Genevieve's War Read online

  I nodded. “After school.”

  “We’ll go right into the bookshop. I have a few francs. I’ll buy a book; you’ll sneak around. Why not?”

  My mouth went dry. I could think of a dozen reasons not to be sneaking around Philippe’s bookshop. I pictured him raising a huge foot and stepping on me.

  We were really late, the last ones to slip into the classroom. Herr Albert looked up, tapping his pencil on the desk. “I want to see you both after school today.”

  “Yes, Herr Albert,” Katrin said, answering for us both.

  I sank into my seat, terrified. He was a true German, a Nazi. It was almost as if he might have leaned over the stone wall and heard all the things I’d told Katrin. Didn’t he say he’d find out everything?

  I spent the day worrying about Rémy, worrying about Katrin, worrying about myself. What did Herr Albert know?

  “Are you talking to yourself, Fraülein?”

  I jumped. He stood in front of me. “Sorry,” I managed. Everyone looked sympathetic. Liane’s fingers curled over an imaginary piano. Claude slammed a book on his desk. And Katrin shook her head, knowing what I was thinking.

  As soon as Herr Albert marched to the front of the room, I sank back into my world of worry. What did he want? What could he do to us this afternoon?

  At last the day was over. We waited while Herr Albert left the room. He didn’t return for at least five minutes.

  Katrin leaned over. “He wants to frighten us.”

  He swooped back into the classroom. “To be punctual is the German way,” he said. “You’ll each write an essay for me.”

  That was all?

  “You’ll call it ‘The History of Alsace.’ I’ll see it the day after Christmas. I’ll be here even though the school is closed.”

  We nodded, escaping down the hall, holding in our laughter. “What happened to ‘Merry Christmas’!” Katrin sputtered.

  We hesitated at the bookshop, staring at the German books in the window. Two soldiers were inside. One of them was perched on the edge of the counter. He pushed at his little round glasses, laughing at something Philippe said. The other’s back was toward us, his fingers running along, searching for something.

  Katrin pushed the door open.

  I saw the surprise on Philippe’s face as we walked toward him. I was sure he wanted to tell us to go away, to leave him alone with the soldiers. He went to the cluttered table at the side of the room.

  Katrin followed him. “You know what books I have, I think.”

  Philippe barely nodded; he stared at me.

  “What shall I get next?” Katrin’s voice was so loud that one of the soldiers glanced at her.

  “There.” Katrin went to a bookcase in the corner. “On the bottom shelf. A book about writing.”

  Philippe bent down to see where she was pointing. It wasn’t easy for him, a large man in such a small space.

  Hardly breathing, I ducked behind the curtain into the back room. My eyes swept over the table, the chairs. I slid open one of the cabinet drawers, and then another, all filled with old books and papers.

  My hand was on the third drawer when I saw a gray sweater hanging from a hook near the bottom of the stairs. I was reaching out, my hand on the wool, when I heard Philippe’s heavy footsteps coming toward the back.

  I pulled the sweater off the hook. If I could just see the zipper and the edge of the sleeves!

  Philippe pushed the curtain aside. “What are you doing?”

  Behind him, one of the soldiers watched us. “Have you lost something?” he asked.

  A soldier with freckles. A soldier who might have been André’s age. He was the one who’d taken Sister, the one who’d been sorry. He remembered who I was and smiled, but I looked away.

  “I thought there were more books back here.”

  “No.” Philippe couldn’t have looked angrier. He glanced at the sweater in my arms. “We don’t sell sweaters,” he said, and reached for it.

  I felt the heavy wool go through my hands even as I tried to hold on to it.

  He brushed the collar with one large hand, then hung it back on the hook. He motioned me to the front.

  I went past him, past the German, going toward Katrin, who was still at the bookcase, with two or three books in her arms.

  The soldier with the glasses pointed to a pile of books. “Ah, Mein Kampf, by Adolf Hitler, our Führer. If only more people were like you, Herr Philippe, recognizing our great leader.”

