Gustave helped Papa heave a heavy roll of woolen cloth into the back of the truck.
“No one will notice that cloth unless they’re really looking!” Papa exclaimed as he threw a sheet of canvas over it. “Not that the Germans really care what you bring into the occupied zone. But if they see something they want, they’ll find an excuse to confiscate it.”
“We’re going into the occupied zone?” Gustave shivered and tucked his hands under his armpits to warm them.
“None of the farms on this side have any meat to spare,” Papa said. “Or much food of any kind, now that it’s winter.” He picked up a heavy box and shoved it into the truck, positioning it in front of the roll of cloth. “That’s why I need you to come along,” he went on, straightening up. “I don’t want them to search the truck when we cross the demarcation line coming back. They do search every now and then, but I’ve never seen them do that when there’s a child in the vehicle. A man alone is a more suspicious character, I guess.”
“But I’m not Swiss,” Gustave said. “Don’t I need a pass?” He handed Papa another box.
Papa slid it into the truck. “My papers will do for us both,” he answered. “Don’t worry.”
“Where are we going to cross the river?” Gustave asked, blowing on his fingers and trying to sound curious, not nervous. “At the bridge between Saint-Georges and Chissay?” Even with Papa, he didn’t want to cross over the bridge where Julien had marched.
“No, at Montrichard,” Papa answered. “I’ve gotten to know Hans, one of the guards at the border there. Since it’s Wednesday, he’ll be on duty. It helps to have the right papers, but it also doesn’t hurt that I learned German growing up in Switzerland, so I can joke around with him in his native language.” Papa laughed as he slammed the rear of the truck closed. “If I ask him about his girlfriend on our return trip, we’ll really hold up the traffic behind us! He’ll be much too busy telling me how much he misses her to look for black-market food.” Papa started to whistle as they climbed into the truck.
They wound through the roads heading toward the Montrichard bridge. The sheen of ice glittered on the river. As they got to the line at the checkpoint, Papa stopped whistling and slowed the truck, stopping behind a shiny, black automobile. Gustave peered ahead. A striped barrier blocked the road, with a guards’ shelter behind it. A red German flag with a black swastika waved in the French wind. Gustave winced. Below, a sign had words in dark Gothic type: DEMARKATIONSLINIE. Demarcation Line. You didn’t need to understand German to know what that meant.
Papa looked over at Gustave, his face suddenly grave.
“But I hear they have started watching the line more carefully lately,” he said. “When we come to the checkpoint, don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.”
15
As the car ahead of Papa’s truck moved forward, a stocky, blond German soldier strode toward Papa’s truck, holding his hand up. “Halt!” he barked. The morning light glinted on the rifle strapped over his shoulder.
Papa drew his breath in sharply. “Who is that?” he muttered under his breath. “Not Hans.”
The soldier peered in through Papa’s window. “Out! Out of the truck!” he commanded in harsh, heavily accented French. Papa opened the door and stepped down. The soldier’s face loomed through the windshield at Gustave. “You!” he shouted. “I said out! Right now!”
Gustave’s fingers were so stiff and shaky that he could hardly push the door open. When he finally did, he tripped over a loose shoelace and almost fell as he hurried to Papa. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, their breath making clouds in the air. The soldier leaned into the cab of the truck and looked under the seats. Then he walked around and opened the rear door. After a few minutes, he came back toward them.
“Your papers!” he demanded, stretching out a black-gloved hand.
Papa reached inside his coat and handed the papers to the soldier. He said something in German, his voice friendly and respectful. The soldier started and looked directly into Papa’s eyes for the first time. Papa spoke again, and the soldier answered in German, his voice more steady than before. Gustave listened intently. He could understand a few words his father said—“Guten Morgen, Herr Offizier,” and “Schweiz,” Good morning, Officer, and Switzerland—but the other words were a meaningless blur of sound.
The soldier examined the papers again, then said something to Papa. He turned, still holding the papers, and walked back toward the shelter.
