Odette's Secrets (3 page)

“What makes us Jews?”

I ask Mama one night

while she brushes my hair at bedtime.

My family never goes to the synagogue

on Friday nights for Sabbath

like some Jewish people we know.

Mama and Papa don't believe in religion.

They like celebrations, though.

Mama makes cakes for Sabbath nights,

and Papa brings me treats …

books, chocolates, and toys.

I like books and dolls best,

but I pretend to like wind-ups

because Papa loves them so.

Are our Friday nights enough to make us Jewish?

No, Mama says.

We are Polish Jews because

Mama's and Papa's parents and grandparents

in faraway Poland

are all Jews.

Most of our friends and relatives in Paris are Jews too.

But Mama and Papa don't speak Polish anymore.

Our family speaks French.

And we live in Paris now, not Poland.

So why are we Polish Jews?

One thing I know for sure: we never have Christmas.

Madame Marie and most French people do.

Last December, Madame Marie wanted to give me a present.

A shopkeeper she knew stored holiday decorations

in a warehouse in our courtyard.

She said I could choose one …

a snowy village or a crèche.

I wanted the crèche!

I liked the stable with the mother, the father, the baby,

and all the little animals.

But somehow I knew

my mother would not want the Baby Jesus

in our apartment.

I chose the village instead.

We are different.

We speak French,

but we aren't French.

We live in France,

but we're really Polish.

All our relatives are Jews,

so we are Jews.

And even though we like celebrations,

we won't have Christmas in our home.

Not ever.

War Comes

One warm September day,

Mama comes to get me early from school.

“We're going to meet Papa,” she says.

I am so excited to leave,

I don't ask why.

Mama and I go to the square

in front of our apartment,

the one with the green fountain.

Papa is there with his newspaper, reading.

He kisses us both.

His brown eyes, often shining, are serious today.

Mama sits down next to him on a bench.

“Go and play, Odette,” Papa says.

Mama gives me some stale bread to feed the pigeons.

She and Papa talk in low, worried voices,

but I hear two words, “war” and “Poland.”

The pigeons pick and peck

in the dappled light

around the splashing fountain.

I scatter crumbs for them.

Then I pass by the gypsies who are always there

and look at the statue of a man.

He leans forward on his knee

with his chin propped up on his hand.

Papa once told me he's called
The Thinker.

What are his thoughts?

Is he worried about war and Poland?

Or does he wonder what I wonder …

why doesn't he have any clothes on?

That night, I lie in bed under my yellow blanket.

I rub the holy medals of saints stitched around it.

Strong Saint Christopher and brave Saint Michael

will keep me safe, Madame Marie told me

when she gave it to me.

Mama doesn't think this is true,

but she lets me keep the medals anyway.

“Your godmother made that blanket for you out of love,”

Mama says.

I listen to my parents' murmurs in the next room.

Here's what they are talking about: war, again.

I think the soldiers we saw on the cinema's screen

are marching closer now.

Are they coming to get us?

The Dark

I tell Madame Marie about those soldiers

and how afraid I am of them.

“I was afraid of things too,

when I was a little girl,” she says.

“What were you afraid of?” I ask her.

She closes her eyes and sits for a while in thought,

her sewing in her lap.

Then she opens them again and licks her thread

to sharpen it for her needle.

“The dark,” she says, “and big dogs.”

“Oh, I am afraid of the dark and big dogs too,” I say,

“but I am
more afraid
of the soldiers!”

Madame Marie's eyes meet mine.

Slowly she nods her head.

She understands everything.

Papa Goes Away

Hitler and his soldiers are called Nazis.

Papa can't wait to fight them!

As soon as the war begins,

he and Uncle Hirsch and Uncle Motl

all try to join the French army.

Uncle Motl has five children,

so the army sends him home.

But Papa and Uncle Hirsch have only one child each,

me and my cousin Sophie.

Before long, they are allowed to join.

I help Papa pack his things.

I put his gray socks and striped underwear and razor

in the bottom of the brown canvas bag

Madame Marie made for him.

Papa puts his favorite book, his blue dictionary, on top.

“When I come back,” he tells me,

“I will know
every single word
in this book!”

I try to smile,

but I don't care about Papa's dictionary as much as he does.

What I wonder is,

who will read to me now from his
Encyclopedia of Learning
?

Who will show me the teepees of the American Indians,

the huge scary dinosaurs that lived so long ago,

and the twins and fish that hide in the starry skies?

Mama is always busy.

I already know who will read the
Encyclopedia
to me.

Nobody
.

No Eggs or Milk, No Jews or Dogs

Aunt Georgette and my cousin Sophie come to live with us.

I like Sophie.

She shares all her outgrown clothes and toys with me.

Sophie and I listen under the table

while our mothers talk.

Fear is in their voices.

They always talk about the same things: