Odette's Secrets (12 page)

Mary gazes with loving eyes at her baby.

He holds out his arms and smiles at all the world.

I wish I could pick him up and hug him,

kiss his fat pink cheeks.

But Mama looks at it all, then looks away.

I've made a terrible mistake!

How could I forget she doesn't like things like this?

She can't get out of the church

and down the steps fast enough.

When we're back on the street,

Mama breathes a sigh of relief.

“It's so dark and musty in there!” she says.

“It's like an old lady's room,

crowded with knickknacks.”

Mama likes the bakery better.

She can't take her eyes off the giant brioche.

“White bread is impossible to get in Paris,” she says.

I show her the window of the general store too.

“Look at the wool!” Mama says. “So many colors!”

I remember the game I used to play in Paris with Sarah.

If I had my choice of one thing from the general-store window,

would I pick the wool for my mother to knit?

My eyes move to a silver rosary with pearl beads.

It's so beautiful.

Maybe I'd pick that.

I study them both.

Suddenly, I feel my mother's eyes on me.

“Let's move along now, Odette,” she says.

She steers me away from the shop window.

Oh, dear, I've done it again!

There must be something I can show Mama that she'll like.

I know, I'll take Mama to my school.

Creeks crisscross through snowy meadows.

Here and there is a small farm

with smoke trailing from the chimney.

“It's so beautiful!” Mama says.

But when we arrive at the school, she won't go past the gate.

All I can show her is the cross

and the pretty statue of the

Virgin Mary outside.

“I don't understand all this fuss over crosses and statues,”

she says.

“But one day, if I come here to live,

I suppose you must teach me everything.

No one must guess that I'm not a Christian.”

Mama?

Here?

Could she really come here and stay?

I know all the saints and holy days,

and when to stand and sit and kneel in church.

I know every single prayer by heart too.

If she comes, I'll teach Mama everything.

Country Ways

On the way back from the school,

I name all the trees I've climbed with Jean and Jacques.

I name all the fish I've caught with Monsieur Raffin,

all the mushrooms I've picked with Madame Raffin.

“I even know which ones are poisonous,” I tell her.

Mama is happy that I know these things.

She has lots of questions.

“What do you drink at dinner?”

“Apple cider,” I tell her.

“Where do you get the water for cooking and washing?”

“From our garden well.”

“What do you do for heat?”

“We use the fireplace in the kitchen. The stove too.

Grandmother Raffin opens the oven door

and puts her feet up on the stovetop when she's cold.

We heat bricks in the oven too.

At night, we put them in our beds to keep warm.

Warm feet are important here.”

Mama says she thinks the villagers are clever.

“Oh, yes,” I agree.

“When we have a fancy meal and dessert is served,

we clean our plates with a piece of bread.

Then we turn them upside down

and use the bottoms for dessert plates.”

“I must try that for myself,” says Mama.

“And you know what else the villagers do that's clever?” I say.

“If someone has a loose tooth,

they don't go to the dentist.

Oh, no!

Madame Raffin ties a long string around the tooth.

She ties the other end to the handle of the back door.

Then she slams the door shut.

One scream and the tooth is out.”

Mama doesn't say if she'll try that herself.

I change the subject back to food.

Mama's always interested in that.

“The day after Christmas the pigs are slaughtered.

That's the day women gather to make sausages and hams.

They smoke the meat by the fireplace.

Then, the best part of all!

They take all the leftovers and cook them together.

They say it's delicious.”

My mother looks at me, shocked.

Her parents were strict Jews.

They never touched pork.

To them, it was dirty.

“Well, well,” Mama manages to say,

“
that
I would like to see.”

“Ask Madame Raffin,” I say.

“I'm sure she'll invite you.”

By this time, we've walked back to the church.

A baptismal party comes down the steps.

The baby, crying in his godmother's arms,

wears a long white lace dress.

Someone tosses a handful of candy

from the open church.

All the children run for the candy.

I show my mother the blue candies I've gathered.

“See, it's a boy!”

Mama takes the candy away.

“You can't eat candy off the dirty ground,” she says.

“You'll get sick.”

Tears start to come,

but I blink them back as best I can.

Crying is for babies, isn't it?

“That's not fair!” I say.

“We always do it.”

Mama softens.

She looks left and right.

Everyone has gone home.

We go inside the church

and she washes my candy

in the holy-water font.

Then she wipes it on her sleeve.

She baptizes my candy and gives it back to me.

Now it is purified, and I can eat it.

Christmas comes and goes, and with it my mother.

She takes the train back to Paris,

and she doesn't try to make me go with her.

She never even mentions it.

Mama made me a pair of mittens,

pale blue with white snowflakes.

It's cold on New Year's Day, so I wear them.

That's the day children visit all the houses in our village.

“Happy New Year, good health,

and paradise at the end of your days,” we tell everyone.

In return, they give us coins and candy.

People say it's bad luck

if children don't visit you

on the first day of the year.

I say it's good luck

to be in a place

where children are so important.

I jingle my cold coins in one of my new mittens.

My candy melts in the other.

I'll use one of my coins to light a candle in church,

to thank God that I can stay in the Vendée.

Mama Comes Back

Before the snowdrops can push up

out of the frozen ground,

Mama's back.

She did her secret work as long as she could in Paris.

The police arrested her!

They caught her in the apartment

of some Jews who had gone into hiding.

Mama swallowed some secret papers

before the police could find them.

They let her go that time.

But now it's too dangerous for Mama to stay in Paris.

She can't risk being caught again.

Mama says she's decided to live with me in the country.

“Can we stay in Chavagnes-en-Paillers?” I ask.

“I don't want to leave my new family and friends behind.”

“No,” says Mama. “It's better to go somewhere else.

We have to make sure that no one knows we're Jewish.

To do that we'll need a new last name.

What do you think? Grand or Petit?”

“Petit!” I answer. “And what will my first name be?”

“You don't need to change your name,” Mama says.

“It's very French.”

But she says she will change hers to Marie.

“Like Madame Marie,” I say,

“and Madame Raffin.”

And the Virgin Mary, I think,

but I don't say that out loud.

“Yes,” says Mama, “like those two good women.

“Marie is also the French way of saying Miriam.”

Where
is
Aunt Miriam? I want to ask.

Are Sarah, Charles, Henriette, Serge, and Maurice with her?

But somehow I know better than to ask.

Aunt Miriam and my cousins have gone away,

that much I know,

like lots of Jewish people.

But no one talks about the people who have gone away.

Doesn't anyone know what has happened to them?

Maybe it's better not to know.

A Small Stone Cottage