Skating with the Statue of Liberty (22 page)

The manager stepped forward. “They are reserved for guests of the hotel,” he said impassively. “We cannot help you at this time.”

He looked at Rabbi Blum's yarmulke again, and Gustave suddenly realized what was going on. He felt shaky with rage.

“Very well.” Father René spoke abruptly. “Let's go, boys.”

“No waffles with melted butter and maple syrup,” Xavier said mournfully when they got to the lobby.

The two troop leaders were conferring in undertones, speaking English. Gustave edged closer to listen.

“It must be a restricted hotel,” Rabbi Blum said angrily. “They won't serve Jews. Look around. Do you see anyone else who seems Jewish here?”

“But Gustave was with me when we came in,” Father René said, sounding confused. “And the host was very friendly at first.”

“I guess he didn't realize Gustave was Jewish, but he saw my yarmulke when I came in. In any case,” Rabbi Blum said, “they don't want us, and I wouldn't spend any money here anyway. We'll find somewhere else.”

“These boys are ravenous. And there's nowhere around for miles.” Father René turned to the scouts. “Who cares if this restaurant is all booked up? We scouts don't need to eat in a restaurant, do we? We're not softies! Now that we've warmed up, let's all go have a campfire breakfast, the way we planned to at the old mansion. We'll find a
picnic spot close to the village, overlooking another spot on the lake. Are the same boys riding with me?”

Outside, the sun was higher and brighter, and the air seemed warmer, maybe because they had been standing in a heated space for a while. When they came to an open spot on the road overlooking Osprey Lake, the men parked and the boys ran around gathering firewood for a campfire. Rabbi Blum got food out of the back of his car, and André used the powdered milk to make hot chocolate in a saucepan. Xavier took Guy's bag of marshmallows and dropped one in each cup. Rabbi Blum started frying eggs as Father René sautéed potatoes.

Gustave took a mug of hot chocolate in his gloved hands. Osprey Lake stretched away, pale blue and glittering, to the horizon. Gustave took a hungry sip of hot chocolate, sweetened by the sticky melted marshmallow on top. Its richness ran through him, warming him and making him feel calmer. Even his toes felt warmer in his beaten-up shoes, although he was standing in the snow.

It was breathtaking here. America was a beautiful country. Maybe even almost as beautiful as France. But he still felt confused and angry. This was America! It was supposed to be a country where all people were equal, but that inn wouldn't serve Jews.

Some of the other scouts were sitting on a log by the fire, eating the first plates of eggs while Rabbi Blum made another skilletful. They were talking about which of them had tasted coffee and whether it was better than hot chocolate. None of the other scouts seemed to have
noticed or cared very much about what had happened in the restaurant.

“Here.” Jean-Paul was making toast by holding chunks of bread on a stick over the fire, and he handed a piece to Gustave. “To tide you over until you get your eggs. Doesn't food cooked over a campfire taste better than anything else in the whole world?”

“I know. Especially when it's so cold.”

“Hey, whatever happened with that girl you said was interesting? The one who was named after a month?”

“September Rose. Seppie. We're friends.” Thinking about her, Gustave wondered what was going on with her family, whether her grandmother and her brother were still fighting, and whether his black eye was getting better.

“Ooh, is she your girlfriend?” Jean-Paul teased him.

Gustave flushed. “No, just my friend.” He took a bite of the bread, which was crispy on the outside and soft and warm inside, tasting somehow like the fire and the smoke and the fresh, pure air all at the same time.

Jean-Paul glanced at Gustave, his face reddened from the heat of the fire. “I guarantee my toast is better than what we would have gotten in that stupid inn anyway,” he said. “I wouldn't eat their food if you paid me.”

A look of recognition flashed between them.

29

T
he city felt crowded and dirty compared to the frosty landscape around Osprey Lake. But it was also warmer. On Monday morning Gustave left his gloves at home for the first time, and as he walked to school, he noticed buds on some of the trees, and green shoots poking up from fenced-in areas of soil along the sidewalk. He was wearing his new blue pants and tie. He passed strangers on the street, and none of them stared at him or seemed to notice him at all. Nobody would know now just by looking at him that he hadn't been born in America. As he ran up the school steps, Gustave noticed that he was whistling “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, quietly to himself.

