Anne Frank and Me (18 page)

Mme. Bernhardt finally found her voice. “Yes, I am sure that he is in a safe place, doing important work to defeat the Nazis.”

Abruptly, she went to the kitchen; Nicole and Liz-Bette sat by the window, perfectly still. The only sound was the relentless ticking of the clock. Time was a thief, sneaking forward. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Their mother returned and sat wordlessly in the upholstered chair. Twenty. Twenty-five.

The clock gonged half past eight. Mme. Bernhardt stood. “We will begin our seder,” she announced.

Nicole was incredulous. “Now?”

“Passover is the festival of freedom our people have celebrated for thousands of years. Even Hitler cannot change that. Come.”

The girls followed their mother to the table and opened their Haggadoth. “ ‘We are here to celebrate once again the very first festival the Jewish people ever observed,' ” Mme. Bernhardt read aloud. “ ‘We retell the ancient story of how Moses led us out of Egypt and out of the house of bondage. As we remember this moving chapter in our people's past, may we learn to appreciate more deeply the freedom we now enjoy.' ”

Nicole's heart hardened at the familiar words from the Haggadah. How bitter and ironic they were tonight. How could she learn to appreciate something she no longer had? What was the point of saying it?

Her mother's hand touched hers. “Nicole, so long as we say these words and have this seder, they have not defeated us. Do you understand?”

Nicole nodded. Her mother returned to the Haggadah. “ ‘In gratitude to God,' ” she read, “ ‘we rise now to recite the kiddush blessing over the first of the four cups of wine.' ” Mme. Bernhardt poured a tiny bit of red wine into each goblet, then stood. “Before we say the festival kiddush, we will say a special prayer for your father. Liz-Bette, will you lead us?”

“Dear God,” Liz-Bette began uncertainly. “Please ... let Papa be all right. And let him come home to us and not get taken away on a big bus forever, because ... because .. Her voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Because we love Papa as much as we love freedom,” Nicole continued, “and because he is brave enough to do what is right. Amen.”

“Amen,” her mother and sister echoed. Nicole pretended not to see as Liz-Bette fisted the tears from her face. They raised their glasses and Mme. Bernhardt chanted the Hebrew blessings over the Passover wine.
“L‘chaim,
to life,” she concluded.

“L‘chaim.”
They each took the smallest sip of wine. Nicole stared at the front door, willing it to open. Her father would take off his coat and apologize profusely for arriving late on this night of nights. The metro had been running late. Someone had gotten sick at the hospital. He'd wash his hands and kiss his family and lead the seder as he always did. But the door did not open.

Mme. Bernhardt continued. “ ‘We have thanked God for the wine, which adds joy to life,' ” she read. “ ‘On Pesach we thank Him especially for the precious gift of freedom. And we thank Him for—' ”

She was interrupted by the pounding of feet on the stairs, followed by a fist slamming against the door to their flat. They sprang to their feet. This was the nightmare—the Gestapo at your door to take you to Drancy. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide.

“I will go,” Nicole forced herself to say. She went to the door, marveling at how if you just put one foot before the other, no matter what terror you might feel, you reached your destination anyway.

She opened the door. Standing there, disheveled and gasping for breath, was David Ginsburg. “Davidl” Nicole hugged him hard, giddy with joy and faint with relief. “Oh, David, you're still alive! I haven't seen you in such a long time. Are you all right? No one knew what happened to you. I am so happy to see you!” She knew she was babbling but she didn't care. She tugged him into the apartment. “Come join our seder!”

He would not move. “David?” Nicole asked. “David?”

Finally, he spoke one word. “Nightbird.”

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

thirty-one

18 June 1944

 

 

Nicole? Are you awake?“

“No.”

“I have a question about Scarlett O‘Hara.”

“I'm sleeping, Liz-Bette. Leave me alone.” Nicole was in a terrible mood. So what if the Allies had invaded France? They were nowhere near Paris. Her own situation hadn't altered at all.

