“Yes, beautiful,” I said. And I tried to remember my bedroom, the room I had shared with Grand-mère for eight years. I reminded myself that the bureau held Grand-mère’s creams and lotions, that I’d had a white cupboard for my books and there were lacy curtains at the long windows. But they were only words, and the picture wouldn’t come.
“Karin!” Peggy jiggled my arm. “What’s up? You look like a zombie.”
“A what?” I followed her up the stairs to the attic. Flies buzzed against the dusty windows. Boxes were piled in corners. “Someone could live up here,” I said.
“Oh no. It’s too hot. And look, you’d bump your head on the rafters. My dad keeps saying he’ll make a playroom up here. Oh, sure—when I’m too old!”
I bent down and opened a small door built into the eaves. “What is this for?”
“Just someplace to put things away.”
The space went way back on both sides, under the roof. “Someone could hide in here,” I said.
“I know. Mary used to when she was little—get in there and hide, and everyone would be running around yelling for her. My mom told me.”
“More than one person, even,” I said.
You would have to squat or lie down, but there was more room here than in the hole we’d dug in Monsieur Taubert’s cellar. You could hardly tell the door was there. All you’d have to do was cover it with a trunk, and if they didn’t pull the trunk away, you’d be safe from the soldiers.
But there were no soldiers here. Well, there were, but they were American soldiers. They smiled when we showed them our passes in the morning, and they said things like “You have fun today, kids.”
In the kitchen, Peggy’s mother was sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette and reading the newspaper. “Peggy giving you the tour, Karin?” she said.
“I’m showing her everything,” Peggy said. “We’re going to look at the backyard now.”
She showed me their apple tree, which still had a few apples hanging on it. We walked farther, to the back of the yard. “This is where my mother has a garden in the summer. Did your mother have a garden?”
“No. We lived in an apartment.”
“Poor you, living in a city where you can’t even have a backyard or a garden.”
“We had a terrace,” I said. Then I wondered if that was true, but I kept talking. “A fig tree in a pot. Lots of plants and flowers in pots. Grand-mère took care of them.”
“Who’s Gremare?”
“No.” I pronounced it for her again. “Grand-mère.” I bent to pick up a gold-colored leaf. Bugs had chewed minuscule holes in it. “Mother’s mother.”
“Oh, your granny! Say grandmother.”
“Grand-mère,” I said again. I would never say “grandmother.”
I held the leaf up to the sun, and as I did, I remembered a dream I’d had about Grand-mère. She’d been on the terrace, wearing a gold skirt, bending over to water the flowers. It was like the dream about me and Maman in the park. I saw everything clearly, even the light in her hair. Wasn’t it strange that when I tried to remember something, I couldn’t, but in my dreams, I remembered perfectly.
26
SHAKING STARS
I was alone in the room. Marc had gone out without telling me where. He only said he’d be back soon. Sometimes I liked being alone, but that night the silence seemed big.
Where had he gone that he couldn’t ask me to come with him?
I turned on the radio, then turned it off. What if he didn’t come back? A stupid thought. “But what if he doesn’t?” I said out loud.
I stood at the window. I wouldn’t die if I were alone here. I knew how to take care of myself. And when the war ended, I’d go back to Maman. The same thought, the one I thought every day. I’d go to Valence. I’d find Maman. Then we’d go back to Paris, rue Erlanger, our home.
I loved this thought.
But without Marc? Impossible.
But what if he was standing on the side of a road right now, his thumb up, looking for a ride? Where? I knew the answer to that: anywhere. Anywhere else. He kept talking about going places. Being free. Freedom.
Days after he’d done it, he told me that he, Tomas, and some other boys had sneaked under the fence and hitchhiked to Syracuse. “We didn’t want to come back in three hours! We wanted to come back when we were ready.”
They bought hamburgers, strolled around the city, went up to the college and “goofed around.” He’d kept it a secret from me. Were there other secrets? Maybe what he meant by “free” was free of me, the responsibility of me. Free of being with me when he wanted to be with his friends.
