Tell No One Who You Are (4 page)

“But I want to come,” Régine heard her mother say.

They left the apartment in silence. Régine and her father helped her mother down the stairs. They stood on either side of her, holding her by the elbows, and supported her on the long, slow walk to the train station, la Gare du Midi.

Along the way they stopped to rest from time to time. Régine wondered what she would tell Léon at the train station when it came time to say good-bye. It was hard to know the right thing to say.

She imagined herself at the station, standing on the platform. She saw herself kissing Léon on the cheeks and hugging him. Then he would board the train and, as it began to roll, she imagined him waving at her through the window.

She repeated this scene over and over in her mind as they walked toward the station. She only hoped that the right words would come to her on the station platform.

They were getting closer. Just a few more streets and around the corner and la Gare du Midi would be visible. Régine tightened her hold on her mother, who was tired now and dragging her feet.

The streets showed few signs that a war was going on. In Brussels, there were no bombed-out buildings or craters in the ground. The shops and homes stood where they had always stood. But the streets were usually quiet. Now they were busy with other families walking toward the train station, accompanying men with rucksacks on their backs.

A group of German soldiers passed. Régine was accustomed by now to seeing them on the street. They marched in pairs or in groups and wore helmets and uniforms and boots and carried guns or bayonets. Sometimes they rode military vehicles. But as far as she could see, they had no one to fight. Where were all the Allied troops that her father said would come to end the war and give Belgium back to the Belgians?

They turned the corner and saw the train station in the distance. A crowd had gathered in front. Something was going on, some kind of commotion. Her parents and Léon saw it, too, and stopped in their tracks.

Her father said, “Shhh! Listen!”

Régine heard the noise from up ahead, a mixture of shouts and screams, as if some shouted over the screams of others. She did not know what to make of it. She looked at her brother and saw from his face that he did not know, either. She tightened her hold on her mother’s elbow.

“Come on,” her father said.

The noise ahead of them grew louder. Soon they reached the front of the station. Régine saw now what was causing the commotion.

People were trying to enter the station and were being stopped. Men and women were pushing and yelling as they tried to pass through the front gate. Only the men carrying rucksacks on their backs were being allowed in.

Régine stood on tiptoe. The German soldiers swung their clubs and jabbed their bayonets to beat back the crowd. Their shouts could be heard over the screams.

A sudden jolt from behind almost caused her to fall over. She held firmly onto her father, who was supporting her mother. Two soldiers pushed their way through the crowd, and came toward them. In the confusion, she realized they were pulling her brother away. She must say good-bye, but she couldn’t remember what she had planned. She grabbed his arm and she blurted out the only thing she could think of: “Don’t work too hard for the Germans.” It sounded like a joke and she regretted it. Then he was gone, a prisoner of the two soldiers, as they pushed him through the crowd toward the front gate. Her parents stood dazed beside her.

Her mother broke into sobs, burying her face in her
husband’s chest. They had not been able to say good-bye to Léon at all.

All around people screamed and shouted as the soldiers continued separating men from their relatives and pushing them into the station. They swung clubs to keep the crowd away from the entrance. Régine thought she saw her brother’s head among those going in, but she wasn’t sure. There would be no final embraces on the station platform.

She took her place beside her mother, her father on the other side. Together the three began the long, slow walk home. Each time they would stop to rest her mother gave a choking sob. They could still hear the soldiers off in the distance shouting:

“Raus! Raus! Juden Raus!”

A
FEW DAYS LATER
Régine was sent away to a summer camp run by Solidarité. She should have enjoyed it, but thoughts of her brother came back, not just at night before she went to sleep, but even in the daytime when she tried to laugh with the others.

When Régine came home from camp a month later, her mother was back in the hospital.

Régine remembered the first time her mother entered the hospital. It was the only time she ever saw her father cry. Régine had visited her every afternoon after school with her father and brother, and the three of them stayed until the nurses told them to leave.

Régine had sat on the edge of her mother’s bed and told her everything she was learning in school. Mademoiselle Descotte, her teacher, had shown the class how to knit, and Régine promised to teach her mother when she came back home.

Régine kept her promise. She showed her mother how to knit. Léon, too, wanted to learn, and the three of them knitted a long scarf. But her mother had changed. She had even less energy. She took the medicine from the bottles that bore a skull and crossbones on their labels and every few months she returned to the hospital for injections that left her covered with bruises.

Now back from camp and again standing at her bedside in the hospital, Régine was shocked to see how much thinner her mother had become. The hand held out to her seemed only bones, not at all like the strong hands that had ground nuts and stretched dough over the tabletop. Her mother tried to smile at Régine but the pain came through in her mother’s voice as she spoke: “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

Her father stood by in silence and remained silent during the walk home. That evening Régine found out why.

Her father sat Régine down on the sofa in the flat and sat down beside her. “I have something important to tell you,” he began. He looked more nervous than she had ever seen him. “You know Monsieur Gaspar, don’t you?”

Monsieur Gaspar was the father of Jeanne Demers, the upstairs neighbor whose husband had been taken away by the Germans. She had moved out but her father had stayed on. He and Régine’s father always stopped to talk when they met on the stair landing.

“I was speaking with him just this morning,” her father said. “He said maybe we should get some help.”

“Yes?”

“He said we should find someone who will take care of you. Just for a little while. I think it’s a good idea.”

Régine frowned. “You mean Madame Sadowski?” Régine Sadowski was a family friend. But the last time she had helped while Mrs. Miller was in the hospital, she mixed the separate dishes kept for meat and dairy. Régine’s mother had been very upset when she came home.

“No, no,” her father said. “Monsieur Gaspar told me about someone else. Another woman. You will stay at her house.”

