Genevieve's War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  “Genevieve, for once will you listen!”

  I didn’t answer. We went into the kitchen and I jammed my hat over my head, pulled on her coat and threw a woolen scarf over my shoulders. “All right,” I said. There was no help for it. She’d won again.

  I spent the day at school, looking out at small cyclones of snow in the air, trying to stay awake. In history, Herr Albert tapped his desk with a pointer. “What is outside, Fraülein Meyer, is not as important as the history I’m teaching.”

  History! Herr Albert was fascinated by history.

  At last school was over. Katrin and I left, our mouths covered with scarves. I hesitated. “Forgot my book.” My voice was muffled.

  She glanced back toward the school, squinting against the blowing snow. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, it’s too cold.”

  She nodded. I could see she was grateful as she kept going. When she was just a shadow far ahead, I glanced over my shoulder to be sure I was alone. Then I trudged toward the square.

  sixteen

  Soldiers were billeted in the village hall now, and some of them marched along the street in pairs. An old woman had to step off the sidewalk to let them pass. I looked toward the shuttered pharmacy, thinking that the medicine Rémy needed was inside that door, but taken now by the Germans.

  In front of me was a house with a pointed roof and wilted flowers in the snow-covered window boxes. I remembered it belonged to a doctor.

  Suppose I went in and said my grandmother had burned herself cooking, her fingers grasping the pot handle? Why not? He could give me something to help heal that burn.

  I went up the path, and saw the door was open.

  No one was inside the waiting room, with its chairs in a row like a theater. I stared at the closed door in front of me, beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing. Overhead a clock clicked, five minutes, ten. I rapped on the door.

  “Yes? Open,” the voice said in German from inside.

  I stood in the doorway, nervous. The doctor was rail-thin and didn’t seem friendly. I wasn’t his patient, after all. I tried to act as if nothing much had happened, that only a small burn from the stove had brought me here. “My grandmother needs something for a burn.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “You’re a doctor.”

  “Think of what you’re saying. The Germans have been here three times asking just that question: who in this village needs something for a burn?”

  I took a breath. I understood. “But just a small—”

  He wouldn’t let me finish. “If they see you coming from here and find that you’re carrying a jar of burn medicine, you’ll be in prison, and so will I.”

  I backed out of the room and closed the door behind me.

  It was almost dark now. Tendrils of smoke still rose in the distance from the railway station. I crossed the square, passing the butcher’s shop, with empty hooks where once huge slabs of meat had hung and the boulangerie, closed now, without bread. The pâtisserie came next, with its shelves almost bare. But Madame Jacques had hung a wreath in the window. I’d almost forgotten: Christmas was in a few days. Christmas again!

  I heard the loud singing of soldiers coming from the bistro. I veered past, and then I was in front of the bookshop, peering inside. Dim light came from the storage room in back. I could hardly see the books on the shelves. I trudged around to the alley.

  The bookshop’s small window was halfway down the alley. The back room wasn’t nearly as neat as the front. The walls were unpainted, the clock had stopped at two-thirty, probably years ago, and books were stacked in an uneven pile on a table.

  Philippe wasn’t there. I glanced at the stairs leading up to his apartment and rapped harder. I had to get home to Rémy.

  Philippe came downstairs, a napkin looped around his thick neck, looking annoyed at being disturbed.

  I kept knocking. Hurry. Hurry.

  He moved his huge girth slowly, then opened the door. By this time I’d forgotten Mémé’s exact words, so I raised my shoulders. “I want a book,” I whispered.

  He shook his head.

  “We have books—” I began.

  He took a quick look down the alley, pulled me inside and pushed me onto a chair. “Never talk when you’re outside.” His voice was fierce.

  I was almost more afraid of him than of the Germans.

  “I’m Genevieve Michel,” I said.

  “I know who you are.”

  “We have books. But I want another one.” My mouth trembled; in spite of myself, I was crying.

  “You’re too old for tears.”

