It felt to Nicole as if a lifetime had passed when she and her father finally stepped out onto the rue Nelaton. It was just before dawn. 17 July 1942. A new day.
Amazing. The streets were peaceful, empty. How could it be? People must have heard the news, or seen the buses heading to the Vel. In the past, Nicole knew, Parisians had risen up in armed fury over much less than this atrocity. But the city slept, as if the 8,000 Jews in the Vel did not exist.
In silence, they walked home, crossing the Seine, climbing the stone staircase that Nicole had descended twenty-four hours earlier. She felt like an animal who had shed one skin and donned another, tougher one. All doubt was gone. The man holding her hand was her father and had always been her father. She was and always had been Nicole Bernhardt, born in 1927, who lived in Paris, France. A Jew.
Once, she had imagined that she lived in the future, in America. But like a wisp of smoke that rises from dying embers and disappears on a spring wind, it was gone forever.
seventeen
18 October 1942
I have wonderful news. C is alive! In today’s post came a card from her. It was unsigned but it is obvious that it is C and that she is living with a Catholic family. I am not going to write her name in case my journal falls into the wrong hands, but here is what the postcard said:
Life is fine in Oradour-sur-Glane. I am planning my wedding to a very plain but intelligent boy. Should we serve smoked salmon or roast chicken? I am studying my catechism every day.
It made me feel so happy to hear from her. She did not write about her father. Perhaps she will send another card soon.
It still eats away at me that Papa was not able to help Mme. and Bubbe E. I remember when I believed he could do anything. I wonder where that innocent-or should I say, stupid—girl went? He made many inquiries with the authorities but he was not able to get them released from either the Vel or from Drancy.
It is amazing to me how normal much of life is. We hear that the movie houses, theaters, and cabarets are full every night, French publishing houses bring out new books by famous writers; there are posters everywhere advertising it all. Many people go to see German entertainers, which I find deplorable. Even if Jews were permitted to go, I would never attend. The slang term “waiter” is used for people who just go about their daily business and wait for the Occupation to end. It seems like it is going to be a very long wait.
I had the most terrible dream last night where jacques was in love with Suzanne. But he loves me. He does. He comes over almost every day. We go to my room and kiss with the door closed. Liz-Bette always hovers outside, and if she doesn’t hear us talking for five minutes she runs and tells Maman. Then Maman finds a pretext to disturb us. I am certain she thinks that we are too young to spend that much time together behind closed doors, but it is not as if life were normal. There is a war on!
eighteen
Nicole huddled in her winter coat on the living room window seat, looking down on the rainy, blustery November morning. A few miserable-looking pedestrians fought the elements. Still, her parents allowed her to go outside so infrequently that Nicole would have given anything to feel the rain pelting her.
She checked her watch as the familiar anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach grew. Jacques had promised to come by before he went to school. He was already ten minutes late. A few more minutes and it meant he wouldn’t come at all. Though he swore he loved her as much as ever, Nicole was feeling increasingly insecure about their relationship—the less freedom she had, the more insecure she became.
The latest blow was that her father had announced that she and Liz-Bette could no longer go to school because of the danger of a tuberculosis outbreak. It was infuriating. She loved walking to and from school with Jacques, their arms linked. She even loved how some people would stare at them—the handsome blond boy and the Jewish girl with the yellow star. School had been one of the few places the Nazis still allowed Jews to go. Now, her parents—not the Germans—had taken that away from her. How could they?
As she stared down at the street, Liz-Bette began to play the violin in her bedroom, the Hatikva theme from Smetana’s “The Moldau.” Nicole winced at the usual assortment of incorrect notes. “Can you please for once play another song?” Nicole called.
Liz-Bette came into the living room, violin under her arm. “It’s the only piece I know by heart. My teacher won’t teach me anymore because I’m Jewish. Do you find that fair? Because I don’t.”
Nicole didn’t answer. She looked down the street for Jacques again. It was empty.
