Anne Frank and Me (16 page)

twenty-four

31 December 1943

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maman?“ Nicole asked. ”Are you awake? I brought you some leek soup.“ She set the soup on the night table by her parents' bed. Other than a few detestable rutabaga, those leeks were the last food left in the flat, and they had no more ration coupons. Tomorrow was New Year's; that meant the shops would be closed. Unless her father brought home food from the hospital—an unlikely possibility—they would be living on air for the next thirty-six hours.

At least the Rothschild Hospital was still permitted to function, Nicole thought. But that was only so that sick and injured Jews wouldn't have to be brought to other hospitals.

“Maman?” Nicole whispered again. Her mother's eyes barely opened. She, who never got sick, had been ill for days. Dr. Bernhardt had assured them it was influenza and not tuberculosis. But so far as Nicole could tell, her mother didn't seem to be improving.

“I made soup for you. I'll fix the pillows so you can sit up and eat,” Nicole offered.

“I am not hungry.”

“But you must eat. Papa says—”

“Yes, I am well aware of what Papa says. You girls quote him so much you would think he was Maimonides.”

Nicole grinned. That remark had sounded like Maman's normal self. “Maimonides was also a doctor, you know. Papa and I have been studying The Guide for the Perplexed.”

“What perplexes me is why I am not improving.” Mme. Bernhardt's eyelids began to droop. “Is there food for you and your sister?”

“We're fine. Rest now.”

Within moments, her mother was snoring. Nicole tucked the covers under her chin, then carried the soup back to the kitchen, where Liz-Bette sat at the table studying a chess problem. When she saw the full soup bowl, she perked up immediately. “May I have it?”

Nicole put the soup in front of her. “You could show some concern that Maman didn't eat.”

“I am concerned. I am also hungry.”

Worry gnawed at Nicole as she watched her sister greedily shovel soup into her mouth. Liz-Bette had grown so thin. But everyone in Paris was hungry. The only people who weren't ran food shops or were cooperating with the Nazis. There were pictures in the newspapers all the time of the actress Danielle Darrieux. She looked healthy, indeed.

Liz-Bette slurped up the last of the soup and stared for lornly into the empty bowl. “We need more food.”

“That is called stating the obvious, Liz-Bette. Shall we ask the ghost of Harry Houdini to conjure some up for us?”

Liz-Bette laughed, but it faded quickly. Nicole had to figure out a way to get more food—real food, with protein. Her mother needed it to get well. Even when her father brought home food from the hospital it was always vegetables, not the protein that her mother needed. And who was to say he was coming home tonight, in any case? There were times they did not see him for three days at a time, about which he would say nothing.

Though her parents had forbidden it, there was only one thing to do, Nicole decided. She headed for the living room. Liz-Bette clomped along behind her. Nicole grabbed the two ornate silver candlesticks from atop the grand piano. “What are you doing?” Liz-Bette asked nervously.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” From the coat rack, Nicole took an old coat of her father‘s, a yellow star sewn to the outside. She reached into the pocket and found a few francs. Perfect, she thought. Money for the metro.

“Nicole, you can't sell Maman's candlesticks on the black market.”

“Do you want to eat?”

“Yes. But we aren't supposed to go out.”

“We aren't supposed to starve, either.” Nicole stuck the heavy candlesticks into an interior coat pocket.

“If you are going, I am going with you,” Liz-Bette declared.

“No. You stay here. In case Maman needs you.”

“You are not my mother,” Liz-Bette said calmly, as she put on one of her mother's jackets. It hung loosely, even with all the sweaters she was wearing.

The sisters stared at each other. The Gestapo and the Permilleux Service had taken to arresting Jews on the flim siest of pretexts, making no distinction between Jews of French citizenship and refugees. If they were caught ... Nicole pushed the thought from her mind.

“Come on, then.” Nicole grabbed a mesh shopping bag from its hook on the wall. “No, wait.” She replaced the mesh bag and took a small valise from the front hall closet, thinking that at least no one could see what was inside a valise.

Silently, they walked downstairs, passing the Einhorns' old flat. A French family lived there now, the Duponts. After the Vel d‘Hiv roundup, the government had requisitioned the flat and allocated it to the Duponts, who had taken all the Einhorns' furniture as their own.

Moments later, they were outside in the sunshine. It was chilly, but the air felt wonderful. Liz-Bette tilted her face to the sun. “We have no time for that,” Nicole said, though she felt like doing exactly the same thing. “Come on.”

They walked briskly to the Trocadéro metro station, paid their fares, and waited for the train to arrive, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. They boarded the last car—the only car in which Jews were allowed to ride—and took it to the Porte de Clignancourt station at the north end of Paris. Near the station was the flea market—well known as a site for black market dealings.

They joined the crowds strolling past the pathetic assortments of goods it was still legal to sell: old cosmetics, paper fans, household goods, costume jewelry, and the like.

“There's no food here,” Liz-Bette grumbled.

Nicole eyed a nearby garbage bin. A young woman dangled from the top as she rummaged through it, her panties exposed. “Never,” Liz-Bette declared, catching sight of the girl. “I will not dive into garbage. It is disgusting.”

“We will see.” Nicole took her sister's arm. People eyed their yellow stars—sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with contempt, most often with apathy.

Liz-Bette shrank into Nicole's side. “Maybe we should just go home.” Nicole ignored her, trying to come up with a plan. How was she going to find someone willing to trade food for her candlesticks?

From behind her, someone called, “Nicole! Nicole Bernhardt!”

Run! Her instincts commanded, but she fought them. Running would only focus attention on her and her sister. Instead, she calmly turned around.

