Skating with the Statue of Liberty (27 page)

37

A
fter that, things were a bit of a blur. Gustave's parents were upset when he got home, but after he told them the whole story, their anger turned to concern. “Their poor grandmother,” Maman said. “What's she going to do now, with her grandson hurt and in jail? Still, I thought it wasn't such a good idea for you to spend so much time with that girl, Gustave.”

Papa nodded. “The way things are in this country, it's just asking for trouble, being friends with Negroes. It's tough enough being in a new country. Why make things harder on yourself?”

Hot anger washed over Gustave. “Her name's September Rose, not ‘that girl'! And we
are
friends! It's not her fault that Negroes are treated badly here. And what you're both saying about not being friends with Negroes—people said the exact same thing about Jews in France!”

Gustave felt shaky and sick. He had never felt so different
from his parents before. “And anyway, it isn't supposed to
be
like that here in America!” he added miserably.

Maman looked at him worriedly. Papa set down his cup of tea, and it clattered against the saucer. “Gustave, this is something you know as well as we do by now, I'm afraid. The grand proclamations countries make and what really happens, how people really behave—those are often two very different things.”

September Rose wasn't in school the next two days. On the second day she was out, Mrs. McAdams asked in homeroom if anyone could bring September Rose her homework assignments. Gustave immediately raised his hand to volunteer, ignoring the comments and giggles coming from the back of the classroom.

After he rang the Walkers' doorbell, he waited longer than usual, and then he heard a thumping sound. September Rose opened the door, standing on one foot. Her face was still scratched, and she looked tired. “I'm supposed to keep my foot up,” she said, hopping back to the sofa. “Come on in.”

Gustave perched on the armchair across from her, watching her prop her bandaged foot up on a stack of pillows. “I brought your homework,” he said. “Does your ankle hurt a lot?”

“No, it's much better today. I'll be able to walk tomorrow.” The swinging door to the kitchen opened slightly. Chiquita's nose poked through, and then she pattered
in, wagging her tail. September Rose brightened. “Look who's here, Cheeky! Your rescuer!”

Chiquita licked Gustave's hand, stayed to be patted for a moment, and then jumped up next to September Rose. Seppie lifted her up and rubbed her face against Chiquita's. “Thanks so much for finding her,” she said. “I was so worried that maybe she'd gotten hit by a car.” Her voice turned hard. “Or kicked by one of the cops, and that she was curled up wounded in an alley somewhere and I'd never see her again.”

Now that she had mentioned what had happened with the police, Gustave thought it was all right to talk about it. “Do the cops still have your brother?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. Alan's home now. He's sleeping.”

“Is he all right?”

“The doctor said he had a lot of bruising and two cracked ribs. It hurts when he takes a deep breath.” Her voice turned angry. “And the police charged
him
with assault and disrupting the peace. Him and the others in his Negro Youth Group.”

Gustave stared at her, confused. “Wait—who is charged with assault? Alan and his friends? Not those men who attacked them?”

“Yes. It's so unfair!” September Rose was almost crying. “Only Alan and his group are being charged. And they didn't do anything wrong. But the men who attacked them—not a single thing is happening to them. That man who kicked Alan and broke his ribs—the cops
just let him go! It's so unfair, Gustave. Alan's court date is next month. We're going to have to hire a lawyer, and lawyers are really expensive. Granma is so upset. She's off talking to some ladies from the church now.”

Gustave stared at her. “I'm really sorry,” he said finally.

“I know. Can you believe this is happening?” Her voice was loud and shaky. “Remember that song I sang at the audition? ‘Crown thy good with brotherhood!' ” she quoted bitterly. “I mean, I knew about bad things a few stupid white people did, of course. Calling Negroes dumb names. Not letting us in some restaurants and theaters and stuff. Looking at us suspiciously in stores. But in school, at Joan of Arc and back in elementary school, the teachers always said, ‘The police are your friends.' ‘If you get in trouble, go to the police.' I was so dumb, I believed it!” She pounded the sofa cushion, almost crying. “They beat up Alan, and now
he
has to go to court!”

“Seppie! Settle down!” Alan was standing in the doorway of the living room. He nodded at Gustave, to Gustave's surprise. Moving carefully, he eased himself down onto the sofa next to his sister, patting her on the back. “It's not so bad, String Bean.”

“How can you say that?” She wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand.

“What happened was lousy, of course, you're right. But it's actually good, in a way, because now people are going to hear about our protest.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Roberta's cousin was there. He got some photographs
of us all being attacked by the police. He's taking them to the
Amsterdam News
and then some other Negro newspapers.”