I checked the clock and sat down to do homework, then jumped up and checked it again. A baby was crying somewhere. I resisted the feeling of wanting to cry, too.
I put on a sweater and went out. The night was cool, dark, and starry. I walked across the parade ground and up the hill to the old fort. The lake was silvery black. I lay down on the ground and looked up. Mrs. Stein had taught me to recognize the constellation Cassiopeia, which looked like a necklace. It was a cold night, and the stars were shaking.
The wind blew through the grass and I thought of where I was on this hill, near the lake of an American town. The stars were so vast, they covered me, and they covered the lake and the whole United States, and Italy and France and Maman. I lay there, staring up, until the stars blurred in my eyes.
When I got back to the room, Marc was there on the cot, smoking his before-bed cigarette. He had taken up smoking recently, and he loved it. He smoked one cigarette in the morning and one just before he went to sleep. He would lie with one hand behind his head, holding his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger in the other hand, exactly as Papa used to. Tomas smoked, too. They bought their cigarettes together, two at a time in town, at the cigar store.
“Where were you?” Marc pointed to the clock with his cigarette. “Why were you out so late?”
I took off my sneakers and socks. “I went for a walk.”
“You should have left me a note.” He blew smoke out from the corner of his mouth. I hated the way he did that, as if he were twenty-four instead of fourteen.
“You go out, Marc. You don’t tell me where you’re going. So I can go out, too. And I don’t have to tell you. Why should I? Where were you?”
“Never mind that. I’m responsible for you. I’m older than you. I can do things you can’t.”
I threw my sneakers on the floor. “Yes. I’m sure Maman would love that you went out without even telling me where.”
He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor. “Don’t always be bringing Maman into it. She has nothing to do with my life.”
“Nothing to do with it?” The breath went out of me, as if he’d punched me. “That’s a lie. You’re a liar, Marc! She has everything to do with you, your life, my life, everything, every—every—” I hardly knew what I was saying. I touched my chest. “Maman’s here, right here in me, with me, and—”
“Don’t get upset,” Marc interrupted. “I’m only saying, do you see Maman? No. Who do you see? Who’s here? Me. That’s what you see. That’s who’s here. Not Maman. So that’s what I meant. It’s not a lie, just the truth.”
“Take it back, Marc! Tell me where you went and take that back, or I’ll never speak to you again.”
“I’m so frightened,” he said. He got up and draped a blanket over the line he’d hung between our cots for privacy.
I got into bed and pulled the sheet up to my chin. I was still wearing my clothes. “Go to hell,” I said. “Go to hell! You’re not my brother anymore!”
Dearest Maman,
Marc and I had a big fight. I was angry and I swore at him, and now we’re not speaking. For two days we haven’t talked unless we absolutely had to. I don’t think the fight was just my fault, Maman. I don’t want to fight with my brother, and I know you wouldn’t want me to, but sometimes it seems that I can’t help myself. Well, I don’t feel so much like writing now. I lov
e you, Maman. I’ll try to be a better person, the way you would want me to be.
Your Karin
Dearest Maman,
Last week, Marc asked me if I wanted to stay out of school to show respect for the holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He said he was going to do that. I said I would also. Then he said we might as well go to the services, even though we’re not a religious family. And I said I thought that was a good idea, although really, Maman, I hadn’t thought about it at all. Marc said he remembered us going to temple with Grand-mère in Paris on the High Holy Days. I don’t remember that. I wish I did.
Maman, what I liked most about Rosh Hashanah was how happy everyone was because it was the beginning of the new year. “Everything starts fresh now,” Mr. Stein said. All the people were happy to see us. They were shaking hands and wishing one another a happy and good and safe new year.
Another thing I liked was when the rabbi blew the shofar at Yom Kippur services. It gave me chills. And I thought how, for two thousand years, Jews have heard the shofar on this day and been reminded to live a good life. That’s what the rabbi said in his sermon.