  I glanced at Katrin and she looked back at me. She put the books on top of the bookcase. “Maybe next time,” she told Philippe.

  He wasn’t paying attention. The German was still talking. I heard him say something, maybe Let’s get together to talk. I waved at Katrin, wanting to get out of there before the soldiers left and we were alone with Philippe.

  She wasn’t in a hurry. She pulled her hat tighter around her ears and buttoned her coat slowly.

  We started across the square, and she touched my shoulder. “You’re right, Genevieve. We both heard the soldier talking as if he were a friend.”

  And Philippe knew about Rémy, hungry and hidden in our attic!

  “Tell me,” Katrin said. “Did you find the sweater?”

  I shook my head. “A gray sweater. Maybe . . .” I shrugged. “If only I’d had another few minutes.”

  It was too late. I might never know.

  nineteen

  Mémé and I decorated a tiny pine tree for Christmas but left the wire-whiskered cat hanging in the window to guard us. There’d be no goose this year, but Mémé managed potato pancakes and a small bowl of stewed apples with cinnamon for our dessert.

  “A feast,” I told her, and upstairs Rémy thought so too, wolfing it all down.

  Fürst was having a real feast: dinner at the village hall with the other soldiers, pork and sauerkraut, and a flaming peach tart. Eating food that belonged to the farmers, maybe even to us.

  The next morning, I finished my essay for Herr Albert and went off to Katrin’s so we could bring them to him together.

  But she was sick, lying on the couch, coughing, her face red with fever, her voice hoarse.

  I’d have to go alone, bringing both essays with me. I dreaded going into the empty building, facing that man who was angry most of the time. Who knew what he’d say about my miserable handwriting, my paper that had three ink blots?

  Inside, Herr Albert sat at his desk, reading. He snapped the book shut. “Fraülein Meyer.” His voice was sharp and cold.

  “I have Katrin Moeller’s work with me too,” I told him. “She was too sick to leave her house.”

  He didn’t answer. He held his hand out for the papers and read hers first, shaking his head. It was no better than mine, I guessed. And mine was a mess. I’d made up some of the dates, guessed at the rest. He barely looked at each page before he tossed it on his desk.

  I stood there, on one foot and then the other, waiting for him to tell me I could go.

  Instead he glared at me, eyes narrowed. “Not much thought went into this work.”

  What could I say? He was right.

  He stacked the few pages neatly, then cleared his throat. “You have a German officer living in your house. Not everyone is that fortunate.”

  I didn’t answer. My face must have told him what I was thinking.

  “Ah,” he said. “Some students would be going through the officer’s things, trying to find out”—he shrugged—“whatever they could for the Resistance.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  “That would certainly be against the Germans,” he said.

  What a horrible man he was! “Can I go now?”

  He waved his hand. I was almost at the door when he said something else. “Carpe diem.”

  I knew what that meant. Seize the day, something Aunt Marie often said. But there was another string of Latin words. I paid no attention. I almost skipped down the hall. I was free. I didn’t have to see him; I didn’t have to think about schoo
l, or carpe diem, or any of that nonsense for another few days. I could concentrate on Rémy. If only I were sure Philippe would send help for him. Every day that the Germans didn’t arrive to arrest him surprised me. But no matter what I said to Mémé, she stood firm. Rémy would stay with us, and Philippe would find a courier for him.

  I hurried back to the farm. Even with the mittens Mémé had knitted for me, my hands were cold.

  Herr Albert would still be sitting in the classroom, probably thinking of all the things he could do next week to make our lives miserable!

  I stopped short in the middle of the road.

  The rest of what he’d said after carpe diem.

  If only I could remember what Aunt Marie would have said next. Wasn’t it something like Never mind the consequences?

  I began to walk again, slowly now, trying to remember exactly what he’d said.

  A strange man. I put my head back, looking at the treetops, black against a pewter sky. Then my hand in the mitten went to my mouth when I realized that he’d been telling me to look through Fürst’s things for anything I might find. Seize the day. Never mind the consequences.