Posters about the rally in Battery Park were up all over the school.
VICTORY
! they announced in large letters.
YOUTH RALLY. BATTERY PARK. MUSIC
!
ENTERTAINMENT
!
SUPPORT THE WAR EFFORT
! Gustave walked self-consciously to homeroom, expecting someone to comment on his new
clothes at any minute, but nobody did. In fact, nobody said anything about them until lunch.

“Hey—new pants!” Miles said. “They look good.”

Leo looked over. “Yeah, you look normal now, Gus. So, did you fellows hear about the rally? There's going to be dancing!”

“Not dancing, roller-skating!” Stephen said.

“That's not what I heard,” Leo insisted.

And that was it. Gustave looked like one of the crowd now. He fit in. It felt great and not quite real at the same time, as if he were wearing a costume.

In third period there was an all-school assembly. It began with the usual sorts of announcements about the sewing club and basketball, and then Mrs. Hale, the principal, walked onto the stage. “I know we are all excited about the Victory Rally and the auditions for the chorus,” she said, smiling. There was a surge of cheering in the auditorium. “But I do have a few things to say about it,” she went on. “I want you all to remember that whether or not you are in the chorus, every one of you who attends the rally will be representing Joan of Arc Junior High. It'll be a big crowd, full of students from schools all over the city, and I expect you all to be on your best behavior. There will be police there, of course, keeping order—if you get separated from your group or need help, check in with one of them.

“And now, an important announcement. The rally organizers have also decided to hold a scrap drive, so they are asking everyone who attends to bring some tin cans. Ask your mothers and your other relatives and friends
to save them. The metal will be used to make military equipment—airplanes, tanks, ships, and smaller equipment too. Any questions?”

Stephen's hand was up. “Is it true there's going to be roller-skating at the rally?” he asked.

“Yes. There's a wooden platform up in the park because of some construction work, and the fire department is going to put a railing around it and turn it into a temporary roller-skating rink. There's also going to be music and a bonfire. You can bring your own roller skates or rent a pair there.”

Miles's hand shot up. “But, Mrs. Hale,” he asked worriedly when she called on him, “Battery Park is right on the water. Won't the light from the bonfire be dangerous? In the newspapers it says ships are getting torpedoed by U-boats, and that lights along the coast let the Nazis see where our ships are.”

“Yeah!” Frank called out. “That's why they dimmed the lights at the Statue of Liberty.”

“Let's remember to raise our hands before speaking. Yes, that's right, Miles, Frank. I'm pleased that you are all paying such good attention to the war news. But don't worry. The firemen are building the bonfire behind a barrier so that the light won't shine out to sea. The ships along our coast will stay safe.”

When the students returned to homeroom, Mrs. McAdams hushed them and turned to Gustave. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND, GUS?” she boomed at him. “MRS. HALE SAYS TO SAVE CANS AND WASH THEM. WASH, WASH?” She did it in pantomime.

“I understand,” he said, trying not to sound impatient. She didn't need to baby-talk at him anymore! “The cans will be used to make airplanes.”

“YES, GUS!” She sounded astonished. “GOOD BOY!”

“Gus gets everything now, Mrs. McAdams!” Frank said without raising his hand. “You don't have to shout.”

“VERY WELL!” She sounded amazed.

Yes, Gustave understood perfectly well. However, his mother almost never used commercially canned food unless she absolutely had to. She said canned food wasn't French. Gustave could ask his aunt, but somehow he was pretty sure that elderly Madame Raymond, who was so fussy about fruit, also didn't tolerate canned food. He didn't want to be the only one at the rally empty-handed. He thought about the problem on and off all morning.

At lunch, when Gustave was waiting in line to buy milk, someone tapped him on the shoulder. September Rose was standing behind him. “Are you going to have a lot of cans to bring?” she asked abruptly.

Gustave shook his head.

“I'm not going to have
any
!” she burst out indignantly. “My granma uses all of ours to make her birds! I can't ask her to let me have them. Those birds are so important to her—it would be mean! But what am I gonna do? There's Miss Noelle next door, but she saves all her cans for Granma. I mean, I could go door to door and ask, but Granma would never be okay with me talking to strangers like that.”