The wind gusted, hitting Gustave’s face like a slap. He shoved his hands as deeply as he could into his pockets, closing his left hand around Monkey’s warm fur. He was wearing last year’s too-small coat. The sleeves didn’t reach as far as his wrists, and the pockets felt too high. His bare wrists were freezing. The harsh wind lifted bits of dust that stung his eyes. Gustave stamped his feet, trying to keep warm. He looked across the river and watched the wind swaying the bare branches of the tall poplar trees.
It seemed a long time before the soldier stepped out of the shelter. Gustave watched his father prepare his face in a genial smile as the soldier walked toward them.
When the German spoke to Papa, his voice sounded less stern. Gustave heard the word “Schweiz” again. The soldier handed the papers back, and Papa stowed them carefully away inside the inner pocket of his coat. The soldier lifted the striped barrier, and Papa drove over the bridge.
“What happened?” Gustave asked when they were out of sight of the guard. “What was wrong? Why did we have to get out?”
“He was suspicious,” said Papa. “I’m not sure why. Maybe he’s just suspicious of everybody, or maybe he thought we looked Jewish and wanted to give us trouble. He didn’t know we were Swiss citizens until he looked at my papers.”
With a sudden pang, Gustave remembered the swaying men and the chanting voices in the synagogue where they used to go in Paris. Here in Saint-Georges, they had celebrated the Jewish High Holidays at home, quietly, just the three of them, dipping apples in honey at the dinner table on Rosh Hashanah and fasting and praying at home, with the shutters tightly fastened, on Yom Kippur. But in Paris they always went to the synagogue. When Gustave was smaller, after he had been on the main floor with Papa and the men for a while, he would run down the aisle to play in the lobby with Jean-Paul and Marcel. Sometimes the three of them climbed upstairs to the women’s gallery. Gustave liked to lean over the railing and look down at the tops of the men’s dark hats. He could always pick out Papa’s because it had a dent in the front.
One day, winking at Gustave and Jean-Paul, Marcel had stretched out his hand and quickly scattered a fistful of hazelnuts over the railing. One landed right on someone’s prayer book. A young man with glasses and a light brown beard looked up, bewildered, as if he thought something had fallen from heaven. Jean-Paul, Marcel, and Gustave had had such a fit of laughter that the women had scolded them and sent them downstairs. Marcel swore to his mother, over and over, that he had dropped it accidentally.
“Accidentally on purpose,” he had admitted later, laughing, to Jean-Paul and Gustave.
“I’m glad I look Jewish,” Gustave said fiercely now to Papa, surprising himself. “I’m proud that I’m a Jew.” Suddenly, Gustave remembered that first day in the schoolyard when he had agreed with Philippe that there were a lot of Yids in Paris, and a wave of shame washed over him. He turned his head away, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the window. But what else could he have done? At least he hadn’t let anyone baptize him that day when he thought it might turn him into a Catholic.
“Yes, of course,” said Papa. “But these are dangerous times for Jews.”
Especially here in the occupied zone, Gustave thought. If only Papa could just keep driving all the way to Paris, pick up Jean-Paul’s family and the Landaus, and bring them all back to Saint-Georges, where it was safer. But it was impossible to get that much gasoline. And Jean-Paul’s family and Marcel’s couldn’t cross the demarcation line without the proper papers. Espec
ially not with guards like that one in charge.
“Why was there a different German soldier at the checkpoint, anyway?” Gustave asked. “When will Hans be back?”
“Hans is gone. Transferred to another post.” Papa let out a sudden short, hard laugh. “But just watch. I’ll get this soldier to be friendly with me too.”
Gustave rubbed his hands nervously against his legs to warm them. Sure, Papa was funny, and he spoke German fluently. But could even his father make a man like that soldier today joke with him the way he said that Hans used to? That soldier, with the hard face and barking voice? And later today they would be coming back home, crossing the line the other way, with ducks hidden in the back of the truck. Ducks bought on the black market. Ducks that the new German law said that they were not allowed to buy.
