Anne Frank and Me (9 page)

She was touched. “You do?”

“I only want to say this to you, Nicole.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Wherever I go, whatever happens to me ... when I close my eyes, I will still see your face.” He reached up and ripped the yellow star from his vest, stuffed it into Nicole's hand, and bolted down the stone staircase.

eleven

 

 

 

 

Mimi ran ahead down the rue de Passy “I'm free-eee!” she cried, whirling around in a circle. “I think if I had to take even one more exam, I would scream.”

Nicole caught up and linked arms with her. “You're already screaming,” she pointed out nervously. “Everyone is staring at you.”

“Let them stare, I don't care. I'm free-e-e!” As Mimi began whirling again, a passing older couple regarded her with disapproval.

“You're also insane,” Nicole said. Mimi might not feel self-conscious on the street, but Mimi didn't have a yellow star sewn to her vest, either.

In the past month, Nicole had learned many things; from reading her journals, from family and friends, and from her own experience. It was hard living under the Occupation, but it was hardest of all if you were a Jew. Above all, you did not want to call attention to yourself.

They continued down the fashionable boulevard, idly looking into shop windows. They had walked this street together hundreds of times. Now, though, because of the Nazis' requisition of French goods for their war effort, there was little for the stores to display and even less for them to sell.

“Nicole, look at this.” Mimi pointed to the window of a favorite boutique. Its single display mannequin wore a beautiful silk outfit, topped by an oversized, elaborate black-and-white hat. “Incredible,” Mimi breathed, her face pressed to the glass. “What do you think, Nico?”

Nicole shrugged. “I think the dress is for show and not for sale. And if it was for sale, only the Nazis and their friends could afford it.”

“I suppose,” Mimi agreed reluctantly. “The hat is nice, though.”

“Not worth the ration coupons. Come on.” Nicole gently tugged Mimi away from the window.

“When this stupid war is over, I am going to be the best-dressed girl in Paris,” Mimi vowed. “I'll never wear the same clothes twice. Instead of washing them, I'll toss them away like the Americans do.”

Nicole laughed. “Americans don't do that.”

Mimi rolled her eyes. “Oh, that's right. You still think you were an American and that you—”

“Lived in the future,” they said at the same time.

“Nico, I admit I take pride in my own flights of fancy. But that dream of yours was the most bizarre thing ever.”

Nicole bit her lower lip. “Sometimes I don't think it was a dream. Even now.”

“What an imagination. You should become a science-fiction writer.
I
Was
a Twenty-First Century American—
what was it you called your dance group again?”

“Fly Girls,” Nicole replied, feeling ridiculous.

“
Exactly!
I Was a Twenty-First Century American Insect Girl
, by Nicole Judith Bernhardt, as recorded in her Paris journal on 15 July 1942.”

But it felt so real to me.”

Mimi raised her eyebrows. “I don't know what dances better, your legs or your imagination.”

Dancing. In a dizzying flash, one of the crazy visions came to Nicole again. Throbbing, manic music. Instead of singing, someone was shouting rhythmic poetry over it. She was wearing a black stretchy top that bared her stomach, and—

“Nicole, look.” Mimi nudged her. Mimi's voice seemed very far away.

“What?” she asked faintly.

Mimi cocked her head at a stout middle-aged woman across the street. She carried a mesh shopping bag and sported the same fancy hat they had seen in the shop window. But the hat was far too large for her head, so it tilted over one eye at a precarious angle. Mimi laughed. “I see the latest Paris fashion didn't come in her size.”

Nicole shook her head to clear it. The bizarre vision was gone. “You see, Mimi, if you bought the hat, that is how you would look.”

Mimi leaned conspiratorially toward Nicole. “I could make three brassieres in my size with the material in that hat.” She looked down at her flat chest and sighed. “Not that I need even one.”

The woman crossed toward their side of the street, dodging bicyclists—since every drop of fuel was now powering Nazi tanks on the Russian front, cars had largely been replaced by bicycles—and made a beeline for a bakery that had a long queue in front of it. Her sour face grew even more unpleasant as she rummaged in her purse for her ration book, while the oversized hat teetered dangerously toward her nose. Watching her, Nicole and Mimi began to giggle uncontrollably.