Liz-Bette raised herself up on one bony elbow, blinking rapidly. “How can I leave you alone, Nicole? There is no other place to go.”

“You are such a pest.” Nicole turned over. “Well? What is your burning question about Scarlett O‘Hara?”

“Just this,” Liz-Bette said, all seriousness. “Did she dance as well as you?”

Nicole instantly regretted having taken out her frustration on her little sister. Things were not easy for her, either. She brushed some hair from Liz-Bette's cheek. “She danced better than me. Scarlett was the most wonderful dancer in all of the state of Georgia.”

“Scar-lett,” Liz-Bette said dreamily. “Such a beautiful name. After liberation I shall change my name to Scar-lett. I hate the name Liz-Bette. It sounds terribly childish.”

“All right, Scar-lett,” Nicole declared. “If you want to be known as Scar-lett, Scar-lett you will be.”

Liz-Bette grinned. “I will have beautiful ball gowns like Scar-lett had before the War Between the States.”

“A different one for every dance,” Nicole embellished. “Because a magnificent beauty like Scar-lett Bernhardt cannot possibly be seen in the same gown twice.”

“The first one will be blue, to match my eyes,” Liz-Bette decided, as she cuddled up next to Nicole. “Boys like you if you can dance, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“Will you teach me to dance when we get home?”

“Absolutely.”

“I want to learn how to jitterbug, where the boy flips you and your skirt flies into the air.”

Nicole laughed. “Scarlett O‘Hara did not jitterbug. You want your skirt to fly into the air?”

“I will wear very beautiful silk lingerie underneath,” Liz-Bette explained. “Why wear beautiful lingerie if no one but you sees it?”

“Excellent point.”

Liz-Bette yawned. “Do you think this is the night that the Gestapo will come?”

“No.”

“What will they do to us if they catch us?”

“We will go to Drancy. And then to a work camp, I suppose.”

“Will we all still be together?”

“I hope so.”

“Promise?” Liz-Bette asked sleepily.

“I can't promise because I don't know.”

“Promise anyway.” Liz-Bette's eyes drooped shut.

Nicole took in her sister's tiny frame. The idea that the Boche would have any use for a girl with no strength to work was incomprehensible. “I promise,” she whispered. “Now sleep.”

There was soft knocking on the attic door—three fast raps, silence, then two more. Mme. Bernhardt awoke with a start. “It's okay, Maman,” Nicole assured her, as she scrambled to her feet. “It's Jacques, I'm sure.” She pulled the door open. Jacques entered. He and Nicole clung to each other.

“I brought food,” he said quietly. “I am sorry. It is only potatoes and apples.”

“It is food, thank you.” Mme. Bernhardt took the mesh bag from Jacques. “Liz-Bette, come over here, please, and give them some privacy.”

Liz-Bette sighed dramatically as she went to her mother. “I can still hear every word they say, you know.”

“Well, pretend you cannot,” Mme. Bernhardt said. “It is called discretion, and it is very French.”

Nicole and Jacques moved into Nicole's nook and sat facing the wall. “I missed you so much,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I feel the same.” He gently pulled her hands away. “Where is your father?”

“Trying to find us food,” Nicole lied.

“I wish he wouldn't go out at night, Nicole. I will bring more food so—”

“Shhh.” She put her finger to his lips. “No talk of food. It only makes me hungry.” She replaced her finger with her lips, kissing him softly.

His mind was clearly elsewhere. “It's just that it is so dangerous, Nicole. Do you want to hear some shocking news? Ten days ago some resistants exploded a railway bridge near Limoges.”

She nodded emphatically. “Good.”

“Good?” Jacques was incredulous. “You will not say that when you hear what the Boche did in reprisal.”

“What?”

“They picked out a small village nearby, completely unconnected to the Resistance, a place with hardly any Jews. They waited for the day the cigarette ration would be distributed, because hundreds of people would be coming from the countryside. They surrounded this village. They shot the men, put the women and children in the church and burned them alive. Then they burned down the entire town. Now there is no more Oradour-sur-Glane.”