  “Rémy . . . ,” I began.

  He frowned, lines creasing his wide forehead, and raised one hand.

  “We have him in the attic. His arm was burned—” I bit off the words.

  Philippe stared, silent.

  “The doctor wouldn’t give me anything for the burn.”

  He made a sound with his tongue. His face was filled with fury. “Doctor? You went to the doctor?”

  I backed away from him. It was a mistake coming here, maybe as much as going to the doctor’s. I reached for the doorknob; I’d done what I could.

  Philippe held up his hand. “Can you manage for a few days?”

  I wanted to say We can manage forever. I wanted to say We don’t need you. But I thought of that room, cold and dark, and we did need him, or someone, to help.

  He waited for me to answer. I nodded, then turned the knob and opened the door.

  “Tell your grandmother I’ll arrange things.”

  I took a last look at the back of the store and left.

  Left too quickly, because I’d seen something on one of the chairs at his table. Bunched-up like a charcoal cat was a wool sweater.

  I told myself we were all cold these days without enough coal to warm our stoves. But I knew! The last time I’d seen it, André was wearing that sweater.

  My thoughts raced. Could Philippe have given André over to the Germans? But wasn’t André safe at home in New York? Wasn’t he? I shook my head, turned and went back to the bookshop. I peered in, but from where I was standing, I couldn’t see the chair with the sweater. Philippe stood there, staring at a cabinet.

  I rapped on the window, and he came to the door again. “What is it?” he asked, almost as if he might be saying What now, pest?

  “The sweater.”

  He raised his massive shoulders.

  “On the chair.” I glanced toward it: a pile of books teetered there now.

  “Underneath.” I went toward the chair and swept my hand over the books, which toppled onto the floor. There was no sweater; the chair was empty.

  I frowned up at him. “I know what I saw.”

  “Go home.”

  If only I could. “Where’s my brother?”

  “Hasn’t he been gone since before the war?”

  “What did you do with his sweater?”

  Philippe shook his head, opened his mouth to say something.

  “I saw it. Just now.” I was trembling, angry.

  “You could be dangerous,” he said. “My advice is for you to avoid seeing things.” He gripped my shoulder, pushed me to the door and outside; the lock snapped behind me. I pictured André, the sweater looped around his shoulders. André laughing, happy with himself, happy with me.

  I slipped down the alley again, past the noisy bistro, then hurried along the empty road back to the farm. Mémé trusted this man. It was wrong. I felt it. I was sure of it.

  Where was André? Could he be here somewhere? Taken by the Germans? Had Philippe betrayed him?

  But suppose it wasn’t André’s sweater?

  No. I’d seen the pulls in the sleeve, the zipper not quite matching the color of the wool. Aunt Marie had knitted it. It couldn’t have been anyone else’s. How did Philippe get it?

  At the farm, the motorcycle was gone. Tiger slept on the stone step. I stepped around her and, heartsick, told Mémé that I’d tried to get medicine
for Rémy. “The doctor wouldn’t give it to me.”

  She looked at me, horrified. “You asked—” She broke off. “What is the matter with you?”

  She was right. I didn’t think. I lost things, forgot them, and now the doctor!

  But what about Monsieur Philippe? I leaned forward. “I think he sides with the Germans. We can’t trust him.”

  She shook her head.

  “But you said to trust no one.”

  She waved her hand. “Don’t talk foolishness to me about Philippe.”

  I didn’t say another word. But I needed someone to talk to, someone I could trust.

  Katrin.

  I was determined to do what I’d promised not to do. I’d tell her everything she hadn’t heard so far.

  Yes, in the morning, on the way to school. It was the last day before school closed for the Christmas holidays.

  seventeen

  The window rattled; someone pulled hard on my arm. I pulled the quilt up higher; I felt as if I’d just fallen asleep.

  Mémé? What was she saying?

  I opened my eyes and glanced toward the window. Icicles glowed silver in the dark, and sleet peppered the glass.