“Nicole?”
“What?”
“Do you ever ... do you ever wish you weren’t Jewish?”
Nicole finally turned to regard her sister, sitting on the couch. She looked tiny, in two oversized sweaters. “Why are you asking?”
“It would be very terrible, I know it would.” Liz-Bette bit nervously at her lower lip. “I am a terrible person.”
Nicole went to sit beside her. “Did something happen?”
“Do you remember Liliane Stryker? She moved here from Belgium. She was the prettiest girl in my form. I was jealous because I thought I was only second prettiest. I thought maybe we were both safe because we have blue eyes and blond hair. But the police came right into our class at school and took her away on a big bus, and we’re never going to see her again. Ever since then, I have been wishing I was a Catholic girl so that no one will take me away on a big bus.”
“No one is going to take you away, Liz-Bette.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, for one thing, we are French and they are deporting very few French Jews. You remember what happened with me at the Vel. And for another, Papa has an Ausweis.”
Liz-Bette looked thoughtful. “That’s true. I like being Jewish, Nicole. I just don’t like being scared. You won’t tell Papa?”
“I won‘t,” Nicole promised.
The front door opened, and Dr. Bernhardt stepped into the apartment. He had been upstairs writing in his study. “Two tragic faces,” he commented. “Liz-Bette, don’t you have schoolwork to do?”
“Yes, Papa,” Liz-Bette said obediently. “Maman is a much harder teacher at home than any of my real teachers were at school.” She trudged off to her room. Nicole went back to the window.
No sign of Jacques. It meant she wouldn’t see him until after school at the earliest. Idly, she swiped her index finger along the window glass, writing his name in the condensation that had begun to form.
“You were expecting Jacques, little one?” Dr. Bernhardt asked.
Nicole was afraid that if she answered, she would cry. And she didn’t want to cry. So she changed the subject. “Please say you’ll let us go back to school soon, Papa.”
“Perhaps you see the humor in that remark. You were never too keen on going to school before.”
Nicole sighed and turned back to the window. It was raining harder than ever.
“Nicole?”
“Yes, Papa?”
“I understand how difficult this is for you.”
Did he really? How could he? No one had taken away every bit of his freedom when he was young.
“Yes, Papa.”
He considered her for a moment. “I am on my way to visit patients at one of the UGIF old age homes. Would you like to come with me?”
“I don’t understand. If you won’t allow me to go to school because you are concerned about a tuberculosis epidemic—”
“That is only a partial truth,” her father admitted. He came to her. “Ever since the Vel d‘Hiv roundup, your mother has been terrified of letting you and Liz-Bette out of her sight. I persuaded her to let you girls return to school this fall. But the incident with the Stryker girl was too much even for me. We feel safer with you here. I am sure that your mother will feel relatively safe to have you out with your papa. Will you come with me?”
Nicole readily agreed. She’d go anywhere if it meant getting out of the apartment. She hurried to get
her identity card before her father could change his mind.
Dr. Bernhardt took the pulse of an old woman who had broken her hip. She reminded Nicole of Bubbe Einhorn, with a long white braid. “Your pulse is strong and your hip is mending well, Madame Nadler,” her father pronounced. “I think you can begin to use a walker in the hallways.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Docteur Bernhardt. I do not know what I would do without this place. And you.”
Nicole’s father pulled a chair up to Mme. Nadler’s bedside. He asked after her family, as he had done all morning long with each elderly person he had examined. Most were immigrants who spoke poor French, but her father had listened patiently as they poured their hearts out to him. Nicole didn’t see how he could bear it.
“They shot my grandson Mounie, Docteur Bernhardt.”
“I am so sorry.”
“He edited The Yellow Star. A so-called friend betrayed him.”
Nicole shuddered. She knew that The Yellow Star was an underground Yiddish newspaper. Her father spoke with Mme. Nadler a little longer, then kissed her on each cheek.
