Genevieve's War Read online

  “A moment.” She put water on to heat and covered my feet with a towel.

  “What happened?” she said, still kneeling next to me.

  Where could I begin?

  The painting!

  I tried to get the words out. “I’m sorry. Fürst is back.” I swallowed. “He’s taken . . .”

  She stared at me. “Of course. He came to the bedroom and found the painting.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  She looked grim. “You may be guilty of many things, Genevieve, but this is certainly not one of them.”

  “I know you loved it.” My mouth was trembling. “I loved it too.”

  She put her arms around me. “We will have it back someday. I always meant it for you, from the first time your father wrote and told me how lovely you were. ‘A smiling baby,’ he said. ‘A perfect baby. I can’t stop watching her.’ ”

  I began to cry, to sob. “He loved me.”

  She looked shocked. “Of course. What good father doesn’t love his daughter? But more, you and André and your mother had made him happy, so far from home.”

  She wiped the tears on my face with her small fingers. “Later we’ll cry, when this is all over. We’ll have roast goose and a plum tart, and you’ll go home to the place you love in America.”

  She stopped. “But you’re freezing. Where have you been, child?”

  Shivering in her arms, I told her all of it.

  “And you blamed yourself?” she said. “Oh, Genevieve. You couldn’t have done better.”

  I thought of what Herr Albert had said, words that made the terrible trip to the school worthwhile: not surprised.

  I thought of Aunt Marie. Any house is rich if you’re in it.

  And now this: You couldn’t have done better.

  In spite of this terrible war, in spite of Fürst, in spite of Rémy being missing, in spite of the hunger that cramped my stomach, I felt happiness, like syrup in my chest.

  Mémé patted my shoulder and, leaning against the table, got to her feet. “I’ll bring our things downstairs again. We’ll soak your feet in warm water from the stove and then I’ll make a meal from old vegetables I found in the field.”

  Was she smiling? “Yes, we’ll eat before the German returns. There’ll be nothing left for him. Not a withered carrot, not a sprig of parsley. What did he say about me? That I was selfish? Indeed, that’s what I am.”

  For that moment, I saw the girl in the painting, her lips curled into that smile.

  I wished I had known her then.

  twenty-seven

  Katrin came to the house the day after I’d warned Herr Albert. Neither of us mentioned our argument. She was full of news. “Soldiers burst into school,” she said, “looking for something; looking for someone. But they didn’t find anything.” She raised her shoulders. “And now even Herr Albert has disappeared. The principal has taken over for him. Strange!”

  “Yes, strange,” I repeated.

  It wasn’t until the middle of January that my feet healed. Because of those blisters, those aches, Fürst never guessed I was the one who’d warned Herr Albert. Still, I couldn’t wait to look for Rémy again. He was out there somewhere. In the cold? Hungry?

  One morning the sun shone into the bedroom. I moved my feet under the quilt and felt like myself.

  I threw on my clothes and went downstairs. I hadn’t been in school for weeks; no one would miss me for another day, or even another week.

  I tried to decide where to go. And then I realized. Rémy would have been afraid to be near the village, where everyone knew him.

  I’d chosen the wrong way. Maybe he’d have gone toward the Rhine, even though it was closer to Germany, the area bristling with soldiers.

  Before I left, I stood in the kitchen chewing a small knob of cheese, saying good-bye to Mémé. I pumped up the tires. No blisters this time, I told myself.

  I pedaled along the edge of the road, stopping sometimes, resting and calling softly into the woods. A German soldier driving a truck came by, splashing through puddles, and slowed down, so I wheeled away from him, wondering if he’d stop me. But then he was gone.

  I went farther, and as I squinted at the warm sun, I saw the tower.

  I thought of the three of us that summer day before the war. If I could climb to the top—there must be a way—what had André said? I’d see the world.

  Maybe I’d see something, even smoke from a fire deep in the woods.

