Skating with the Statue of Liberty

by Susan Lynn Meyer

  The coins were warm and solid in his hand as he ran back to the apartment, thinking excitedly about everything he could buy. He couldn’t save it all, because he was going on a hike with Jean-Paul and his French Boy Scout troop over the weekend, and he would need two nickels for each way of the long ride on two different subway lines, the IND and the IRT. But counting the nickel tip from Mrs. Markham, the lady with all the diapers, he would have sixty cents left over. The first money he had earned in America!

  —

  The following Sunday, Gustave and Jean-Paul raced across a field at Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. The French Boy Scouts, visible from a distance because of their kerchiefs, were gathering near the entrance to a trail. The sun was shining, and what had been ice on the field was turning to mud. A young priest in a dark shirt with a white neckband held out his hand to Gustave and smiled. “Bonjour. Bienvenue, Gustave! I am Father René. Welcome to the Franco-American Boy Scouts. Let me introduce you to these five rascals, Bernard, André, Guy, Maurice, and Xavier.”

  “This is my cousin,” Jean-Paul said to the five boys. They shook Gustave’s hand enthusiastically, all of them except Maurice, who was tall, with an aloof, narrow face and dark, intense eyes. He just nodded coolly.

  “Maurice is kind of the unofficial leader,” Jean-Paul whispered eagerly. “He won’t talk to you, except to order you around, until you earn your totem name.”

  Gustave’s hands prickled with excitement. “How do I do that?”

  “You’ll see!”

  “Hi!” said Xavier, grinning. He was chubby and looked a little younger than the others.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” said Bernard, who had dark, wavy hair. “We need more scouts.”

  “You and Jean-Paul just came to the US, right?” said Guy. Guy was tall and lanky, with an inquisitive face.

  “In January,” Gustave said. “What about you?”

  “I’ve been here since I was eight. Before that, we lived in Corsica.”

  “Hey, wait!” said André. “You go to Joan of Arc Junior High! I’ve noticed your French pants in the halls.”

  “Yes! What grade are you in?”

  “I’m in ninth.”

  “Oh. I’m in seventh.”

  “Allons-y, les gars,” said Father René. “Let’s go! We have a long hike today. Who’s up for some tree identification?”

  “In winter?” asked Gustave.

  “Sure! A good scout can identify trees from the bark!” Father René said, starting off down the trail. “All right, Xavier, what’s that one?”

  “Oak?”

  “Beech!” Father René laughed. “You boys need to brush up! André, what’s this?”

  Father René hiked energetically up the wooded path, talking about trees. Gustave breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of the woods and the French voices all around him. The sun sparkled on the needles of the pine trees and lit up their craggy bark. Bernard was up ahead, wearing a pair of French pantalon de golf, just as Gustave was, with warm socks and sturdy shoes. After a while Father René stopped quizzing them about nature and started singing. It was a familiar French song about the emperor and his family coming to visit every day for a week, starting with lundi matin, Monday morning:

  “Lundi matin, l’empereur, sa femme, et le petit prince…,” he belted out. On Monday morning, the emperor and his wife and son…

  “Came to my house, to shake my hand for fu-un!” the boys roared back, even Gustave, because here, singing this silly song from back home, it didn’t matter if his voice sounded like a dying frog.

  “But since I was away, the little son did say/‘Since that’s the way it is, we will come back TUESDAY!’ ” the song went on, and then repeated through all the days of the week. The scouts belted the words out goofily at the top of their lungs, the French sounds soaring into the sweet-smelling woodsy air.

  When the song ended, they hiked in contented silence for a while, listening to the birds and the wind and the distant roar of cars from somewhere far away in the city.

  “Are you thinking about going to the Lycée Français?” Xavier asked Gustave, pausing to let him catch up so that they could hike side by side.

  “There’s a French school in New York?”

  “Yeah, I go, and so do Xavier and Bernard,” said Guy, joining in. “It’s a private school.”

  “I’m pretty sure we can’t afford that.”

