two radios. One was large, prominently placed in the living room. The other, a shortwave in a small mahogany box, was hidden in the cellar. At night, Monsieur brought it out and we listened to the BBC from London for news of the war. That was how we heard that Italy had surrendered.

  At first, we rejoiced. Italy had been Germany’s main ally. We thought this meant the end of the war. But it meant instead that the Italian soldiers left Valence and the Germans moved in. Within days, they began conducting house-to-house searches for Jews.

  10

  GOOD-BYE FOR NOW

  The floor under the coal bin in the cellar was dirt. We moved the coal aside and dug a pit where we could hide if the Germans came. We practiced lying in that tiny space. Monsieur Taubert covered us with boards, then moved the coal back. We lay there, packed together in silence, as if the Germans were in the house. An hour later, when he let us out, Maman fainted.

  We had already hidden away anything—bedding, books, clothes—that would reveal our presence. But even that wasn’t enough. Valence had become too dangerous. We had to leave—leave Monsieur, leave Valence, leave France—and cross the mountains into Italy. Monsieur knew people who would help us.

  Late one night, he woke us and told us to get ready. Marc and I were the first ones downstairs. Then the others—Simone, Uncle Leo, and Bernard. “Shall we go?” Bernard said in his high voice.

  “Karin and Marc’s maman isn’t here yet.” Uncle Leo put his hands on Bernard’s shoulders. “We’ll leave together, all at the same time. That’s the way, isn’t it?”

  We stood around, our knapsacks at our feet, waiting for Maman. Bernard leaned against Uncle Leo. Simone paced. The room was dark, with only a little light filtering in from outside.

  “Where is she?” Simone said.

  “She’ll come,” Uncle Leo said. He was always calm.

  Marc went to the stairwell. “Maman?”

  At last, we heard her coming slowly down the stairs. “Sorry, everyone.” She was panting. “I’m … ready.” She leaned, slumped really, against the wall.

  “This is absurd,” Simone said. “She’s sick, she’s too weak.” She picked up her knapsack. “How will she do this? She’ll never make it two steps.”

  I glared at Simone. “We’ll help her!”

  Maman took my arm. “Shhh.” Her face was shiny with sweat.

  “We still have a moment,” Monsieur Taubert said. “Rest yourself,” he urged Maman. “Sit down.”

  She started to protest, but then she sat down on the couch and put her head back. Her eyes closed. We waited. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes.

  “Well …,” Monsieur said.

  “We have to go,” Simone said. “Now.”

  Monsieur bent over Maman and spoke quietly. “Why not stay here? Let the children leave tonight. When you’re stronger, you’ll follow.”

  “I won’t go without my mother,” I said. I sat down next to her.

  “If Maman stays, we will, too,” Marc said.

  And that was it. We hugged and kissed the others, wished them a safe journey, and watched them leave without us.

  In the weeks that followed, Maman had some good days, but most of the time she lay on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. She slept a lot, and we were glad. Monsieur said rest was the best cure.

  One afternoon, we heard that German soldiers were in the neighborhood. We woke Maman and helped her downstairs to the cellar, to the hole under the coal bin. It was torture for her to lie there. The soldiers never came, but by the time Monsieur let us out, Maman had fainted again.

  The weather turned cooler and rain came. We had a second scare. A German soldier came to the door, and we had no time to go to the cellar. The soldier entered the house as we hid in the broom closet. We could hear everything.

  “What a job,” Monsieur said, “rounding up Jews, that lot of filth. One good thing, the Italian scum are gone.” He offered the soldier a drink. The soldier said something in German, and Monsieur Taubert laughed. “I’ve a little bit saved,” he said, “for the right occasion.”

  In the closet, we held ourselves still. Marc’s arm was twisted behind his back. Maman’s body shook, but she never let out a sound.

  The start of the new year came and passed. The Germans were everywhere, arresting people off the street. Marc had stopped going out. Monsieur, in order to avoid attracting attention, was more careful than ever about what he brought into the house. There wasn’t much food.

