Skating with the Statue of Liberty (18 page)

When Gustave came out of the men's room, Cousin Henri was waiting in the lobby. “Are you all right?” He put his arm gently around Gustave's shoulders. “Maybe that cheesecake was too rich for you, eh?”

Gustave felt as if he might throw up again if he opened his mouth to speak. The pattern in the carpet swam in front of his eyes.

“Let me get you something. Come.” Gustave let himself be led to the refreshment counter, where more American food gleamed, colorful, plentiful, tantalizing.

“One Coke,” said Cousin Henri. Gustave started to shake his head, feeling ashamed about all the food he was eating and all the money Cousin Henri was spending on him. But the young woman behind the counter was already handing Cousin Henri a green glass bottle.

“Here.” Cousin Henri smiled slightly. “Coca-Cola—the taste of America! Go ahead, try it—it will settle your stomach.”

The bottle was cold and smooth in Gustave's hand. The coolness felt good. He tipped it toward his mouth.

Coca-Cola fizzed on his tongue, startling him. The taste was intensely, cloyingly sweet and utterly disgusting. It was like medicine, like cod liver oil. He swallowed what was in his mouth to be polite, but he shuddered as it went down, intense pain shooting through his head again.

“There now, that's better, isn't it?” Cousin Henri asked worriedly.

Gustave nodded, but he couldn't take another sip. Instead he turned and walked back into the theater toward their seats. Jean-Paul was still watching the screen. The newsreels had finished, and the movie was starting up again. Maybe Jean-Paul hadn't understood enough English to know what the newsreel was about. But there had definitely been a boy on the screen in that prison camp. A boy Marcel's age.

Elephants moved across the screen and then gibbering monkeys swung. The soldiers in the row in front laughed, and one of them tossed a piece of popcorn up in the air. Couldn't the American army do something about those prison camps where people were starving? Why wouldn't America at least let more Jews in? The movie blurred in front of Gustave's eyes, and he blinked hard to clear his vision. Now it was past the point in the story when they had first come in, but Cousin Henri and Jean-Paul were still happily watching. On the screen Mowgli was coming to the human village again. Buldeo, the angry man from the village, was saying they shouldn't let Mowgli enter, that he wasn't a person like the villagers. “He is a wolf,” Buldeo said, his face huge and scowling on the giant screen. “Let one in, and all will follow.”

“He's a boy!” Gustave wanted to shout at the movie. “Let him in! He's not a wolf. He's a human being!”

23

T
he next Saturday Gustave went with Maman and Papa to the French synagogue on the Upper East Side. His parents wanted to meet the rabbi and arrange for him to begin tutoring Gustave for his bar mitzvah. The rabbi was already working with Jean-Paul. The plan was for both of them to get bar mitzvahed together in the fall, a few months late. It was going to mean a lot of studying between now and then.

They walked across Central Park to get to the East Side. The snow was completely gone now, and the ground was thawing, leaving unsightly stretches of mud where there would soon be grass. A faint reddening on some of the trees showed where leaves would be sprouting in a week or two. But there were no flowers yet, not even snowdrops or crocuses, Gustave noticed.

Papa was walking slowly and heavily, and Gustave had gotten ahead of his parents. He paused, and as they approached, he heard a snatch of their conversation. “I don't
know how we are going to be able to afford to pay the rabbi for tutoring Gustave,” Maman murmured. “And a suit for him to wear on the big day? His clothes are looking so disreputable. How are we going to afford that?”

“We'll work something out. I might have a lead on a better job.” Papa paused and rubbed his leg.

“Why didn't you bring your walking stick?” Maman scolded. “Sabbath or no, we'll take the bus home.”

The synagogue was small and old and friendly-looking. They went in, and Papa collapsed into one of the back rows. Maman went upstairs to the women's balcony. Jean-Paul turned around from a pew in the front and hurried back to sit with them. He was wearing an American suit with long pants that went all the way down to his ankles.

Services at the synagogue were very similar to the way they had been in Paris, partly in Hebrew and partly in French. The rabbi had a kind, weary-looking face. After services most of the congregation went down to the basement for
kiddush
, the meal after prayer. The room filled up quickly. Gustave was surrounded by so many voices speaking French that he could have been back in Paris. There was something familiar even about the strangers' faces around him, something that tugged at him, reminded him of home.

“Want to see what I brought?” Jean-Paul pulled Gustave into a corner behind some drapes. “My mother said not to, so don't tell.” He pulled a rolled-up Superman comic from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. On the
front, Superman was punching a cowering villain.
“Pow!”
it said above him in large, electric-looking letters. Gustave flipped the pages as Jean-Paul animatedly explained the stories.

