Anne Frank and Me (17 page)

“I wish I could put my coat on,” Liz-Bette said, as they trudged along. “I am freezing.”

“You know we can't let anyone see our stars now. Not with this valise. We'll be home in just another minute.” She switched the valise to her other hand. “When Maman is better, she can trade some foie gras for other food. But she will ask what we did to get so much of it.”

“Can't we just tell her the truth?”

“No, because the truth sounds unbelievable. She will be angry enough that we went out without—”

“Nicole?”

Something in Liz-Bette's voice made Nicole look up. Approaching them were two young men with black berets, not much older than Nicole. One had blond hair, the other brown. Their coats flapped open, exposing dark shirts with narrow ties. Their trousers were tucked into high black boots.

Nicole's breath caught. Permilleux Service.

The Permilleux Service was a special anti-Jewish police force created by a French government agency. It was notorious for being as sadistic as the Gestapo.

“Keep your head down, just keep walking,” Nicole said softly.

The two militiamen blocked their way. “What have we here?” the blond young man asked jovially.

“Excuse us, please,” Nicole said, cocking her head in the vague direction of home. “We live a few streets from here and we are late already. Come on, Liz-Bette.”

“Liz-Bette. What a pretty name for a pretty girl,” the other man said. “I am Antoine, and this fellow is Serge. Shall we escort you two young ladies home?”

“No!” Liz-Bette squeaked, edging closer to Nicole.

“A shame. In that case, identity cards, please.” He held out a beefy hand. They had no choice. Both girls took out their identity cards, stamped JUIVE, and handed them over.

The one named Serge laughed nastily and poked his partner in the ribs. “Well, well, Antoine, we have before us two members of the chosen people trying to pass themselves off as pure French girls. Trust you to find a Jewess pretty!”

Antoine's face reddened as he glared at Nicole and Liz-Bette. “Stupid Jew cows. Trying to make a fool out of me, eh?”

“No, sir, my father has an Ausweis,” Nicole explained quickly. “And we were just going—”

“What is in the valise?” He jerked it from Nicole's hand and popped it open. Tins of foie gras spilled onto the sidewalk. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it? Or is it from the black market?”

“A friend ... gave it to us,” Nicole stammered.

“No,” Serge said. “You are mistaken. A friend gave it to us. Gather up the tins and put them back into our valise.” Nicole and Liz-Bette did what they were told, leaving the valise on the sidewalk before them.

He smiled coldly. “Now that your mysterious friend has made this lovely gift to the true defenders of pure France, there is the matter of your contravention of the Jew statute of May 1942. You are not wearing your stars. However, we may be persuaded to look the other way. There is something about which I have always been curious. I hear that Jewesses have fur all the way to their navels. A sort of animal pelt. Is it true?”

Nicole froze.

“I asked, Is it true?”

Nicole forced herself to speak. “No.”

The dark-haired man cocked one eyebrow. “Prove it, and we shall let you go.”

“Please, keep the food. Just let us go.”

Suddenly, the blond one grabbed Liz-Bette by her hair, jerking her so hard that she cried out. “You have broken the law, Jew whores. Do you want to go to Drancy?” He jutted his chin at Nicole. “Lift your skirt, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. Now. Or else I will make your pretty little sister lift hers instead.”

With trembling fingers, Nicole reached for the bottom of her skirt.

“What do you think, Antoine? We should be enjoying a Dubonnet with the floor show,” Serge joked. “Proceed, mademoiselle.”

Slowly, Nicole began to raise her skirt. Past her calves. To her knees—

An air-raid siren sounded.

Antoine cursed. “Where's the closest shelter?”

“Trocadéro,” his partner said. “What about them?”

“Forget them. Let's go.” The sirens wailed as Antoine grabbed the valise and ran toward Trocadéro, his partner right behind.

Nicole took Liz-Bette's hand. “Run, Liz-Bette. Run!”

They had lost everything—the candlesticks, the valise, the food—but none of that mattered now. As they reached the avenue de Camoëns, they heard the distant thunder of the Allies' bombs falling. Nicole said a silent prayer of thanks. Many times, she had prayed for the Allies to come quickly. Tonight, they had come just in time.

twenty-five

twenty - six

twenty-seven

7 April 1944

They
kissed breathlessly in the hallway outside Mme. Genet's apartment. In Jacques's arms she could be anywhere, even America. She could be at a movie star's party in Hollywood, doing the jitterbug with Jacques. Everyone would say they were the best dancers there. And food! So much food that she would say, “No, thank you, no dessert for me, I couldn't bear another bite.”