  “Wake up, Genevieve,” Mémé said urgently. “The boy is in that freezing room. He needs food and warmer clothing.”

  Suddenly wide awake, I threw on my clothes, and Mémé handed me two thick sweaters. “Gérard’s,” she said.

  I pulled them on, one over the other; it was almost as if I could feel my father by wearing them. Mémé shoved a chunk of cheese, a wizened apple and a small potato that had been cooked and cooled into one huge pocket, and a jar of water into the other.

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs, back rigid. “I would do this,” she began, “if only . . .”

  I touched her thin shoulder, then tiptoed upstairs. I heard a sound and turned. Fürst stood in the doorway across the hall. “It’s the middle of the night, Gerta.”

  My heart hammered. Sleepwalking? He’d never believe it. “C-cold,” I stammered. “I left my robe . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Even with those sweaters.” He shook his head. “She doesn’t give us enough heat,” he said, and disappeared inside.

  I went into my old bedroom, locked the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking. Outside, the roof tiles were slick with ice. Could I open the window without a sound?

  But Rémy was crouched up there with wind and cold coming in through the chinks around the window, without anything to eat. I had to do this.

  It took forever to raise the icy window. Head down, I went out; the roof tiles chattered in the wind. I climbed, the sleet stinging, forcing me to close my eyes. I reached up and held on to the sill, fingers tapping on the attic window.

  Open, Rémy. Open.

  He leaned out to me, his hands colder than mine.

  I slid onto the floor, unable to talk, hardly able to move. He put one arm out, hugging me. Ah, Rémy.

  “Wait.” I shrugged off both sweaters. “Put them on.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll freeze.”

  “Put them on right away.” I sounded like Mémé.

  He grinned and reached for them, wincing as he pulled a sleeve over his arm.

  “Sorry,” I said, wincing with him.

  He shrugged. “I was too close when the explosion went off. But it was worth it, every bit of it, and it won’t be the end. The Resistance fighters won’t stop until the Germans are sent back across the Rhine.”

  If only it would happen.

  “In the pockets . . . ,” I began, and waited while he sat on the edge of the mattress and ate the cheese and the potato.

  He held out the apple for me.

  I smiled. “No. What would my grandmother say?” I whispered, even though the walls were thick and the German was on the other side of the house.

  He whispered too. “What would I have done without you and your grandmother?”

  “Philippe is trying to get help for you.” I looked at him carefully. “Do you trust him?”

  Rémy shrugged. “We can’t trust anyone. But maybe he’ll find a courier. He might have been the one to help my mother and sister.” He hesitated, his voice thick. “If only they’re safe. If only I’ll see them again.”

  “You will. Someday,” I said it fiercely, as if I believed this terrible time wouldn’t last.

  “Someday,” he echoed, then said, “My father,” and stopped, his mouth unsteady.

  I dug my fingers into my own father’s initials, and we listened to sleet, like pebbles, hitting the window. How terrible for Rémy to be alone without anyone to talk to, without a book to read!

  “You have to go now,” he said. He opened the window and helped me out. As I reached with my feet for the window below, he put his hand on my head.

  I couldn’t look up; the sleet was sharp against my head. My foot slipped on the icy tiles, and Rémy grabbed my hand, holding me until I slid farther down. Moments later, I reached my window, terrified that I’d see Fürst staring out at me.

  But the door is locked, I told myself. I raised the icy window and went inside, wiping my hands and legs on the quilt—Sorry, Mémé—and spotted the gloves I’d lost last fall under the bed.

  Flyaway Girl.

  I remembered to pull an old robe out of the armoire and shrugged into it in case the German was in the hall. I unlocked the door, gritting my teeth at the sound.

  I went downstairs, the old steps creaking. Without thinking, I threw myself into Mémé’s arms at the bottom. She raised her hands to my head and smoothed my hair. Dear child? Was that what she said?

