Tell No One Who You Are (9 page)

“Andoumont!” the
Aide paysanne
man called out from the front of the bus, then added a list of names.

Régine placed the duffel bag in the empty seat beside her and stood up. She straightened her coat, picked up her bag and walked past the boy with the curly, red hair. She caught
him looking at her and wondered whether he had guessed her secret, too. Was it so evident? Would others be able to see through her?

She stepped off the bus as Nicole’s strange words echoed again in her head:
“Tell no one who you are.”

A
BOUT A DOZEN PEOPLE
had gathered at the village terminal to greet the bus as it arrived in Andoumont. The station was little more than a signpost on a stretch of dirt road, nothing like the crowded terminal in Brussels. Régine got off with five other children and then she hesitated. She had no idea what the people meeting her looked like.

The
Aide paysanne
man began to call out names. One by one the children stepped forward and were met by their designated hosts. Régine stood waiting for her name to be called. As the others walked away in pairs or small groups, she was left beside the
Aide paysanne
man.

“Are you Augusta?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“I said, are you Augusta Dubois?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered nervously. “Augusta Dubois. I come from Marche.”

“Why didn’t you answer when your name was called?” The question came from a young man who had been standing nearby

“Sorry,” Régine said softly. “I guess I didn’t hear.”

“Well I heard and I was further away than you.” He sounded angry. “I’m Jean,” he said briskly. “My parents sent me to get you. Let’s get going.”

Régine picked up her duffel bag and followed Jean along the dirt road. She told herself to be more attentive the next
time, and quicker in answering if she did not want to give everything away.

The dirt road led through dark green pastures and tall fields of wheat. Régine had never seen so much open space in her life. The farms around Andoumont made places like Boitsfort and Uccle seem like cities. As for Brussels, well, it did not belong in the same world.

Not a word was spoken as they walked, but all along the way Régine felt the eyes of Jean studying her. Finally he pointed to a farm up ahead and said: “That’s where we live.”

The family farm was even bigger than she had imagined a farm to be. Fields of wheat stretched out from behind the farmhouse as far as she could see. On one side of the house, cows grazed in an open pasture. On the other side, next to the barn, a tractor stood idle. Régine followed Jean along a footpath that led from the dirt road up to the front of the house.

She was met on the porch by Monsieur and Madame Carpentier and their daughter, nine-year-old Marie. The first thing Régine noticed was that Monsieur Carpentier was as tall as his son, while Madame Carpentier was as short as her daughter.

Madame Carpentier was very cheerful. “Come in, come in!” she said. “Jean will take your bag upstairs. Did you have a good trip? We were so anxious for your arrival.”

Madame Carpentier took hold of her elbow and led her inside the house. Her husband and Marie followed.

“When you put your things away, we have a nice surprise for you!” Madame Carpentier said.

“A surprise?” Régine asked.

“Yes. There’s someone we want you to meet!”

Jean took her to an upstairs bedroom, dumped her duffel bag inside the door and left without saying a word. He did
not seem happy about having her here. There was another bed in the room and Régine realized, judging from the doll on it, that she would be sharing the room with Marie. She wished Marie would appear so she could ask who it was she would be meeting. Who could it possibly be?

Later that afternoon she was led into the living room, where an elderly couple sat, smiling. She had never seen them before. Why would they want to meet me? she wondered.

“These are Monsieur and Madame Lalonde, our neighbors,” Madame Carpentier said. “They rushed over as soon as they heard you were coming.”

“Bonjour!” said the elderly couple in unison.

“Bonjour,” she said slowly.

“The Lalondes have been our friends for a long time,” Madame Carpentier continued. “They live on the next farm. And they have relatives in Marche.”

Régine shrugged. What difference did it make where these people came from? Monsieur Lalonde’s smile broadened. He seemed about to speak when Madame Carpentier jumped in again.

“Marche!” she announced. “Just like you! Their relatives might know your parents. Can you believe it?”