The more they tried to compose themselves, the more they laughed. “Stop, stop. She'll know we're laughing at her,” Nicole gasped. Just at that moment, a single potato fell from the woman's mesh bag. She stooped to pick it up and her hat toppled to the pavement. Then, more potatoes fell, one of them directly onto the hat's crown. The rest rolled into the street.

This was too much for Nicole and Mimi. They were convulsed with laughter all over again. “We have to stop! Think about something awful,” Mimi instructed. “Pretend you just found out that Jacques is in love with another girl.”

The thought sobered Nicole instantly. She would die if Jacques didn't love her anymore. In the American dream he didn't love her, and it was the worst thing in the world.

The hat lady gathered up all her potatoes and hurried toward the bakery. Nicole and Mimi edged close to the street to allow her to pass.

Only she didn't. Instead, she glared at the yellow star on Nicole's vest. Then she spit in Nicole's face. “Filthy Jew,” she hissed, as the spit globule oozed down Nicole's left cheek. “It's because of Jew animals like you that sold us out that we're in this mess.”

The woman strode away. Mimi quickly used her handkerchief to wipe Nicole's cheek. “She is a stupid collaborator cow.” Shock and humiliation rendered Nicole mute.

“I cleaned it off, Nico. Forget the fat witch, eh? Come on. Let's go to Alain's cafe. Everyone will be waiting for us.”

Nicole allowed Mimi to lead her down the street. They crossed the rue de la Tour, heading for the Cafe du Morvan. “Just think, Nicole,” Mimi said, chattering to distract Nicole from what had just happened. “No more homework, just a whole summer of romantic possibilities. I am determined to get François to like me this summer. If I can just keep myself from talking about politics, I have a chance. You'll help me get him to notice me, won't you, Nico?”

“Wait,” Nicole said, as they reached the cafe's front door.

“What?”

Nicole pointed to a large, hand-lettered poster affixed to the front door. FORBIDDEN TO JEWS.

A week before, the Nazis had issued another of their decrees against the Jews, barring Jews from going to cafes or restaurants. Nicole knew about the decree, but the Cafe du Morvan had been her family's neighborhood cafe for years. In fact, a few days after the Nazi edict had gone into effect, M. Courot, the proprietor, had made a very public point of welcoming the Bernhardts in front of everyone, telling anyone who would listen that the Boche pigs were not going to decide who was welcome in his establishment.

But the FORBIDDEN TO JEWS sign hadn't been on the door then.

“Just take off your vest,” Mimi suggested. Nicole still hung back. “I feel certain Alain would want you to. Come on, my idiot brother is in there.”

Through the glass front of the cafe, Nicole saw Jacques sitting with Edouard, Suzanne, and Mimi's secret crush, Francois. Jacques's eyes caught Nicole's and he waved at her. She would do anything for him. Quickly, Nicole removed her vest and folded it with the star on the inside. They walked into the cafe. All their friends greeted them. Jacques put his arm around her. Nicole cuddled against him, feeling safe and loved.

Mimi slid into a seat next to handsome, dark-haired Francois, doing her best to look both casual and fetching.

“We were just talking about the Resistance,” Jacques told Nicole. “They've struck again—a German supply train. They are so foolish to—”

“They are not foolish,” Mimi interrupted sharply. “The resistants are heroes.”

“Mimi is right,” Suzanne agreed. “Someone has to stand up to Hitler. Listen to this.” She grabbed a copy of a collaborationist newspaper someone had left on the next table. “ ‘For some days,' ” she read, “ ‘Israelites, with or without their yellow stars, have with their continued insolence provoked a number of incidents in respectable cafes, hotels, and restaurants. The behavior of these Jews has been disgusting. But now, with General Oberg's order barring these creatures from nearly every public place where a true Frenchman would want to visit, peace and civility may reign when only disorder prevailed before.' Does anyone really believe this swill?”