Door to door? Suddenly Gustave had an idea. “I know
Mr. Quong's customers. They aren't strangers. When I deliver for Mr. Quong, I could ask them for cans. Hey…” He glanced at her awkwardly. “You could come. I mean, if you want to. We could share the cans.”

“Sure!” She beamed at him as she picked up a bottle of chocolate milk. “That'd be swell!”

After school, when Gustave and September Rose got to Mr. Quong's, Gustave realized he hadn't thought about how Seppie was going to keep up with him when he was biking. “Do you mind riding in the basket?” he asked. “You can hold the packages.”

“
Whee!
This is the life! My own chauffeur!” September Rose shrieked, kicking her feet in the air as he started off.

With Seppie in the basket, he couldn't bike nearly as fast as usual. But it was fun to have company, and September Rose helped explain about collecting cans.

“It's for the war effort,” Gustave said to Mr. Davis, the first customer.

“Lots of junior highs are gathering for a Victory Rally,” September Rose jumped in. “We're all collecting cans so factories have metal to build tanks for the army and binoculars and things, and ships for the navy, and planes for the air force. I mean, isn't it amazing to think that your empty can of peas could be bobbing in the ocean in a few months, on its way to defeat the Japanese?”

Mr. Davis laughed. “It
is
amazing! I have some empty cans in the garbage. I'll get them.”

A few of Gustave's customers shook their heads, but most of them found one or two empty cans.

One building had a doorman who wouldn't let September Rose in. “I'm sorry,” Gustave said, feeling his face get hot as the doorman stood there with his arms crossed over his massive chest. “I have to deliver this.”

“Go ahead,” September Rose said stiffly. “I'll wait outside.”

Gustave had started with the uptown customers today, and as he got down to the last packages, he noticed a thick bundle for Mrs. Markham, the woman with all the small children who had given him his very first nickel tip. He and September Rose climbed up the six flights of stairs with the bulky package.

“I bet she'll help,” said September Rose, as Gustave was about to knock.

“How do you know? You never even met her!”

September Rose pointed at the blue-star banner on Mrs. Markham's door. “She has a banner just like ours. Haven't you noticed? It means her husband's in the war.”

“Oh! I thought it was just to be patriotic.” Gustave knocked and stood back, studying the banner.

“Hello, madame!” he said when she opened the door, holding her baby on her hip. “More diapers?”

“What else?” She smiled at him, looking tired, and pushed a wisp of sandy-colored hair behind her ear. Then she noticed September Rose behind him. “Who's that? Is that colored girl with you?” she murmured nervously.

“This is my friend September Rose. We're collecting cans for the war effort,” he said. “Do you have any?”

“For the Victory Rally,” September Rose added. “Our school is participating.”

“Oh, you're doing a scrap drive?” Mrs. Markham seemed to have recovered from her surprise. “Yes, I read somewhere that we should start collecting them. I have a few in the garbage, I think.” She opened the door wider and they stepped into the entryway. “Here, can you hold baby Robbie for a minute?” Mrs. Markham passed the baby to September Rose. Then she rolled up her sleeves and started going through her kitchen trash can. “Yes, there's one!” she said triumphantly, holding it up. “And another from yesterday.” She rinsed the cans and dried them on a towel. Then she opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of wax beans and removed the top with a can opener. “I'll make these for dinner tonight, so you can have this one too,” she said, dumping them into a saucepan and washing out the can. “Do you need a bag?” She pulled a shopping bag out of a drawer and put the cans in it. “Here, this will make them easier to carry. Just bring it back next time you come.”

“Great, thanks!” said September Rose, handing her back the baby. “Bye, Robbie! He's sweet!”

Mrs. Markham cradled her son, rubbing her chin on the baby's fuzzy head. “Anything to bring the men home. I see your parents got you some new pants,” she said to Gustave.

“No. I bought them. From tips and delivery money.”

“Good for you!”

“Oh, yeah, I didn't notice before,” September Rose said. “They look nice.”