Anne Frank and Me (20 page)

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 her 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.

Moments later, sharp gunfire echoed in the streets. “It's the Allies!” Liz-Bette cried.

Nicole didn't think so. She crawled to the building's edge, Liz-Bette beside her, and looked to her left, where she thought the sound had originated. Yes! There, at the metro station entrance, a fire raged. Suddenly, she saw flashes of gunfire.

“It's the Resistance,” Nicole marveled.

“Die, lousy Huns!” Liz-Bette uttered fiercely. The sisters watched, transfixed, as the fire in the metro entrance intensified.

“I love you, whoever you are,” Liz-Bette whispered. Sirens sounded. They had to get off the roof. If their mother awoke, she'd have a heart attack. Nicole cocked her head toward the trapdoor. They didn't speak again until they were safely in the hiding place. Thankfully, their mother was still snoring.

“Oh, I am so happy!” Liz-Bette hugged Nicole as sirens wailed on the street. This time, though, the sirens meant something terrible for their tormentors instead of for them. “Nicole, what do you think they were attack—”

She was interrupted by three hard raps on the half-door, silence, then two more raps. The code knock.

Nicole hurried to the door as Mme. Bernhardt jerked awake. “Who's there?” she demanded.

Mimi fell into the room, breathless. “Quick, you have to leave!”

A fist clutched Nicole's heart. “What is it?”

“They threw bottle bombs in the metro, at the Permilleux Service. It was an ambushl”

“So why—”

“André was on duty, that's where we were meeting him. My brother is dead!”

“No!” Nicole's hands flew to her mouth.

“It was your father!”

“Oh, God.” Nicole reached for Mimi. “It wasn't meant for your brother—”

Mimi pushed her away, wild-eyed. “But it killed him anyway! I saw it all, they attacked from the back, they didn't know André was there. Your father was shot, he couldn't get away.”

“No,” Nicole insisted, as if denying it could make it not be true.

“Jacques saw, too! He was in shock, he didn't mean to, he yelled at your father, ‘I loved you, I brought you food, and you killed my brother!”

“Please God, no,” Nicole moaned. “Please don't let it be—”

“You have to leave!” Mimi grabbed Nicole. “They'll torture Jacques until he tells where you are. Run!”

“I am so sorry—”

“Leave now!” Mimi whipped around to Mme. Bernhardt, who stood in mute shock. “Don't you hear me, leave—”

The pounding of a dozen jackboots on the stairs leading to the attic, and screams of guttural German, cut her off.

The half-door to the hiding place was smashed open. Liz-Bette screamed and leaped into her mother's arms. Mimi and Nicole clung to each other, heart to heart, and waited for the end.

thirty-three

There was no more room on the scrap of brown paper. Nicole folded it four times, pressing the creases together. Then, she walked along the wall of the barracks, looking for a crack in the concrete. She found one, and worked her note into the crevice until it disappeared. She'd hidden another scrap of paper under a rock. She took it out, brushed the dirt from its surface, and began to write again.

“Mademoiselle, what are you writing?”

Nicole jumped to her feet and froze. Alois Brunner, who was in charge of the Drancy camp, stood over her, flanked by two SS aides. A small, mercurial man with sharp features, Brunner always wore leather gloves with his uniform. She'd heard it was because he feared touching Jewish skin with his naked hands.

“Attention, Jew-Swine!” he bellowed. “I asked you a question!”

“Just scribbling, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

Brunner joined his gloved hands together. “Your name, Jew-Swine?”

“Bernhardt, Nicole.”

“Any relation to the famous Dr. Jean Bernhardt of the Rothschild Hospital?”

“I am his daughter, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

“I met your father once at his hospital.” Brunner's voice became conversational. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

“A pity he deserted you.” Brunner thought a moment. “Your father was of course acquainted with M. Armand Kohn, correct?”

“Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.” M. Kohn had been in charge of the entire Rothschild Hospital. Her father had spoken of him many times.

“Jew-Swine Kohn is here with the rest of his family. He is not so high and mighty anymore, I assure you.” Brunner's lip curled in a half smile. He jutted his chin toward one of his aides. “Give him your paper.”

Nicole hesitated.

“Are you deaf? I said give it to him!”

Nicole handed the sheet to the SS man, who held it between forefinger and thumb as if it were diseased. “Burn it,” Brunner commanded. The aide took a mechanical lighter and held it to the paper. When flames began to lick his fingers, he dropped it and ground it to ash under his boot. Nicole stared ahead, her face betraying nothing.

“Daughter of Jew-Swine Dr. Jean Bernhardt, you are here with your sister, correct?”

“Yes, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

“Find your sister and present yourselves at my offices in fifteen minutes,” Brunner said, his tone pleasant once more. “You are going on a journey together.”