Skating with the Statue of Liberty

by Susan Lynn Meyer

  “True—that would have been a lot worse.” September Rose paused at the street corner. “I don’t feel like going home and telling Granma about the auditions. She’ll say it’s all for the best or that everything happens in God’s own time or something like that, and I don’t want to hear it.” She fidgeted, tightening the straps on her schoolbag. “My brother’s Negro Youth Group is meeting at five-fifteen in back of a furniture store near here. Do you want to go with me?”

  “He said you could come this time?”

  “Not exactly.” September Rose twirled a braid around her finger and let it go. “They’re planning something. I want to go spy on them and see if I can find out what’s going on and how he got that black eye. He wouldn’t ever tell us what happened. I just want to hear what they say.” Her voice was nervous, but her eyes were gleaming with excitement.

  “Won’t they see us?”

  “Not this time, they won’t. They usually meet at people’s apartments, but Alan’s friend Willie works at the furniture store, and he has to get right back to work after the meeting, so they’re gathering behind the building. I’ve been there once before with Alan when he was getting together with his friend. There’s a shed. We could hide behind it. Come on—it’ll be exciting!”

  Gustave hesitated. His parents knew he was at the library, but he was supposed to be home soon, and he didn’t want to get punished again. But spying did sound like fun. “As long as it won’t take too long.”

  “I’m sure it won’t—it’s almost nighttime. Come on!”

  The furniture store was squeezed between two larger businesses. September Rose looked about furtively and led the way around the side. “There’s the shed,” she whispered. “They should be here any minute. They’re meeting on the back steps.”

  Gustave and September Rose crouched behind the shed in the shadows. It was a cool night, but not cold, and even in the heart of the city, the evening air smelled like warming earth and spring. A light above the back entry to the building lit up a set of concrete steps, a rectangle of cement, and a garbage bin.

  Two Negro boys who looked as if they were high school age came out of the back door together.

  “The one in the blue shirt is Alan’s friend Willie,” September Rose whispered.

  A minute later two girls of about the same age walked down the alleyway and up the steps to join them. The four of them stood there talking quietly, their faces illuminated by the electric light.

  September Rose nudged Gustave. “Alan,” she mouthed. Gustave saw him approaching. His eye was still slightly bruised. Two other boys came around the side of the building right behind him.

  “Thanks for coming on time,” Willie said. “My break’s over in fifteen minutes, so let’s get right to it. I guess what we need to talk about is, do we stop picketing Baumhauer’s because of the”—he grinned sarcastically—“shall we say, unwanted attention last time? We could move on to another department store for our Don’t Buy Where You Can’t Work campaign. There are a lot of other places Negroes shop where they won’t hire any of us.”

  “We could picket Lindeman’s instead,” one of the girls said. She was wearing a gauzy green scarf over her hair.

  “Yes!” The other girl nodded enthusiastically. “They were really rude to my sister there one day when she went in looking for a pair of gloves. They treated her like a thief.”

  “NO!” Alan said. “I mean, we can picket Lindeman’s later, sure. But why take the pressure off Baumhauer’s now, when they’re really feeling it?”

  “Um…because we don’t want to get beat up again?” said another boy, who was built like a football player. “It could be much worse next time.” September Rose drew in her breath sharply. The girl in the green scarf and the girl standing next to her both looked toward the shed. It felt as if they were staring directly at Gustave and September Rose.

  “But that means it’s working!” Alan said. “They’re feeling the pinch.”

  “Did you hear something?” the girl in the green scarf asked. “Over there.” Seppie put her hand over her mouth. Gustave’s elbow suddenly felt unbearably itchy, but he bit down on his lip and stayed absolutely still, willing himself not to scratch it.

  “Probably an alley cat. There are a lot of them around here,” Willie said.

  “I agree with Alan about this,” said a tall, serious-looking boy who had been standing silently next to Willie. Everybody turned to look at him, as if they had all been waiting for him to speak. “Baumhauer’s is losing sales. They hate losing money. That’s what’s going to make them change their mind about hiring Negroes. I say we keep it up. Let’s vote. Everyone in favor of continuing the pickets at Baumhauer’s?”

