Tell No One Who You Are (6 page)

Sometimes she saw the soldiers drag one last person toward the front gate. They swung their clubs and pushed people aside to clear a path. The last person was not her brother but a woman who could barely walk. It was her mother.

She went over the kitchen scene again and again. How had her mother died? Was she sent home to die? Had her father sent her to Madame Andrés so she would not see her mother die? And what about her brother? How did they know? Had he protested being pushed around? Is that why the Germans killed him? She focused on the exact words of Monsieur Gaspar, and one question came to mind. He had said that her mother and brother were dead, but he said nothing about her father. That could only mean that he was still alive. Perhaps he was hiding somewhere. When it would be safe to come out, he would come back to get her. She clung to the thought with all her might:

Papa is alive. He will come back
.

She imagined herself sitting at the window, gazing out at the empty street. A lone man would approach in the distance, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray overcoat. He would reach the front gate, adjust his fedora and walk up to the door. There would be a loud knock. Régine would jump out of the armchair, run to open the door and throw herself into his arms. Her father would finally come to take her home.

It was a dream that kept her going.

O
N THE EIGHTH SUNDAY
she was back at the window watching. No one came all afternoon and as it got dark she fell asleep in her chair. She was awakened by a knock. For a second she did not know where she was, then she ran to the door.

A woman was standing there. She looked familiar but Régine could not place her. The woman wore a jacket over her dress and carried a briefcase. She had blond hair. Régine tried to think of someone she knew who had blond hair, but no one came to mind.

Madame André came up behind her to the front door. “Yes?” she said.

“Are you Madame André?” asked the blond woman. There was something nice about her voice and the way she spoke.

Madame André nodded.

“I would like to speak to you,” the blond woman said. “May I come in?”

“What is it?” Madame André was her usual suspicious self.

“It’s about Régine,” said the woman. Seeing Régine, she smiled: “Bonjour, Régine. I have come to see if you are all right.”

Régine froze. How did this woman know her name? Who was she?

Now she spoke to Madame André, “I’m here to arrange matters.”

Madame André stepped aside to let the woman in, then closed the door and led her into the kitchen. Régine followed, feeling she was repeating the scene of the previous Sunday. Except this woman seemed too cheerful to be the bearer of more bad news.

“My name is Nicole.” She sat down, ignoring Madame Andrés severe look of disapproval. Régine watched from the kitchen door.

“Am I right to assume that no one is paying you now to keep her?” she asked.

Madame André pursed her lips and did not answer.

The visitor laid her briefcase flat on the table, opened the straps, reached inside and pulled out an envelope. She counted out some bills and passed them across the table.

Madame André looked at the money without touching it. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Nicole.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a slip of paper. “If you ever need to speak with me, call this number. They’ll know how to reach me.”

She passed the paper across the table. Madame André glanced at it before slipping it into the pocket of her apron along with the money.

“I will pay you from now on,” the woman continued. “I’ve been asked to keep an eye on Régine during the time that she will be living here.”

“How long will that be?” Madame André asked.

The woman turned her head and saw Régine listening in the doorway. “We’ll discuss that another time,” she said to Madame André.

She closed her briefcase and stood up to go. At the door
she bent down and spoke to Régine. Her voice was kind.

“I’ll be back next month,” she said. “It’s a promise.
Es-tu heureuse?
Are you happy?”

Régine nodded, too scared and confused to say anything to this woman who spoke just like her father. A flood of questions came but it was too late. Nicole said good-bye and Madame André had closed the door behind her.

Régine’s nod had been a lie. Régine was not at all happy living with Madame André. She had been with her two months with no end in sight. There were so many unanswered questions. How long would she stay here? What had happened to her mother and brother? Where was her father? What about Oncle Zigmund and Tante Ida? Why didn’t they come?

And who was this woman who had come to pay Madame André? She had looked familiar when she bent down to speak to Régine and pushed the blond hair back from her face. Régine was sure she had seen her before. If only she could remember the time and place.

It came to her that night as she lay in bed. She suddenly remembered where she had seen Nicole before. What had confused her was the name: Nicole. It was not her real name. And the blond hair. It was not her real color.

Régine remembered sitting up on a table in an apartment, wearing new boots up to the knees. A woman bent over and told Régine how pretty she looked in them. It was a Solidarité meeting in Edgar Herman’s apartment. She remembered him coming to tell her father about meetings, and later, as she got older, guarding his bicycle while he was inside her house. The woman with the blond hair was not named Nicole. She was Fela.

It all came back in a rush of memories and images. Régine knew why Fela had changed her name and dyed her hair. Fela was Jewish, like the other members of Solidarité, like her
father. She was part of the resistance to the Germans, the Belgian underground. She had come to Boitsfort to check up on Régine and to pay Madame André.

Régine closed her eyes. She fell asleep, feeling that she had someone who would look after her until her father returned.

F
ELA — NICOLE —
came on Sundays in the early afternoon. She stayed only long enough to pay Madame André and ask Régine how things were going, after which she disappeared for another month. As winter approached she brought a coat and some heavy sweaters to last Régine through the colder weather. Régine took this to mean that she would not be leaving Boitsfort anytime soon. Nicole was her only link to happier times in Brussels. She was careful never to call her Fela, even when Madame André was not in the room. To avoid causing problems, she always told her that she was happy, even though that was far from the truth.

One evening during dinner, a knock came at the front door. Régine saw by the look on Madame Andrés face that visitors were not expected. She went to the front door and, without opening it, shouted: “Who’s there?”

From where she was sitting, Régine could not hear the answer. Soon Madame André came in and asked: “Do you know a Mademoiselle Descotte?”

