Black Radishes

by Susan Lynn Meyer

  Gustave thought about the friendly, curious little dog and shuddered. What if she hadn’t been quite so quick or so lucky? “Come on—let’s go see the castle,” he said. He didn’t want to think any more about the Nazis and their guns.

  Nicole got back on her bike. As they pedaled off, Gustave heard a stick crack and turned his head. Four people—a man, two women, and a teenaged boy—were coming out of the woods. The four of them hurried across the road, then started to walk along it as if they were just out for a stroll. But they looked strangely bulky, as if they were wearing several layers of clothes under their coats, and two of them carried small suitcases.

  “Nicole?” said Gustave, gesturing with his head.

  Nicole turned and looked back for a moment. “Oh. Yeah,” she said, not sounding surprised. But she didn’t stop riding until they had arrived at a spot where you could see the river.

  “Down there,” she said, pointing.

  Gustave looked. A graceful castle stretched all the way across the river Cher. Its delicate white arches cast their reflection into the serene water flowing underneath. It almost seemed to be floating on top of the river. It was like something from a fairy tale, a castle built on top of the water.

  “Formidable!” said Gustave. “That’s amazing! It must be like living in a boat.”

  “Yes.” Nicole looked around them and lowered her voice, even though they were alone. “But you know what’s really amazing? Monsieur Menier wakes up in the occupied zone, on the other side of the river, then gets up, stretches, takes a little stroll through his house—and he’s on this side of the river, in the free zone.”

  Gustave looked back at Nicole, puzzled. What was she trying to tell him?

  “Imagine how convenient that is for Monsieur Menier,” Nicole added. “Or how convenient it is for his visitors.” She emphasized the last word, still looking hard at Gustave. “Maybe you know someone who might like to pay him a visit. His guests walk into his house from Occupied France. Then they walk out of his grounds here, and they are in the unoccupied zone.”

  Gustave stared at Nicole. Suddenly everything was starting to make sense. The “visitors” came out of the woods on the edge of Monsieur Menier’s grounds, maybe carrying suitcases because they were in the middle of a long journey, and found that they were safely across the river, in the unoccupied zone. Yes, he knew some people who would like to visit Monsieur Menier—Jean-Paul’s family and the Landaus! But Gustave and his parents didn’t know rich people like the Meniers.

  Nicole smiled at him. “Isn’t it great that someone has a house like that? Someone my father works for?”

  Of course. Gustave and his parents didn’t know the Meniers. But Nicole and her father did.

  “My father says that your father should come and talk to him,” Nicole said. “Tomorrow.”

  23

  When Gustave got home from school the next day, Papa was dancing Maman around the small kitchen, singing.

  “Stop, stop!” Maman finally cried, pulling away and laughing. “I’m getting dizzy!”

  Papa thumped Gustave on the back. “Well done, well done!” he said, bouncing on his toes.

  “Shhh!” said Maman. But her face, like Papa’s, was flushed, and she smiled in a way that Gustave hadn’t seen in a long time.

  Papa dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nicole’s father, Monsieur Morin, he’s such a good man! He’s part of the French Resistance. He has contacts, and he’s going to see about getting Aunt Geraldine and the kids across the line to meet us here. He’ll try to find out where the Landaus are and convey the message to them too.”

  “They’ll go through Chenonceau, won’t they?” asked Gustave.

  “That’s it! Nicole’s father has connections with some people on the other side of the line. They’ll make contact with Geraldine and Madame Landau and help them come with the children to the Roberts’ farm. Monsieur Morin knows the Robert family, and they sometimes help people escape. Madame Robert and her mother will put them all up for the night, and then one of Monsieur Morin’s contacts will smuggle them in, right through the castle and over the river!”

  “And today, to top it all off,” Maman beamed, “we heard that the affidavit from Papa’s cousin did the trick! We have immigration visas to the United States, for our family and also Geraldine’s! We’re going to America!”

  “If we succeed in getting the Landaus to Saint-Georges, they will have to stay in France,” said Papa. “But they’ll be safer here in the unoccupied zone, and Monsieur Morin said he’ll do what he can to help them if things get worse for the Jews.”