  Six of the seven hands went up immediately, and then the boy who looked like a football player looked around and slowly raised his hand too.

  “Good,” said the boy with the serious face. “We’re all agreed. So I’ll let you know when we should meet there. Roberta, you’re going to try to get us some attention from the newspapers? You’ll talk to your cousin?”

  The girl with the green scarf nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Double V for Victory!” the tall, serious boy said, holding up his hand in a V and flashing it twice.

  The others did the same. “Double V for Victory,” they chorused quietly.

  Willie glanced at his watch. “My break’s over. I’ve gotta go,” he said, pulling open the back door of the furniture store. The rest of the group stood talking quietly for a minute before leaving.

  When footsteps were no longer audible, September Rose looked at Gustave. “So they did get attacked by someone. That’s how Alan got that black eye. And he’s going to go on picketing anyway,” she whispered with a mixture of pride and fear in her voice. “Granma will hate that. But I don’t get it: if people are beating them up, why don’t they just tell the police?”

  She chewed on her lip nervously as the two of them crept around the building and out to the street. Alan and his friends were gone. Across the way the door of a bar opened, and light and cigarette smoke spilled out as three American sailors emerged, singing loudly and off-key. Suddenly the street felt deserted and dangerous.

  “It’s late. We should take the bus,” Gustave said. Seppie nodded. A moment later a bus came around the corner and they ran down the block and got on.

  “Do you think I should tell Granma about Alan?” September Rose asked after the bus had gone a few blocks. “I don’t think so. She’d just worry. Alan knows what he’s doing.”

  “Yeah, he does.” Gustave nodded. “And there are a lot of them in his group. They’ll be together.”

  Gustave’s stop came first. He jumped up as the bus slowed. It lurched, startling him, and he dropped his bag. He leaned down to pick it up as the door hissed open in front of him.

  “Careful, butterfingers!” September Rose said, grinning, as he went down the steps. Gustave waved from the sidewalk. “Butterfinger—Rich in dextrose! The sugar your body needs for energy!” she called.

  “You sang best, Seppie!” Gustave called back.

  She smiled at him through the window as the bus pulled away.

  33

  At Boy Scouts that week, Gustave was surprised to hear more talk about the Victory Rally. Everybody’s school seemed to be going. The Lycée Français was sending a chorus, just like Joan of Arc Junior High, but none of the French Boy Scouts were in it.

  “I have an exciting announcement!” Father René said as the meeting began. “Several Manhattan Boy Scout troops are going to lead the flag salute at the rally. So for today’s activity, we’re going to practice the flag ceremony.”

  “Is someone from our troop going to present the American flag, Father?” Xavier called out immediately. “Can I do it?”

  “No, a different troop is leading the salute. But all the Boy Scouts will gather round and salute the flag, so we need to rehearse the ceremony. We’ll also all say the Pledge of Allegiance in unison.”

  Gustave’s
homeroom class said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning. It worried Gustave every time. “Father René, if we say the Pledge of Allegiance, are we saying we are more loyal to the United States than to France?” he asked.

  Several of the boys started talking at once.

  “Mais non!”

  “Jamais!”

  No! Never!

  “France will always be my home,” said Xavier.

  “I agree with the boys,” Father René said. “The pledge can mean that you are loyal to both countries.”

  They rehearsed the ceremony several times, and then Father René called for a break. “So I know that we’ve been very relaxed about coming to meetings in Boy Scout uniform, what with clothing shortages and new members and so on. But wear what you have of the uniform to the rally, boys. Viens ici, Gustave. I need to talk to you for a minute,” he said, leading Gustave aside. “I have a hand-me-down Boy Scout sweater and a kerchief that you can wear for the ceremony,” he said, handing him a bag. “You can keep them.”

  “Thanks.” Gustave felt his face getting hot.