“Too bad he isn't in the American army,” Gustave said, handing it back. “The war would be over tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Jean-Paul turned to a large picture. “Look—here he stops bad guys who are about to blow up a dam.”

Aunt Geraldine came toward them out of the crowd of people, and Jean-Paul quickly stuffed the comic back into his suit pocket, trying to look innocent. “Gustave,
viens ici
!” Aunt Geraldine said. “I want to introduce you to Rabbi Blum. His family came from Paris too, some years ago. He's tutoring Jean-Paul, and he'll be tutoring you too. He also leads the Boy Scouts. Come, Jean-Paul, let's let them talk.”

The rabbi was drinking a cup of coffee. He had kind, bright eyes in a thin face and curly, graying hair. “I've heard a lot about you from your aunt and cousin. So you'll be studying Torah with me. Are you looking forward to your bar mitzvah?”

“Well, I'm a terrible singer. I don't want to sing in front of everybody,” Gustave said.

Rabbi Blum chuckled sympathetically. “Chanting Torah isn't the same as singing. Don't worry. Just be loud and clear, and you'll do fine. We'll practice until you can do it in your sleep.”

Another man tapped the rabbi on the shoulder, and he started to move away.

“Wait, can I ask you something?” Gustave blurted out.

“Bien sûr.” Of course
. The rabbi paused, looking patiently at Gustave.

“Do you know any way to find people—Jews—in France? Ones who have disappeared?”

The rabbi suddenly looked exhausted and much older. “That's a lot harder than the singing problem. Have you asked the people at the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society?”

“My father did. He filled out some forms. But we haven't heard anything.”

“That's probably the best thing you can do. But, Gustave…” The rabbi hesitated, looking at him sympathetically. “I know so many people here who are trying to communicate with friends and relatives in Europe without any luck. It's just chaos over there. We may have to wait until after the war.”

Something in the room was making Gustave dizzy. The man behind Rabbi Blum tapped him on the shoulder again, insistently, and the rabbi clasped Gustave's hand and moved away.

“Hey! Come on!” Jean-Paul was in a line across the room, waving at him. Gustave made his way between the groups of people. The room was too crowded and too bright, and the rapid French conversation felt too loud.

“What took you so long?” Jean-Paul asked cheerfully. “Look, there's challah and pastries! I saved you a spot in line.”

A stout woman with two small children was just ahead of them. The older boy yanked her arm, swinging on her, and banged against Gustave's shin. Gustave stepped back
and rubbed it. “I asked Rabbi Blum if he could help us find Marcel.”

“What? You asked him about…Marcel?” Jean-Paul's voice dropped to a whisper at the last word, as if there were something shameful about talking about him.

Rage surged up in Gustave. “Yeah.
Marcel!
Our best friend, remember? Who's stuck back in Europe? Or don't you care? Doesn't
anybody
care?”

Jean-Paul's face flamed, and his voice got louder. “Of course I care! But you act like you don't know anything about what's going on. It's dumb to talk about it. There's just
no point
. Talking about it just gets everyone upset.”

“Shut
up
!” Gustave shouted. “Of course there's a point!”

Heads turned in their direction. The boy in front of them stopped swinging on his mother's arm and looked at them with wide eyes.

“Don't you get it?” Jean-Paul yelled back. “They kill Jews for no reason at all! After you left Paris and the Nazis came, I saw them beat up an old man, right in front of me. He could hardly walk. He didn't get off the sidewalk and into the gutter fast enough for them. They kicked his cane out from under him and they beat him
to death
! Right there on the street!”

The man behind them put his hand on Jean-Paul's shoulder. “Hey! Shhh!” he said. Jean-Paul shrugged away from the man's hand, but his voice got quieter.

“It was horrible,” he said. “Blood was everywhere. Marcel is probably dead, Gustave. You're not stupid. You know it's true. Why won't you just admit it? You know his
family's from Poland, and the first people the Nazis took were the Polish Jews living in France. If the Nazis got him, Marcel is probably dead.”

The room was suddenly impossibly bright and clear. It shattered into fragments, and then the shards pulled back together dizzyingly, slightly askew.

“It isn't true! The Nazis might not have gotten Marcel. He isn't dead! How can you say that? He isn't!” Gustave backed away, knocking over a folding chair. “I'm going!” he shouted. “Tell them I'm going home!” Slipping in between groups of people, he ran toward the stairs, up, and out onto the street.

It couldn't be true. Marcel couldn't be dead.