Black Radishes (11 page)

21

B
ut Gustave forgot all about school as soon as he got home. Papa, who had spent the afternoon at a café, arrived at the front gate at the same time that Gustave did, and Maman came bursting out of the house.

“Look! From Geraldine!” she cried, waving the yellow postcard in the air.

Maman couldn’t stop fingering the card and talking about it, even during dinner. “Finally, after a whole year, we get word from her!” she said, ladling out the soup. “But it doesn’t sound good. Not good at all.”

Gustave took a bite of bread and examined the yellow postcard, the kind the Germans made people use for mail across the demarcation line. “Strictly for family correspondence” was printed at the top. “Write nothing outside the lines.” You could choose from a few preprinted messages, circling the ones that applied and crossing out the ones that did not. Aunt Geraldine had crossed out “ill” and “wounded.” “Geraldine, Jean-Paul, and Giselle” filled the blank line on the postcard before the words “are in good health.” Aunt Geraldine had written in “David” before “is a prisoner of war.” That was to be expected, because no one had heard of any of the captured French soldiers coming home yet.

“Look!” said Gustave. “She circled both ‘Kisses’ and ‘Affectionate thoughts,’ but you’re only supposed to circle one of them. It’s lucky that the Boches didn’t throw the card away because of that. But maybe she did the same thing before and that kept her postcards from getting through to us.”

“Oh, how ridiculous! But you might be right,” Maman said, peering over Gustave’s shoulder. “But what could she mean by this?”

There were only two blank lines at the bottom where people could write in their own words. In a shaky hand, Aunt Geraldine had written: “The neighbors are away. We think they are on vacation. Your advice was correct. We may have to go on vacation next.” Below, she had signed her name, still in shaky handwriting: “Geraldine.”

“ ‘The neighbors’ must mean the Landaus,” Gustave said. “And ‘your advice was correct’ must mean that she realizes they should have come to Saint-Georges. Even though it’s the country and there are outhouses.”

Maman smiled faintly. “That makes sense,” she agreed. “But ‘on vacation’? No one is going ‘on vacation’ now.” She picked up the card and ran her finger over the curving loops of Aunt Geraldine’s signature. “And the Landaus never had enough money for that sort of thing in the best of times.” Her bowl of soup cooled on the table in front of her, untouched.

“No,” said Papa. He put down his spoon.

“It’s as if she is making up a code,” said Maman. “What is she hinting at? And what does she mean that she and the children ‘may have to go on vacation next’?”

“I’m not sure,” said Papa slowly, wiping his lips with his napkin. “Maybe it means the Landaus have gone into hiding to get away from the Germans. But I’m afraid—” He glanced at Gustave and hesitated. Then he went on. “I’m afraid it may mean that the Germans have arrested them for being Jews.”

Maman gave a faint cry.

Gustave’s stomach lurched, threatening to send his soup back up. Marcel and his mother, arrested? In one of those prison camps? Somewhere filthy and crowded, without enough food or clothes, without heat in winter, without doctors if they got sick? A place run by brutal Nazi soldiers with rifles, who hated Jews? Gustave wanted to scream. He felt as if he were falling into a deep, dark hole.

“We must get your sister and the children out of Paris.” Papa’s voice sounded from far away, pulling Gustave back. “Soon. Immediately. But how can we get them across the demarcation line without papers?” he added, drumming his fingers on the table. “I just don’t know any reliable way.”

“What about Marcel?” Gustave cried. “We don’t know for sure that Aunt Geraldine means that they were arrested by the Germans. Maybe the Landaus are away visiting relatives, and that’s what she means by ‘on vacation.’ We have to help them too!”

Maman sighed. “I’ll write Geraldine one of those yellow postcards, saying that we are all well but earnestly wish for a reunion of the family and our dear friends. She will know what that means, and if she can contact the Landaus, she can tell Marcel’s family again that we want them to come. I’ll also write a postcard to Marcel’s mother. But even if they get the postcards, without passes from the Germans, how can either family get out of the occupied zone?”

