Skating with the Statue of Liberty (12 page)

“There are some guys I eat lunch with. And sometimes they choose me for their team at recess. There's a girl from school I talked to in the park one time. But she doesn't talk to me at school. I know she doesn't want people to say we're girlfriend and boyfriend, but still, she could at least talk to me a little.”

“Women!” Jean-Paul said. He pushed another airplane piece toward Gustave. “You want to paint this silver?”

“Sure.” Gustave took the tailpiece. “My mother told your mother we heard from Nicole, right? I got a letter with part of it blacked out. It was something about someone being arrested. But she didn't have any news about Marcel.”

“Yeah.” Jean-Paul had his head down and was concentrating on the propeller. “I don't think we're likely to get any news about him, you know,” he muttered after a while.

“We might. Nicole's father is in the Resistance, and he's still trying to get information.”

Jean-Paul just kept painting his airplane piece silently, without looking up.

“Time to go, Gustave,” Papa said, opening the door. “Ah, that's a nice airplane you're making there, Jean-Paul.”

“Thanks,” Jean-Paul said. “Bye.” He stayed in the room, painting, as Gustave went out to the kitchen and started putting on his still-damp shoes.

“So, I hope things keep going well with the job, Berthold,”
Aunt Geraldine said as his parents put on their coats. “It's hard to imagine you as a janitor, I must say. I guess you can't do much else with your foreign accent. It's a bit of a comedown for you! No fine clothes at work when you're a janitor, hmm?”

“It'll do for now,” Papa said stiffly, winding a scarf around his neck.

“It's such good news about David. Don't be annoyed with Geraldine, Berthold,” Maman said as they waited on the cold subway platform for the train home. “She just says whatever she's thinking. She doesn't mean any harm. She's always been that way.”

“Yes,” Papa said shortly. “Always rude!”

“Oh, you know you don't mean that! She's your sister-in-law, and you love her.”

“True. I do love my rude sister-in-law!” Papa said. Gustave listened, grinning to himself as he watched a pigeon calmly strutting around the empty subway track and pecking at the ground between the rails.

“That was some meal, wasn't it?” Maman commented. “They certainly are living well. Madame Raymond must give her a good salary.”

“Hmm.”

“But our jobs pay enough to manage on. We're here, and we're safe. We need to take it one day at a time.” Maman kissed Papa. Gustave looked away, scuffing his left shoe along the cement. He knew Papa
did
find it hard working as a janitor. He came home exhausted and
limping every evening, ate dinner quickly, changed out of his blue janitor's coveralls, and then three evenings a week, he left with Maman for two hours of night school. It was odd seeing him going off to work in that faded blue jumpsuit. Before the war, Papa had always gone to work sharply dressed in a suit with polished shoes. There had sometimes even been a brightly colored silk handkerchief peeking jauntily out of his pocket. Where are those silk handkerchiefs now? Gustave wondered suddenly. They must have been left behind, somewhere in France.

The train pulled into the station with a whoosh of heated air and the shrieking of brakes. The pigeon fluttered calmly up to the platform just in time and began strolling about again. The doors of the train hissed open, and Gustave and his parents got on. The doors shut and the subway train started up with a jolt. Colored lights flashed as the train rattled through the dark tunnel.

Jean-Paul had a pretty nice setup there in the Bronx, Gustave thought as his parents talked to each other. Good food, his own room, even the model airplanes. But why was Jean-Paul sure that they weren't going to hear about Marcel? An unpleasant thought floated into Gustave's head. What if one day he got a letter from Nicole with information about Marcel and his mother, and it was bad news? Until this moment, he had always imagined that when he finally heard some news, it would be good. But it might not be.

17

B
y the end of the school day on Monday, most of the snow on the streets had melted. There was a strong wind, and the sun kept coming out and then disappearing behind large banks of cloud. It was March, but it still felt like winter. Gustave pulled his coat tightly around him, remembering what they said in France about changeable March weather:
“Quand il fait beau, prends ton manteau.” When it is warm, bring your coat
. That was even more true here, in this cold American city.