Nicole said a polite good-bye and followed her father into the hall. “Will Mme. Nadler be able to go home soon?”
“Considering what has happened to her grandson, I feel certain that her medical condition will not permit her to leave here.” Dr. Bernhardt looked at Nicole sharply. “Do you understand?”
“Do you mean she’s safer here, Papa? Can’t the Boche—”
A hearty voice called from down the hallway. “Good morning, Docteur Bernhardt!” Coming toward them was a young man so handsome that he took Nicole’s breath away—tall and muscular, with electric blue eyes, glossy chestnut hair, and a cleft in his chin just like Clark Gable’s. He wore a Gestapo uniform.
Nicole looked quickly at her father. His face betrayed nothing. “Good morning, Inspector Gruber,” Dr. Bernhardt said politely.
The young Nazi’s eyes fell on Nicole. “And who is this lovely young lady?”
“My daughter,” her father said.
“But you must make us a proper introduction,” the young man insisted, in excellent French. “It is not every day that I come upon a sight so lovely in a home for old Jews.”
Dr. Bernhardt hesitated, then said, “Inspector Gruber, may I present my daughter, Mlle. Nicole Bernhardt.”
“Enchanted.” The Gestapo officer brought Nicole’s hand to his lips. Only fear kept her from snatching it back and wiping it off on her sweater.
“I am the Gestapo liaison to this establishment,” Inspector Gruber explained pleasantly. “But we needn’t be so formal. After all, I am not so much older than you, mademoiselle, I suspect. Your age is?”
“Fifteen.”
“Charming. What do you do for enjoyment, Mademoiselle Bernhardt?”
Her father took her arm. “If you will excuse us, Inspector Gruber, I still have patients to see.”
“Just another moment, if you please. Your lovely daughter has not had the opportunity to answer my question. Mademoiselle?”
“I ... see my friends.”
The inspector nodded earnestly. “Friends and family are the most important things. Especially during such trying times. Your father, the famous Dr. Bernhardt, also values his wonderful family and friends. So many people love and respect him so very much. I am sure you are very proud of him.”
“Yes.”
“His contributions to the UGIF are valuable. That is why he has been granted an Ausweis. It would be a terrible loss if he were to disappear. We should be forced to seek out his family and friends—perhaps also your friends—in an effort to locate him. That is how dearly he would be missed.”
Dr. Bernhardt took Nicole’s arm again. “We really must be going, Inspector Gruber. I must finish my rounds.”
“Yes, of course.” The German bowed to Dr. Bernhardt and then to Nicole. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. I hope to see you again soon. By the way, it would be unfortunate should you decide to ignore what I said. You would find your way far more difficult. I bid you both a good day.”
As Nicole’s father steered her away, the Gestapo officer called out once more. “Mademoiselle?”
Nicole stopped. Inspector Gruber walked over, took something from his jacket pocket, and pressed it into her hand. It was a bar of real chocolate, something she hadn’t seen in a very long time. “For your little sister,” he told her. “I understand that she is quite a beauty.”
Her father led her down the hallway. When they rounded the corner, Nicole dropped the precious chocolate into a trash bin as if it had been poisoned.
nineteen
NOTES FROM GIRL X
21 November 1942
To the people of Paris,
When my father told me that I could no longer attend school, I felt helpless. Trapped. But then, I got an idea. I asked my friend M if she would help. She agreed, because she is courageous.
Dear reader, you hold in your hands an entry from the diary of Girl X, an ordinary adolescent girl in the City of Light. She is French. She believes in “liberty, equality, and fraternity.” She is Jewish. She despises the Boche and those French traitors who help them. During the day, she recopies journal entries onto sheets of paper like this—three, four, five copies—however many she can accomplish. Her friend M visits her after school, takes the copies of Girl X’s journal, and secretly leaves them places for you to find. On a park bench. At the Trocadéro metro station. In the Tuileries. On a movie seat. Where did you find this, dear reader?