Régine almost fell out of her chair. “Mademoiselle Descotte! She’s my teacher!”

“Well, she’s here,” Madame André said sharply. “Did you tell her you were living here?”

“No! I haven’t seen her in months!”

“Well, somehow she found out you were here. She wants to talk to you,” Madame André said. “She’s outside. She has
some books for you. Take them and tell her to go.”

Régine hurried to the front door. When she opened it, she saw a smiling Mademoiselle Descotte.

“Hello!” she said. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Régine said, stepping to the side and closing the door behind her teacher.

“I’m so happy to see you. I went to your house. Monsieur Gaspar told me you were here,” Mademoiselle Descotte said. “It’s been such a long time. School has started again and we miss you very much.”

Madame André came out from the kitchen. She was not happy to see a stranger in her house. “You have some books?” she said. “You came to give them to Régine?”

“No,” Mademoiselle Descotte said. “I came to give her some lessons.”

Madame André was startled. “There is no room here,” she said.

“We could use the library,” Régine suggested.

Madame André shot her a stern look and turned coldly to the visitor. “Who sent you here?”

Mademoiselle Descotte smiled as if there could be no objection. “I am her teacher. Since she cannot come to the school, I have come to her.”

Régine led Mademoiselle Descotte into the library, where they spent an hour working on French composition. When they finished, Régine accompanied her teacher to the tram stop without asking permission from Madame André. Mademoiselle Descotte said she would return for more lessons.

Over the next month, Mademoiselle Descotte came to the house twice a week and each time Madame André showed her disapproval.

“All she wants is to save your soul,” she told Régine, “like all good Catholics.”

Régine did not know what this meant and repeated it to Mademoiselle Descotte one day as they walked to the tram stop. As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Mademoiselle Descotte was hurt by the accusation even though it came from Madame André and not Régine. Mademoiselle Descotte was silent as she boarded the tram, and she never came again.

Afterwards, Régine resented Madame André more than ever and began to spend as much time as possible on her own. When the chores were done and if there was no knitting to finish, she closed herself in her room or in the library while Madame André listened to
Les Français parlent aux Français
on the radio in the kitchen.

The library was Régine’s favorite place. Every night she picked a book from the shelf, settled into a leather chair and read until her eyes grew heavy with sleep. Sometimes she even took a book into her room and slept with it in her bed. That winter she read all eight volumes of
Les Misérables
.

It was a good story, but it had not been her first choice. Months earlier she had searched for a familiar title among the rows of books, arranged in alphabetical order. She found the “S” section and cocked her head to read the name of each author. She looked carefully but nowhere did she see the name of Walter Scott — her brother’s favorite author.

As she read
Les Misérables
night after night, she often cried over the character of Jean Valjean. One evening she fell asleep wondering if her brother had read the book, too. In her dream, Léon came home after school and apologized to his parents for being late for supper. He had been to the library, he said, and had a copy of
Les Misérables
which he set down on the table near the sofa. Then he rushed through dinner and ran out the door to meet his friends. “Don’t wait up for me!” he called, waving as he disappeared down the stairs. In her dream,
Régine cleared the table and helped her mother wash the dishes. Then she sat down on the divan, turned on the table lamp and read
Les Misérables
. Later, lying in her crib, she heard the sound of a latch being opened beyond the closed door of the bedroom. Then a stream of light appeared under the door. It was Léon. Léon had come home!

“What are you doing?” snapped Madame André.

Régine shook herself awake. She had fallen asleep in the leather chair, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Why are you crying?” Madame André said, spotting the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”

“Les Misérables,”
Régine said softly. “You know, about Jean Valjean.”

Madame André marched across the room and took the book from Régine.

“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “You cry over Jean Valjean but you never shed a tear for your own family.”

Régine said nothing as she went into her room. Her family was all she thought about, but she did not have to prove it to Madame André. She closed the door of her bedroom and leaned against it, looking across the room at her bed. Then began the game that she now played every night before getting into bed.

She positioned her feet so they were exactly side by side, each within a separate square on the parquet floor. She curled her toes because it was very important that they should not touch any lines.

She studied the floor ahead of her as if it were a map, and focused on the first square where her right foot would land. She swung back her arms, and threw herself forward, landing in the center of the square. With arms extended for balance, she teetered on her right foot. She curled her toes and looked
down at the floor, making sure she had not stepped on any lines.

Now came the hard part. She focused on another square a little to the left. She swung her arms back, pushed off her right foot and flew through the air until her left foot landed on the second square. Again she extended her arms, curled her toes and looked down to make sure she had not stepped on any lines.

She leapt from square to square until she reached the bed. She must not step on any of the lines. If she did not step on the lines, it meant her father was still alive and would soon come back to get her.

Régine learned to curl her toes so that every time she played the game, she won. So tonight, as on other nights, there was no doubt in her mind, absolutely none at all. Her father would come back.

M
ADAME ANDRÉ
kept a garden in the back of the house where she grew vegetables and flowers. Régine loved the garden. She had never worked in one before. She picked the red currants, watered the primroses and pulled the weeds. She wished her father could see her with her garden tools.
Papa would be proud
.

But she was not allowed to go out in the front of the house during daytime. Madame André was afraid of attracting attention. She took Régine out only in the evening, after dark, to deliver the baby clothes she made or to visit her sister who lived a few streets away.

Madame André remained unfriendly. She spoke little to Régine, and never about herself. At her sister’s house, the two women did not include Régine in their conversation. Régine discovered that the old woman was a widow by peeking at the letters that came to the house addressed to
Madame Veuve André
— Mrs. Widow. She decided Madame Andrés late husband had been a writer because two books with the André name sat on the shelves in the library.