As Gustave approached Quong's Hand Laundry at the corner of Amsterdam and 91st Street, he saw that the sidewalk in front of the store was partially blocked by a large, strange-looking yellow bike. It was a giant tricycle, really, with a wide basket between the two front wheels. It looked clunky and slow, but Gustave felt a sudden pang, missing the bicycle he had given to Nicole before he left France. She was no doubt riding it recklessly, the way she had ridden her old bike. Maybe even right now, an ocean
away, she was swooping up and down the hills around Saint-Georges.

This old tricycle on the sidewalk wouldn't win any races, but Gustave stopped to look at it. As he did, he noticed a sign in the window of the laundry:
HELP WANTED. DELIVERY BOY
.

If he had a job, he could buy those pants. And he could have some pocket money again. Through the window, Gustave saw the rack of secondhand clothes, and, with his heart pounding violently, he pushed open the door.

Mr. Quong looked up from his work at the counter. “Can I help you?”

Gustave stood up as tall as he could, trying to look and sound confident. “I would like ze job.” As he spoke, he heard his French accent on the word “the,” and he flushed.

“Ah.” Mr. Quong looked him over closely. “Can you ride a bike?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.” Gustave was glad that his birthday had been last month.

“My last delivery boy just quit with no warning. He turned eighteen, and he went right down to the army recruiting station and enlisted. The job is riding the bike and delivering laundry packages to customers three afternoons a week. A quarter per day, and you keep the tips. I'll give you a try. What do you say?”

“Yes!”

“Good. Come around the counter.”

Gustave did, and the cat followed, meowing insistently.
“I'll feed you in a minute, Molly,” Mr. Quong said absentmindedly. He showed Gustave a pile of packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, each one neatly labeled with a name and an address. Molly rubbed against Mr. Quong's ankles and then Gustave's, meowing again.

Looking at the addresses, Gustave had a sinking feeling. “I need to tell you—I am immigrated, two months ago, from France. I don't know all the streets yet.”

“Ah.” Mr. Quong nodded. “I was an immigrant too, from China. You'll learn.” He rummaged around behind the counter and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. “I'll give you this map. I'll number the deliveries so you know the best order to do them in. My customers don't live too far away, all within a mile or so. Once you learn, it'll be easy. They pay me when they drop the clothes off, so you don't have to collect any money when you deliver, except your tips, of course. Afterward, you lock the delivery bike in the alley. I'll show you where. Can you start right now?”

Gustave nodded. He carried the packages out to the delivery bike, stepping around the cat, who seemed to be getting in his way on purpose. Even without tips, in just three weeks he would have more than enough to buy the navy blue pants! A gust of wind roared down the street, and he adjusted his scarf around his neck. Straddling the bike, he waved goodbye to Molly, who had jumped back onto her blanket in the window, shoved down on the rusty pedals and started off.

It was harder to get around than it had looked. Some of the streets were one-way, and that wasn't marked on
the map. Cars honked at him, taxis swerved, and people shouted. Busses roared by, leaving foul-smelling exhaust in their wake. And Gustave hadn't noticed before, but now he realized how many other delivery men and boys there were riding bicycles on the street, some of them zipping in and out of the dangerous traffic like maniacs. One cut in front of Gustave just as he was going over a manhole cover, shouting something incomprehensible over his shoulder, and Gustave nearly toppled over. There were also more hills than you noticed when you were walking, Gustave thought, and the delivery bike was clunky and heavy, difficult to pedal up hills. Still, it was great to be back on something with wheels.

Mr. Quong had numbered the packages so that Gustave delivered first to the addresses on lower numbered streets and then worked his way uptown. The first package, for an address on 71st Street, was especially bulky. Gustave found a place to lock the bike the way Mr. Quong had shown him and trudged up six flights of stairs. On the apartment door was a rectangular white banner bordered in red with a blue star in the middle. As Gustave was examining it, the door opened and a tired-looking woman stood in the entryway with a baby on her hip and other children shrieking behind her.

