Tell No One Who You Are (7 page)

She also learned that Madame André had a son when a package arrived from him early one morning. The knock came at the front door as they were having their usual breakfast of bread, jam and coffee. The jam was made from red currants from the back garden, and the coffee was not coffee at all but a mixture of roasted malt and chicory which everyone called
ersatz
. With unusual excitement, Madame André bolted from her chair and rushed to answer the front door.

Régine went to the library window and pulled back the drapes. Parked out front was a military vehicle with a red cross on its hood. A man in uniform stood at the front door with a parcel under his arm. Madame André took it from him, closed the door, and returned to the kitchen.

Régine followed Madame André back to the kitchen and watched her tear the plain-brown wrapping and take out its contents: tins of sardines, bags of flour, figs, cookies and other foods that were hard to come by in wartime Belgium.

“It’s from my son, Jean,” Madame André announced. “He lives in Africa. In the Belgian Congo.”

Régine had never seen Madame André so excited. It was the first time she had shown any pleasure.

Minutes later, another knock sounded at the front door. This time the visitor was a woman whom Régine had seen but never met. It was the next-door neighbor. Régine had noticed her beyond the hedges when she worked in the back garden but they had never spoken. The neighbor carried a carton of eggs into the kitchen, put it on the table and waited while Madame André poured some of the newly arrived flour into a bag. The Red Cross truck meant Madame André had received another parcel from her son and the neighbor wasted no time coming over to trade her eggs for flour.

She was much younger and considerably more petite than Madame André and also more pleasant. She turned to Régine and introduced herself. “I’m Madame Charles.” She sounded friendly. “I’ve seen you working in the garden. If you ever want to give me a hand with my garden, you’re always welcome. Come over anytime.”

“Thank you,” Régine said and looked at Madame André.

The old woman did not object. “You’re allowed to go to
Madame Charles’s house, but nowhere else.”

The two women must have discussed her. Madame Charles must know Régine was Jewish and could be trusted to keep the secret or Madame André would never let her go there.

“If you want to come today you can help me pick some red currants and make some jam.”

Régine turned to Madame André. “May I?”

“Straight there and back. Understood?”

“Yes,” Régine said.

That afternoon Régine and Madame Charles poured red currants into pots, added sugar and poured the jam into glass jars. They sealed the jars with squares of paper and elastic bands. Madame Charles did most of the talking and asked many questions. How old was she? Did she have any hobbies? What did she want to do when she was older? Had she ever traveled? Hungry for conversation after so many weeks, Régine told Madame Charles that she was ten years old and that her birthday was in March, that she loved to read and knit, and that she wanted to become a schoolteacher someday. She told her all about Mademoiselle Descotte, her teacher at the
école primaire
in Brussels who had come to give her lessons. As for traveling, she had traveled only once, to England for a visit to her Oncle Shlomo.

Régine was too shy to ask questions. She knew Madame Charles was married because her husband left for work each morning. They had no children, or their children were no longer living at home. Régine never saw anyone else at their house.

The jam-making sessions continued once a week throughout the late summer. Madame Charles continued to do most of the talking as if she wanted to make Régine feel comfortable. Sometimes Régine brought gooseberries from Madame
Andrés garden and in the early evening she was handed two full jars of jam. She liked the feel of the warm fruit jars in her hands as she carried them back to Madame André.

When she was not visiting Madame Charles, Régine helped Madame André at home with the housework: cleaning floors, dusting furniture, changing sheets and washing clothes. They made bread from the flour her son sent from Africa, and ate it at breakfast with the jam from next door. Régine helped knit the baby dresses and sometimes, after dark, Madame André took Régine with her to deliver them to her clients.

T
HE WAR WENT ON
and on. March 16, 1943, arrived: Régine’s eleventh birthday. A year ago she had been with her family. Now the best birthday present she could imagine would be if her father came to get her.

She climbed out of bed and crept to the window. From the second floor she could see over the tops of trees to the neighboring houses. The trees were already starting to bud. There was one house in particular that she always looked at because she could see inside the top window. That was where the boy lived.

