Genevieve's War

by Patricia Reilly Giff

  My Alsatian father, Gérard. Sad.

  “That day, Philippe took his picture with a box camera so I’d have something to remember him by. Gérard blamed himself. ‘I must have told someone, Maman,’ he said.” Mémé shrugged her thin shoulders. “We never knew who it was.”

  I ran my fingers over the picture. I knew how he felt. If someone took a picture of me now, they’d see the same sorrow, the same grief.

  “Drink your tea without tea,” Mémé said. “Raise your head.”

  I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t speak. My throat felt as if it were closing.

  “It is useless to blame yourself.” Her voice was harsh. “There is much more to this than Katrin.”

  I glanced at her. I could almost count her bones. Her dress hung loosely around her. She weighed less than I did now, and came only to my shoulder.

  “We do what we can,” she said.

  And what she could do was run this farm by herself. She had worked in the resistance during the Great War. In this war, she had sheltered Rémy. She had taken in a girl who was forgetful and messy, who hadn’t loved her.

  She must have known what I was thinking. “A girl who changed my life,” she said. “A girl who looked like me when I was young, who acted like the son I loved.”

  Her arms went across the table. I could see the veins running through her small hands. I reached for them, held them in mine.

  We sat there, not speaking; then she gave my hand a quick pat and picked up her cup. “Drink, child,” she said. “Your tea is getting cold.”

  And that’s what I did. I raised the cup to my mouth; the water was still hot, comforting.

  I sipped it slowly. We do what we can, she’d said.

  And so I was determined to find Rémy.

  twenty-four

  That Sunday, a cold January morning, I woke to find Louis on the floor next to me and Tiger curled up at the bottom of the bed. I lay there, trying not to move my feet; the irritable cat was close enough to pounce on my toes.

  And then I remembered. Rémy!

  I took a chance, slid my legs over the side of the bed quickly and dressed, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. I had only today to look for Rémy without thinking about school.

  Church was first, so I had a late start. Afterward, I hurried around to the barn and pulled open the doors. Tiger darted in ahead of me, ready to search for a tasty mouse or two. I shuddered. I knew Louis was eating rats now.

  Enough snow had melted so I could ride the bicycle. I wheeled it out, my eyes going to the Vosges Mountains in the distance, then closer where the woods led to the village. Rémy was somewhere, I told myself.

  The handlebars were freezing! I rested the bike against the wall and poked my head in the door.

  Mémé looked up.

  “I’m going to look for—” I began.

  She broke in. “If the Germans can’t find him, why do you think you might?”

  “I don’t know. I have to try.” I could hear the desperation in my voice.

  “Eat something first,” she said.

  I began to shake my head, but I was so hungry. I needed something. Still in my coat and hat, I stood in the kitchen, where somehow Mémé had managed to make warm cereal. I spooned it up, wondering if there was enough for her, or had she given me all of it? If I ever made it home, I’d send her food, tons of food, I promised myself.

  She stood there, watching me. “Stay away from the main roads. If you’re stopped, you might say you’re looking for food. Be home before—”

  Was that worry on her face? I waved my hand, cutting her off. “Dark. I know.” I wiped my mouth as she reached for the empty bowl. “I’ll be all right.”

  Would I really be all right? Wandering around in the woods, when the Germans were everywhere?

  My fault. All my fault.

  I pulled my woolen hat down to cover my ears, then went along the road. Even the Germans weren’t around on this Sunday afternoon.

  By the time I reached the village, I realized I should have pumped up the tires. Riding up the hills was hard.

  I began to see the dark trucks of the Germans far ahead. Where was I going? I wasn’t even sure.

  I passed stubbled fields, still winter gray, and turned down a side road, which was mostly dirt and gravel with a few patches of snow here and there.

  The road came to an end, and almost in front of me was a German soldier, his hand raised. Guarding the field in back of him?

  The sign on the fence: VERBOTEN. Forbidden.