  “Not now anyway, Gustave.” Jean-Paul joined the conversation. “Maybe when your father gets a better job. My mother said that later maybe I would go. Madame Raymond said she might be able to help with my tuition.”

  “My father says you can’t do anything in France without le bac,” added Bernard. “So he wants me to get the French high school diploma in case we go back after the war.”

  “I never thought about that.” Anxiety twisted in Gustave’s stomach, interrupting his happy mood. “But he means if the Allies win the war, right?”

  “Of course!”

  “If we don’t win, France will be a slave country to Germany,” Guy said. “And Belgium, Poland, Norway, Denmark, Czechoslovakia, Austria, and all the others too—it would be horrible. The Allies have to win.”

  “It would be even worse for us Jews,” Bernard said quietly, looking at Gustave.

  The thought of Germany winning the war was too unbearable to contemplate. His mind held the thought for only an instant before shifting away—to how it would be now that he knew another French boy at Joan of Arc Junior High, to being hungry, to the blister forming on his right heel.

  “I hear there’s so much homework in high school,” Xavier said. “Chemistry and physics and all those exams—yuck! Anyway, it’s far away. Who wants to think about that now?”

  “It’s next year for me, and Maurice is already in high school,” André said, joining the conversation. “You can always try to get into Stuyvesant High School if you want to, Gustave. Joan of Arc is all right for junior high, though. Especially now that there are two of us there.”

  “Sure.”

  “Boys!” Father René called a halt to the hike as they came to a low summit. The path split here, one branch diverging to the left and the other winding ahead through the trees. “I know you have some private scout business to attend to.” He grinned. “I’ll just hike this side trail by myself for the next hour or so. I’ll meet you all back here at one p.m. sharp. Maurice, you have a watch? I’m counting on you to get the troop back here, yes?”

  “Oui, mon père.”

  “All right then. Use good common sense, boys! Don’t do anything too foolish.” He grinned again and headed up the trail. As he disappeared, the boys gathered around Maurice.

  “Gustave Becker,” Maurice said, speaking to him for the first time. “You want to be a full member of our troop, the Franco-American Boy Scouts of New York, Troop 582?”

  “Yes!”

  “Joining our troop is a great honor, and you must earn it. We have two very difficult challenges for you today. Tests of your physical and mental strength.”

  Xavier giggled excitedly, and Maurice turned on him sternly. “Éponge Tenace!” Tenacious Sponge! “Please treat this occasion with the seriousness it deserves.”

  “Oui, Lion Exigeant!” Yes, Demanding Lion!

  “Your first challenge, neophyte”—Maurice turned back to Gustave—“is to crawl under these bushes, all the way to the stream. You have three minutes by my watch to get there and back, or you fail.” Gustave looked anxiously in the direction Maurice indicated. It was a long way to the stream through very dense shrubbery.

  “Reach into the stream and get a rock from the bottom,” Maurice continued. “Then crawl back to the path and show us your sleeve to prove you made it all the way to the stream. You have to stay down. You can crawl or wiggle on your stomach, but you can’t stand up. Pretend there’s enemy fire overhead. I’m timing you—now go!”

  Gustave dropped to his belly and slithered forward through the bushes as fast as he could, shoving hi
s way along through the wet underbrush. Branches poked into him. Mud seeped up through his jacket and pants. Maman wasn’t going to be happy.

  “One minute down!” he heard the boys shouting behind him. “Two to go!”

  He bore to the right, where the bushes seemed slightly less thick, and got up to his knees to crawl furiously ahead. That was much faster, but a sharp stone poked into his right knee. “Ah!” he gasped, but he kept going. The stream was right ahead of him now. He lay on his belly on the muddy bank, plunging his left hand down into the stream. Bitterly cold water soaked the sleeve of his jacket. He scrabbled around on the bottom and grabbed a smooth rock. Done!

  He turned around to crawl back with his fist clenched around the stone. A branch slapped him sharply in the face.

  “Two minutes down!” came a shout from farther away.

  Mustering all his energy, ignoring the branches in his face, he crawled and slithered back at a furious speed, realizing that the way to the stream had been downhill, and that now he was going uphill.

