Genevieve's War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  I glanced back at the window. Had Mémé heard?

  But Katrin was on to something else. “Wait until you see Monsieur Henri, the history teacher. He’s in love with himself and his swept-back hair.”

  School! I’d forgotten that too. New teachers, new kids.

  “You’ll have to learn German,” Katrin said.

  I shook my head. Aunt Marie was a language teacher. At home, she spoke French to us one day, Alsatian another, and sometimes, she threw in an afternoon of German. I’d have no problem with that.

  “Guten Morgen,” Katrin said. “Know what that means?”

  “Good morning. I’m not a complete idiot.” Then it came to me. My clothes. My books. How had I forgotten them? I scrambled up.

  “What?” Katrin asked.

  “I left my things . . .” I hurried along the driveway and burst into the kitchen. Mémé was up, leaning against the table.

  “Could I take the cart?” I rushed through the rest of it: my heavy suitcase, the string bag, the woods.

  “Go ahead,” Mémé said, and under her breath, “Why am I not surprised?”

  In the barn, I harnessed Sister to the cart. Imagine Aunt Marie seeing me do that! Before I came to Alsace, I’d never seen a horse or cart up close, much less a harness.

  We came around the driveway, and Katrin climbed up next to me. “We’ll drive toward the railroad station,” I told her.

  As we passed the village, Madame Jacques was at the pâtisserie window, shocked to see me. She raised her hand to wave.

  Katrin and I searched, staring at trees, at bushes, climbing off the cart and wandering through the woods. But as the sun went down, we had to give up.

  Mémé had managed to put a plate of cheese on the table, with cold sausages and bread. She was sitting at the table. We ate silently, but then I began, the words almost forced out of my mouth. “I have nothing else to wear, Mémé.”

  “You didn’t find your suitcase.” Mémé chewed on her lips, a miserable habit, especially since I’d noticed I did the same thing. “I’ve resigned myself. You are headstrong and forgetful, and I will have to live with that.”

  It was unbearable to think that I was one bit like her. “I’m not,” I blurted.

  Mémé raised wispy eyebrows and motioned to me to help her take the steps to her bedroom upstairs. I opened the door thinking the room reminded me of her, everything neat, the quilt soldier-straight. Only the coral necklace looped across the top of her dresser seemed out of place.

  Mémé sank down in the chair next to the window, and I saw then that she’d managed to wrap a cloth around her ankle.

  Across the room where she must have seen it every morning was a painting. I knew nothing about art, but I could see how beautiful it was. I couldn’t stop staring at it: two girls wearing red skirts, blouses with puffy white sleeves, and huge black bows in their hair. They stood in a field, with woven baskets of plums in their arms; the light from a late-afternoon sun streamed over their shoulders.

  I wanted to stand there and drink it in forever. “The painting,” I breathed.

  “I’m on the right, an old friend on the left. Gérard always laughed at the bows.”

  I couldn’t believe it: that beautiful girl, her soft dark hair flowing under the bow, her smooth hands grasping the basket. Miel. Honey. And my father laughed? A surprise!

  “Open the armoire door,” she said. Dresses hung in a row, shoes marched along underneath. “Choose.”

  I shook my head. “Whatever you want to give me.”

  “Humility doesn’t become you.”

  I took a thick knitted sweater off the top shelf, then slipped two dresses from their hangers. She had sewn them by hand, as she had all her clothing. Her stitches were tiny and even, not like my own when I had to make an apron in school last year. “Mile-long stitches wandering all over the fabric,” Mrs. Rizzo, the sewing teacher, had sniffed.

  “Ah, something else,” Mémé said. “I’d forgotten about this. Gérard’s notebook is there too. Take it.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. If only she’d say she was grateful I’d stayed. “Please tell me what you did to your ankle.”

  She hesitated. “A fall in the field. It will heal.” She pointed to the dresser. “Underwear in the drawer.”

  I took a couple of pairs, bleached and clean, fit for a woman over sixty.

  “I’ll just stay here now,” she said, so I bundled everything in my arms and nodded thanks.