  I slid to a stop, the old bike veering to one side, wobbling, then caught in the mud. My heart ticked up in my throat. Could I turn the bike and ride away before he took the ten steps to get to me?

  I’d never be able to do it.

  Then I saw who he was: André’s age, freckled face, the one who’d been sorry about Sister, the one who’d been looking for books at Philippe’s.

  I straddled the bike. I didn’t move, and neither did he. We stared at each other. Over his shoulder, I saw a horse in the field. She tossed her head; her back rippled.

  I caught my breath. Sister, looking fine! I remembered André teaching me to harness her. I’d held apples for her. Lumps of sugar.

  The soldier walked toward me. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  I tried to turn the bike, head down. He was German, after all. A soldier. The enemy.

  He was in front of me now. “You wanted to see the horse?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know she was here.”

  He looked past me, along the road. “She belongs to an officer now. But would you like to go to her?”

  I felt a flash of anger. “She’s my grandmother’s horse.”

  “Of course. And someday, maybe . . . But stay for only a few minutes. The officer will be here soon.”

  He opened the gate, then steadied the bicycle as I went past him and crossed the field, calling the horse.

  She saw me and came toward me, hoping for a treat. If only I’d had something to give her. If only I could take her out of there and bring her to Mémé.

  I ran my hand over Sister’s back, reached up to feel her muzzle with its stiff dark hairs. Someday.

  “Fraülein,” the German called.

  I gave the horse one last pat, crossed the field again and closed the gate behind me. I didn’t look at him as I took the bike and steadied it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I turned the bike, and he said it again. “I’m really sorry.”

  The anger burst from my chest. “You’re part of it. I wouldn’t be here, we wouldn’t be hungry, people evacuated, Jews deported . . .”

  I bit off the name Rémy.

  I didn’t bother to look at him as I pedaled away. I knew he was looking after me.

  It wasn’t until I was past that road, onto the next small path, sheltered by the forest, that I stopped the bike and leaned it against a tree.

  I crouched down, my head on my knees, shaking, the anger gone, feeling so sad. But I couldn’t stay there for long. I had to keep searching. I had to find Rémy.

  The rest of the day went by slowly as I went from one hidden path to another, almost too tired to keep going on those tires that were almost flat. My feet were sore, beginning to blister.

  It was dark by the time I found my way back to the farm. I passed Katrin’s house with its red roof and looked away.

  Mémé stood in the doorway, her hand on Louis’s head, the cat stretching in front of her. “Genevieve?”

  I shook my head. “He’s nowhere.”

  I dropped the bicycle on the gravel path, too tired to put it in the barn. Inside, I slid onto a chair, pulling off my shoes, feeling the pain in my feet, my toes. Mémé put a bowl of thin soup in front of me. It held a few cabbage leaves, another carrot and something that looked like grass, maybe chives. She went back to the stove and poured the rest into a bowl for herself, with a little left for Louis.

  I told her about Sister, and she turned. “We couldn’
t have taken care of her as well as they have.”

  I breathed in the steam from the soup, wondering if Rémy had eaten today, wondering if he might be with the woodcutter. “We’ll have to say I’ve had the grippe, a terrible sore throat, because I’m not going to give up. I won’t go to school tomorrow.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t give up,” she said. “You remind me . . .”

  I answered for her. “Of my father?”

  She turned back to the stove. “No.”

  I didn’t ask. I knew. I looked away from her, smiling just a little.

  Sipping at the soup, I thought of that long day.

  Rémy was out there somewhere.

  Would I ever find him?

  I’d keep looking tomorrow.

  twenty-five

  I’d dreamed last night, a mixed-up dream of my school at home, with its cornerstone that read 1914. I awoke wondering what my father would have been doing that year, the beginning of the Great War in Europe.

  I slid out of bed, in a hurry to get started, but when my feet touched the floor, the pain from the blisters and the muscles in my legs was amazing.