Papa said that he had made a good hiding place in the truck. But what if the German guards searched it? If that was what it was like going in, what would it be like trying to come out? Did Papa know that the Germans shot people just for saying the word “Boche”? Gustave wondered. He remembered the rifle aimed at Julien’s chest and flushed again with the humiliation and helplessness of that day. If the German soldiers could do that just because of a word, what would they do if they caught Papa and Gustave with black-market ducks? Although it was warmer in the cab of the truck than it had been outside, Gustave shivered again and pulled his too-small coat tightly around himself.
16
The small villages in the occupied zone looked a lot like the villages on the south side of the Cher except that the clock on a church read three o’clock when it should have been two.
“It’s an hour ahead here,” Papa explained. “The Germans set the time forward to accord with German time.”
As they drove through one town, Gustave saw a long, red Nazi banner with a black swastika in a white circle draped over the whole front of the mairie, the town hall. In the square in the town center, German soldiers in uniform lounged on the benches, laughing and smoking. The French street signs had been replaced with German ones. Gustave angrily bit the tip of his tongue. They acted as if they owned France. Was that what it was like in Paris now? Did Marcel and Jean-Paul have to see soldiers like that every day? Gustave was glad when he and his father were out among the fields again.
As they pulled up to the farm where Papa had heard there would be ducks, Gustave wound his watch forward one hour so that he would know what time it was. He and Papa stepped down from the truck as two women came out of the house. Both were tall and strongly built. The older one had short, white hair, and the younger carried a little girl in her arms. The young woman set the child down, and the girl squatted on the ground to play while the older woman watched. The young woman came toward the truck.
Papa stretched his hand out to her. “Friends suggested that we should meet,” he said, smiling.
The younger woman smiled back, shaking Papa’s hand. “You’re the man with the Swiss papers?” she asked.
“ ’Tain! ’Tain!” shrieked the little girl suddenly.
Her mother turned around, startled.
“Marie!” shouted the grandmother, waving something toward the young woman and Papa. “You told me you had gotten rid of this dreadful doll!” She took several nimble steps toward an old cistern, wrenched off the top, and tossed something in.
The little girl wailed.
Marie ran to pick up the crying child. “Look what you have done, Mère Hélène!” she exclaimed. “Marguerite is just a baby, and it was just a piece of knitting! Couldn’t you have simply cut off the képi, the military cap, and the little white mustache?”
The grandmother walked back, her cheeks pink.
“I just couldn’t stand seeing my granddaughter cuddling a Maréchal Pétain doll. I would always have known it was him, in his little khaki uniform. Why did you let that nun give it to her?” She shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “Well, what’s done is done. I didn’t mean to upset the little one.” Marguerite continued to cry. Her grandmother patted her awkwardly, but Marguerite hid her face against her mother’s shoulder.
“I apologize for the uproar.” The younger woman turned back to Papa. “I am Marie Robert, and this is my mother-in-law, Madame Hélène Robert.”
Papa shook hands with them both. “Berthold,” he said. “And this is my son, Gustave. And I agree with you about Pétain, Madame Robert,” he added.
The older woman’s cheeks flushed once more. “When is he going to bring our soldiers home?” she exclaimed. “How could he let the Boches make them all prisoners of war? France is losing all dignity.” She stopped and looked steadily at Papa for a moment. “And the restrictions against the Jews,” she added, more quietly. “Completely immoral.”
Papa nodded slowly. The two of them held each other’s gaze. Then the grandmother turned to the younger Madame Robert. “I will show Berthold the ducks, Marie,” she said. “Why don’t you take Marguerite and Gustave into the kitchen, where it’s warm. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Inside the kitchen, Marguerite, who had stopped wailing, squirmed, and her mother put her down. She toddled right toward Gustave and grabbed his leg. Gustave looked down. She was reaching for Monkey, who was peeking out of his pocket. He pulled out the small stuffed animal and wiggled him for her. The baby laughed in a funny, bubbly way that reminded Gustave, with a sudden pang, of Jean-Paul’s baby sister, Giselle. She had wisps of curling light brown hair too, a lot like Giselle’s. Gustave gently put his finger through one of the curls. It was soft and light, like down. When Marguerite tugged on Monkey again, Gustave let her hold him. Inside, she couldn’t drop him in the dirt.