“You think they'll write about what happened?” Seppie's face brightened slightly.

“The store not hiring Negroes, the protest, and the attack by the cops—all of it. It's big news. Didn't you hear the phone ring earlier today? That was Willie, telling me that one of the ministers at our church wrote a letter to the editor of the
New York Times
about ‘respectable Negro teens being attacked during a peaceful protest.' He just heard that it's going to be printed tomorrow!”

“Really? The
Times
? That's good….” Her voice trailed off.

Alan cuffed her in a friendly way. “It's better than good, you moron! That's what we're doing it all for! People paying attention is what's going to make things change.”

“And I expect sales aren't so good at Baumhauer's right now,” Gustave added.

Alan looked at him as if he had forgotten he was there, then grinned. “You're right, Frenchie! No Negroes are shopping there now, and their profits are
way
down.”

“His name is Gustave!” September Rose protested, swatting her brother.

“Goose-tav.” Alan made a face. “If you insist, Seppie, but that name's a real tongue twister. Anyway, listen, Goose-tav. Sorry about when we met. I guess I was wrong about you. You're all right. You two just be careful when you're together, hear? But thanks for getting my sister home that night. And thanks for finding her dog.
She wouldn't know what to do with herself without that mangy mutt, would you, Sep?”

“Who you calling a mangy mutt?
You're
a mangy mutt!” September Rose jumped up and tossed Chiquita's ball at her brother. The ball bounced off his shoulder and hit the tin-can birds dangling in front of the window, making them jingle against each other.

“Ooh, you're in for it now!” Alan snatched up the rubber ball and hurled it back at her as she held a pillow in front of her face as a shield, giggling madly.

September Rose was back in school the next day, on crutches. Gustave hardly got a chance to speak to her, because she was suddenly so popular. At lunch and recess, lots of kids asked for a turn on her crutches, swinging around the cafeteria and the blacktop, yelling and laughing and lining up for extra turns. But the next week September Rose was walking again, so things were back to normal, except that, now that it was the week before the Victory Rally, the chorus members got out of all their afternoon classes to rehearse.

“No geography for me today!” September Rose exulted to Gustave one day after lunch. “Don't you wish you were in the chorus now?”

Gustave shuddered. “Absolutely not!”

When the day of the rally came, excitement in the school was so high that most of the teachers gave up on getting
the students to do any real work. School ended early, right before lunch, and Gustave hurried home. He had to change into his scout uniform and his new American pants and get his bag of flattened cans. Jean-Paul was coming over, and then the two of them were going to take the subway down to Battery Park together for the rally.

Gustave checked his family's mailbox in the lobby, as he did every day. His fingers felt only the cool metal. Nothing. He felt his usual stab of disappointment, but he shoved it away, slamming the door of the mailbox shut and running up the stairs. Today was a day for celebration.

The apartment was empty. Papa was at work, of course, and Maman was off delivering her completed piecework to the factory. But on the white tablecloth was a pale blue airmail envelope. N.M., La Chaise, Saint-Georges, he read.

This is it
, a voice inside him said.
This letter has the information about Marcel
. A shiver ran through him. He picked up the envelope. So thin, so light. But what was in it might be the most important thing in the world.

As always the envelope had been cut open at each end by the censors and resealed. Gustave took a deep breath, ran a shaky finger under the flap, and tore it open. A flimsy sheet of pale blue paper fell out.

28 March, 1942

Cher Gustave
,

Finally your letters came—two of them on the same day. Weird. They must have gotten held up somewhere. So how's
it going? Do you like life in America more now that you are getting used to it? Not much is new here in sleepy Saint-Georges, and that's the way we like it
.

You wanted to hear more of my rutabaga recipes, but we've run out of rutabagas. Lately we've been eating Jerusalem artichokes for every meal. And believe me, I am thoroughly sick of them! At this point I would jump up and down if I saw a rutabaga. Jerusalem artichokes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—mashed, boiled, and in soup. And then yesterday I tried to make a quiche. But with only two eggs and gritty flour, it was mostly a paste of mashed Jerusalem artichoke. Papa ate it, but he looked a little green!

By the way, I'm glad you enjoyed my colorful letter. I had to look really closely because your handwriting was faint at times in your last letter. Thanks for sending greetings from our friend Lorraine—what a surprise!

I am writing this at recess. Sylvaine is racing Yvonne around the school yard. I can see that Sylvaine will win. Jean and Henri are kicking a ball. It just rolled over a game of marbles. Philippe won Armand's best green glass shooter and then the ball rolled over the game and destroyed it. I think Jean and Henri kicked the ball over the game on purpose!