  She held up her hand. “It’s all right.”

  I knew it wasn’t all right, but I kept going down the hall and into my bedroom.

  I sat on the bed, the straw crackling, to open the notebook. What could that grim-faced man have written? But maybe not a man! Maybe a boy who liked meringues and laughed over huge bows!

  As I opened the book, I saw that he wasn’t a very good student. Pages were marked with the teacher’s red pencil: poor, terrible work, Gérard, be more careful.

  In the back, doodles! And on the last page, he’d drawn a picture of a girl with loopy curls and a long, skinny neck. There was a big X over her. Suzanne talks too much. She tells the teacher everything.

  I had to smile. My father’s notebook was just like mine when I was in third or fourth grade. His Suzanne was just like Ruthie, a girl in my class whose hand was raised every two minutes to tattle on someone.

  I fell asleep wondering if Suzanne, grown-up now, still lived in Alsace, and trying not to think about home.

  WAR

  seven

  Every day I waited for mail. Still nothing from André. He hated to write, I knew that from summers before. And when he did write, his letters were short and . . . “Useless,” I’d told him.

  Mémé spent most of her time at the kitchen table, and when she walked outside, I could see what an effort it took. I was beginning to realize how frail she was.

  “You’ll need socks,” she said, unraveling the wool from old socks and knitting new ones.

  Managing the animals was becoming easier. I loved the smell of hay in the barn, Elsie looking back at me as I milked her, and the hens clucking in their pen. I learned how to hang the herbs from the small garden on hooks so they’d dry. The kitchen smelled of thyme, and rosemary, and dill.

  One morning, when I came downstairs, Mémé was listening to the radio play the French national anthem. She looked up, her bony fingers knotted together, gray wool on the table in front of her. “We’re at war.” She stared at me. “You know now what you’ve done.”

  I raised my chin, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  News of the soldiers fighting farther west came during the next few days. The Germans had barreled through the massive trenches the French had built, and even gone around them in their tanks and jeeps. Everyone along the German border was evacuated for safety, and we were all given gas masks.

  I was afraid, but Mémé said only, “We’re lucky to be five miles from the border. I couldn’t bear to leave the farm.”

  That fall was chilly, with drenching rains. School was closed; Monsieur Henri and some of the other teachers were in the army. “It’s the best thing to come out of this war,” Katrin said.

  And it gave me time to do the chores. Mémé worked hard, I knew that, but everything was an effort for her, and I scurried around, feeding animals, pulling up cabbages, trying to do what had to be done, even though she was as miserable as ever. The cat still glared at me, and I’d given her a name now, Tiger.

  Then it was December. Why had I thought the war would be over before Christmas? Aunt Marie coming down the attic stairs, balancing boxes of ornaments and garlands to trim the tree. Presents for each other.

  Aunt Marie would be home now, knowing what I’d done.

  She wrote a tearstained letter. You say I told you to do the right thing. What I meant by that was doing your homework and cleaning your bedroom. I am so angry, Geneviève, and terrified for you. I am frantic for your safety, but there’s no way I can think of to get you
home. Be careful. I love you so much.

  In bed I stared at the crack that ran along the ceiling. Aunt Marie had never been angry with me before. Not once, as long as I could remember. “Homesick,” I whispered. It really was a sickness; my eyes burned, my chest was tight. I fell asleep to dream of our tree last year with its ornaments and silver tinsel shining like thin icicles.

  And then it was Christmas Eve. That day, a small goose lay in a roasting pan, and a box was at my plate. Mémé turned from the sink. “Open it.”

  Inside were small wooden figures: a horse with a flowing tail, a cat, a dog like Louis, a reindeer with antlers, and a house that was a miniature of Mémé’s. “Jean, the woodcutter, carved them for the tree long ago,” she said. “Except for the cat. That was your father’s work.” She held it up. “He was sixteen.”

  The cat was a mess, one leg shorter than the other, an ear missing, its wire whiskers bent. I grinned, and even Mémé smiled a little.