And then he said we should go to anyone we had hurt and apologize, so we could begin the new year with a clean heart.
It was as if he was talking to me, Maman. I turned to Marc to say I was sorry for our fight and anything mean I had said. And at the very same moment, he turned to me. We said “sorry” to each other, and I said, “I really mean it,” and we hugged and sort of cried. And now that we’ve made up, Maman, everything seems better. Even the weather! The maple and elm trees are all golden and red. One really big tree I see on the way to school every day shines like copper. The boats go up and down the lake, and the wind blows, and everyone says winter is coming, but it’s hard to believe because the sun shines so beautifully!
Good night, Maman. I love you.
Your Karin
27
AN AMERICAN FAMILY
Peggy’s mother invited Marc and me to eat Thanksgiving dinner with their family, but Marc already had another invitation from one of his school friends. Almost all the children and a lot of the adults from the fort were invited to Thanksgiving dinners in town.
“Karin, I hear much good food comes in this holiday,” Eva said. We walked part of the way from the fort to our friends’ houses together. “Eat big,” she advised me when we parted.
Peggy was waiting for me at the door. The house was noisy with people. Her parents, four cousins, an aunt and uncle, her sister Mary, Mary’s boyfriend, Kevin, and her sister Jane were all in the living room. Peggy introduced me to everybody, saying one name after another. I kept smiling and saying, “Pleased to meet you.” The only person I already knew besides Peggy’s mother was her sister Jane. Peggy always called her “Jane the Glamour-puss.”
After another cousin arrived, we went into the dining room. Peggy sat me between herself and her uncle James, or was it Jim? I thought I’d heard him called by both names.
The table was loaded with delicious food. There was a huge turkey with “stuffing,” plus all sorts of vegetables. “Glazed carrots,” Peggy said, pointing. “Fried potatoes, baked sweet potatoes, squash with honey, green beans, beets—”
“Just no cabbage,” I said. “Okeydokey?”
Her uncle laughed. “Don’t like cabbage, huh, honey? I’m with you on that.”
“Well, I’m thankful for this holiday,” Peggy’s aunt Myra said. She stood up and rapped on a glass with a fork. “Grace,” she said.
I looked around. I thought she was calling someone.
They all bowed their heads.
“Thank you, Lord, for this bountiful meal,” Peggy’s aunt said. “Thank you for keeping us safe. Thank you for everything good in our lives. Thank you for letting us share our meal with Peggy’s new friend.”
Peggy poked me and glanced at me with a little smile. “You,” she mouthed.
“Amen,” Peggy’s uncle said. And then everyone said, “Amen.” Everyone except me. It was like not saying the Pledge of Allegiance. Not to be disrespectful to Peggy’s family, but it wasn’t my prayer.
“Okay, folks, let’s go.” Peggy’s father stood up, reached for a knife, and started carving the turkey. They passed around the platters of food. I thought the cranberry sauce was Jell-O.
“No, no. Just try it,” Peggy said. I did, and I liked it much more than Jell-O.
Peggy’s father told me to eat until I was “too full.”
“Until you’re stuffed,” Peggy’s aunt Myra said. “That’s how we celebrate our holiday.” She had blond hair like Peggy and the same little nose. “We eat like pigs.”
“Speak for yourself, lady,” Peggy’s father said.
They all started telling stories about how much they’d eaten on other Thanksgiving holidays.
Later, when the pies and ice cream came out, Peggy’s uncle asked me about the war. Every time he asked a question, everyone would stop talking and look at me.
“So was it awful over there, young lady?” he said.
“Yes, yes. It was.”
“And you and your brother—Peggy says you’re all alone over here?”
“Well, we are with the other people in the fort.”
“Now, how did your parents let you come here all alone?”
“How—” I started to stutter. “My—my—mother, you see—”
“Her mother was too sick to come,” Peggy put in. I had told her a little, but not everything.
“Your mother was sick, young lady?”