  Gustave couldn’t sit still to study. He and Papa went outside and kicked around an old, partially flat soccer ball that Gustave had found in the corner of the garage.

  Papa whooped every time he made a goal. They stayed out until the sun sank, smoldering pink and orange, beneath the horizon. Gustave breathed in deep gulps of the cold air as they headed in, panting and laughing. Before too long, Jean-Paul and Marcel would be there, playing soccer with them, Gustave thought. Giselle must be a lot bigger now. Aunt Geraldine would be kissing him soon, and he wouldn’t even mind. And she and Maman and Madame Landau would sit chatting in the living room for hours and hours. Soon the three families would all be together again, just like before, at least for a little while.

  As he and Papa walked under the second hazelnut tree, Gustave jumped up and touched a branch high above him. A star twinkled, bright and far away, in the cold night sky overhead.

  Gustave knew that he couldn’t discuss the escape plan outside the house, not even with Nicole. Someone might overhear. But when his eyes met Nicole’s across the room in school the next morning, he couldn’t help smiling. When he saw her, he thought immediately of Chenonceau. Soon Jean-Paul and Marcel and their mothers and little Giselle would be creeping through the luxurious rooms of the castle, with the river Cher flowing, cold and deep, beneath them. Maybe they would see big rooms with enormous fireplaces and tapestries with unicorns and forest scenes. Maybe Monsieur Menier would invite the ladies to sit on a delicate gilded sofa with velvet cushions. Aunt Geraldine could rest, warming herself by the fire, holding Giselle asleep on her lap, with Madame Landau seated comfortably beside her. Maybe a cook would come out of the kitchen with a basket full of green-wrapped Menier chocolate bars for Jean-Paul and Marcel to stuff into their coat pockets.

  Gustave was so busy thinking about Chenonceau that he didn’t immediately notice the note on his desk. When he did see it, he unfolded it eagerly, thinking it might be from Nicole. But what he saw, on a piece of paper torn out of a notebook, was an enormous, dark swastika. Beneath it, in big, black letters, were the words “Hitler a raison! Exterminons les juifs!” Hitler is right! Death to the Jews!

  Gustave’s fingers went cold down to the bone. He looked up, and the room seemed to swirl around him.

  A hand closed over his shoulder. “What is this?” said Monsieur Brunel, looking down at Gustave’s desk. Gustave heard his sudden intake of breath. Monsieur Brunel picked up the note between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out to the class at arm’s length as if it were something filthy.

  “Who wrote this?” he asked. His voice was quiet but full of controlled fury. “Who put this disgraceful note on Gustave’s desk?”

  No one spoke. Gustave’s pulse beat so furiously that he could feel it shaking his whole body. Slowly, he turned his head and scowled at Philippe. Monsieur Brunel, following Gustave’s gaze, looked at Philippe too. Philippe’s mouth twitched, but the rest of his face was stony and hard, his eyes burning back at Gustave.

  “No one will admit to doing this?” Monsieur Brunel paused, staring at Philippe, but none of the students said anything. “Then whoever wrote this is also a coward.”

  The class remained silent. Monsieur Brunel crumpled the note in his fist. “Tonight,” he thundered, “you will all write an essay on the meaning of the motto of the French Republic: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.” Monsieur Brunel pounded his
hand down on Gustave’s desk as he spoke the last three words, pausing after each one. “Liberty. Equality. Fraternity. These are the values of our republic. I expect each one of you to think long and hard about what they mean.”

  Philippe raised his hand.

  “Yes, Philippe?” said Monsieur Brunel coldly.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Philippe’s voice was obsequiously polite. “Don’t you mean you want us to write on the new slogan of Vichy France: Work, Family, Fatherland? The slogan that shows our Aryan values and our cooperation with the Germans?” He pointed up at the spot where the picture of Maréchal Pétain, with his white mustache, hung on the classroom wall. “The Maréchal is the leader of France now. I’m sure he would want us to write on the new slogan.”