  In the center of the table was a wooden shoe, almost the size of my foot. “My father made it for me when I was ten,” she said. “Leave it at the hearth. Perhaps Père Noël will have something for you.” She piled ingredients on the table: nutmeg and ginger, flour, a few eggs, a pitcher of milk, and a tin pan shaped like a boy.

  Gingerbread!

  Later, from the window, she pointed to a small tree at the edge of the field. “Chop it down,” she said.

  “You think I could chop down a tree?” I could hear the surprise in my voice, and without thinking, blurted, “You want a Christmas tree?”

  “Christmas trees began in Alsace,” she said, as if she couldn’t believe I didn’t know that.

  I pressed my lips together and went out to the barn to find an axe. Imagine!

  I spent an hour circling the tree, cutting here, chopping there, muttering to Louis the whole time. “Crazy woman thinks I can cut down a tree.” But at last, it fell over. “Amazing, Louis. We did it!” I dragged it back to the kitchen with the dog ahead of me, and Tiger, the cat, darting out of the way.

  Mémé had managed to put a wooden stand in one corner, and I set the tree up, breathing in the smell of pine.

  “Hang the figures,” she said as I washed my hands at the pump in the kitchen.

  Would I do it alone? But she looped the wooden cat over one branch and the reindeer over another. I dropped the tiny horse under the table and crawled around searching, hearing her sigh.

  Later she hobbled from the table to the hearth, putting the goose on to cook, rolling out a tart. And that night, we went to midnight Mass, Mémé leaning on my arm.

  Outside the church, one of the farmers drove up in a car. A car! It was the first one I’d seen since I’d arrived in Alsace.

  Afterward we ate the goose, the outside crispy, the inside stuffed with mushrooms and chestnuts. We had green beans and then the tart. André would have loved that dinner. I loved it.

  Christmas morning came, and the shoe was filled with candies. A gingerbread boy lay on my plate and a present on my chair.

  “I have nothing for you,” I blurted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think we’d—”

  She waved one hand. “I don’t need anything.”

  I tore open the paper. Inside was a sweater she’d knitted, a beautiful blue, almost the color of André’s eyes. “It’s the best. Really . . .” I had a quick thought of something Aunt Marie had said once: Sometimes people surprise you. Mémé had spent hours knitting the sweater in secret, hours making last night’s feast.

  Someone was knocking at the door. “I can’t imagine . . . ,” Mémé said. “Christmas morning.”

  “Maybe Katrin?”

  But Rémy stood there, my battered suitcase in his hand.

  “How did you ever find it?” I was sputtering. “How did you know it was mine?”

  “I found it in the woods.” He grinned, his eyes dancing. “It was open, so I went through it. . . .”

  My underwear? My face was hot.

  “American clothes.” It was almost as if he knew what I was thinking.

  I swallowed. “Thank you. I’m so glad to have it.”

  “Merry Christmas, Gen.” He went along the gravel path, waving back at me.

  It wasn’t until later that I realized the string bag with the books was missing.

  Had someone taken them? I wondered.

  eight

  School began after the holidays, when I’d hoped to get through the year without it. “Don’t worry,” Katrin said as we walked; she linked her arm in mine. “It will be fine. You’ll see.”

  I looked at her smiling face, her plump cheeks. She was almost like the sister I’d never had.

  And she was right; it was fine. The schoolyard was filled, and in two minutes she’d pulled me over to a couple of girls. “This is Genevieve,” she said, “a new friend.”

  They grinned as Katrin pointed to each one. “Liane plays the piano, even in her head,” she said. “Aline is the best at math, and Yvonne is so shy, she barely talks.”

  I saw Rémy on the other side of the yard and he raised one hand, waving.

  Then it was time for classes. Not so different from home! The days went by with homework and chores. Mémé taught me to cook spaetzle, a pasta I’d never tasted before, and spicy bread with dried pears. Snow came and then thawed. I tried to coax friendship from Tiger with tiny morsels of chicken. Then the sun grew warmer. Home seemed forever away. But by the time school ended for the summer, I didn’t have to worry about school anymore, and I’d made friends.