  Sometimes people surprise you, something Aunt Marie said.

  I was surprised. More than surprised.

  The bare branches grated against each other. Some students would be going through the officer’s things . . . It would be against the Germans . . . it would be for the Resistance.

  Was Herr Albert part of the Resistance?

  Marching around the room, putting up the German flag. It was all an act!

  I began to walk again; then I ran. For the first time, I cared about doing something for Herr Albert. And something else made my heart sing. He’d believed I’d understand what he was saying.

  I went up the walk, the wire-whiskered cat in the window, wondering if I should tell Mémé what had happened.

  Maybe not. At least, not yet.

  In the kitchen, candles lay on the counter; the cellar door was open. She must be downstairs, and Fürst was off in the village somewhere, so I went upstairs.

  His door was locked. Of course. I went down the stairs two at a time and reached into the small kitchen drawer that was filled with keys, some of them black with age. But I knew what I was looking for: the ring of keys I’d often seen Mémé use.

  Fürst kept the room the same way Mémé did: the quilt stretched neatly across the bed, his clothes hidden away in the armoire. I looked under the bed, went through the dresser drawers, opened the armoire doors and went through his pockets. I found only a scrap of paper, written in German: sugar, flour, butter, eggs, cream, chocolate.

  A grocery list.

  Nothing more.

  Then came the sound of the motorcycle.

  I stood in the doorway, making sure I hadn’t disturbed anything. The armoire doors were closed, the quilt straight on the bed.

  Quickly, my hands shaking, I locked the door and raced back to the kitchen to put the keys in the drawer. I went down to the cellar to help Mémé with whatever she was doing, probably gathering up the few potatoes that were left. The steps were steep, but she never stopped, never gave up.

  twenty

  It was a strange afternoon, no school, no outside work, and Mémé had taken a nap. Mémé sleeping in the daytime! But then, her ankle had never healed the way it should have. She held on to railings, to chairs as she passed.

  Fürst carried things downstairs; he looped a small case over the handlebars of his motorcycle, a uniform on a hanger; then he sped away.

  I spent the rest of the day with Rémy, bringing him food, more water, a third sweater and a book I’d found in Mémé’s living room.

  He was tired and bored. “What takes Philippe so long?” he asked. “I can’t stay here forever.”

  I bit my lip and left him, promising I’d ask. Downstairs, I read another book I’d found on Mémé’s shelf, but it was hard to concentrate.

  Later, I opened the kitchen door to see Fürst at the table, digging a fork into a plate of potatoes sprinkled with nutmeg. It was probably my dinner, or Rémy’s.

  “Ah, Fraülein Meyer,” he said. “You’re home in time to say good-bye. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

  I glanced at Mémé, who raised her eyebrows.

  “I have a promotion.” He waved his hand over the potatoes. “This is a celebration.”

  Leaving!

  Yes. A small leather suitcase rested on the floor next to him. It was the beginning of a new year, maybe a new beginning for us.

  “Your grandmother has been a good host.” He shoveled in a huge mouthful of potatoes. “Everything is clean in the good German way, but she’s a little stingy with the food and the coal.”

  I thought of the carrots she’d managed to find in the field yesterday. She’d scraped and chopped them with an onion she’d saved. “Eat,” she’d told me, “I’m not hungry.”

  Her clothes hung on her; her hands were almost transparent.

  He said it again. “Stingy.”

  I saw something in Mémé’s eyes. Warning me?

  Realizing the anger that was boiling up from my chest into my throat?

  “She’s wonderful!” I almost yelled it, and slammed the book on the table, just missing his plate of potatoes.

  He jumped.

  I stamped past into the hall.

  “An ungainly girl,” he said after me.

  “No.” Surprisingly, Mémé’s voice was as angry as mine had been. “I couldn’t get along without her during this terrible time.” She broke off and began again. “Her father would have been proud of her.”

  I glanced into the kitchen; her back was toward me, bent, thin, her hair steel gray in a tight bun.

