Odette's Secrets (15 page)

But that can't be my fault.

He's been sick since before I came to the village.

“I'm not Jewish!” I yell back.

“And how could I kill Jesus?

I'm not old enough.”

Paul shouts, “Let's throw her in the water.

Shove her face under until she drowns.”

The children all rush at me.

I remember what they did to the kittens.

I must run from the stream, get away fast …

anywhere!

I throw things—food, cider, rocks, flowers.

I use my sandals to beat back my enemies.

Then I run as far as I can get from the water.

The children catch me at the hedge next to the pasture.

I scratch, spit, kick, scream.

“You killed Marcel!”

I hear the children say.

“We'll tell the soldiers about you.

Throw her in the thorn bush!”

Thorns are better than water, I think.

Anything's better than drowning!

Paul and the other boys roll me in the thorns.

Then, like hunters done with their prey, they leave me.

Simone grabs her satchel.

Without even a glance back at me,

she herds the cows home across the fields.

Bruised and scratched all over,

I roll away from the thorns into thick grass.

I lie there and pant in the sun until my heart stops pounding.

Then I reach for a daisy and pull off its petals, one by one.

“They're gone, they're not gone, they're gone,”

I repeat to myself.

When the last petal tells me that they really are gone, I get up.

My blue cotton dress is torn.

I find my sandals and put them on.

Then I kneel down to pray.

“Thank you, God, for saving me.

Please watch over my mother.”

I go back and find all the flowers I picked.

I'm going to take them straight to Mary.

On the way, I pass an old woman.

She's collecting twigs for a broom in her basket.

I might frighten her

with my tangled hair and torn dress,

covered with cuts and sores.

So I slip behind a tree

and wait until the old woman passes.

Why are all the children against me,

even my best friend, Simone? I wonder.

Maybe it's true that Marcel is dead,

but Mama said you can't live with tuberculosis forever.

I say all my prayers,

go to Mass,

and do well at my lessons.

What am I doing wrong?

I put my hand on the left side of my chest.

My star has been gone since I left Paris.

Did God punish me because I told a lie,

said that I was not Jewish?

But my mother told me to lie.

“It's a matter of life or death,” she said.

And the priest tells us to obey our parents.

Will the children ever play with me again?

Will I have to walk to school all alone?

Or worse, will people tell the Nazis we are Jews?

Will they send Mama and me somewhere far away?

If that happens, will we ever come back?

The sun goes down.

Crickets start to sing,

and the trees raise their arms like spooky ghosts.

I shiver in my thin dress.

Heartbroken

At last!

Here's the door to Père René's barn.

In the cold twilight I fall on my knees.

Our Lady's calm presence

and the mooing of the cows soothes me.

I put my flowers in one of the clay pots

farmers use for liverwurst.

Streaks of silver pierce the half darkness …

the shiny paper we used to decorate the altar this morning.

Mary stretches out her arms to me,

loving as always.

“Our Lady of Mercy,”

I pray, “I'm scared.

You know I didn't kill your son, or Marcel.

Why did even Simone turn against me?

Forgive me for my lies.

My mother made me promise

never
to say that we are Jews.

Please watch over us.”

I am so tired, and the barn is warm.

I feel faint.

But I hear a noise behind me …

is someone else in the barn?

Not Paul, I hope!

No, but I do see the hunched figure of an old man

leaning on a carved stick.

He holds a lit candle in his right hand,

a hand with one too many fingers.

Père René, the kitten drowner, watches me.

His face looks as pale as a turnip

in the candlelight.

How long has he been here?

Did his huge ears hear my prayer?

Père René takes his time, then speaks.

“You are a sight, Odette …

oh, those children!

Always in fights over nothing.

Come now, child.

Make yourself useful.

Help me light the rest of the candles for Our Lady.

Then you'd better go on home.

Your mother's been looking for you everywhere.

If you hurry,

I'll give you some warm milk fresh from the cows.

That will get you on your way.”

I find Mama sitting on her suitcase outside our cottage.

“We have nowhere to live,” she says.

“Our landlord has taken away our cottage.

He accused me of being a Jew

because his son died.

I was so worried about you.

I didn't want you to come home

and find the house empty.”

I tell Mama what has happened to me,

how the children accused me of being a Jew too,

and beat me up.

“Even Simone,” I tell Mama, “even my best friend.”

Mama makes room for me on the suitcase beside her.

I sit down and put my arms around her.

She puts her coat around my shoulders.

Together, we look up at the moon.

The moon gazes sadly back at us.

All we have is each other.

But Mama is a woman of action.

Even though it's late, she decides she must go,

right this minute,

to see the mayor in Saint-Fulgent.

She knows that he, like her, is a secret freedom fighter.

Mama tells me to hide in the cottage.

Soon she is back with the mayor.

“These people are not Jews,”

the mayor tells our neighbors.

“I know their family in Paris.”

Because he is the mayor,

the villagers pretend to believe him.

And Mama and I pretend to forget

what the villagers have done to us,

throwing us out of our home, beating me up.

We move back into our cottage.

Mama gives a party to show the villagers

that we are still ready to be friends.

She bakes a cake and invites all the children,

even Paul and Simone.

Everyone comes.

I pretend to have a good time.

I keep all my sadness and anger buried inside,

like all my other secrets.

It's safer that way.

I can't stop being scared, though.

So scared that one day I stop going to school.

So scared that I even stop talking.

Mute

Some new city people have moved to our village.

They brought their son's books.

He's a student who's now in the army.

The family lets Mama borrow

as many books as she likes.

Every morning I take one.

I put some bread and apples in my backpack.

Then I go to the forest.

I climb a tree to get away from everything.

There, alone with the bats and owls,

I read all day long.

I am free from people who can't be trusted.

Only my mother is sad about this.

Sometimes I want to say something to comfort her,

but no words will come out.

Weeks of silence go by.

My mother tries to talk to me.

She asks me questions.

Sometimes I even think I have answered her.

She says I haven't.

It seems I can't say a word.

One day my mother tells me another secret.

She's reading some poetry, she says.

She thinks it's beautiful, but she's not sure.

She can't tell.

The poetry is written in French.

French does not “sing” to her like her own language, Yiddish.

Maybe if I read it out loud she'll be able to tell.

She sits on our doorstep in the sunshine.

I sit next to her.

I begin to read in silence.

Then the beauty of the words overtakes me.

And life, pounding our breasts like a drum,

I read aloud,

threatened to gush and overflow our souls
….

I read on and on.

The words roll off my tongue.

“Papa will love this,” I say at last.

Mama's face shines.

I see Papa's face too, still wearing his army hat but smiling at me.

Distance has disappeared.

My mother, my father, and I are together again.

Poetry is stronger than the Nazis,

stronger than the war.

These words are so beautiful

they make me want to speak again.

The next day, I don't go to the forest.

I spend it reading poetry at home.

Sometimes I read aloud.

Day by day, I dare to say more.

After a while, Mama even talks me into going back to school.

I leave early and come home late

so that I won't have to walk with the village children.

But when I chant the litany with the other girls in class,

I feel like I'm reciting poetry.

That soaring inside me,

that's what it's like to be happy again.

My Guardian Angel