  I rode faster. Another truck passed, and a few motorcycles. I paid no attention to them. I passed farmhouses, some of them empty, their owners scattered across France.

  My eyes were on the tower as I went closer. The messy storks’ nest perched on top, abandoned now; the storks had flown to Spain until spring.

  And then I was there.

  I dropped the bike in the trees away from the road, so it was almost invisible. I walked around the tower, gazing up, shielding my eyes against the sun.

  I looked around, but no one seemed to be nearby. A small door was cut into the back wall of the tower, locked with a thick loop of rusty metal, icy in my fingers. Surprisingly, it came away in my hands. Maybe it hadn’t been locked in a long time.

  I pulled the door open and peered up at an iron stairway circling to the top. It wouldn’t be hard to climb, to see the forest and the small paths meandering through the woods.

  Closing the door behind me, I pushed a wooden bolt and locked myself inside.

  Please let me find him.

  The curved stone wall was in front of me, pockmarked from all the years the tower had stood; the stair railing was so cold I thought my fingers might freeze against it. I pulled off my scarf and wound it around one of my hands. It was an easy climb, the stairway winding gently as it rose toward the top.

  Outside, the wind was fierce, the storks’ nest larger than it had seemed from below, with sticks hung over the edge of the wall.

  I spotted the blue-gray house we’d seen that day, the chestnut tree bare now. From high up, the house and tree were almost like the woodcutter’s carved wooden figures.

  The woodcutter! Would I ever see him again?

  Far beyond that was the bridge over the Rhine. Down below, there was traffic. A line of trucks with the Nazi flag flying in front went by; a motorcycle zigzagged around them. I stood behind the nest, even though I couldn’t be seen.

  I heard voices, though, blurred in the wind, closer than the road.

  Right underneath the tower?

  I peered between the branches that lined the storks’ nest. Two German soldiers stood there, almost next to the door.

  I ducked back, picturing what was happening. I imagined them opening the door, looking up . . .

  And I remembered I’d locked it behind me. My hand went to my chest. Safe, Genevieve, safe.

  I didn’t move; I didn’t make a sound.

  After a moment, I leaned forward again, brushing against the nest, closing my eyes, imagining it toppling, the soldiers looking up.

  Stop.

  The storks had built it firmly against the wind and against me.

  One of the soldiers circled a tree. “Hey, Rudy.” Then both of them stared down . . .

  At my bicycle lying under the trees.

  I imagined the rest as I leaned against the wall: they’d brush it off, wheel it away toward the road; one of them would climb on and begin to pedal, the other back on his motorcycle.

  When I looked again, that was exactly what had happened. My bicycle was gone, and I was far away from home. Five miles? Almost six?

  It was only then that I looked closer at the storks’ nest. A few threads of blue wool were caught there. Threads from Rémy’s shirt? Yes.

  I pulled at them and they came free.

  He’d been here, then, and maybe he would come back. But I couldn’t wait. I had to get out of the wind, and down below, in the trees, it would be warmer.

  But not safer, I told myself.

  twenty-eight

  I climbed down
the iron steps slowly and pressed my head against the door. Were soldiers outside? Was anyone else nearby?

  The door was rock-solid. I couldn’t hear anything. I’d have to open it an inch or two. I stood there, my thoughts jumbled. What would I do next? And how would I get back to the farm without a bike?

  Cautiously, I pushed back the bolt and opened the door, listening; there were no voices, only the shrill call of a bird. I opened the door farther; I was alone.

  And a miracle! My bike was there, leaning against a tree; the rust, the bent spokes, must have sent the Germans away. Who would have wanted that ancient mess?

  I did! I was so glad to see it!

  I left it there to walk along a narrow path. On either side, the woods were thick with evergreens and chestnut trees raising their winter arms. Old leaves covered the forest floor.

  Where are you, Rémy?

  The path opened onto a field. Farther on was the back of the blue-gray house, one of the shutters hanging loose.

