28
“What? Ne raconte pas de bêtise!” Nonsense! “Of course it’s there!” Rabbi Blum shouldered his way ahead through the tree branches. The boys crowded behind him. A hillside, bare except for a bit of strewn rubble, looked out over an icy lake. Pale pinks and blues streaked the sky and the surface of the ice.
Father René had been retying his hiking boot. He crunched up behind the scouts, and they all stood there gazing at the empty expanse, their breath making clouds of steam in the frosty air. “It appears it isn’t,” he said. “It must have been torn down.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We don’t have tents!”
“It’s freezing!”
“I know how to build a lean-to, Rabbi!”
Everyone was talking at once.
The two men looked at each other. “It’s awfully late to go back,” Rabbi Blum said. “Maybe looking for wood to build a shelter is our best bet. It’s going to be a chilly night, though.”
Father René nodded. “Let’s go have a look around before we decide what to do.”
The scouts ran down the hill, dropping their packs at the bottom and scattering, looking for large, fallen branches. Gustave found one caught in the crook of a standing tree and tugged at it, knocking a shower of powdery snow down onto his head. Jean-Paul ran over to help him, but the branch was thoroughly stuck. They were working at it, struggling sweatily, when they heard Xavier shriek from across the field. “Come see what I found!”
The boys ran toward him, the snow spraying out around their feet, and the men came trudging behind more slowly and heavily. “What’s that?” Xavier called, pointing at a small roof just visible over the trees. “I think it’s a shed or something.”
The boys raced across the snowy field, then pushed through trees and underbrush. In another clearing stood a stone silo with a partially collapsed roof. Maurice was trying the door when the adults came panting through the trees, swatting at low-hanging branches.
They all crowded round, peering through the doorway. Inside was an empty, dusty room with some disintegrating hay in a corner and a few broken boards leaning against a wall.
“This is perfect!” said Maurice. “Can’t we camp here?”
“Well, it isn’t the Ritz! But I think this is our best bet,” said Father René briskly. “Maurice, can you get the boys organized?”
The sky was dusky, and wind rattled the branches of the trees. Under Maurice’s direction, Gustave and Jean-Paul and the others gathered firewood, Maurice cleared a fire circle, and he and André started a campfire, while the two men unpacked the food and then began to cook. Xavier, Bernard, and Guy spread out the hay so that it covered part of the floor of the silo and laid out the old blankets on top of it to make a warm surface for the sleeping bags.
“Is that nearly ready, Father?” Jean-Paul asked, dumping a load of wood next to the campfire. “I’m starving.”
“Me too!” Xavier said, sticking his head out of the silo.
“Soon!” said Father René cheerfully. He was frying potatoes and onions in a skillet over the fire. “Time to toast the frankfurters.”
“Finally!” Maurice grabbed a stick and shoved a frankfurter on it, holding it out over the fire. Gustave took one and put it on a stick too, and so did the others. The frying onions smelled delicious. The stars were coming out now, over the lake, and sparks from the campfire swirled upward into the freezing air.
“This is so much better than camping in the mansion!” Maurice exulted as he took a plate of fried potatoes from Rabbi Blum. “A lot more exciting!”
“Exciting—yes, that’s one word for it,” Rabbi Blum said wryly. “I think we’re in for an awfully cold night.”
—
It was very cold. Even though they wore their jackets and their hats inside their sleeping bags, even though they had extra blankets, and even though they all huddled close together in the corner of the silo on top of the hay, it was almost too cold to sleep. Gustave’s icy feet woke him up several times in the night, no matter how tightly he curled into a ball. Then, as soon as the sky got light, he woke up for good. The others were still sleeping. Gustave’s breath made clouds of steam in front of his face. It smelled like pine in the silo, and the air was sharply cold in his nose, almost cold enough to freeze. He pulled his scarf up, and after a few breaths he was warmer and the scarf was slightly damp. He was too cold to get out of his sleeping bag, so he lay there, looking at the pale blue glimmer of the lake through the broken part of the silo door.