“Oh, that’s nice of you, Gustave!” said Madame Robert as she opened a drawer and pulled out a paring knife. She stood chopping carrots and onions at a scarred wooden kitchen table. “What with this war, we can’t find any toys to buy for her. That Maréchal Pétain doll was her only toy, but I understand why my mother-in-law couldn’t stand it.”
The older Madame Robert came in with Papa, letting a gust of cold air into the kitchen. “A good deal for both of us,” she said contentedly. “We have enough soup to invite Berthold and his son to eat with us, don’t we, Marie?” she said, tapping the younger woman on the shoulder.
“Thank you!” said Papa. “You’re very generous.”
At the table, Gustave spooned up his soup hungrily, listening to the adults talk about living in the occupied zone. The soup had lots of different vegetables in it, not just rutabagas. It was delicious.
“Here we have to hide the animals and the produce from the Boches,” the older Madame Robert complained. “If not, they drive right up in their trucks and take it all, paying about one-tenth of what it’s worth. But they’re stupid,” she added, smiling. “We can keep a lot hidden.”
“And I can’t get a pass to get across the line to see my mother,” the younger Madame Robert said. “My mother hasn’t seen Marguerite since before she could walk.”
“Imagine keeping a grandmother from seeing her granddaughter,” added her mother-in-law. “No feeling, those Germans.” She reached out and gently stroked Marguerite’s head with gnarled fingers as the little girl sat playing with Monkey on the floor by the table.
“Where does your mother live? I could stop in and tell her how you are doing,” Papa offered.
“Would you?” The young woman beamed, and she went through a long list of things for Papa to tell her mother when he saw her.
“So, you say you have winter boots that would fit Marguerite?” said the grandmother when the meal was over. “Can you bring them soon?”
“Absolutely,” said Papa. “Next week?”
Gustave went over to Marguerite. “I need Monkey back,” he said. “We’re going home.”
Marguerite scrambled to her feet, clutching Monkey tightly, and burst into tears.
The grown-ups all looked over. Gustave’s cheeks burned. Marguerite didn’t have any other dolls or toys. He felt sorry for her. It would b
e hard to see your doll drowned in the cistern, even if it was a Pétain doll. But Monkey was his.
“Marguerite,” said her mother sternly. “The monkey belongs to Gustave. Be a good girl and give him back.”
Marguerite just wept more loudly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gustave saw Papa glance at him. Papa had been hinting lately that maybe Gustave was too old to carry Monkey around in his pocket so much. “I guess Marguerite can borrow him until next week,” Gustave said slowly. “Until my father brings the boots.”
“Well, if you are really sure?” said the younger Madame Robert. “So, Marguerite, you can play with Monkey for a few days. But when Gustave’s father comes back, we’ll give Monkey back to him.”
Marguerite immediately stopped crying and hugged Gustave. Gustave patted the wooly brown fur on Monkey’s head. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. He didn’t need to have Monkey with him all the time. But for some reason, his throat hurt.
The older Madame Robert was watching him. “May we give the boy a little something to thank him, Berthold?” she said to Papa. She stepped up on a chair, opening a high cupboard in the kitchen, and brought down something wrapped in silver paper.
“Half a bar of Swiss chocolate!” she said. “We’ve been saving it since before the war.”
Gustave smelled the richness of chocolate, but he shook his head, looking back at Marguerite and Monkey. “No, thank you,” he said.
“No?” said the grandmother. “Is there something else you would like from the farm?”
Gustave hesitated. But the grandmother seemed to want to give him something.
“In the summer, did you grow any black radishes?” he asked.
“Radishes!” Madame Robert laughed. “A boy who likes radishes better than chocolate?”
Papa smiled over at Gustave. “Oh, his mother especially loves those radishes,” he said. “Gustave does too.”
Black Radishes Page 9