  Maman wanted Marc and me to leave, but we argued with her. “No, Maman. We’re not going without you. We won’t!”

  “I hope,” she said one day, sitting up on the couch and holding the blanket close around her, “that I still have something to say about what my children do!” She sounded like her old self for a moment. “I hope that I haven’t lost every shred of authority.”

  “No, Maman, of course not,” we said, but we kept delaying. Marc got a cold. I got a sore throat. The soles of his shoes were worn through, and he had to fix them. One thing after another.

  There were fewer and fewer excuses. But not until Monsieur Taubert told us that he was getting Maman false identification papers—Maman would live there as his widowed sister—did we agree to go.

  On the night we left, Maman held me. “Don’t be sad, darling. As soon as I’m stronger, I’ll follow you.”

  “And you’ll find us,” I said.

  “I will. I promise. Now say good-bye to me.”

  I was crying.

  “It’s only for now,” Maman said.

  I kissed her hand and then her face, kissed it again and again.

  A small truck waited on a tree-lined street. Two men sat in front, smoking. We went up to them. “Good evening,” I said. “Do you know my uncle Henri?”

  One of the men flicked ash out the window. “Know him well.”

  That was the signal.

  We went around to the back of the truck. Marc climbed up and reached down to help me. The heavy canvas flap fell down behind us.

  Darkness.

  “Marc,” I whispered.

  “Quiet,” a woman’s voice ordered.

  The truck jerked into motion, and I was thrown back against a bench. I sat down abruptly, sensing people on both sides. Marc squeezed in next to me. I heard sounds of breathing. A muffled sneeze.

  The truck jolted along. The engine labored as we climbed higher. The hours passed, and I dozed. Once I dreamed that Maman and I were sitting on the blue couch at home, looking at a photo album. “Here’s Papa and me on vacation,” Maman said. I strained to see Papa’s face. A breeze blew white curtains over the album.… Marc was shaking my arm, pulling me up
. Everyone was getting off the truck.

  Outside, it was dark and chilly, with a glimmer of moonlight in the sky. All around us were mountains. The air was cold and damp, and I huddled inside my sweater. “Where are we?” I asked.

  Marc pointed. “Italy, that way,” he said.

  11

  TO THE HILLS

  We were walking again by night and sleeping where we could during the day. The Germans were everywhere on the main roads and in the railroad stations. We were going south again. The south of Italy, where the Americans were, where we would be safe, where we could wait for Maman to join us. We stayed high in the hills above the sea. All we had to do was keep the sea on our right and the morning sun on our left.

  Often, I was half asleep as we walked, holding on to Marc’s sleeve, the way I had when it was he and Maman and I. But then we had been in France. Now France was far behind us. And so was Maman.

  Sometimes, at night, we found ourselves walking alongside other refugees, people without homes, looking for a safe place.

  At a farm, a young woman warned us that the Germans were nearby, in the next village. She gave us bread and cheese and pointed out a trail through the hills. That day we didn’t go hungry, but the day after, we had no food at all.

  Sometimes I thought of Madame Zetain’s little house and of Monsieur Taubert’s tall, narrow house, and they seemed like houses in a dream where, every night, I had slept in a bed under a roof and, every day, washed myself under running water and sat at a table and eaten a meal. Now our clothes were stained, our feet had become hard and callused. Marc’s hair was long, mine uncombed. We looked wild, like children without a mother.

  Sometimes we were so hungry, we went right into a village, boldly asking for food or work. Sometimes in a café, they’d give us stale bread or old vegetables. “Grazie, grazie,” I said.

  I was lying under a tree, napping, when something-grunts, thuds—jolted me awake. For a moment I didn’t know what I was seeing. A twist of arms and legs. Boys. Heads ducked into a circle. A gang of boys was beating Marc with fists and feet. I screamed and ran at them. I jumped on one of them, pulled his hair, and he knocked me to the ground. A moment later, they ran off, taking our knapsack and Papa’s watch.