  “Two and a half minutes down!” came the call. “Thirty seconds left!”

  He plunged ahead through the sticky mud, slipping once so that half his face got caked in it, and then, scratched and panting, he pulled himself onto the path out of the last of the bushes just as the call came. “THREE MINUTES!”

  “You did it, Gustave!” Jean-Paul pulled him to his feet. “Boy, are you filthy!”

  Gustave straightened up, panting.

  “You barely made it, neophyte,” Maurice said, his sternness wobbling for a moment into a smile as Gustave combed his fingers through his hair, pulling out globs of mud and leaves. “Did you get the rock?”

  Gustave held it up triumphantly.

  “You’re plenty wet!” Bernard said. Gustave glanced down at his jacket and twisted the cloth of his sleeve, squeezing water out onto the path.

  “So. We march on in silence now, men,” Maurice commanded. “The neophyte has completed the first of the two challenges.”

  They hiked forward. Gustave’s damp skin tingled, half frozen, and his muddy shoes sloshed along the path. Half done, he thought triumphantly. How hard could the other challenge be? He could do another one like that, no problem.

  Maurice raised his hand. “Halt!”

  Beside the path was a narrow clearing with rows of logs set like benches. The other boys looked at each other, grinning, and arranged themselves on the logs. Gustave started to sit with them.

  “Non!” barked Maurice. “You stand here with me and face them. They must see your face clearly. Here.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Wipe some of the mud off so they can see you,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. Gustave did.

  “And now for the second of the two great challenges,” Maurice intoned, sternly again. “This is the truth challenge. You have to answer some questions. To show your purity of spirit, you must reveal your soul to your comrades.”

  Gustave looked nervously from Maurice to the others.

  “There are three questions,” Maurice said. “Face the men when you answer. Question one. Who is your best friend?”

  Gustave released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. That wasn’t so private or personal. The answer was easy. “I have two. Jean-Paul—” he pointed at his cousin “—and also, back in France, Marcel.”

  Jean-Paul’s face shifted, unreadable.

  “Good. Now for question two,” Maurice commanded. “Remember, you must answer honestly. Who is the most interesting girl you have seen in America?”

  A snort came from Xavier. The others looked at Gustave, grinning, anticipatory. Jean-Paul was smiling again, smirking almost. Gustave’s face went hot. Martha at school was exceedingly pretty—he knew that a lot of boys would name her. But…“September Rose,” he said, blushing. “This girl from my school.”

  “Oooh—ooh!” several of the boys howled at once.

  “SEPTEMBER ROSE?” Maurice bellowed the name so loudly two crows started up, cawing, from a nearby tree. “That’s an unusual name.”

  Gustave’s blush deepened. “I guess.”

  “Is she blonde?” Guy demanded.

  “A tall, curvy American blonde?” Bernard grinned.

  “Answer!” barked Maurice.

  “No. Black hair.”

  “Ooh, sexy!” said Xavier.

  “As if you would know anything about sexy, Tenacious Sponge!” André elbowed him.

  “And now, for the third and final question. Remember, you must tell the absolute truth.”

  Gustave nodded.

  “This is the Franco-American Boy Scouts. Face the men as you answer. When you have been here a year, which will you be more, Gustave? French or American?”

  Strangely, that was the most personal question yet. Memories of France flooded through Gustave. Crusty baguettes. Cuckoos calling in the woods in spring. Fields full of sunflowers. But then other memories hit him like a slap. Graffiti on the street: Jews out of France. And what he had felt, to his shame, when the border police let his family cross into Spain, leaving France behind: relief. Deep, exhausted relief. But he still knew what the answer was. “I am French,” he said firmly. “France is ma patrie.” My fatherland.

  Maurice nodded. “That’s what we all say when we first get here,” he said.

  “No, I said Corsica was,” Guy said.

  “Yeah, sure, but that’s part of France,” Maurice answered. “Gustave, you have two countries now. France and America. We all do. So because that was your answer, there is one more thing we have to do, to complete your initiation. Bernard, the knife?”

