Anne Frank and Me (12 page)

Nicole was awake, but her eyes were closed. The self-imposed darkness made everything a bit more tolerable.

“I can't breathe,” Claire complained. “Can you, Nicole?”

Reluctantly, Nicole opened her eyes. Claire was wiping her sweaty forehead. “Talk less, you'll breathe better.”

Claire pouted. “That's stupid. Nothing will keep me cool. We're all going to suffocate to death. Why won't they give us water?”

Nicole fought the urge to slap Claire's face. Didn't Claire realize that they were all as miserable as she was? Couldn't she stop complaining?

They had been in the arena for six hours, sitting in the second row of seats above the central floor area. All the Jews outside had been forced inside; more arrived all the time through the main doors to their left. Many of the new arrivals were children. Families staked out living areas wherever they could still find space—in the aisles, in the bleachers, anywhere.

How could this be happening, Nicole wondered. The Nazis were barbarians, everyone knew that. It was one thing for atrocities to take place in little villages in Poland or on the Russian front. But here? In Paris? In the most sophisticated city in the world? With the cooperation of French police?

In the last six hours she'd seen terrible things—old people rocking themselves like babies, babies listless from dehydration with the dull stare of the old. One shrieking woman had been taken away by the police, who made a point of saying that she was faking insanity but that her “Jewish trick” wouldn't work.

Worst of all was the mother who had begged the police to help her vomiting child. They did nothing. Now, Nicole looked over at the little girl, who lay still on the floor, her eyes rolled back in her head.

Occasionally there were announcements over the public address system, such as where to go for medical treatment But Nicole knew that if treatment were actually available, the sick child would be under a doctor's care.

“Attention, attention,” a deep voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “In the event of an unexpected death, bring the body to area two hundred on the main level. I repeat, in the event of an unexpected death, bring the body to area two hundred on the main level.”

“Maman?” Claire asked, her voice trembling, when she heard the announcement.

“It's nothing,” her mother assured her. “Only for those who were brought here gravely ill.”

“If they don't give us water we'll all be gravely ill.”

Nicole willed herself to block out Claire's voice. She didn't want to think about water. Or food. Earlier, Mme. Einhorn had offered them some cold rutabaga. But Nicole hadn't eaten, figuring that food would only make her more desperate for a toilet than she already was. And toilets were an impossibility The vast majority of them were locked so no one could try to escape through the washroom windows. By mid-morning, word had spread that the only two functioning commodes were jammed.

Jammed or not, people were still queuing up to use them. So far Nicole had resisted the urge. But Claire's words had put her over the edge. “I'll be back,” she told the Einhorns.

“Bring us back pastries and coffee,” Mme. Einhorn said with an ironic smile. “I'll tip you well.” Nicole wanted to smile, too, but couldn't manage it. Instead, she went to join the line for the stopped-up toilets.

fifteen

We'll never get in.“

Nicole looked behind her. The statement had come from a young woman holding a diapered baby who was next in line. “We will, eventually,” Nicole replied, hoping against hope that the line would move more quickly If she didn't reach the toilet soon, she thought she would explode.

“A man over there had the right idea,” the young mother said, cocking her head toward the other side of the Vel. “He jumped off the highest tier of seats.”

“Is he—?”

“Dead? Yes. Lucky bastard.” Her baby began to fuss. “This is Daniel. Today is his first birthday.”

Daniel moaned, then loudly fouled his diaper, adding to the stench from the bathrooms. Nicole clasped her hand to her mouth, sure she was going to vomit. The toilet would have to wait. She stepped out of line and hurried away. As she headed back toward the Einhorns, she passed women who were squatting to relieve themselves along the walls, hiding their faces in shame. She would never, ever do that, she vowed, no matter what.

When she returned, Claire was asleep, her head in her grandmother's lap. For some reason, Mme. Einhorn was staring intently at the main gate.

Nicole tried to find ways to distract herself. She made a halfhearted effort to write in her journal, but found it impossible. It was too noisy—how could anyone concentrate? Then she invented a mental game, weaving stories about new people as they arrived. A beautiful flaxen-haired girl, who looked to be just a little older than she, caught Nicole's attention. She wore a lovely blue dress with pearl buttons, and a matching ribbon held back her long hair.

She comes from a poor but noble family, Nicole invented. An older rich man—an aristocrat!—fell in love with her and showered her with gifts, like the expensive outfit she's wearing. But the aristocrat was caught working with the Resistance and now the girl has no one to protect her.

Suddenly, the beautiful girl looked directly at Nicole. Nicole smiled, hoping that she might make a friend. But the girl turned away. After a while, Nicole saw her join the line for the broken toilets.

Nicole got bored with her game and nodded off. Sometime later, Claire's voice woke her. “Maman, I can't hold it anymore.”

Instead of answering, Mme. Einhorn opened her valise and dug for the old newspapers that lined the bottom.

“What are you doing?” Claire asked, as her mother spread the newspapers out on the floor.

“There, Claire,” she told her daughter. “Here is your bathroom. I will hold a sheet up for you, for privacy. It is a collaborationist paper, so it will hide the truth very well.”

Claire looked aghast. “I can't do that.”

“You can, and you will.”

“No, I can't. It's disgusting!”

Bubbe Einhorn muttered something in Yiddish and tottered over to the newspaper where Mme. Einhorn held the sheet in front of her. “You see? Your bubbe is going first.”

Finally, Claire eased herself behind the sheet. Nicole turned away and managed to sink back into the safety of sleep.