  “It’s nothing. I found them lying around in the storeroom. It’ll be fun, this rally. You’ll see!” The priest smiled his infectious smile. “Lots of kids, lots of music, roller-skating! Go on—join the others.”

  The rest of the troop was gathered around the snack table eating Passover almond macaroons that the rabbi’s wife had made for them.

  “These are so delicious!” Guy said, taking two more. “Why wasn’t I born Jewish?”

  “And you haven’t even had matzoh ball soup yet,” Bernard said. “Passover is the best holiday for food.”

  “I wonder if there’s going to be good food at the rally,” Xavier said.

  “Food! Who cares about that? There are going to be so many girls there!” said André.

  “Ooh, are you going to bring a date?” asked Xavier.

  “Are you?” André asked ironically. “I’m going to meet girls there!”

  “I might bring a date,” said Maurice.

  “Really? Who?” asked Jean-Paul.

  “Her name’s Jacqueline. She goes to my school.”

  “Is she pretty?” Xavier asked eagerly, reaching for another macaroon.

  “Well, I guess you can decide for yourself when you see her, Tenacious Sponge!”

  —

  When the scout meeting was over, Gustave went to the church bathroom and, with the door latched securely behind him, tried on the sweater. It was dark blue wool, like the sweaters he had seen the other boys wearing, and it was thick and warm and scratchy. The cuffs were a bit ragged, and the name Mathieu was written on the tag on the back of the neck, but he could cut that off when he got home and no one would ever know that it hadn’t always been his. He tied the bandana around his neck. It felt stiff and new. Maybe it wasn’t really secondhand. Maybe Father René had actually bought it for him and fibbed about it, he thought, flushing. He quickly took the bandana and the sweater off and shoved them back into the bag.

  Jean-Paul started banging on the door just as he opened it. “What took you so long? Come on!”

  None of the other scouts were around. Gustave opened the bag and showed him as they left the church. “Father René gave me these, so I could wear the uniform at the rally,” he whispered. “He said they used to belong to some other Boy Scout. But I think this kerchief is new. Do you think so?”

  Jean-Paul reached in and fingered it. “It does feel new. But maybe that other scout quit before wearing it much.”

  “Or maybe Father René bought it for me and just said it was secondhand. He’s a priest—he shouldn’t fib!” Gustave kicked angrily at a piece of newspaper on the sidewalk.

  “He might have bought it, I guess. Or maybe Rabbi Blum did.”

  Somehow that was a little less embarrassing. “Maybe.”

  “So are you going to invite a girl you know to skate with you at the rally?” Jean-Paul asked him, grinning. “Someone from your school?”

  “I don’t know. What about you?” Gustave asked his cousin.

  Jean-Paul laughed. “Remember, they still have me in fourth grade! If I went with a girl from my class, it would be like skating with my baby sister!”

  34

  That evening Gustave heard Papa bounding up the steps to the apartment. “Great news!” he called, bursting in, carrying a bag full of food, and smiling in a way Gustave hadn’t seen him smile in a long time. “I got a promotion! Tonight we celebrate!” He was in a great mood, and he listened to Gustave reciting his paragraph about Charles de Gaulle out loud over and over again as Maman roasted the whole chicken he had bought. After they’d feasted on it, as Maman cleared the plates and boiled water for tea, Gustave put his notes away and recited his speech again for both his parents. “Bravo!” Papa applauded. “Listen to you! Giving a speech in English!”

  “Maybe you should show them the Cross of Lorraine,” Maman said. “Don’t just say ‘a double-barred cross.’ You could draw one on the blackboard.”

  “Good idea. But what if I forget my whole report?”

  “Oh, how could that happen?” Papa scoffed. “You could say it in your sleep. And when you’ve given it, we should have a big celebration for your speech and my new job! What do you say—ready to move into a new apartment, Lili?” He squeezed out his tea bag and laid it on a saucer.

  Maman put the used tea bag in her cup and poured hot water over it. Gustave watched as tea seeped out of the bag in a paler shade of brown, swirling into her cup. “Maybe when our year in this apartment is up,” she said. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep saving.”