Madame Carpentier dragged a chair to the middle of the room for Régine to sit on. Then she turned and sat on a chair beside her husband and Marie. Jean came down and leaned against the wall, watching. Régine sat in the chair in the middle of the room and felt she was on display.

“What a small world we live in!” Madame Carpentier said, clutching her heart as if the thought of it was too much for her.

“Yes, it’s true,” Monsieur Lalonde said, turning to Régine. “Tell us, where in Marche do you live?”

Régine had never been to Marche in her life. Not only that, Monsieur Lalonde spoke Walloon, a dialect of French that Régine did not understand. The Lalondes must have sensed this and they switched to French.

“What street do your parents live on?” Madame Lalonde asked.

“We know lots of people in Marche,” said her husband. “What does your father do?”

Régine tried to think how to answer. But there was no way. She swung her legs and stared at the floor. Her only hope, she decided, was to say nothing. That’s it, she told herself, just play dumb.

“Is something wrong?” Madame Carpentier asked.

“She’s shy,” Madame Lalonde suggested.

“Are you shy, Augusta?” asked Madame Carpentier.

Régine nodded.

“I don’t think she’s shy,” Jean said, still leaning against the wall. “I think she’s stupid.”

“Jean!” his mother objected.

“She didn’t even answer when her name was called at the bus stop! She doesn’t know her own name!”

“Maybe she didn’t hear it,” Madame Carpentier said.

“Well, she can hear us now,” Jean said. “So why is she just sitting there?”

Why does he hate me so much? Régine wondered. She felt scared, embarrassed and angry: scared that they would find out her secret, embarrassed about having to pretend to be stupid, and angry at Nicole for getting her into this mess.

It was not her fault that she could not answer their questions. Nicole had told her nothing about Augusta Dubois. Régine did not even know whether such a person existed. Was her new name borrowed from someone else, or just invented?

She looked up from her chair and saw that everyone was watching her, waiting for her to say something. She braced herself for more questions. Jean leaned forward, ready to pounce.

Madame Carpentier sighed, as if she were disappointed. Then she said, “Take Augusta upstairs, Marie, and show her your dolls and books.”

Régine breathed a sigh of relief. She hopped off the chair and followed the girl upstairs.

Régine could not sleep that night as the events of the day played over in her mind. She lay on her back and stared into the darkness while Marie slept soundly in the bed next to hers. She thought about Nicole and ground her teeth in silent rage.

It was not enough to say “I am Augusta Dubois and I come from Marche.” If other people were to believe her, she needed more than that. She needed a ready lie for every question they might ask. Since she couldn’t fall asleep, she turned over on her stomach and began to make up a story about Augusta Dubois.

It was necessary to think things over very carefully.

Problem Number One: She knew nothing about Marche. So the best solution was to say she no longer lived there. She could say that she had moved away after the German invasion of Belgium. That was in May 1940, three and a half years ago, so it made sense that she did not remember much about her home town of Marche.

Problem Number Two: Where had she been living all this time? Régine closed her eyes and imagined the house in Boitsfort. She had lived there with Madame André for a whole year and knew the names of some of the streets. Also, Boitsfort was close to Brussels, which explained why she no longer spoke like the people of Marche.

There were just a few more questions to anticipate. Why had she been living in Boitsfort? Who was she living with? Where were her parents? The answers came to her in a flash. Her father had been taken away by the Germans as a prisoner of war. Régine had heard the term
prisonnier de guerre
and knew that it applied to soldiers. She could pretend that her father was a soldier. As for her mother, she could say that she too had been taken away, although this would be harder to explain because only men were really taken prisoners of war. Régine would have to think of something else to explain the absence of her mother and why her grandmother in Boitsfort was now taking care of her. But this wouldn’t be too difficult. If anyone asked, Régine could even provide an address in Boitsfort.