“Yes.”
“Very sick, I take it, if she couldn’t travel with you?”
“Yes.”
Most of his questions I answered like that, just yes or no. I didn’t know what else to say. What could I say when he asked if Marc and I had escaped from the Nazis? Yes, but it wasn’t something that happened in a single moment or a single day or even a single month.
To tell it, where would I start? With the yellow stars we had to wear? With being put out of school? Or would it be with Papa’s arrest? And if I told that much, then I’d have to go on, about Madame Zetain, and Monsieur Taubert, and all the rest of it.
I smiled when they looked at me. I liked being there with Peggy’s family, and I could tell that her mother, especially, was happy to have me there. I didn’t want to have any sad thoughts. Just once, though, I thought, We Levis aren’t a big family—not anymore. And for a little while, I was quiet.
28
REPORT CARDS
In school one day, Mr. Anderson, the history teacher, pulled down the map of the world and pointed to where American soldiers were fighting. Zoey Hendlin raised her hand. “Mr. Anderson, do we have to talk about the war all the time?” She looked at me, as if I was the only one who would be interested.
But when Mr. Anderson asked who had grown a victory garden the summer before, almost everyone in class raised their hands. Peggy said her family saved bacon grease and silver foil from her dad’s cigarette packs to help the war effort. “Who has a relative in the military?” Mr. Anderson asked. More people raised their hands, and Royal Sutter, who sat in back and never said a word, said his father was missing in action.
Later, Peggy passed me a note. “My so-called friend, Zoey, is so-called jealous of so-called you!” It was Peggy’s latest thing, to say “so-called” about everything. She whispered, “Answer!”
“She should not be,” I wrote, and passed the note back.
Mr. Anderson didn’t even notice, but for the rest of the class, I felt sort of sick. I always felt that way when I broke rules, even the little ones about not chewing gum in school and not speaking without raising your hand first. I would think, What if I’m caught? What if I’m sent to the principal’s office? What if I’m sent back to the fort? Disgraced?
“You wouldn’t be disgraced,” Peggy said.
“And what if you were sent to the principal? So what?” Zoey said. We were sitting together at lunch. “If it was me, my father would have kittens,
but you don’t have anybody who cares. Lucky you, you can do what you want.”
“So-called lucky me,” I said. I made it a joke. But again I felt a little sick. Nobody who cared? What about Marc? And the Steins? And Maman? Maman, most of all. She cared, she would always care, even if she wasn’t with me. Should I say it? Make Zoey listen to me and understand?
No. I decided not to, as usual. People said things to me, and maybe they upset me, but I kept quiet.
“Did you hear that Richie Russell’s father was arrested?” Zoey said to Peggy.
“Richie’s father! What for?”
“Fraud.” Zoey licked peanut butter from her fingers. “My mom heard it on the radio. Did you see Richie? He came to school, like nothing happened. I would die if it was me and my father was arrested.”
“Maybe he came to school,” I said, “because his father didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Why would they arrest him then?” Zoey looked at me as if I were stupid.
“A person could be arrested for not anything,” I said.
“Oh no, they couldn’t! People are arrested because they’re criminals. And if your father was arrested, you would want to die of disgrace. That’s disgrace,” she said.
“Die?” I said. “No. Here I am, still living.”
Zoey and Peggy both stared.
“You mean your father was arrested?” Peggy said at last.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he is Jewish.”
“Just because of that?” Zoey looked at Peggy. “I mean, I know they made our Lord suffer, but just because you’re Jewish doesn’t seem like a reason to go to jail.”
I was sorry I had said anything. I took a drink of milk. The coldness went up into my forehead and made it throb. Better to think of that than of Papa and how they took him away.
Every day, it seemed, there was something else that bothered me—not always big things, sometimes just little things, like making a mess of my spelling paper or forgetting lunch money. I told myself I should be more careful. I should be better. I should not let myself be upset. Why wasn’t I more like Marc?
Good Night, Maman Page 8