“Rise and shine! Rise and shine!” bellowed Maurice suddenly, and the morning stillness was over as they all started getting up, groaning and stretching.
Xavier got out of his sleeping bag, ran off to the woods to relieve himself, and then came racing back again immediately. “It’s too cold!” he called out, his teeth chattering, getting back into his sleeping bag.
“None of that, none of that! You’re right, it is too cold to sit around,” ordered Father René. “François, I’m not going to bother starting a fire,” he said to Rabbi Blum, who was adjusting his yarmulke on his head with fumbling fingers. “Let’s all just get packed up on the double, march back to the cars, and drive into the village for a hot breakfast somewhere. I saw an inn when we drove through yesterday. We need to get these boys warmed up.”
“Good idea. Let’s go.”
The thought of eating inside a heated building got them all moving quickly, and soon, with everything stuffed back into their packs, they were heading to the trail. It was too cold to sing or even talk, so they hiked silently and speedily through the woods. Gustave’s nose and fingers were very cold, and he could hardly feel his toes, even though he had on wool socks. The path felt a lot longer hiking in this direction. But finally they were at the clearing, and then in the cars, and then starting off, and gradually the car warmed from the heat of their bodies.
“Ah! The snowy countryside is so lovely, don’t you think?” Guy warbled in a falsetto, and everyone laughed.
“Right now I’d just like to look at its beauty from inside a nice warm inn,” said Father René. “Preferably next to a fire. While drinking hot coffee!”
“Or hot chocolate!” said Xavier. “Do you think they’ll have it?”
“I’m sure! And…there it is!” announced Father René, turning in at the inn’s driveway. The car crunched over snowy gravel and came to a stop. Behind them Rabbi Blum turned in too. The boys piled out of the cars and hurried into the warmth.
The lobby of the inn was huge, with heavy beams overhead and the antlered head of a deer hanging on the wall over a roaring fire in a stone fireplace. Xavier laughed when he saw the deer. “When I was little, back in France,” he said, “the first time I saw one of those, in a castle, I ran around to the other side of the wall to see where the rest of the deer was!”
Rabbi Blum took charge. “First, everyone into the restroom to tidy up a little. I’ll supervise and make sure you all come out looking respectable. René, do you want to go talk to the people at the restaurant?”
“Sure. I’ll take these two with me.” He and Xavier and Gustave washed and slicked their hair quickly in the restroom first and then went down the corridor that led to the inn’s restaurant. The corridor was wood paneled, with a plush, crimson carpet. The restaurant smelled deliciously of coffee and pancakes and sweet syrup. Gustave’s stomach growled. A friendly-looking man about the age of Gustave’s father, impeccably dressed and wearing horn-rimmed eyeglasses, came forward to greet them. “May I help you?” he asked Father René.
Father René spoke effortlessly in English. “We haven’t been staying at the inn, but I wonder if you could serve us breakfast anyway,” he said to the host, smiling his usual, charming smile. “My Boy Scouts are very cold and hungry. They camped out last night in an old silo. We were supposed to spend the night in the old Woodress place out on Osprey Lake, but last night we were shocked to find that it wasn’t there!”
“Oh, yes.” The host l
ooked intrigued. “It was finally torn down last summer. I’d heard that Boy Scouts used to camp there. Well, you must certainly need a hot breakfast!” he said sympathetically. “I’ll even give you all hot chocolate on the house! How’s that, boys?” He peered at Xavier and Gustave through his glasses, smiling.
“Swell!” Xavier grinned.
“I have a big table over there.” The host pointed at a long wooden table by the window. Sunlight streamed in over the dark wood, and near one end a fire burned in another large stone fireplace. “Let me just have a waiter set it up for you. How many?”
Rabbi Blum, followed by the rest of the boys, came into the restaurant at that moment. A tall, supercilious-looking man who had joined the host glanced at Rabbi Blum’s yarmulke with a peculiar expression and then tapped the host on the shoulder. The two of them walked a few feet off and spoke briefly.