Gustave thought about that question for what seemed like most of the night. Marcel and his mother had to still be in Paris. They had to. Maman and Papa must be wrong about them being arrested by the Nazis. What Aunt Geraldine wrote had to mean something else. But even if they could leave Paris and travel until they were at the other side of the river Cher, how could they cross the demarcation line?

Maybe there was a lonely stretch of the river where the Germans didn’t patrol, and Marcel and Jean-Paul and their mothers could swim across some dark night. But what about the baby? She could drown. Could they find a boat instead? But boats were forbidden, “on pain of death.” The Germans had destroyed or confiscated all the boats they could find. Could Jean-Paul’s family and the Landaus somehow sneak over a bridge? But how, when they were so heavily guarded at all hours of the day and night? Gustave twisted and turned in bed, running over and over possible plans in his mind, but he couldn’t think of any safe way to smuggle two mothers, two boys, and a baby girl across the line.

Gustave had almost forgotten about Philippe, but he remembered what he had done during the marbles game as soon as he walked into the classroom the next day. Philippe smirked at Gustave from across the room, gesturing as if he were yanking Gustave’s pants down again, then turned to whisper something to the boy next to him. The boy glanced up at Gustave and laughed. Gustave glowered and looked down, digging his pencil hard into the wood of his desk. Don’t be conspicuous, Papa had said when Gustave had started school there over a year ago. Don’t get into arguments. Had Papa known how hard it would be to do that?

Gustave avoided Philippe at recess, and at the end of the day, he hurried away from the school. When he heard feet running behind him, he tensed. Was it Philippe, planning to beat him up? He turned, clenching his hands into fists. But it was Nicole.

“Do you want to walk together?” she asked when she had caught up with Gustave.

Gustave unclenched his hands. “Oh. Sure.”

“Can you believe how much math we have to do tonight?” she asked. “
And
a test to study for! Already!” Gustave shrugged. He could hardly pay attention to Nicole when he kept expecting Philippe to jump out at him. But nothing happened.

At her turnoff, Nicole paused. “Listen,” she said, looking around to make certain that no one was nearby. Her voice was suddenly hushed and serious. “What Philippe said yesterday in the schoolyard—it was true, wasn’t it? Your family is Jewish?”

Gustave flinched. But everybody was going to know now, anyway. And the way she said it was very different from the way Philippe had. “Yes,” he answered, making himself look her straight in the eye. “We are.”

Nicole nodded. “But aren’t you going to try to leave France?” she went on in a whisper. “My father says it’s getting really dangerous for Jews here.”

Nicole’s face was so honest and worried. And she had had that smudge of white chalk on her cheek that day last spring. And on La Toussaint last fall, she had so conveniently and persistently changed the subject away from bacon and Catholic festivities. Suddenly, Gustave was very sure that he could trust her. “Well, it’s not that easy,” he said. “Besides, my aunt and cousins—they’re on the other side of the demarcation line. So are my best friend and his mother.”

“I thought it might be something like that.” Nicole tossed her hair out of her face, smiling. “So, can you get a bike? Are you going to come on Sunday?”

“I think so,” said Gustave, a little bewildered by Nicole’s rapid mood changes. “I’ll check tonight.”

“OK, see you.” She ran up the hill, her schoolbag swinging on her shoulder.

Gustave wasn’t sure if he should ask about borrowing Maman’s bike, with everyone so worried about Jean-Paul’s family and Marcel’s. But at dinner, Papa asked him how school was going this year, and he spilled out everything—about what Philippe had said, and about Nicole and the chocolate and going to see Chenonceau.

“I’m glad you have a new friend,” said Maman, distractedly. “Yes, you can take the bicycle. But don’t let it out of your sight for a moment. A woman who works with me had hers stolen last week, and now she has to walk to work.”