  Monsieur Brunel’s eyes burned down at Philippe. “I am the teacher here,” he said. “You will write on the subject I assign. And you, Philippe,” he added, his voice steely, “in your essay, you will devote particular attention to explaining the meaning of equality. Equality among all people. And write carefully about our French value of fraternity too,” he said, looking around the room. “Brotherhood. Unless we treat each other as equals and as brothers or sisters, we cannot have true liberty.”

  Across the room, Nicole’s eyes flashed triumphantly at Gustave. Gustave’s whole body had gone numb now, and he couldn’t make himself smile back. Philippe was looking across the room too, glaring. He would be even angrier now. If, for no reason, Philippe could write a note like that, who knew what else he could do.

  24

  A few days later, Gustave walked home from school, his rucksack over his shoulder, kicking a stone ahead of him with his foot. His mother had asked him to buy any bread the baker had at the boulangerie, even one of the dark, gritty loaves made from poor-quality flour that were usually all they had now. But that day the baker’s shelves had been completely empty. That meant no bread of any kind for dinner. As Gustave turned the corner, he could see that at the top of the hill, in front of his house, there was some sort of commotion in the street. Partway up the hill, in the road, three small children he didn’t know were chattering excitedly.

  “What’s going on?” Gustave asked. One of the two boys had a green yo-yo, and the little girl was sucking on her finger.

  “They’re raiding that house,” said the taller boy, proud to have the information. “It’s those Jews from Paris. They’ve been using curtains to signal to British planes from the attic. Someone informed the police.” The boy turned and pointed up the road. The little girl took her finger out of her mouth.

  Gustave shoved past them and tore up the hill. Signaling from the attic? A raid?

  “Marc! That boy lives there!” he heard the little girl exclaim behind him.

  Madame Foncine was just outside the front gate, her hands on her hips, scowling. Gustave’s parents stood together in the middle of the road. Maman’s face was blotchy from weeping. The police chief stood next to Papa, gripping his arm. Papa was pale, and his broad shoulders were stooped like an old man’s. Gustave suddenly noticed how thin Papa had grown. Another policeman opened the front door from the inside, shouted something up the stairs, and threw a chest out into the yard, where it landed with a thud, cracking open and spilling blankets out onto the ground.

  Gustave dashed toward the gate, his breath coming in gasps. The policeman holding Papa turned to look at Gustave. “Halt!” he barked. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s no way up!” Gustave shouted at him. “Just look and see! There’s no way up to the attic from our side of the house! How could we signal to anybody?”

  The policeman turned to Madame Foncine. “Is that true, what the boy says?” he barked again.

  Madame Foncine stood with her feet apart, an apron over her dress, her face scarlet with fury. “The attic?” she yelled at him. “That’s what this is all about? What’s wrong with the attic? What he says is true. The only way up is from my side of the house! Stop this foolishness right now!” she stormed.

  The police chief dropped Papa’s arm and walked over to Madame Foncine. “I apologize for the disruption, Madame,” he said. “But how were we to know that? We had to investigate the report.”

  “Your men are hoodlums!” Madame Foncine wasn’t in any mood to listen. “Servants to the Boches! You come in here and smash up my furniture! It belongs to me, a Frenchwoman! The Jews are renters!”

  “Excuse us, Madame,” said the police chief. “Evidently it was a false report.”

  The chief called into the house, and his men came out. They walked away, saying nothing to either of Gustave’s parents.

  When they were all gone, Madame Foncine stomped back in, still muttering, and Maman and Papa walked slowly back into the house. Gustave followed. When he saw the state of the living room, he gasped. It was a shambles. Drawers had been emptied, cushions slashed, objects tossed around the room. The glass front of the armoire was shattered. Smashed china and broken glass were strewn all over the floor. He found his Boy Scout manual open and facedown, under a broken clock. The page with the pictures of knots was crumpled and torn.

  Up in his room, the bed was overturned, and the drawers of the dresser were pulled out and flipped over, their contents on the floor. The framed photograph of Gustave and Marcel and Jean-Paul that had stood on the dresser was gone. Gustave finally found it under the bed. The glass was cracked. Gustave picked it up, holding the cool metal of the frame. He carefully picked out the shards of glass and put them into the wastebasket. The photo inside was ripped, right across Marcel’s face. It looked as if someone had ground a boot heel into it. Gustave could still see the snowy mountains in the background and his own face and Jean-Paul’s, but Marcel’s face was gone. Tears stung Gustave’s eyes. He cradled the damaged photograph in his hands and slowly walked back downstairs.