  Had Rémy walked this path?

  I circled the field so I couldn’t be seen by anyone inside. My feet were soaked; the blisters, which were almost healed, were beginning to rub against my shoes.

  At the house a hoe lay on the ground. The house seemed deserted, looking sad and alone. How different from the house we’d seen that warm summer day when André was still here, when Rémy’s family was safe . . .

  When Rémy was safe.

  I stood in the shelter of the trees, ready to bolt. But the windows were blank and bare, one of the panes broken, so I went closer.

  On tiptoes, at one of those windows, I looked into the kitchen. The hearth was filled with gray ashes; nothing lay on the counters.

  The door opened easily and I went inside. Without a fire in the hearth, it seemed colder inside than it had been in the field.

  I walked through the hall, seeing a bird’s nest spilling out from a chandelier, and glanced up the stairs.

  And then I heard it, a whisper of sound. Footsteps on the cellar stairs?

  I ran back through the hall, into the kitchen and out the door; I closed it without a sound and dashed around the hoe. Had it been a soldier? Or even the owner of the house?

  I’d never get to the trees without being seen. Instead, I turned the corner of the house, leaning against the wall, hidden from the door, catching my breath.

  Maybe it had been my imagination: a mouse scurrying across the floor, a bird trapped in the upper hallway.

  The door opened as quietly as I had closed it. I heard footsteps, but they were running . . .

  Across the field.

  I peered around the corner and caught my breath. “Wait! Just wait!”

  I stumbled after him. “It’s me, Genevieve.”

  He turned and stopped, his arms out. I ran into him, my arms out too, and we were hugging, laughing. “Only me,” I said.

  We went back into the house together to sit at the dusty kitchen table, both of us talking at once.

  “Your feet clop,” he was saying, grinning, and I remembered André saying the same thing when he named Sister.

  And I was asking what he’d found to eat.

  “The cellar! There was just enough food to stay alive.” He shrugged. “The owner must have left quickly. I don’t understand why someone else didn’t find the jars of vegetables.”

  I didn’t let him finish. We really had no time. I reached out and took his hand, cold from this icy house. “The courier is almost back. Philippe says he’ll take you to Switzerland.”

  He closed his eyes. “So far from Alsace.”

  “But safe.”

  Were there tears in his eyes?

  “Someone will come for you.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, Rémy,” I said. “Someday, we’ll ride bicycles together. We’ll . . .”

  He leaned forward, touched my cheek. “I know.”

  I squeezed his hand, then ran across the field, paying no attention to the puddles that seeped into my shoes.

  I straddled that ancient bike. It was cold and the tires were almost flat again.

  I prayed to the Alsatian Saint Odile: Let me do this.

  twenty-nine

  I slowed down when I reached the village, wanting soldiers to think I was coming from school, or visiting friends.

  The bookshop was closed, so I went around the back and knocked. Knocked harder. Kept knocking.

  And Philippe didn’t come.

  Where was he?

  I tried the door; it was locked, of course.

  Madame Jacques stood at her back window. I went toward her. “Have you seen Monsieur Philippe?”

  “I have,” she said. “He’s delivering books to someone. Come in, wait inside, it’s cold.” She smiled. “The pâtisserie is closed, but there are éclairs upstairs.”

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “Give him ten minutes or so,” she said.

  I nodded, glad to go into the warmth, and I hadn’t tasted anything as sweet as éclairs in a long time. I followed her upstairs, into her small living room. “Sit, Genevieve. I’ll bring in dessert.”

  She went into the kitchen and called back. “You need a book from Philippe?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her I’d found Rémy, but then I stopped. “Yes.”

  I heard the clatter of plates, and my mouth watered. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She brought the éclairs in, covered in chocolate icing, forks and napkins on the plate. But she was shivering. “It’s a little cold in here.” She pointed to the door at one end of the room. “I need a sweater.”