“Don’t you think this boy Philippe might just have been curious about you?” asked Papa. “The villagers have all lived here for many generations, and then we move in just before the Germans invade Paris. Of course they wonder why we’re living here. They may even wonder if we’re Jewish. It isn’t surprising that some people are curious.”

“Philippe isn’t just curious. He said that Jews are to blame for the war. Nicole said his grandfather believes it too.”

“I don’t like hearing that,” said Papa, slowly. “I don’t like hearing that at all.”

That night, the rain began and continued for two days. When the sky cleared, the sticky summer was over, wet, yellow leaves were strewn on the ground, and it felt as if it had always been fall. In the evening of the day that the rain stopped, when the landlady was away and no one seemed to be around in the house next door, Gustave’s parents showed him a small metal box. Inside it, in small cloth bags, were a roll of American dollar bills, Maman’s few pieces of jewelry, and two shapeless stones.

“This is the rest of our valuable property that we didn’t declare to the police,” said Papa. “Although they don’t look like it, those stones are precious jewels. They haven’t been cut and polished yet. I exchanged most of our money from the liquidation of the shoe store for these uncut stones. Tonight, we are going to hide everything.”

Gustave nodded, his mouth dry. The three of them went out together into the yard behind the house, Maman carrying the box in both hands. On the far side of an old chicken coop that was no longer in use, Papa dug a hole in the rain-softened earth. Maman handed him the box. Papa buried it deep in the ground, stamping on the earth. Gustave helped him strew gravel and leaves over the surface so that no one could see that it had been disturbed. Then Papa walked Gustave back to the house and had him find the spot where the box was buried.

After Gustave found the spot a second time without any trouble, even though by then it was almost completely dark, Papa put both of his hands on Gustave’s shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone where it is,” Papa said. “But remember.”

“But you and Maman know where it is too,” said Gustave, glancing at his mother. She turned her head away, looking silently into the darkness.

“Yes. But the day might come when you need to remember it all by yourself,” Papa said. His voice was low and hoarse. “You might need money. These days, things could happen. You need to be strong and brave and know how to take care of yourself. Maman and I need to know that you will remember where it is.”

Gustave stared at Papa. Take care of himself? Did Papa think that their family could be arrested and put in a camp, even though they had registered at the prefecture of police? Or that just his parents would be taken, leaving Gustave on his own? Gustave looked at his parents, standing there in the dusk. He felt suddenly hollowed out inside and so cold that it seemed as if he would never be warm again.

He reached out and put his hand on his father’s coat sleeve, the way he used to when he was younger, feeling its familiar rough texture. Gustave and his parents gazed together into the darkness.

“I will remember where it is,” he said.

22

T
hat Sunday, a beautiful, crisp October day with a gusting wind, Gustave pedaled his mother’s bicycle to the outskirts of the village where Nicole lived.

A tall man pushing a wheelbarrow came around the side of the barn and waved to Gustave as he came up the hill. Nicole came out of the shed, wheeling a bicycle. It was rusty, definitely older than Gustave’s, and it had a wicker basket on the handlebars.

“Papa said I had to take this one today,” she grumbled cheerfully. “He needs to use the good one. Look at this front tire. It is a makeshift occupation model. I’m going to go about as fast as a snail.”

Gustave looked more closely at the front tire, which was oddly bulky.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

“Oh, we got so many flats that we couldn’t patch it up any more. And since you can’t buy a new tire because of the war, my father put another flat tire over the first one. It’s just two flat tires, one over the other, with no air inside. It’s really bumpy to ride.”

Nicole’s father walked over and patted her affectionately on the back. “Oh, stop complaining!” he said. He had a long, narrow face with a warm smile and crinkly eyes.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Morin,” said Gustave, reaching out his hand.

Monsieur Morin shook it. “It’s very nice to meet you, Gustave,” he said. “Have fun, kids. And Nicole, be sensible. You have your hat?”