  I had something else to worry about. Something much worse! In June, Paris fell and France lost the war. What would happen now? But those who had been evacuated from the border began to wander back, and everything seemed the same in the village.

  The strawberries were ripe, lettuce grew in rows and asparagus fronds waved in the breeze. Overhead, bees flitted among the peach blossoms. Katrin and I sat on the steps, waving our hands to keep them away.

  “Loud, aren’t they!” she said, her face to the sun.

  Too loud.

  “Not bees,” I said.

  The rumble grew louder. Katrin tilted her head. “What could it be? Motors?”

  I clutched her arm as we stared down the road. “Germans!”

  She patted my hand. “I’m not afraid.”

  I turned to the window. Mémé was behind the curtain. “Come inside, Genevieve.” She tapped the pane with her thimble. “Come now.”

  “You too, Katrin,” I said.

  She shook her head, her curls flying. “I’m going to watch.”

  “Genevieve,” Mémé said urgently.

  Motorcycles with sidecars came down the road, sending up clouds of dust, the drivers’ faces half-covered by helmets. I edged my way inside and peered out the window with Mémé. A jeep stopped in front, and one of the soldiers motioned to Katrin. My mouth went dry as she walked toward him.

  The soldier pointed, and Katrin glanced back at the house. They talked for a moment before he roared away in his jeep. I held the door open for her, but only a few inches.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He wanted to know who lived here and how many rooms there were. He said he liked the house and he’d be back. Exciting, isn’t it!”

  Mémé’s back was rigid, and I felt a tick in my throat. But gradually the motors died away, and Katrin went out through the field to her house.

  Mémé and I sank down at the table. “The soldiers are here to stay,” she said. “Officers might want places to sleep.”

  “Will they put us out? Where would we go?”

  “There’s that.” Was that fear in her voice? “Maybe they’ll just take a room or two.”

  Nazis in the house? Here with us?

  In the next few weeks, scores of people came down the road. The Germans were deporting Jewish people and families of men who’d fought against them in the Great War. Some of the people carried children, others staggered along with bundles in their arms or pulled small wagons piled
high. They looked hot and tired.

  “They weren’t even allowed to take their money, or gold, or jewelry, not even their wedding rings,” Mémé said bitterly. “They have nothing left. Their homes are gone, all their things.”

  I pictured myself on that road, walking, not knowing where I was going. I tried not to think of soldiers invading our house.

  nine

  Summer was almost over. I saw jeeps going by, but the Germans didn’t bother us.

  “Not yet,” Mémé said.

  The fields were bursting with vegetables ready to be harvested. I did most of the chores, but Mémé helped as much as she could, her jaws clenched, never complaining.

  I’d been here more than a year. A second tearstained letter had gotten through from Aunt Marie. With every word, I could see how frightened she was for me. I kept writing to her, though, hoping my mail would arrive, telling her I was sorry but that I was all right and I’d come home when I could. Most of all, I told her I loved her.

  These days I was up earlier than usual, rolling out of bed, my eyes still half-closed, my back and shoulders aching from all the bending, digging carrots and potatoes from their nests in the soil.

  During the day, Louis followed, always with me. Most of the time I forgot to put him out at night; he slept on the rag rug next to my bed. If Mémé noticed, she didn’t say anything. Tiger hunted outside and rarely came into the house.

  Mémé and I went from the field to the kitchen, pots steaming, lids clattering. Up late, we sealed jars with vegetables and jam and hung garlic on hooks. One small cellar room held baskets of potatoes; another held apples.

  I fed the animals, edging eggs from under the hens and keeping my distance from the pig, which was huge now, ready to be slaughtered, poor thing. But I had to admit I’d love the sausages, the bacon, the roasts we’d have this winter.

  One morning, Mémé said, “School tomorrow.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t.” Burrs knotted my hair, my nails were cracked, my face and hands so filthy every day, it was hard to get them clean.