  Rocking back and forth, I knew I’d never be able to get on the bike today. I was filled with anger at myself and that old bike.

  I hobbled into the kitchen. Mémé was pulling on an ancient jacket that might have belonged to my grandfather. “I’m going out to the field. Maybe I’ll find a vegetable or two.” She stopped. “What’s the matter, child?”

  I raised one foot to show her, and she winced. “Sit.”

  “How can I look for him?” I said bitterly. “I can’t even get as far as the road.”

  “Rest awhile.” She went out the door. Did she ever rest?

  Katrin was hurrying up the gravel path, head down, her books in her arms. I didn’t want her to see my feet, or to know about what I’d been doing. I pulled my robe around me.

  Katrin passed Mémé, who was leaving the barn, and came to the kitchen door. I had no choice. “You can come in.”

  “Are you sick?”

  I shrugged.

  “Listen, Gen, just for a minute. I went to Liane. I asked her if she’d told anyone about Rémy.”

  I wrapped the robe tighter around my ankles. “She probably told a dozen people,” I said, forgetting that I wasn’t going to say a word to her.

  I saw her shake her head from the corner of my eye; then I looked toward the window at Mémé disappearing across the field.

  “Liane said she was sorry, that she didn’t remember what I’d told her. She’d been practicing a Bach piece for church in her head.” Katrin reached across the table, but I moved my hands away. “Liane said she knew I was saying something, but she just kept nodding so I wouldn’t be disappointed in her.”

  I swallowed. It sounded like Liane, paying no attention in school, playing an imaginary piano all day. I had to believe Katrin. “But what about Claude?”

  “I saw him after school. He was furious with me for asking. ‘Do you think I’d give the Germans one thing?’ he yelled at me, his face red. ‘Do you think I’m not French?’ ”

  “So it was your mother!” I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see the tears in hers.

  “Never! And remember, you told me, Genevieve!”

  She was right.

  “I have to go to school,” she said. “But think about it. We said we’d be friends forever.”

  I should have called her back, but I waited too long. By the time I managed to get to the window, walking on the sides of my feet, she was halfway down the path, running. She never heard me.

  For a while, I sat in my robe with my bare feet on a kitchen chair, sipping coffee without coffee. I wasn’t even hungry.

  I sank onto the cold stone floor, holding my ankles, turning my feet so I could see the thick blisters. If only I could have gone after Katrin. It was too hard even to go back to the table, impossible to go to my room and throw myself on the bed.

  After a while, I slept. Maybe that was why I didn’t hear the motorcycle rumble up the path and around to the kitchen door.

  The banging was loud. I jumped, opening my eyes. Fürst stared in at me.

  My heart drummed against my chest. What was he doing here? Never mind the pain. I stood up and hobbled to the door as quickly as I could.

  “I’m back, Fraülein Meyer,” he said, as if I’d be glad to see him.

  I swallowed, nodding.

  “What happened to your feet?” He rested his briefcase on one of the chairs and a suitcase on the floor next to him.

  “It’s nothing.” The pain was so bad I could hardly talk.

  “I’ll require the bedroom again,” he said.

  The painting! “If you come back later, my grandmother and I will have it ready for you.”

  He looked around. “Where is she?”

  I waved my hand. “Outside somewhere.”

  “I saw your dog. I wonder where he was when I was here last.” He stared at me. “I wonder too where the boy was.”

  I thought about saying What boy? But it was hard to think. Already Fürst was on to food. “I was told about your hoarding food in an armoire,” he said. “Food that I was denied.” I could hear something in his voice. Fury?

  If only I weren’t alone here with him.

  He shrugged, took a breath. “I’ll drop my things off upstairs and be back for dinner tonight.”

  “The quilt,” I said. “The bed . . .”

  It was too late. He went around the table and climbed the stairs, carrying his things.

  I took three steps to the table and tucked my feet underneath.

  What would we do about Louis? What could we do? He’d have to stay here. There was nowhere for him to go.