Hours later, she awoke with a throbbing headache. The Vel was hotter and even more crowded; her parched lips stuck to her teeth. Her whole body ached for a toilet.

No. She would not squat on newspaper like some kind of paper-trained pet. She looked around, hoping to distract herself from the discomfort. The beautiful flaxen-haired girl had returned, with an older woman. Her mother? The girl was in tears, trying to wipe feces off her mother's legs with a piece of underwear. Blood ran down the girl's bare legs, and Nicole realized with horror that she was menstruating and had no sanitary napkins to stop the flow.

The girl saw Nicole eyeing her; Nicole looked away. Pretend dignity, she figured, was better than no dignity at all. Then several infants began bawling; Nicole put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes to block out the din. If only her mind could carry her away. She tried to conjure up her American life—or dream—or whatever it was. It was the future. And ... was there to be some sort of show? Where she would dance? Yes. She would wear a skirt as short as a toddler's pinafore. Her friends would be there. Oh, there would be food! She could almost taste it. Small, round candies in different colors, with hard candy shells and chocolate inside that melted in your mouth. Bowls of crisp potato slices, so thin that you could almost see through them. You'd pop a whole handful into your mouth and lick the salt off your fingers, and—

“Nicole?”

Claire tugged at her sleeve. No. She refused to hear, wanting to stay in the world of the future. But when she tried to imagine the scene again, it looked like a photo someone had thrown into the fire; the edges curling, burning, disappearing to ash.

“Nicole?” Claire repeated. Nicole opened her eyes.

“What?”

“Do you hate me?”

“Why would I hate you?”

“If you hadn't been at my flat, you wouldn't be here now. I know you didn't really want to stay. I'm sorry.”

Nicole felt a stab of guilt. “It's not your fault. I don't blame you.”

“I know you only started being friends with me again because I live in your building and I'm Jewish.”

“No, I—”

“It's all right,” Claire said, her plain, freckled face solemn. “I know it's true. You don't have to deny it. I want you to know I don't blame you, either.”

Mme. Einhorn moved closer to her daughter. When she spoke, her voice was low, her eyes glued to the front entrance. “Claire, listen to me. You are going to escape.”

Claire sat up, her eyes wide. “No, I—”

“Yes,” her mother insisted. “I have been watching. The guards are all French. I do not believe they would shoot to kill. We will watch, and when the guards change shifts, Bubbe and I will create a commotion. Then, Claire, you will slip past the guards and run. Go to—Come here.”

“I don't want to do this. Don't make me.”

“This is not an issue for discussion. Your papa and I have prepared for this possibility.”

“No.”

Mme. Einhorn harshly pulled her daughter to her and whispered in her ear. Then she held her at arm's length. “Do you understand, Claire? Go there. Do not stop to speak to anyone.”

“No, Maman, I can't leave you and Bubbe—”

“You can and you will,” Mme. Einhorn insisted, her eyes hard. She looked at Nicole. “I have no right to ask this of you, but will you help me get Claire out of this place? Your father is going to come, eventually But no one is going to rescue my Claire.”

Nicole wanted to refuse. Her father could come for her at any moment, though she was beginning to worry that he did not know where she was. What if he came while she was helping Claire? The French police were behaving like Nazi swine. Who knew what they might do? Why should she risk her freedom, her life, to try to save Claire?

But then, as if some other part of her was in control, Nicole found herself nodding. Yes, she would help.

“Thank you,” Mme. Einhorn said, her lips trembling. “Thank you so much.” She wasted no time after that, helping Claire change into clothes that had no star, brushing and rebraiding her daughter's hair, and hiding a little money in Claire's socks.

Then they waited. Finally, Nicole could no longer defeat her own body. She barely made it to a wall before tearing her panties aside and squatting like all the others. It had come to this.

As she made her way back to the Einhorns, she heard Mme. Einhorn calling frantically for her. “Nicole, hurry, it's time!” Indeed, the guards were changing their shift.

“Maman,” Claire whimpered, clutching at her mother.

“Let go of me,” Mme. Einhorn ordered, her voice steely. “Turn around. When you see a big commotion, run.”

“Maman—”

“You will run.”

Most of the prior shift had gone and only part of the new shift of cops had arrived. Some were holding their noses. But others, judging by their grins and their laughter, were making jokes about the Jews.

“Let's go,” Mme. Einhorn decided. She led her daughter over to the new guards as Nicole and Bubbe Einhorn followed. “When do we get water for the children?” she demanded.

“We don't know,” a tall cop said.

“We must have water. The children will die of thirst.”

Nicole leaned toward Claire and quickly squeezed her hand. Then, she turned to the same cop Mme. Einhorn had confronted. “There is a baby over there, dying,” Nicole said, trying to keep her voice from quavering. “He must have water!”

Bubbe Einhorn started babbling in Polish and waving her arms dramatically as Nicole and Mme. Einhorn shouted, “Water for the children, water for the children!”

“Sit down, stop this at once,” another policeman ordered.

But Mme. Einhorn and Nicole wouldn't stop. “Water for the children! Water for the children!”

“I am warning you, sit down!” he thundered, his face mottled red with fury.

“Water for the children!” Nicole repeated. The first cop put his hand conspicuously on the butt of his pistol. Nicole froze. She wanted to continue the chant, but no sound came out. She tried again. Nothing. But then, from behind her—

“Water for the children!”

She whirled. It was the pretty girl with the golden hair. “Water for the children!” she repeated, as other women, first in twos and threes, then by dozens, ran to the front gates. Fifty, then more than fifty, many carrying babies, were chanting in the policemen's faces.