  I leaned against the wall.

  She’d said no. She’d said she couldn’t do without me. I swallowed.

  Once, she’d said: You may come again after the war.

  She’d called me dear child.

  And my father. He would have been proud of me.

  Words I’d never forget.

  Sometimes people surprise you.

  I was beginning to love Mémé.

  I heard the sound of a motor and peered out the hall window. A black car, long and sleek, two small Nazi flags flying on the hood, was parked outside. Waiting to take him away.

  The kitchen chair scraped back, and I craned my head to see him shrug into his coat and reach for the suitcase under the table. “Thank you, Frau Meyer,” he said. “I hope to see you one day. Perhaps when we’re all at peace.”

  He stepped out the door, and the cat raked his boot, darted inside, and slid under the table. Then Fürst was gone, the motor purring as the car sped away. If we were lucky, we’d never see him again.

  Mémé slid his plate into the sink. “We were foolish, Genevieve. If the car hadn’t come for him just then, who knows what he would have done?”

  At my feet, the cat scratched my leg, and then she was up and in my lap. I reached out slowly, my hand on her head. I didn’t move. I looked at Mémé, tears in my eyes.

  “Your cat,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  I sat there for long minutes until the cat must have decided she’d had enough. She went to the door and I let her out.

  But I had things to do. “Rémy doesn’t have to stay in the attic!” I danced around the table. “And Louis can come home.”

  Mémé nodded. “You make me dizzy.”

  And one more thing. The painting.

  Mémé followed as I went up the stairs to my old bedroom. I crawled up on the roof, tapping the window, seeing Rémy’s face, wavery in the old glass.

  “The German is gone,” I called in to him. “You can come inside where it’s warm.”

  We slid down and came into the bedroom, and, almost not believing how daring I was, I put my arms around him, careful not to hurt his burn, which had begun to scab over. I danced with him too, both of us laughing, as Mémé watched.

  I went back up for the painting and managed
it carefully until I reached the bedroom window again.

  “Let me,” I told Mémé, and smiled at Rémy, who sat on the edge of the bed.

  She stood at her bedroom door as I took down the ugly watercolor of the Vosges Mountains, then slid the painting out of the pillowcase, wiping the frame gently on my skirt. I reached up and hung it on the wall where it belonged.

  I stared at the two girls, their faces beautiful, huge black bows on their long hair, and leaned forward, leaned closer.

  “Oh.” It was almost a breath.

  “So you see it this time,” Mémé said.

  I couldn’t answer.

  “Yes,” she said. “I realized it the moment you stepped off the train with André that summer.”

  In the painting Mémé was beautiful, and I knew I wasn’t. I hadn’t even thought I was pretty, but still, she could have been me.

  I thought of my father, then Mémé starving herself so I could eat. I thought of her father, who’d made the wooden shoe. And André’s voice one time: Long ago we were Alsatian.

  “Miel,” I said.

  Her hand went to her mouth. “Your grandfather’s name for me.”

  We collected Rémy from my room and went downstairs into the kitchen. Before we could sit at the table, Mémé glanced at the armoire. “It’s time to move it.”

  Food!

  Rémy and I managed to push the armoire aside. We brought jars of thick white beans, tomato sauce, golden pears and fat sausages to the table.

  We didn’t talk. Instead we feasted, forks to our mouths, the beans in their rich sauce sliding down our throats.

  We sat there as it grew dark outside; then Mémé took Rémy into the downstairs bedroom while I washed the plates and let them drain on the counter.

  Mémé came back and stood at the kitchen door, looking out at the darkness. I knew she was thinking about Louis.

  “I’ll go,” I said, and dropped one of the pewter plates. It clattered across the floor and came to rest under the table. “Sorry,” I muttered. I scooped it up and grabbed my jacket before she could say anything, and went past her at the door.

  It was a beautiful night; a huge moon had come up that was almost orange. It lighted the back of the house and the fields. I walked quickly, though, anxious to bring the dog to Mémé.