  And what was upstairs? Were there marks on the windowsill from where I’d gone out on the roof? I closed my eyes. He’d see the painting, of course.

  His footsteps were on the stairs again. He came into the kitchen, humming, carrying Mémé’s painting.

  “Please,” I said, before I could think. “It’s Mémé when she was young.”

  He stopped humming. “You hid this from me.” He propped it up on the table, where I could see Mémé’s lovely face. He stared at it. “A fine work. It really wasn’t fair of your grandmother to hang that terrible painting of the Vosges in my room.” He flicked imaginary dust off the top of the frame. “Selfish. Don’t you know the power I have? How important I am?”

  “Please,” I begged.

  “You’ll have some paper. We need to wrap this.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Perhaps you’ll look, Fraülein,” he said. “You know what’s in these cabinets.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I began. I did know. Mémé kept wrapping paper in a drawer on the other side of the room.

  His voice changed. “Stand up and look.”

  I put my hands on the table’s edge and pushed back the chair. I managed to walk across the room and open the drawer.

  I hobbled back to the table and folded the paper around the painting. Would I ever see it again?

  “Let me see your foot.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said again.

  “Do it.”

  I raised one foot.

  “Burned,” he said.

  I caught my breath, thinking of the explosion at the station. Would he think . . . “I dropped a pot of boiling water.”

  Perfect. Boiling water, bare feet.

  He picked up the painting and went out, the door closing behind him, and sped away on the motorcycle.

  I realized he’d left his briefcase upstairs. I counted to fifty, then took the ring of keys and went up to the bedroom on my knees. His briefcase was there, next to the bed. I fiddled with the lock, and it was open. “Ah, Fürst,” I whispered. “Not so careful after all.”

  I searched, papers, numbers, arrests, all in German, of course. And then the name followed by a word: Rolf, missing.

  Rolf? Rémy?

  Two more names. The first: Wo
odcutter. Struthof. My hand went to my mouth: Struthof, the concentration camp. I’d heard it was the only one in all of France. And then: Albert, the teacher. His house, school? Today.

  I closed my eyes. Herr Albert would be at school. I closed the case and sat on the stairs, bumping down each step as fast as I could go, my legs stretched out in front of me.

  I didn’t stop for my coat. I managed to slide into the wooden sabots, then went to the bicycle, crying out with the pain, pedaling down the gravel path away from the farm.

  I was just able to hide at the edge of the woods as I heard the motorcycle: Fürst remembering and coming back for his briefcase?

  I waited only for a moment, then kept going, feeling the wetness in my socks as blisters broke.

  Past the village, at the school, I threw the bicycle down where it couldn’t be seen and peered along the empty hall, hearing the voices of students, of teachers.

  At the classroom, I raised my fingers to the little window, and of course, Herr Albert saw me.

  I beckoned and he came to the door, opened it a few inches and came outside. “You were sick,” he said.

  “Go,” I said. “Leave. They’re coming for you. Don’t go home. Go to the bookshop.”

  He pushed me away from the door so I couldn’t be seen, then opened it farther, saying, “Go on with your work,” to the students.

  Herr Albert! Precise even now!

  We hurried out of the school building. He stopped to put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m grateful, more than you know,” he said. “But not surprised.”

  “Hurry,” I said. “And please tell Monsieur Philippe that the woodcutter was taken to Struthof.”

  “I’m sorry,” Herr Albert said. “Poor man. Try not to be seen as you go back home.”

  He took the back road to the bookshop, and I pedaled to the farm, my feet pulsing with pain.

  twenty-six

  Mémé must have seen me as I pedaled back up the path to the kitchen. She came in from across the field a few minutes later, wiping her feet.

  I was at the table, my head down, shivering with cold, in too much pain to find my sweater.

  She didn’t say a word. She went into the bedroom and hurried back with the quilt, wrapping it around my shoulders. She took her woolen hat off a hook and pulled it down over my head.