She had seen him there for a week now. He looked about her age and had straight, auburn hair just like hers. The boy smiled shyly from his window. When Régine smiled back, she felt warm inside.

That was all. They never waved or mouthed any words to each other. The boy appeared only in the window, never in the yard or on the street. Every morning, just before seven o’clock, they looked across at each other from their windows. Then Régine went downstairs to join Madame André at the breakfast table.

That morning of her eleventh birthday, Régine was particularly grateful to see the mysterious boy. She continued to see him for another week. Then one morning he was not there. She waited for half an hour in case he was late but he did not
appear. Régine did not know what to think. Had she offended him? Had he grown tired of seeing her?

“What are you doing at the window? Didn’t you hear me call you to breakfast?” Madame André stood in the doorway of the bedroom. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Régine said.

Madame André walked to the window. “What’s so interesting outside?”

“Nothing.”

“Then come downstairs.”

Madame André walked out of the room. Régine followed. At the top of the stairs she turned, rushed back to her room and looked out the window once more.

Every morning in the days that followed, she continued to look for him but she never saw him again. She never knew his name or where he came from. She never mentioned him to anyone, not even to Madame Charles or Nicole. The secret would belong to her and the mysterious boy.

In later years she often thought about the boy. Maybe he did not live in that house and was not even a visiting relative of the family. Maybe the boy was Jewish. Maybe he too had been taken to a stranger’s house to hide from the Germans. She never forgot him. He became yet another person who disappeared from her life.

One evening Madame André announced: “We’re going to Brussels.”

“To Brussels?” Régine asked.

“Yes. To deliver some dresses. A customer needs them right away.”

Although Madame André took Régine out now and then when she went to deliver the baby clothes, this was the first time they would be going all the way to Brussels. Régine was
frightened at the prospect. As usual, they waited for darkness before leaving the house. They walked to the tram stop, each carrying a box filled with the knitted baby dresses.

By the time they reached Brussels, it was pitch black outside. Régine squinted through the window and tried to make out the shops and buildings in the shadows. Was she close to rue Van Lint? Madame André tapped her on the shoulder, indicating it was time to get off.

Régine followed her to the exit carrying the box. She hopped onto the street and felt the familiar rough edges of the cobblestones under her feet. For a second she thought that maybe this was rue Van Lint. She looked around but did not recognize any of the buildings.

“This way,” Madame André said.

They walked to a house a few blocks away, and Madame André rang the doorbell. Régine looked up and down the dark and empty street. She felt more scared now than when they left Boitsfort, and suddenly she was anxious to get back. She was so full of fear that she did not notice a dark figure coming suddenly out of the shadows and running straight toward them. The approaching stranger was a woman and she seemed to recognize Régine. But Régine was sure she had never seen this woman before. Madame André rang the doorbell over and over, desperately asking for the door to open.

The strange woman let out a scream and grabbed at Régine. Régine dropped the box of baby dresses and stood paralyzed as the woman threw her arms around her and began to sob hysterically. “They took my child! Where is my child! They took her! They took her!”

Régine tried to break free but the woman would not let go. Madame André grabbed Régine’s arm and pulled. Just then the door to the house opened and a woman inside stared at the sight of the commotion.

“What’s going on?”

Régine managed to free herself. She picked up her box of baby dresses from the ground and ran inside the house. Madame André followed her in and slammed the door, leaving the sobbing woman standing outside.

“They took my child! They took her! They took her!”

Régine could still hear her through the door. It was only then that she realized the woman was speaking in Yiddish.

“Who was that woman?” Madame André snapped.

“I don’t know,” Régine said.

“She seemed to know you,” said the other woman, the customer.

“I have never seen her before in my life,” Régine insisted, annoyed that they did not believe her when she was speaking the truth, and upset by the suffering of the strange woman.

Later that night she relived the episode in a nightmare and was awakened by the same scream. The only difference was that in the nightmare someone else was sobbing in Yiddish. Now the hysterical woman was no longer a total stranger. This time the woman was her mother.

