Odette's Secrets (16 page)

One morning when I push back the potato sack

that hangs over our front door in summer,

I find Simone waiting for me.

“Come and play with us, Odette,” she says.

So I do.

But when we throw pickup sticks,

jump rope, or play ball,

I'm careful about what I do.

I'm still afraid of the village children.

What if a fight breaks out?

Will they make things my fault?

Père René is my new guardian angel.

He's always there.

He sharpens his scythe outside his cottage,

smokes his pipe with his dog at his feet,

and watches us,

ready at once to settle a fight.

I think I know why.

My six-fingered friend knows what it's like to be different.

Heart and Soul

Soon it will be harvest time, my favorite time of the year.

Men, women, and children sing together

while they load baskets with sweet grapes.

My favorite job is to follow the wheat harvester

and gather the shimmering stalks left in the grass.

In school, we learn about the five senses.

Our teacher asks us to write about our
pays
,

the place where we live.

We must write a poem about our
pays
in five parts,

one for each of the senses.

We can name all the sounds we like.

We can tell what smells, tastes, looks, or feels good to us.

I think about this on my way home from school.

I look at everything I pass on the road.

When I get to our village, I look at all the houses,

the winepress, even the black pond.

I take a walk through the forest to my favorite reading tree.

I stare.

I listen.

I touch.

I taste.

I smell.

Then I begin.

“I love my
pays.

I love the sounds of the barnyard, the church bells,

and accordion music.

I love the smells of the flowers and the incense in church,

and the newly cut hay.

I love the taste of warm cow's milk and cool cider,

of blackberries and roasted chestnuts

and stew on winter nights.

I love the sight of lightning tearing up the sky,

of the golden flypaper shining in the sunlight.

I love the feel of the brook's fresh water between my toes,

and the weight of a ladybug on the back of my hand.”

As I walk home,

I remember I have heard about a sixth sense.

When I ask Mama about it, she says that perhaps it is fear.

Fear is still with me.

I might be beaten again.

I might be drowned or my cat might be drowned.

Worst of all, Mama and I could be chased out of our village.

We could be sent on a long train journey, far away from France.

Reading helps me forget about fear.

I read everything from the
Farmer's Almanac
to fairy tales.

Poetry is still what I love best.

It doesn't matter if I don't understand it.

I can just listen to its music, or even read it to a cat or a cow.

I find a book by the Spanish saint Teresa of Avila.

It's almost like poetry.

On the first page, Saint Teresa says,

“We can think of our soul as a castle

made entirely of diamond or very clear crystal,

in which there are many rooms,

just as in heaven there are many dwelling places.”

This is much grander than,

“The heart is like an apartment.”

But Madame Marie lives in a tiny apartment.

Saint Teresa lived in a large convent.

So to her, the soul was like a castle.

Is the soul greater than the heart,

or is it just the same?

I'm not sure …

but I suspect it's the same.

People sometimes say they love with all their heart and soul.

So the heart and soul must be like twins,

helping people love all that's good and true,

no matter where they find it.

Mother's Day

Mama's sad and lonely.

No letters have come from Papa in a long time,

and she never hears from her family anymore.

One day, I see a pin in the shop window in Saint-Fulgent.

It glitters in sunset colors, pink and gold.

Mama would love it,

I just know she would.

And I know where Mama keeps our money.

I'll take some, just a little,

and I'll buy her a Mother's Day present.

It'll be a surprise!

After all, I earned some of it myself during harvest, didn't I?

Mama is outside at work in the garden.

I pry back the loose floorboard under the kitchen table.

I lift out the money jar.

I take out two silver coins, only two.

Then I put the jar and the board back.

I go to the shop to buy the pin.

The shopkeeper wraps it for me in pretty paper.

I make a Mother's Day card to go with it.

I spend a long time drawing violets on it, one by one.

Then I hide my card and present.

Will the violets remind Mama of the cologne she used in Paris?

I hope so … I can't wait for Sunday.

But on Saturday morning Mama counts our money.

“Odette,” she says, “some money is missing.”

I tell her I don't know anything about it.

“I think you do,” says Mama.

“You are the only one who knows where I keep our money.”

So I tell her it's true.

But I won't tell her what I did with it.

It's a secret.

Mama's eyes flash.

“I didn't raise you to be a liar,” she says, “or a thief!”

A liar? A thief?

But all I'm doing is keeping a secret …

and Mama is the one who
taught
me to keep secrets.

Mama slaps my face, hard.

Bijou is shocked, and so am I.

The shape of Mama's hand stings my cheek.

It feels like fire.

But I don't say anything.

I just climb into my bed with Bijou.

I cuddle her,

and she licks and comforts me.

We both calm down.

The next morning, I bring Mama my Mother's Day present.

“Now I know where the money went,” Mama says.

She tries to smile, but tears well up in her eyes.

Mama, who is so strong, who
never
cries, is sobbing.

I put my arms around her.

I don't tell her not to cry.

I know now crying can help you feel better.

Beautiful Bluma

Mama gets a letter that makes her hum with happiness.

Her old friend Bluma is coming for a visit.

She and Mama grew up in Poland together.

Bluma's husband is a French Christian,

and she speaks French with no accent.

Even so, her family is afraid …

someone might find out she is a Polish Jew.

Maybe, if she likes it in the country,

she will come and live with us.

Then Mama won't be so lonely.

Beautiful Bluma arrives,

in a silky blouse

and soft shoes.

Her eyelashes are the longest I've ever seen.

She has no children of her own

and makes me feel like her favorite niece.

Bluma has an expensive camera in a leather case.

She takes photographs of Mama and me,

of curving country lanes,

and of windmills and waterfalls.

At night, in the firelight,

we eat all the delicious dishes Mama has made for us.

Bluma has brought us chocolate too.

It's been so long since I tasted it,

I almost forgot its sweet bitterness,

and how it melts on my tongue.

Mama begs her friend to stay.

Bluma's face is pale in the dim light.

She
is
afraid, she tells us,

but she just can't leave the home she loves

and the husband she loves even more.

No, she will go back to Paris.

After only a few days,

we walk Bluma back to Saint-Fulgent.

The bus comes,

and she climbs on board.