“At her house?”

“Yes. Just for a little while.”

“Who is she?” Régine asked.

“She’s very old,” said her father. “Her name is Madame André, and she lives alone in Boitsfort.”

Boitsfort was a suburb of Brussels, and Régine thought it must be far because you had to take more than one tram to get there.

“Must I go, Papa?” she asked.

“Yes,” her father said. “It’s best this way.”

“What about you?” Régine asked.

“I have work to do here. Your mother is safe in the hospital. And you will be safe in Boitsfort. All the arrangements are made.” It was clear from his tone of voice that he did not want to explain any further. “I’ll take you there in the morning.”

This was unbearable. First her brother had been taken away, then her mother was taken to the hospital, and now to be separated from her father. He must have seen the look in her eyes.

“It will only be for a little while. She will take good care of you. And you can keep her company. She’s very old. Monsieur Gaspar told me she’s seventy-eight.”

“Will you visit?” Régine asked.

“Every week,” he said. “I promise.”

They went into the bedroom to pack. Her father worked quickly. He pulled a duffel bag out of a closet and picked among her clothes. As he threw them on the bed, Régine noticed that none of the clothes he chose bore the yellow Star of David.

“Don’t I have to wear the star?” she asked.

“No,” her father said, angrily.

Régine understood now why her father was sending her away, why he wanted her to go live with a stranger. It had nothing to do with her mother’s illness. That was just an
excuse. It had to do with what had happened at la Gare du Midi.

The Germans had taken Léon away. Did her father fear she might be next?

T
HEY LEFT
the apartment the next morning. Régine carried her bag downstairs and waited at the bottom while her father locked the door. His fedora was tilted low over his forehead but it did not hide the worry in his eyes. Régine watched him come down the stairs. She noticed he also wasn’t wearing the yellow star on his gray overcoat, just as when he went to the countryside to get meat.

They stepped out into the cobblestone street, still deserted only a few minutes after the nightly curfew was lifted. They walked toward the tram stop in silence, and Régine wondered when she would return to rue Van Lint. The future now frightened her. Her father had said he would visit every week. That meant she could be away for months.

They boarded the tram in silence and, even though they were the only passengers, they did not speak during the ride to Boitsfort. Régine glanced at her father but he did not look at her. She looked at the empty seats and wondered about the woman she was going to stay with. Madame André. She said the name over and over. It had a round, jocular ring to it. Perhaps Madame André would be fun-loving.

They changed trams, still without speaking. Régine tried to imagine Madame André sitting on an empty seat across from her. She saw a slight, elderly woman whose eyes lit up at the sight of children. Perhaps she wanted someone to talk to.

The tram entered the suburb of Boitsfort. Régine pressed
her face against the window and saw pretty houses with neat front yards and large trees. In the yards flower gardens were in full bloom. Régine had never seen so many bright colors. In Brussels, every building was attached to another and there was no space in between for grass to grow. But here, green was everywhere.

“This is our stop,” said her father, getting up.

He picked up the duffel bag and Régine followed him to the door of the tram. Once her feet touched the sidewalk, the first thing she noticed was the freshness in the air. The sun was already shining and the air was warm. She took a deep breath to calm down. She was very nervous about meeting Madame André. The streets were strangely empty, however. Régine noticed there were no cobblestones. In Boitsfort, the streets were paved.

Her father pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and studied it. “This way,” he said.

They passed several houses before stopping again so that her father could take another look at his piece of paper. Now they stood in front of a two-story house painted all in white. The front yard was enclosed by a low, brown fence and had a garden with red and yellow flowers.

Her father checked the number and put away the piece of paper. “This is it,” he said, straightening his hat.

He pushed open the gate. Régine felt even more nervous as she followed him up the walk to the front door.

Before her father could knock, the door opened. Standing behind it was a heavyset woman, her white hair tied in a bun. She was so big, she almost filled the door frame. She didn’t say a word, but just looked them over with a severe expression. The real Madame André looked nothing like the frail little woman Régine had imagined on the tram. She did not even look friendly.

“I am Miller,” her father said.

“Come in quick!” Madame André said and stepped back to let them in. Régine saw her look nervously up and down the road before locking the door.

She was no more talkative inside the house than she had been in greeting them at the door. She did not ask any questions or invite her father to take off his coat. The three of them stood inside in silence. The woman was waiting for something. Régine’s father reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Madame André. Without comment, she took it, looked inside and nodded. Then she turned to Régine. “I’ll show you your room.”

Régine looked up at her father but did not know what to say. She did not want him to leave.

“I’ll be back next week,” he told her. “Promise.”

They embraced, and Régine kissed him on the cheeks. Fighting back tears, she followed Madame André up the stairs.

F
OR THE FIRST TIME
in her life Régine had her own bedroom. It had a dresser and a night table with a lamp. From the window she could see the tops of trees and roofs and into some of the windows of neighboring homes. The bed looked huge to Régine compared to the crib she had slept in all of her ten years. She unpacked and lay down, stretching out her legs. She tried to feel happy about the bed, the nice room and the one downstairs she had passed on her way up. It was lined with books. Léon would have liked that.

Régine had heard her parents say many times that they wanted their children to be well read. Léon was the biggest reader in the house. Hardly had he finished a book before he was back from the library with another one. His favorite was the French translation of
Ivanhoe
by Sir Walter Scott. “The best author,” he told Régine.

One night while Léon was out with his friends, she had picked up the copy of
Ivanhoe
from the coffee table near the sofa and began to read. The words were harder than those in her school books, but she struggled with it until she reached the place where her brother had marked the page. Then she put the book back in the place where she had found it so that Léon would never know that she had been reading his book. Léon would not want her to touch anything of his.