  I didn’t wait. I took the first bite of éclair; it melted in my mouth.

  She opened the door halfway; her bed was covered with a patterned blue quilt. And over the bed, I could see the edge of a narrow frame.

  How familiar it looked.

  I put down my fork.

  I thought of Philippe and the gray sweater. Maybe I’d been mistaken about it being André’s, but I had to know if I was mistaken about this.

  Madame Jacques came out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her, a sweater over her shoulders.

  My mouth was dry enough to ask for a glass of water, and she went past me into the kitchen. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  I was off the couch, opening the door. I heard her footsteps, but still I took the time to look . . .

  To see . . .

  Mémé’s painting on the wall over her bed!

  I closed the door and managed to take a few steps. I didn’t make it to the couch, but I was almost there, and turned when she came back with the water.

  “Thank you.” I made myself take a sip, made myself smile.

  Fürst must have given the painting to her.

  Why?

  To thank her for something? For helping him? For helping the Germans?

  I gripped the glass to stop my hands from trembling, and sank down on the couch. I’d never be able to eat the éclair.

  And then I realized. Where had the eggs come from? The chocolate? The flour?

  “Could I . . . ,” I began.

  She was sitting across from me. “Too bad Claude isn’t here. He thinks you’re special.”

  I nodded. “Would it be all right if I took the éclair with me? I need to see if Philippe is back—for the book. And then I have to go home to my grandmother’s.”

  “Of course. Need another napkin?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine.” I headed for the stairs, looking back, trying to smile.

  I thought of something, and stopped. “Could I ask you? What’s your first name?”

  “Ah,” she said. “It’s Suzanne.”

  “I thought that’s what it was.” And then I caught myself. “I guess Mémé told me.”

  I flew down the steps and out the back door. Suzanne.

  The one who’d betrayed Rémy and his family?

  Maybe the one who’d betrayed my father.

  Suzanne the tattletale.

  The door was unlocked. I bu
rst inside.

  Philippe shrugged out of his coat; he threw his woolen hat on the table, then raised his eyebrows.

  I couldn’t talk. I didn’t know where to begin. I held up my hand.

  And then it all spilled out: one word tumbling after another. The blue-gray house. Rémy there. Waiting. I can show you. Éclairs upstairs. Eggs. Flour. Sugar. From Fürst? The painting. Two girls. Mémé. Enormous bows. Over her bed. Over Suzanne’s bed. Yes, Fürst!

  I couldn’t breathe, but I’d said it all, and Philippe understood. I could see that.

  His hand was on my shoulder, guiding me into a chair. “You saved Albert’s life,” he said. “Now we know about Suzanne. We could use more like you.” He stood over me, smiling. “The American.”

  “Yes.” My voice was strangled.

  He went to the small stove and put on a pot of water. Coffee without coffee.

  “It will end,” Philippe said, putting the cup of water in front of me. “Before that, we’ll set everything straight. You can count on it. And someday you’ll go home. You deserve it.”

  Home.

  Someday.

  If only . . .

  I sat drinking the water, so hot it almost burned my tongue. I’d never tasted anything so good.

  thirty

  Mémé met me at the door. “I thought you’d never come.” She took my cold hands in hers. “I’ve been waiting . . .”

  “So much to tell you.”

  Mémé put her finger to her lip. “Furst has been upstairs for hours,” she said. “He has a headache. He thinks you’ve been nursing your feet in bed all day.”

  My feet. Boiling water. How long ago that seemed.

  Sitting in the kitchen, I told her everything, whispering, my head close to hers, even though Fürst could never hear us from upstairs.

  “All these years,” Mémé said when I was finished.

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Suzanne, or my father, or even the Germans. But I was too tired to think about it anymore.

  I didn’t even undress. I pulled off my shoes and went to bed even though it was early. Tomorrow I’d go back to school as if nothing had happened. And Philippe, or someone, would use the map I’d drawn to find Rémy.