It wasn't the Gestapo, thank God. It was her former class-mate Suzanne Lebeau, whom she hadn't seen since she'd left school. “Oh, how I've missed you!” Suzanne cried, throwing her arms around Nicole. “And you, too, Liz-Bette.”

When Suzanne stepped back, Nicole saw that her old friend was as beautiful as ever—sophisticated-looking, in fact. Her hair was held back with stylish twin combs. She wore a lovely red coat, red high heels, and matching lipstick. She even had on silk stockings. Nicole pulled her father's shabby coat closer around her neck.

“Tell me, how are you doing?” Suzanne asked.

“Fine,” Nicole lied.

Suzanne frowned. “No, not fine. That was stupid of me. I am so sorry I haven't been to see you but—”

“Mimi told me,” Nicole said stiffly. “Your parents will no longer allow you to associate with Jews. We should be going.” She reached for Liz-Bette's arm.

“Wait.” Suzanne buried her hands farther into her fur muff. “What are you doing here?”

“Jews are still allowed here.”

“No, I meant ...” Suzanne hesitated. “I am here with my mother. Our rich relatives and their friends are coming to dinner tonight. I hate these relatives. But my mother is desperate for crystal goblets, to make a good impression. Do you understand?”

Was she saying her rich relatives were collaborators, their friends Huns? Was she offering to help them? But who knew if her parents weren't collaborators, too? Nicole saw Liz-Bette shake her head imperceptibly, meaning she didn't want Nicole to tell. The whole thing was a risk. But silence was not going to feed them.

“I have my mother's silver candlesticks and I need to barter them for food,” Nicole said bluntly.

Suzanne tapped her rouged lips thoughtfully with the tip of one finger. “Ah! I know. Come with me. But take off your coats with the stars on them. Please.”

Nicole hesitated now. Was she walking into a trap? But she shrugged off her coat anyway, as did Liz-Bette, and then followed as Suzanne led them through the crowd at a pace that left undernourished Nicole and Liz-Bette breathless.

They halted before an elderly couple with leathery skin. Both wore farmers' coveralls. Before them, on wood pallets, were handmade dolls laid out in neat rows. Suzanne began a whispered exchange with the woman, who whispered back, shaking her head emphatically. The woman's finger stabbed the air at the yellow star peeking out from the coat draped over Nicole's arm.

Suzanne turned to Nicole. “Go to the corner. Wait there.”

“But—”

“Just do it.”

Feeling helpless, Nicole took Liz-Bette's arm and walked twenty paces toward the corner. “I'm f-f-freezing,” Liz-Bette said, teeth chattering. As Nicole gave her sister one of her sweaters, Suzanne brushed past them with the old man.

“Come on,” she hissed, over her shoulder. “Before he changes his mind.”

Out of the flea market and down a side street they went, struggling to keep up with the old man's brisk pace. “Where are we going?” Liz-Bette asked Nicole.

“I don't know.”

“Then we shouldn't go,” Liz-Bette insisted, hanging back.

“It's all right,” Suzanne assured her. “Just hurry.”

The old man led them to a dilapidated building several blocks away. He let himself in, motioning that Suzanne should come with him but Nicole and Liz-Bette should wait on the street. Again, Nicole wondered if they were walking into a trap.

A minute passed. Two. They stamped their feet to try to keep warm. She was about to tell Liz-Bette they should leave when the front door opened and Suzanne appeared. “Come on!”

They walked up a dark stairwell that smelled of rotten cabbage. From someone's phonograph, an opera played. On one floor, Nicole heard Hitler's voice on a staticky radio mixed with the sounds of children laughing and playing behind the apartment door. When they reached the top landing, Suzanne knocked. The door opened. A young man with a cigarette hanging from his lip stood in the entrance, the old man behind him.

“Silver candlesticks were mentioned?” the young man asked.

Nicole nodded, pulled the heavy candlesticks from her coat, and gave them to him.

“You have a valise?”

She gave him that, too.

“Now wait.”

Suzanne slipped inside, then the young man shut the door in Nicole's face. Liz-Bette blinked furiously, a new nervous habit. “Maybe they're stealing the candlesticks from us. Maybe we should leave.”

Suddenly, the door reopened, and the young man with the cigarette thrust the valise at Nicole. She took it, shocked at how heavy it was. “Go,” he commanded, practically pushing Suzanne out before slamming the door once again.

“Come on,” Suzanne urged. “Let's go!”

Quickly, they descended the stairs. “What's in the valise?” Nicole asked. “My arm feels like it is about to come out of its socket.”

“Foie gras,” Suzanne answered. “My grandfather's brother-in-law runs a factory in Meaux. The old man sends the factory goose liver and gets tins of foie gras in return. You now have forty half-kilo tins. I hope you like goose liver.”

When they reached the street, Nicole hesitated. On the black market, the candlesticks were worth perhaps two kilos of foie gras, not twenty. “All this for two candlesticks?”

“I augmented their value a bit,” Suzanne admitted. “Not very much.” For ten times their worth, she must have augmented them a lot. With what? Gold coins? Diamonds? Nicole held the valise out to Suzanne. “You must take some of this.”

“No,” Suzanne said sharply, as she backed away from them. “I am ashamed to say what some members of my family do and who their friends are. I am not a fine enough person to refuse to benefit from their largesse. But it gives me great satisfaction to know that you are now a beneficiary, too. God bless you, Nicole.” She turned and ran until her coat was a red dot in the distance.

By the time Nicole and Liz-Bette reached the Trocadéro station, it was nearly dark. Nicole had but one goal as they left the last car—to get home as quickly as possible. They were in violation of a host of anti-Jewish laws and some that applied to non-Jews as well—even though everyone did it, trafficking in the black market was a serious offense. Fortunately, the avenue de Camoëns was just a few blocks away.