I am Girl X, now being taught at home by my mother. Regular subjects in the morning, Torah study in the afternoon. We light Shabbos candles on Friday night. Maman puts them out after only a few minutes so that we can conserve them. Then Papa makes a kiddush with whatever there is to drink, puts his hands on my head and then on my sister‘s, and blesses us. Yivarechecha Adonai viyismerecha. For that instant, the world feels perfectly safe to me again.
But it is not safe, dear reader. This we know. The Allies have invaded North Africa, and the Boche have occupied our entire country to guard the southern coast. When will the invasion of Europe come? When?
twenty
NOTES FROM GIRL X
3 December 1942
To the people of Paris,
Yesterday I awoke at five o‘clock because I knew that I would visit before school. J is the boy I love. He brought me news and in some ways I wish he had not. His older brother has fallen in love with an actress. She acts in plays that are approved by the Nazis. I said she claims to be above politics. I told him it is wrong for her to perform on stage when there are Boche swine in the audience. We had an argument and I feel terrible.
Every day my life is the same. Inside I am changing but I am allowed no new experiences, no way to express these changes. It makes me want to scream. I read books to lift me out of this dreary world and into another where I am not hungry all the time. There is still no food. Thank God for what I and M bring us. We eat beans almost every day.
The Nazis are attacking Russia near Stalingrad. My father says they should have paid more attention to French history, because Napoleon met his greatest defeat in Russia. In my opinion, even if the Germans freeze to death in Russia, the eastern front is still very far from France.
Dear reader, I implore you, do not remain indifferent to the terrible things that the Boche and their traitor friends are doing. Even elderly Jews from a UGIF home have been sent to Drancy. What are they going to do with old people? They cannot work! If you are free to read this, you are free to help. Why do you not all write letters to the Pope? Some of you are certainly happy writing letters to the Gestapo, denouncing Jews.
twenty-one
23 February 11743
Nicole stood on a chair and peered over her shoulder at Mimi, who drew a line with an eyebrow pencil up the back of Nicole’s leg.
“It’s not supposed to snake around like that,” Nicole protested.
“Well, hold still, and it won’t.�
��
“Does it look like a stocking seam?”
Liz-Bette put down the book she was reading and came over to pass judgment. “No,” she pronounced. “It looks like someone drew a line up your leg.”
“Who are you, the new style editor of For Her magazine?” Nicole teased, as she stepped down from the chair.
“I would be a very good editor. And then I could have real stockings.” Liz-Bette climbed onto the chair.
“After the war,” Nicole sighed.
“After the war, after the war, everything is after the war,” Liz-Bette complained. “But the war just goes on and on. Do my legs, Mimi.” She posed one palm up, the other on her hip, like a runway model.
“A line on your leg will look just as ridiculous on you as on me,” Nicole pointed out.
“I don’t care.” Liz-Bette lifted her three layers of skirts, worn to ward off the cold.
“Your wish is my command, mademoiselle.” Mimi dropped to a knee and began to draw up the back of Liz-Bette’s right leg.
Liz-Bette struck another pose. “This is what American girls do, you know. I wish I were American. I could meet Clark Gable and he would fall madly in love with me.”
“His wife just died, Liz-Bette,” Mimi said.
“And you’re eleven,” Nicole added.
Liz-Bette shrugged. “So? I’m a broad-minded woman.”
“Ugh, that’s what Monique always says,” Mimi groaned, as she started to work on Liz-Bette’s left leg. “Nicole, did Jacques tell you that she and André are now officially engaged? He’s bringing her over tonight to celebrate—her director at the City Theatre gave her a ten-year-old bottle of calvados.”
A hard lump of resentment welled up in Nicole’s throat. The party for André and Monique’s engagement would be yet another event that she would have to miss because of the Jewish curfew. “It sounds like fun,” she admitted.
Anne Frank and Me Page 10