“I’m going to have waffles and pancakes,” Xavier said excitedly. “You said we could have whatever we wanted, right, Father René?”
“Excuse me.” The host was back. His face had lost its earlier friendliness, and his eyes too slid to Rabbi Blum’s yarmulke and then to Father René’s face. “I apologize. Mr. Blanchard, our manager, tells me that table has been reserved. I’m afraid I can’t seat you.”
“Another table would be just fine. Or two tables, close to one another,” Father René said. “We’re not fussy.”
“I’m sorry. All of our tables are full for breakfast this morning.”
Rabbi Blum came forward. “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding angry. “I see quite a few empty tables. There. And there and there.” He gestured at the nearly empty room.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the host said coolly. “These tables are reserved.”
The manager stepped forward. “They are reserved for guests of the hotel,” he said impassively. “We cannot help you at this time.”
He looked at Rabbi Blum’s yarmulke again, and Gustave suddenly realized what was going on. He felt shaky with rage.
“Very well.” Father René spoke abruptly. “Let’s go, boys.”
“No waffles with melted butter and maple syrup,” Xavier said mournfully when they got to the lobby.
The two troop leaders were conferring in undertones, speaking English. Gustave edged closer to listen.
“It must be a restricted hotel,” Rabbi Blum said angrily. “They won’t serve Jews. Look around. Do you see anyone else who seems Jewish here?”
“But Gustave was with me when we came in,” Father René said, sounding confused. “And the host was very friendly at first.”
“I guess he didn’t realize Gustave was Jewish, but he saw my yarmulke when I came in. In any case,” Rabbi Blum said, “they don’t want us, and I wouldn’t spend any money here anyway. We’ll find somewhere else.”
“These boys are ravenous. And there’s nowhere around for miles.” Father René turned to the scouts. “Who cares if this restaurant is all booked up? We scouts don’t need to eat in a restaurant, do we? We’re not softies! Now that we’ve warmed up, let’s all go have a campfire breakfast, the way we planned to at the old mansion. We’ll find a picnic spot close to the village, overlooking another spot on the lake. Are the same boys riding with me?”
Outside, the sun was higher and brighter, and the air seemed warmer, maybe because they had been standing in a heated space for a while. When they came to an open spot on the road overlooking Osprey Lake, the men parked and the boys ran around gathering firewood for a campfire. Rabbi Blum got food out of the back of his car, and André used the powdered milk to make hot chocolate in a saucepan. Xavier took Guy’s bag of marshmallows and dropped one in each cup. Rabbi Blum started frying eggs as Father René sautéed potatoes.
Gustave took a mug of hot chocolate in his gloved hands. Osprey Lake stretched away, pale blue and glittering, to the horizon. Gustave took a hungry sip of hot chocolate, sweetened by the sticky melted marshmallow on top. Its richness ran through him, warming him and making him feel calmer. Even his toes felt warmer in his beaten-up shoes, although he was standing in the snow.
It was breathtaking here. America was a beautiful country. Maybe even almost as beautiful as France. But he still felt confused and angry. This was America! It was supposed to be a country where all people were equal, but that inn wouldn’t serve Jews.
Some of the other scouts were sitting on a log by the fire, eating the first plates of eggs while Rabbi Blum made another skilletful. They were talking about which of them had tasted coffee and whether it was better than hot chocolate. None of the other scouts seemed to have noticed or cared very much about what had happened in the restaurant.
“Here.” Jean-Paul was making toast by holding chunks of bread on a stick over the fire, and he handed a piece to Gustave. “To tide you over until you get your eggs. Doesn’t food cooked over a campfire taste better than anything else in the whole world?”
“I know. Especially when it’s so cold.”
“Hey, whatever happened with that girl you said was interesting? The one who was named after a month?”
“September Rose. Seppie. We’re friends.” Thinking about her, Gustave wondered what was going on with her family, whether her grandmother and her brother were still fighting, and whether his black eye was getting better.