  Gustave bit into an apple. “Congratulations, Papa!” he said with his mouth full. “Aunt Geraldine was wrong about you not being able to get a better job.”

  “Well, I’ll only be supervising the janitors,” Papa said. “I’d still like to get a position as a fabric buyer. But with a son who can give speeches in English—with you helping me, soon I’ll be able to speak enough English to do some more interesting work. It’s all happening! I told you things would work out for us in America!”

  Gustave thought Papa was probably right that he could give his oral report in his sleep. Still, he practiced it many times over the weekend, and on his way to school on Monday morning, he repeated it again and again in his head. He waited nervously for history class, which was last period. As he went into the classroom, he caught September Rose’s eye, and she gave him a quick thumbs-up sign.

  “So, oral presentations today!” Mr. Coolidge beamed at the class as if he couldn’t possibly think of anything more exciting. “Who wants to go first?”

  September Rose raised her hand.

  “September Rose Walker! Wonderful.” He consulted his list. “September Rose is going to tell us all about Abraham Lincoln.”

  September Rose stood calmly in front of the class, looking elegant in a plaid skirt and shiny brown shoes, telling them about Abraham Lincoln’s early days in a log cabin, about his family, his opposition to slavery, the Civil War, and his assassination. “Abraham Lincoln was a very important president,” she concluded, “because he put an end to slavery.”

  The class applauded politely as she sat down. “Excellent!” Mr. Coolidge said. “Now—what about you, Leo? Ready to tell us about Lou Gehrig?”

  Gustave found it hard to listen to the oral reports that followed, because his heart was pounding so loudly. Instead, he ran the words of his own oral report over and over in his head.

  “Gustave Becker,” Mr. Coolidge said finally. “Your turn. Are you ready to present?”

  Gustave took a deep breath, nodded, and made it to the front of the room. He drew the Cross of Lorraine on the blackboard, his sweaty fingers damp against the piece of chalk. When he turned to face the other students, he realized how big the classroom was. Row after row of faces looked at him, all of them native English speakers, some of them kids who had laughed at his accent before, all of them waiting to hear him speak. At least he looked all right, because he was wear
ing his new pants and tie. He took a deep breath, and his mouth went dry. Mr. Coolidge nodded at him warmly.

  Gustave swallowed. His mind was completely blank. Suddenly he couldn’t remember a single word of his oral report. “Charles de Gaulle…,” he said desperately. He couldn’t remember what came next. Somebody yawned loudly. Feet shuffled.

  “Why don’t you start by telling us about what you’ve drawn on the board?” Mr. Coolidge said encouragingly. “Why is this symbol important?”

  But if he didn’t say his report exactly the way he had memorized it, he was sure he wouldn’t remember anything. “Ch-Charles de Gaulle…,” he stammered again. “Charles de Gaulle…”

  Leo smirked in the front row. The boy next to him groaned softly. Gustave’s armpits prickled with sweat.

  A chair scraped in the rear of the classroom, and heads turned. September Rose stood up and looked into Gustave’s eyes. “ ‘Charles de Gaulle is a French hero,’ ” she quoted, and then she sat down.

  Relief flooded over Gustave. “Charles de Gaulle is a French hero,” he said, and all the other words from his report rushed back into his head. He started to speak, telling the class about the Free French; about the Cross of Lorraine, Joan of Arc’s symbol; about the French Resistance and the French people fighting back against the Nazis. “Charles de Gaulle is an important historical figure because he is trying to save France,” he concluded.

  Gustave heard roaring in his ears as the class applauded. He had done it. He had given a speech in English. A short one, but still a speech. In front of lots of people. He felt dizzy with relief and happiness as he walked back to his seat.

  As he sat down, he heard a voice murmur, “How did she know his oral report?”

  Gustave looked at Seppie, and she grinned at him.

  As he went down the school steps that afternoon, he heard feet running behind him. “Gustave!” September Rose called, catching up with him. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”

  “The cat…?” He looked to see if there was one nearby.