Why was he asking that? Gustave wondered. It was very obvious that Nicole had a blue beret on her short, brown curls. But Nicole nodded, and she and Gustave waved goodbye and biked off down the hill. As soon as they were out of sight of her father, Nicole pedaled faster, then lifted her hands up into the air, flinging her legs out to the side and shrieking with glee. Her bike rattled down the bumpy hill, faster and faster, the fenders clanking.

Gustave grinned. Once, Marcel had borrowed a pair of roller skates from a kid at school and rolled down the steepest hill he could find. He had crashed at the bottom, scraping both his knees raw, but he had said it was worth it for the thrill of the ride. He hadn’t done it again, though.

“Good thing your father didn’t see you do that! What if you hit a rock?” Gustave said, laughing, when he caught up with her at the bottom.

“Oh, I just like a little excitement,” answered Nicole.

The route Nicole took to Chenonceau seemed very roundabout. When they went through the villages, she slowed down and wound up one street and then down the next, craning her neck from side to side as if she were looking for someone or something. Outside a café, she stopped to pat a small black-and-white mutt that came out into the street, wagging its tail to greet her.

“
Bonjour
, Victoire!” she said to the dog. Gustave let Victoire sniff his feet and around his bike, then leaned down to pat her.

A small, wiry elderly man came out of the café.

“Who’s your friend, Nicole?” he asked, peering at the two of them.

“This is Gustave. He’s in my class at school,” Nicole answered. “Gustave, this is Monsieur Ferrand. Victoire is his dog.”

Monsieur Ferrand shook Gustave’s hand, looked him over, and nodded.

“How is business today, quiet or busy?” Nicole asked.

“Oh, very quiet, as far as I have seen,” said Monsieur Ferrand. Gustave looked at the café. He could see what Monsieur Ferrand meant. Only one man sat at a table, drinking a cup of coffee—probably the fake barley coffee that was all anyone had now—and reading a book.

“Well, thanks, see you later,” said Nicole. She led the way around the corner and down several streets, then away from the village. After riding for several kilometers, she stopped, facing what looked to Gustave like nothing more than a long stretch of woods.

“That’s the edge of the Chenonceau grounds,” she said, getting off her bike.

“Oh,” said Gustave, disappointed. “I thought we were going to be able to see the castle.”

“We can, from down the river,” Nicole answered. “We’ll go there next. I just want to rest here for a moment.” She reached into her bicycle basket, pulled out a white hand-knit wool cap, took off her blue beret, and put on the cap. Gustave got off his bike and laid it down by the side of the road. He was puzzled. Nicole didn’t seem tired enough to want to rest.

“Why do you have that other hat?” he asked.

“Oh, you know parents,” said Nicole, looking away and pulling the hat down more firmly around her ears. “My father always thinks I’ll catch cold, and this white one is warmer.”

“Oh,” said Gustave. The day was windy, but he didn’t think it was
that
cold. And why hadn’t Nicole’s father told her to wear that one when they started off, before they had gotten warmed up from biking? Nicole seemed to be watching for something in the Chenonceau woods. After a minute, she turned and noticed Gustave’s bewildered expression. Nicole dropped her bike and sat on a rock near him.

“That dog Victoire used to be a stray,” Nicole said. “You want to hear how Monsieur Ferrand adopted her and how she got that name?”

“Sure,” said Gustave, glad that Nicole was acting more normal.

“You know how the Nazis made it illegal for people in the occupied zone to fly the French flag or even wear the French colors? Well, last summer, Victoire didn’t have a name. She was just a stray dog who was always nosing around. So some boys around here caught her and painted her tail blue, white, and red, the colors of the French flag, and sent her over the bridge. Monsieur Ferrand saw it happen. Victoire went right under the barrier over the road, into the occupied zone, right by the Germans’ sentry box. The German soldier was so mad. He took out his rifle to shoot the dog.”