Too soon, Jacques ended their kiss. She buried her head against his chest, in the perfect spot just under his chin, as he stroked her cheek. “André will be home for dinner tonight. I have to go.”

“ ‘I have to go.' Those are the ugliest words in the entire French language.” She snuggled against him again. “But thank you again for bringing us wine. You cannot imagine what it means to have wine for our Passover seder tonight.”

“I was happy to do it. I should be able to bring vegetables from my uncle's farm in a few days.”

“When will you come back? Can you come tomorrow?” She heard the neediness in her voice, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

“I have to study. I'll try.” He kissed her again and she clung to him.

Suddenly, Mme. Genet's door swung open. “Celebrating liberation already?” she sneered. “Don't think that I am blind to you two rutting dogs. I should report you to the authorities.”

Though she knew they weren't violating any laws, Nicole's face burned. She felt sure that Mme. Genet would love to denounce her family and grab whatever was left in their apartment.

Jacques stepped toward the concierge, hat in hand. “Excuse me, Madame Genet,” he began politely, “but I was only saying good-bye to my girlfriend.”

Mme. Genet sniffed. “A boy like you with a girl like her. It should be illegal.”

“But it is not, much as your friends in the PPF would like it to be,” Jacques said pleasantly. “One day, when Nicole and I become engaged, I am sure you will be amongst the first to wish us well. Unless of course you are in Berlin living in Hitler's bunker.”

The concierge narrowed her eyes. “The Allies have not yet landed.”

“Your Boche saviors of the Republic are losing the war, and you know it,” Jacques scoffed. “Are you planning to become a Resistant of the Last Minute? I can already see you on liberation day, dancing on the Champs-Élysées, draped in the tricolor: ‘Long live de Gaulle, long live freedom, long live France!' ”

The concierge quivered with indignation and slammed her door shut.

Nicole jumped into Jacques's arms. “You were wonderful!”

“She is a mean-spirited fascist cow, eh?”

“Did you ... mean what you said?”

He pretended to misunderstand. “Sadly, I do not think Mme. Genet will ever congratulate us, Nicole.”

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

“Oh, you mean the ‘when Nicole and I become engaged' part? But of course. Don't you remember? I asked you to marry me in third grade. I told you that one day I would become a fine doctor and practice medicine with your father. You said yes to this entire plan. It is far too late for you to back out now.”

“I'll have to think about it. It's just that I have so many offers.”

He tickled her ribs, which stuck out too far these days. Then he pulled her to him and kissed her until there was nothing in the world but him, his hands, his mouth, and this moment.

“Jacques...”

Into her neck he breathed, “Yes?”

“What you said ... what you want ... I want it, too.”

“Someday when all of this is over, we will—”

She pulled away so that she could look into his eyes. “Not someday, Jacques. Now.”

“But—”

‘There is no'someday,' don't you see?”

“Yes, there is.” He tenderly touched her cheek. “Nicole—”

“Tomorrow afternoon. My mother will be out shopping and my father will be at the hospital. We can go to his study.”

He pulled her to him. “I wanted our first time to be so much more than that. Candlelight and rose petals and champagne—”

“I don't care about those things,” she insisted. “Don't say it isn't right, jacques. It's the only right thing in my life.” This time it was she who kissed him until there were no more words.

Nicole sat on the couch; Liz-Bette at the window seat, blinking nervously. Both had resolved not to look at the grandfather clock anymore, but couldn't help themselves. It was five minutes before eight and their father was not home yet. On any other night, this would not be a great cause for concern—he could be late at the hospital, he could be on a mission. But tonight? The night different from all other nights, the sacred first night of Passover? He had assured them he would be home by seven.

Everything was ready. They were dressed in their least threadbare outfits and the table was set for the seder, the religious meal that began the eight-day Passover holiday. The precious bottle of wine Jacques had brought for them waited by her father's setting. Next to it was the ornate silver kiddush cup used only on Passover.

Mme. Bernhardt set a Haggadah—the book that retold the story of the Exodus from Egypt and contained the seder service—on each plate. As she put down the last one, the sirens that signaled the Jewish curfew began to wail.

“Maman?” Liz-Bette asked. “Where is Papa?”

“She doesn't know, Liz-Bette,” Nicole said. “If she knew, we would know.”

“But we can't have Passover without Papa.” Liz-Bette looked desperate. “I know why you are not answering me, Maman. It is because they took Papa away on a big bus and I'm never going to see him again!”

“No,” their mother said, but there was fear in her voice.

“You're lying!”

Nicole went to her. “He's safe, Liz-Bette.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Liz-Bette blinked rapidly. “It's true that no one came to say Nightbird.”