“Ooh, is she your girlfriend?” Jean-Paul teased him.
Gustave flushed. “No, just my friend.” He took a bite of the bread, which was crispy on the outside and soft and warm inside, tasting somehow like the fire and the smoke and the fresh, pure air all at the same time.
Jean-Paul glanced at Gustave, his face reddened from the heat of the fire. “I guarantee my toast is better than what we would have gotten in that stupid inn anyway,” he said. “I wouldn’t eat their food if you paid me.”
A look of recognition flashed between them.
29
The city felt crowded and dirty compared to the frosty landscape around Osprey Lake. But it was also warmer. On Monday morning Gustave left his gloves at home for the first time, and as he walked to school, he noticed buds on some of the trees, and green shoots poking up from fenced-in areas of soil along the sidewalk. He was wearing his new blue pants and tie. He passed strangers on the street, and none of them stared at him or seemed to notice him at all. Nobody would know now just by looking at him that he hadn’t been born in America. As he ran up the school steps, Gustave noticed that he was whistling “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, quietly to himself.
Posters about the rally in Battery Park were up all over the school. VICTORY! they announced in large letters. YOUTH RALLY. BATTERY PARK. MUSIC! ENTERTAINMENT! SUPPORT THE WAR EFFORT! Gustave walked self-consciously to homeroom, expecting someone to comment on his new clothes at any minute, but nobody did. In fact, nobody said anything about them until lunch.
“Hey—new pants!” Miles said. “They look good.”
Leo looked over. “Yeah, you look normal now, Gus. So, did you fellows hear about the rally? There’s going to be dancing!”
“Not dancing, roller-skating!” Stephen said.
“That’s not what I heard,” Leo insisted.
And that was it. Gustave looked like one of the crowd now. He fit in. It felt great and not quite real at the same time, as if he were wearing a costume.
In third period there was an all-school assembly. It began with the usual sorts of announcements about the sewing club and basketball, and then Mrs. Hale, the principal, walked onto the stage. “I know we are all excited about the Victory Rally and the auditions for the chorus,” she said, smiling. There was a surge of cheering in the auditorium. “But I do have a few things to say about it,” she went on. “I want you all to remember that whether or not you are in the chorus, every one of you who attends the rally will be representing Joan of Arc Junior High. It’ll be a big crowd, full of students from schools all over the city, and I expect you all to be on your best behavior. There will be police there, of course, keeping order—if you get sepa
rated from your group or need help, check in with one of them.
“And now, an important announcement. The rally organizers have also decided to hold a scrap drive, so they are asking everyone who attends to bring some tin cans. Ask your mothers and your other relatives and friends to save them. The metal will be used to make military equipment—airplanes, tanks, ships, and smaller equipment too. Any questions?”
Stephen’s hand was up. “Is it true there’s going to be roller-skating at the rally?” he asked.
“Yes. There’s a wooden platform up in the park because of some construction work, and the fire department is going to put a railing around it and turn it into a temporary roller-skating rink. There’s also going to be music and a bonfire. You can bring your own roller skates or rent a pair there.”
Miles’s hand shot up. “But, Mrs. Hale,” he asked worriedly when she called on him, “Battery Park is right on the water. Won’t the light from the bonfire be dangerous? In the newspapers it says ships are getting torpedoed by U-boats, and that lights along the coast let the Nazis see where our ships are.”
“Yeah!” Frank called out. “That’s why they dimmed the lights at the Statue of Liberty.”
“Let’s remember to raise our hands before speaking. Yes, that’s right, Miles, Frank. I’m pleased that you are all paying such good attention to the war news. But don’t worry. The firemen are building the bonfire behind a barrier so that the light won’t shine out to sea. The ships along our coast will stay safe.”
When the students returned to homeroom, Mrs. McAdams hushed them and turned to Gustave. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND, GUS?” she boomed at him. “MRS. HALE SAYS TO SAVE CANS AND WASH THEM. WASH, WASH?” She did it in pantomime.
Skating with the Statue of Liberty Page 16