Gustave remembered Jacques, the pony, dead on the national highway, his mane in a pool of blood, shot by the Germans in the airplane. “On
purpose
he was going to shoot a dog? That’s so stupid! How was it the dog’s fault?” His voice came out sounding so angry that Nicole looked surprised.

“Yes, on purpose. It made Monsieur Ferrand furious too. So he stood at this end of the bridge and whistled for the dog to come back. And then he yelled,
‘Victoire! Victoire! Victoire!’ Victory! Victory! Victory!
The German soldier stopped pointing his gun at the dog and pointed it at Monsieur Ferrand. ‘Is there a problem, officer?’ says Monsieur Ferrand innocently. ‘Am I not permitted to call my dog?’ The soldier couldn’t do anything about that. So now the dog belongs to Monsieur Ferrand, and her name is Victoire. Monsieur Ferrand calls her anytime he sees a German soldier. Or when he sees Philippe’s grandfather, that Nazi sympathizer. Philippe’s grandfather shakes and turns purple, he gets so mad!” Nicole was laughing so hard, she almost fell off the rock.

“So the soldier put away his rifle?” Gustave wanted to hear about the dog, not about that moron Philippe and his grandfather.

“His rifle? Oh—no. He shot at Victoire as she was running back over the bridge.”

“Who would do that? What’s the point of shooting a dog? I mean, what is the
point
?” Gustave’s voice shook.

“No point. But a Nazi would do it. You don’t need to get so upset, though.” Nicole looked at him, confused, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “Victoire is clever and fast. She got away.”

Gustave thought about the friendly, curious little dog and shuddered. What if she hadn’t been quite so quick or so lucky? “Come on—let’s go see the castle,” he said. He didn’t want to think any more about the Nazis and their guns.

Nicole got back on her bike. As they pedaled off, Gustave heard a stick crack and turned his head. Four people—a man, two women, and a teenaged boy—were coming out of the woods. The four of them hurried across the road, then started to walk along it as if they were just out for a stroll. But they looked strangely bulky, as if they were wearing several layers of clothes under their coats, and two of them carried small suitcases.

“Nicole?” said Gustave, gesturing with his head.

Nicole turned and looked back for a moment. “Oh. Yeah,” she said, not sounding surprised. But she didn’t stop riding until they had arrived at a spot where you could see the river.

“Down there,” she said, pointing.

Gustave looked. A graceful castle stretched all the way across the river Cher. Its delicate white arches cast their reflection into the serene water flowing underneath. It almost seemed to be floating on top of the river. It was like something from a fairy tale, a castle built on top of the water.

“Formidable!”
said Gustave. “That’s amazing! It must be like living in a boat.”

“Yes.” Nicole looked around them and lowered her voice, even though they were alone. “But you know what’s really amazing? Monsieur Menier wakes up in the occupied zone, on the other side of the river, then gets up, stretches, takes a little stroll through his house—and he’s on this side of the river, in the free zone.”

Gustave looked back at Nicole, puzzled. What was she trying to tell him?

“Imagine how convenient that is for Monsieur Menier,” Nicole added. “Or how convenient it is for his
visitors
.” She emphasized the last word, still looking hard at Gustave. “Maybe you know someone who might like to pay him a visit. His guests walk into his house from Occupied France. Then they walk out of his grounds here, and they are in the unoccupied zone.”

Gustave stared at Nicole. Suddenly everything was starting to make sense. The “visitors” came out of the woods on the edge of Monsieur Menier’s grounds, maybe carrying suitcases because they were in the middle of a long journey, and found that they were safely across the river, in the unoccupied zone. Yes, he knew some people who would like to visit Monsieur Menier—Jean-Paul’s family and the Landaus! But Gustave and his parents didn’t know rich people like the Meniers.

Nicole smiled at him. “Isn’t it great that someone has a house like that? Someone my father works for?”

Of course. Gustave and his parents didn’t know the Meniers. But Nicole and her father did.

“My father says that your father should come and talk to him,” Nicole said. “Tomorrow.”