Nicole's face reddened involuntarily. The “creatures” the newspaper spoke of were her and her family.

“So, what is it you propose to do?” Jacques asked. “Throw irt clods at their tanks?”

“Whatever it takes,” Mimi shot back defiantly.

“You should hear what else Oberg said, then.” Jacques took the paper. “ ‘I have ascertained that it is the close friends and relatives of assailants, saboteurs, and troublemakers who have been helping them both before and after their crimes,' ” he read. “ ‘I have therefore decided to inflict the severest penalties not only on the troublemakers, but on the families of these criminals.'”

“So?” Mimi challenged her brother. “Are you afraid?”

Jacques glanced at her coldly and read on. “ ‘One. All male relatives, including brothers-in-law and cousins over the age of eighteen, will be shot. Two. All females will be sentenced to hard labor. Three. All children of men and women affected by these measures will be put in reform schools—'”

“Here we go again,” François groaned. “Politics, politics, politics. I am sick of hearing about politics.”

Mimi turned on him. “How can you be? Imbecile Huns are running our country, and imbecile French are helping theml” Across the table, Nicole made a motion to Mimi to zip her lip, but she knew Mimi couldn't help herself.

“It is always the same thing,” François groused, as he sipped his ersatz coffee. “I am not political. It bores me, really. I am
zazou.”

Nicole laughed. “You are not zazou.
They
are zazou.” She pointed through the cafe window to a knot of young men and women who sat at an outdoor table.

The zazous
was the name given to a movement of rebellious young people who disdained politics. They all went to the same cafes and listened to “swing” music. The messy, long-haired boys wore oversized jackets, the girls wore sweaters with huge shoulder pads, and they all wore sunglasses, even indoors.

“Where are your sunglasses, Monsieur Zazou?” Suzanne teased Francois. “Where is your long, greasy hair?”

François blushed. “It is not my fault that I am forced to live under the domination of my narrow-minded parents.”

Suzanne laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “It's all right, François. I understand. You are zazou on the inside.”

Everyone laughed, even François, because there was something so sweet about Suzanne that even he could not take offense. Nicole thought about how pretty and nice she was, and how her heart had been shattered when Jacques had confessed that he loved her, because—

No. That didn't happen. That was the American dream. Mostly, Nicole knew that now. But there still were flashes that felt so real—No. Jacques did not love Suzanne. He loved her. Only her. Forever. She snuggled closer to him, and he smiled.

“Where's the waiter?” he wondered aloud. “I want to order you the best national coffee in Paris.”

Nicole made a face. National coffee, made from ground roots and chicory, was a joke. There wasn't a single coffee bean in it.

“National coffee for everyone,” François proposed grandly. “Forget politics. Let's swing like the Americans.”

“Oh, I love swing!” Mimi exclaimed.

“Excellent.” François leaned over and planted a comically huge smooch on Mimi's cheek; everyone began teasing them. Just then, M. Courot came out from the kitchen and hurried to their table.

“Nicole, I am terribly sorry, but you must leave.”

“But she was here with me just a few days ago,” Mimi protested. “You welcomed her then.”

“I welcome her now,” M. Courot said, his voice quavering. “But three Huns are checking my storeroom. Go, quickly. If they do an identity check they'll arrest you. Then they'll arrest me. Go!”

Nicole's heart pounded as she grabbed her vest and book bag from the table. Mimi stood, followed by Jacques and Suzanne. “If you're leaving, we're leaving,” Mimi insisted.

“Stay,” Nicole said. “I have to get home anyway.”

“I want to walk you home,” Jacques declared.

“We all will,” Mimi added.

“No. I'll see you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the door without looking back.

twelve

I
t isn't fair.

Nicole passed the concierge's ground-floor apartment and ascended the beautiful circular staircase that led to her family's fourth-floor flat, wondering why things couldn't be like they used to be. Before the war, she had written in her journals that being Jewish had never made her feel different from her friends. Even in the American dream, as far as she could remember, Jews were treated the same as everyone else.