  Maman had the broom out and was sweeping up the debris. Papa righted an overturned armchair and sat down on it heavily. “It’s a good thing we buried the valuables when we did,” he said. “The police would have confiscated them if they had found them.”

  “Who would denounce us?” Maman asked, her voice wobbly.

  “Who knows?” said Papa. His words were so quiet that Gustave could hardly hear them. “It doesn’t even matter. But we have to leave.”

  “With Geraldine and her children,” said Maman.

  “Yes,” said Papa. “All of us. We will wait until they arrive. But no longer.”

  “Papa?” said Gustave shakily from the doorway. “What about the Landaus? Won’t they be coming with Jean-Paul’s family?”

  Papa sighed. “I’m sure they’ll come if Monsieur Morin’s contacts can find them,” he said. “And if they can’t, we’ll see what Geraldine knows when they get here. If she doesn’t know where they are, I’m afraid there is nothing we can do to help them. But one thing is absolutely clear. We have to get out of France. Immediately.”

  25

  Philippe stood with his arms folded across his chest, blocking the doorway to the classroom.

  “How are you today, Gustave?” he asked in the fake polite voice Gustave had heard him use before. “And your family—how is your family? Your mother and father—they are well?”

  Gustave stared at him in silence. Philippe. Of course. It had been Philippe—probably with his grandfather—who had informed on them to the police. Gustave pushed by Philippe and ran into the classroom, looking for Nicole. But she wasn’t there. She didn’t arrive, not even after the late bell rang. It was a long, dreary day of school without her.

  “Will you stay for a minute after class?” Monsieur Brunel asked Gustave when the bell rang to signal the end of school.

  Gustave put his books into his schoolbag and went up to Monsieur Brunel’s desk as the other kids hurried out the door. When the room had emptied, Monsieur Brunel stood up and put his hand on Gustave’s shoulder. His face was troubled.

  “I heard about what happened at your house yesterday, and I wanted you to know how very sorry I am,” he s
aid. “How are your parents?”

  “They’re fine, I guess,” said Gustave, looking down at the floor.

  “That’s good.” Monsieur Brunel turned to the pile of papers on his desk. “I have something I need you to do for me. Nicole’s father sent me a note saying that she stayed home from school today because she isn’t feeling well. He asked if you would bring her today’s homework.” He grinned suddenly at Gustave. “We both know that Nicole would never want to fall behind in her studies.”

  Gustave mustered up the energy to smile back at him, faintly. Homework. Oh, yeah, Nicole sure wouldn’t want to miss any of that.

  “Oui, Monsieur,” he said, picking up the papers. “I’ll bring it to her.” At least he would get to see Nicole today after all.

  As Gustave trudged up the hill to the Morins’ house, he wondered if she had heard about the raid. It was Nicole who opened the door. She was pale but smiling, and her left arm was in a sling.

  “What happened?” asked Gustave.

  “I broke my collarbone. Come on in,” Nicole replied.

  “Does it hurt?” asked Gustave, following her into the kitchen. He was surprised to see Monsieur Morin leaning back in a chair at the kitchen table. Two hats, Nicole’s blue beret and the white hand-knit cap, were on the table in front of him.

  Monsieur Morin stood up and pulled out a chair. “Hello, Gustave,” he said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  “As you can see,” Monsieur Morin began, “Nicole had an accident, and—”

  “I made a ramp with some old boards,” Nicole interrupted. “You should have seen me fly when I bicycled off it—until I crashed!”

  Monsieur Morin sighed affectionately, patting Nicole’s head. “The doctor says she must keep the arm still. So that means no running around, no tree climbing, no jumping off chicken coops with a blanket for a parachute”—he grinned at Nicole—“and no bike riding.” He looked steadily at Gustave. “As you might have suspected, Nicole sometimes does some important riding on her bicycle.”