  Bernard pulled a pocketknife out of his side pocket, flipped open the blade, and handed it to Maurice. Gustave eyed the sharp blade.

  “Kneel,” said Maurice. “You are both French and American now. There are a lot of people in America who are two things, especially in New York. But you’ve got to be both. So we have to make America part of you, and we have to make you part of America.” He straightened up and spoke in a booming voice. “Neophyte! Your blood will mingle with the soil, joining you forever to your new country. Hold out your hand.”

  Gustave held out a shaky palm, and Maurice drew the blade of the knife across Gustave’s forefinger. A dark drop of blood welled up and fell to the ground, and then another and another. Maurice pushed the blade back into the pocketknife, flipped out a metal hook, and, squatting, used it to dig around the spot where the drops had fallen. Gustave watched him churn up the dirt.

  “Let me,” he said suddenly. Maurice shrugged and handed him the knife. Gustave dug and churned with the metal hook of the pocketknife, mixing the blood into the dirt until neither was distinguishable from the other.

  “Now you’re part of America,” Maurice said, gesturing ceremoniously. “Rise!”

  Gustave got to his feet, watching curiously as Maurice took a canteen out of his rucksack and poured water into a tin camping mug. Bernard and Xavier and Jean-Paul scooped up soil from another spot and plopped it into the water, stirring. “Mmmm—yummy!” said Bernard mockingly, and they all laughed.

  Maurice handed the murky cup of water to Gustave. “When you’ve drunk this down, you will have successfully completed your initiation,” he said, grinning. “This is the soil of your new homeland. Drink it down and make America part of you.”

  Gustave looked at the muddy water. It was disgusting. Would it really change him to drink it? He brought it to his lips.

  “Chug it! Chug it! Chug it!” the boys chanted. Gustave lifted the cup and gulped mouthful after mouthful of the bitter drink. He held the empty cup out to the boys triumphantly and flipped it upside down. “Did it!”

  The boys cheered jubilantly. Maurice clapped him on the shoulder and then waited until the others settled down. “Well done, Gustave!” he said. “You are one of us now. I will give you your totem name. It is…” He paused, and the younger boys waited. “Méhari Pondéré.”

  “Oh yeah! That’s good!” said Guy. “He has such a se
rious face.”

  “And he’s reliable,” said Jean-Paul. “You can count on him. Like a méhari in the desert.”

  Serious Camel. Not a bad name, thought Gustave. Those méharis were an important part of the French army in northern Africa, galumphing along, carrying people and supplies. He could live with that name.

  “And now can we meet Father René and go to Nedick’s?” asked Xavier. “I’m starving!”

  “Me too!” said Jean-Paul.

  Gustave shifted nervously, sticking his hands into his pockets and fingering the two nickels there. He was suddenly very hungry too, but the only money he had was for the subway ride home. The rest of his money was in a jam jar on a shelf in the apartment.

  André must have read the worry on his face. “Father René’ll treat,” he said, slinging his arm around Gustave’s shoulder. “Let’s get Méhari here his first Nedick’s orange soda to wash away the taste of that delicious drink we made him guzzle. And maybe you deserve a hot dog too!”

  They started back down the trail to meet Father René. Jean-Paul began singing “Il était un petit navire,” “There Was a Little Ship,” and the others joined in, Gustave too. He was scratched and bruised and cold, and his finger stung where it had been cut. He was covered with mud, his mouth tasted like dirt, and he was exhausted. And, for the first time since arriving in America, he felt supremely happy.

  19

  As he got ready for bed that night, Gustave realized that he was looking forward to the next week. Maybe he would have another laundry delivery for September Rose. And he’d probably see André at school. It was funny to think that there had been another French kid at the school and that Gustave hadn’t even known it. He might have crossed paths with André every day without even looking at him.

  During homeroom, the principal made announcements over the loudspeaker. Because of the crackling and static, Gustave always had a hard time following them. Today all he understood was “lots of schools,” “victory,” “rally,” and “war effort.” Joan of Arc Junior High School had been invited to do something. Gustave didn’t know what, but the class started talking excitedly, so it seemed like it was going to be a big deal.