“Oh, the clean diapers! And you brought them all the way up the stairs instead of leaving them at the bottom like the other delivery boy. Thank Heavens! I really need those. Can you put them on that table?” She gestured to a table near the door, and then, to Gustave's surprise, she
reached into her apron pocket and handed him a nickel. “This is for you.”

“Thank you!” Gustave bounded down the stairs and out the door to the street. His first American tip! He squeezed the coin happily and felt it getting warm in his hand; then he tucked it deep into his pants pocket.

The next delivery was to a run-down-looking apartment building on West 83rd Street. Gustave found the address and locked the delivery bike, but then he couldn't find his way in. At the first delivery, he had walked right into a hallway and gone up the stairs, but this building was different. It had a faded green door with a cracked pane of glass in the window, but it was locked. Next to it was a small grocery store. Gustave walked in. Dusty cans lined the shelves, and in the front were newspapers and magazines. A thin man with faded, coppery hair was alone at the cash register.

“Excuse me. I need deliver to this address,” Gustave said, showing the man the package.

The man was chewing on something. “Yeah, next door. We own it. Wait.”

He disappeared into the back of the shop. Gustave went out and stood in the cold by the locked door. Across the street, two older boys were throwing rocks against a garbage-can lid propped against a window. They shouted whenever one of them knocked it down onto the sidewalk with a clatter. Gustave watched until the man came back and unlocked the door. He looked hard at Gustave. “Third floor,” he said curtly.

Gustave ran up the stairs and knocked.

“What do you want?” shouted a voice behind the door.

“Delivery!” he called. The door opened a crack and a hand reached out, grabbed the package, and slammed the door. He could hear the bolt sliding back into place.

When he came out onto the street, the man was still standing at the door, but the boys had disappeared. Gustave unlocked the bike, straddled it, and pushed off. He was nearly at the corner when he heard a shout. “Stay offa our street, Jew-boy!” A rock clanged on the back tire rim and someone laughed just as another rock struck his hand.

Shaky with anger and fear, Gustave pedaled as fast as he could, uptown and away.

When he got to a busy intersection, he stopped, his leg muscles trembling, and sat down on the curb next to a grimy pile of snow. He pushed the top layer off, grabbed a clean handful from underneath, and held it against his sore hand. At first it stung badly, but after a minute the cool felt good. He left it until it melted into slush and fell off. He looked at the list of addresses and started off again, his legs shaky, his knees aching with the effort.

Jew-boy
. He heard the jeer in his head each time he pushed down on the pedal.
Jew-boy. Jew-boy
. After a while it shifted, turning into a taunt he had heard in France:
“Youpin. Youpin.”

By the time he got to the last delivery address, on 99th Street, it was nearly dark. His head was aching, and his fingers, clutching the cold handlebars,
were numb. Gustave found a railing and locked Mr. Quong's bike to it. He took the last package out of the rusty metal basket, climbed three flights of stairs, and rang the doorbell. This door had a blue-star banner on it too.

Nothing. He rang the bell again, impatiently, stamping water off his feet. He could hear a small dog barking excitedly inside. What if no one was there? He hadn't thought to ask Mr. Quong what to do if that happened. But after a moment he heard quick, light steps coming to the door. He saw the peephole darken as someone peered out, and then the door swung open. There in the entryway stood September Rose.

“Hey, it's you! Why are you here?” she blurted out.

Gustave felt awkward and very aware of his nose, red and drippy from the cold outside.

“This is for you,” he mumbled, holding out the laundry package.

September Rose took it. “Oh. From the laundry. You deliver for Mr. Quong now?”

“I started today.”

“Do you have a lot more to do?”

“No—yours is the last.”

September Rose hesitated in the doorway, looking at him as if she wanted to say something more. Her hair was curled closely against her cheeks, and she was wearing her long chain of beads looped around her neck again. Over her shoulder, Gustave glimpsed a small, glittery room, crowded with a plush pink sofa and other pieces of
furniture. Warmth and a rich, sweet, spicy smell drifted toward him, making his stomach growl.

“Have you done the geography reading yet?” September Rose asked.

“No.” Remembering all the schoolwork he still had to struggle through, Gustave felt bone-achingly cold and tired.