  I slipped out of my damp shoes and left them in the hall as we went into the kitchen. Mémé made tea without tea. “Even the lemons are gone,” she said. “But hot water is beginning to taste fine.”

  She was right. The steaming water felt wonderful in my mouth, my throat, my chest. And my bed waited for me. Never mind the straw that crackled as I turned. I couldn’t wait to sleep.

  eighteen

  It was warmer the next morning; icicles dripped from the kitchen window, and a pale sun, like a lemon drop, appeared over the back field.

  I sat at the table, yawning, as Mémé brought me a cup of cocoa, so weak it barely had color.

  Fürst came into the kitchen and frowned. “Certainly not a nourishing breakfast, Gerta.”

  Gerta! How harsh that sounded.

  I didn’t answer. And Mémé kept her eyes on the hearth. Didn’t he know how little food we had? That we were always hungry?

  “That cat,” he said. “Always in the way.”

  Anger filled my chest. Sister gone, the cow, the chickens. And Louis, our beloved Louis. The cat was all we had left.

  I clenched my hands into fists and Mémé reached forward, her hands covering them.

  He paid no attention. He opened the door, melting snow cascading into the kitchen, and then he was gone, leaving a puddle on the stone floor.

  Mémé combed her fingers through my hair. “Oh, Genevieve.”

  I looked up at her. “Too much. Even though that cat doesn’t care one bit about me. She struts around, tail high, as if she owns the place.” I tried to smile.

  “Sometimes it takes a long time before you earn a cat’s trust,” Mémé said. “And this cat just wandered in. Who knows what her life was like before.”

  “Fürst had better not get too close to her. She’ll scratch him to pieces. I wish she would.”

  It was time for school, and I knew I had to be there. “Katrin will be waiting,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  Mémé nodded. “You found your gloves.”

  “They were under the bed, waiting for me.”

  Her lips moved a little. Almost a smile. But she looked as tired as I was.

  I went out the door and Tiger darted in. At the end of the path, I looked up, staring at the attic window. Somewhere inside, Rémy waited. I hoped he was warm enough; I hoped he wasn’t too hungry.

  Katrin came along,
books in her arms, her woolen hat pulled low over her forehead.

  The snow had melted on the wall, and I motioned to her to sit with me. “Just for a minute.” We eased ourselves down on the damp stones, and I stretched my legs out, trying to think of where to start.

  She frowned. “Something’s happened?”

  “Rémy’s in the attic.”

  Eyes wide, she glanced toward the house, even though she couldn’t see the window from where we sat.

  I told her everything, rushing along breathlessly: climbing on the roof, a courier to take Rémy’s mother and sister to Switzerland, that maybe there’d be one for him.

  I lowered my head. “But Philippe. I think he’s a German sympathizer.”

  “How can that be?”

  “To begin with, I’m almost sure he has my brother’s sweater. Why?”

  She stared up at the trees along the path. “He might have found it somewhere.” She glanced at me sympathetically.

  “I’m so afraid . . . ,” I began, and stopped. I couldn’t say anything more.

  We sat there a little longer; we’d be late for school, but neither of us cared.

  I saw tears in her eyes. “They’re rebuilding the railroad station and the tracks. They’re talking about drafting boys,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Alsatian boys. My brother, Karl, isn’t even seventeen yet.”

  She stared down at her books. “I thought the Germans weren’t terrible. But every day there’s something new. My grandfather can’t even wear a beret anymore. There’s a six months’ prison sentence for that.” She wiped her eyes. “Berets are too French.”

  I put my arms around her, feeling how thin she’d become. She was hungry; we were all hungry. “I’m really sorry,” I told her.

  She shook herself. “But you need help. Who can really trust Monsieur Philippe, now that I think of it? He’s always staring out his window, watching what goes on. That old thief. He probably stole the sweater for himself.”

  I had to grin at her words, old thief! But Philippe’s head wouldn’t even fit into one of André’s sweaters!

  “We’ll just have to watch him,” she said. “See what he’s up to.”