She remembered the game she had played on the parquet floor in the house of Madame André. Now, in the darkness of Marie’s bedroom, she invented a new game. This one had nothing to do with jumping squares. To win the game, she had to convince other people that she really was Augusta Dubois. And if I win, Régine told herself, Papa will come back.

B
UT NO ONE
in the Carpentier house seemed to believe the story about her grandmother in Boitsfort, least of all Jean. He came to his own conclusion about Régine’s odd behavior. In his mind, there was only one reason why she would act so mysteriously.

“You have big crooked fingers,” he told Régine at breakfast one day. “Big fingers like dirty Jews.”

Régine looked at her fingers. Were they dirty? Was she dirty? Were Jews dirty?

She was scratching her head more and more. Even when she didn’t, she wanted to. She still couldn’t comb out the tangled mess, and scratching was like combing.

Monsieur and Madame Carpentier also made their suspicions known, although they did so in a more subtle way.

“Our daughter Marie talks too much,” Madame Carpentier told Régine. “You don’t talk enough. Why is that?”

Régine did not dare talk. It was safer to say nothing. She had no idea what these people would do if they could prove she was Jewish. They might go to the Germans. So she simply ignored their comments and continued to play stupid. When confronted with questions, she stared at the floor and tried not to scratch her head.

Who would have known it could be so exhausting playing dumb?

One day, the postman brought a parcel addressed to
Augusta Dubois. It was wrapped in plain-brown paper and bore no return address. When Madame Carpentier gave her the parcel, Régine could feel from its edges that it was a book. She was so excited that she opened it right there at the front door.

The entire family looked on as she pulled the wrapping off the book. With enormous pleasure, she read the title to herself:
La case de l’Oncle Tom
. It was the French translation of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
. Just then a piece of paper fell from between the pages. Régine bent quickly to pick it up. She slipped the paper back into the book without even looking at it, and hoped that the others would think nothing of it.

“What was that?” asked Jean. Ever since that first day, he watched every move she made.

“Nothing,” Régine said.

“It looked like a piece of paper.”

“It’s just a bookmark,” she said.

She ran up the stairs to her room. She shut the door behind her and jumped on her bed. She opened the book to the page that held the piece of paper. It was a note containing only a few words.
“Je ne t’oublie pas”
— I have not forgotten you.

It was signed “Nicole.”

Régine reached under the bed and grabbed her duffel bag. She slipped the note into the envelope, and put the envelope inside the book. She then put the book in the bag and pushed it under the bed for safekeeping.

“You’re lucky,” Marie said that night in the darkness of the room.

“Lucky? Why?”

“Because you got a present. Who sent it to you?” she asked. “Your parents?”

“No,” Régine said.

“Who then?”

“A friend.”

“How come your parents don’t send you presents?”

“I’ll get a present when my father gets back. He’s a prisoner of war,” Régine said.

Régine wondered whether she should speak to Marie about her family. It would be easy to tell her the truth in the dark, she thought. Marie was nice, not like her brother. She never made comments about “big crooked fingers” and “dirty Jews” like he often did. Unlike her parents, she never even hinted at such things. Marie was the only person in the family that Régine liked. But could she trust her?

Régine was glad she was able to start school the week after her arrival. She left the house early with Marie and walked along the dirt road that led past neighboring farms and into the village where the school was located.

The school was nothing like the big, stone building where she had gone to school in Brussels. It had only one classroom, filled with girls and boys of different ages. Régine was two years older than Marie but she still sat in the same classroom. She did not mind.

After class, Régine liked to do homework with Marie. Jean did not bother her then. She especially enjoyed French composition and grammar, always her best subjects. Here, too, the teacher seemed pleased with her work — just like Mademoiselle Descotte in Brussels. She wished her former teacher could see her now, tutoring Marie.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Marie asked one night, when the light was off and both of them were in bed.

Régine thought about Léon and the men in army uniforms with their clubs and bayonets at la Gare du Midi. Then she wondered: Was Augusta supposed to have brothers? What about sisters?

“Go to sleep,” she told Marie. “It’s very late.”