Was it possible that she was a long-forgotten friend of her parents who recognized her? Or did Régine remind the woman of a child who had been taken away? There was no way of finding out.

Madame André was so shaken by the incident that she never again took Régine on another excursion. She seemed more determined than ever to keep her out of sight. She looked out the windows to make sure no one was watching before letting Régine even cross the yard to Madame Charles’s. Radio reports of the war seemed to make her more nervous.

Régine knew that her stay in Boitsfort would soon come to an end.

T
THAT END CAME
on September 10, 1943. Nicole arrived as usual in the early afternoon for what Régine thought was her monthly visit. Instead it was her last. “Go upstairs and pack your bag,” Nicole told her.

Nicole gave no explanation. None was necessary. Régine knew the reason: Madame André was scared of being caught by the Germans with a Jewish child in her house and had called Nicole to come and take her away.

Madame André had become more nervous with each passing day. The war showed no sign of letting up, and the news accounts on the radio were contradictory. Belgian radio spoke of German victories. Britain, they said, was on its knees now that London had been razed by German bombers. Régine wondered what had become of Oncle Shlomo and his family.

Régine had liked the broadcasts on Radio Free London, especially the strange messages — “codes,” Madame André called them — about birds, and animals and the weather. It meant that someone in London was talking to someone in Belgium, helping to end the war. She also liked the British broadcasts because they contradicted Belgian radio. By the fall of 1943, Radio Free London was saying that Germany had surrendered in Russia and North Africa, and the Allies were going to free Italy. It was good to hear.

But in Belgium, nothing had changed and she had to move again.

Régine pulled her canvas bag out from under the bed and began to fill it. She walked to the window for the last time, looked out over the trees and roofs of neighboring homes, and imagined the boy smiling at her from the top window of one of the houses. Then she carried her bag downstairs.

The front door was open and Nicole was waiting for her at the gate. Madame André stood at the door. Régine did not know what to say and waited for Madame André to speak first. Maybe there would be a hug or even a kiss. There had never been any show of affection between them but now that she was leaving, perhaps. But Madame André did not even say good-bye. As Régine went down the steps, she heard the door shut behind her.

“Ready?” Nicole said.

“Ready,” said Régine. She put down her bag and looked back at the house where she had lived for over a year.

“Where will I go?” she asked Nicole.

“To Uccle. Do you know where that is?”

Régine nodded. Uccle was another suburb of Brussels. They could reach it by tram.

“Where will I stay?”

“You will live with a family,” Nicole said. “The Bernards. All the arrangements are made. They are hairdressers and work out of their home. They have a daughter. Plus another girl who is Jewish. So you’ll have friends your own age. I think you’ll be happy there.”

“The people are Jewish?” asked Régine.

“No, no. Just the other girl who is visiting. She’s a friend of the daughter. You can all become friends.”

“How old are they, the girls?”

“A little older than you,” Nicole said. “Maybe fourteen or fifteen.”

She picked up her bag and followed Nicole through the gate. Then she heard a voice call her name. Régine turned and saw Madame Charles standing at her door, waving at her to come. Régine dropped her bag again and ran to say good-bye. She got not only a hug and a kiss, but also a warm jar of gooseberry jam.

T
HE TALL, NARROW HOUSE
stood on a quiet, tree-lined street that, like Boitsfort, seemed worlds away from the clutter and noise of Brussels. Régine’s room was on the upper floor and again it had a view of neighboring homes. But now she shared the room with the two other girls Nicole had told her about.

Nicole had predicted that they could all be friends, and Régine hoped so, too. She looked forward to having other girls to talk to. But as soon as she walked into the room she had the feeling that Nicole was wrong. The beds of the two girls had been placed side by side at one end of the room while her own bed stood alone at the other end. It did not seem friendly at all. That night as she lay in her new bed, Régine heard the two girls whispering in the dark. They did not want to include her in their conversation.