Skylark and Wallcreeper

by Anne O'Brien Carelli

  This approach seems to work because she points to a low stool opposite her. “There.” She arranges herself on the tall chair nearest the door, spreads out her fur coat, and reaches for a peppermint stick. “So, how was the play?” She calmly sucks on the candy, smearing the red lipstick that outlines her lips.

  I can see her face better as we sit across from each other. She’s a mass of wrinkles, and I recognize the glazed look of someone who lives only in her own mind. I hope Granny never gets this lost. Nicole’s warned me that it could happen any day.

  “It was a wonderful play. It was about a pen.” I casually stand and ease my way around the store, scanning to see if perhaps there are any pens buried under the dust. The bookshelves are mostly empty, with an occasional figurine or damaged book. “Do you have any old pens?”

  She studies the wrapper of the candy stick, peeling it carefully, licking the plastic.

  Just as I sneak past her toward the door, she picks up a wineglass and heaves it at me. She misses by a mile, but then she grabs a plate and throws that, too, coming awfully close. Another plate follows, and the rest of the silverware is next. “SIT DOWN!” She keeps screaming at me, and no longer does she seem amusing. This is when residents are handled by nurses and orderlies, but I can’t ring a buzzer or call for help. Who would hear me? And who would I call? I’m not supposed to be here!

  As objects crash around me, I’m able to pull the chain aside and start on the locks. My hands are shaking and I almost drop my phone. A spoon thumps against my arm. The locks keep getting stuck. “Stop it!” I yell back, and the tears finally break loose. What am I doing here?

  As she pelts me with handfuls of goldfish crackers, the door is finally free. Rain is pouring in sheets, but I’m relieved to be in fresh air and see that the bike is still there. I jump on and take off with no idea if I’m going the right way. The streets are empty, so I’m able to pump fast for two blocks and around the corner, anxious to get back to the warmth of the Armory.

  But I get twisted around, and the rows of Brooklyn stoops start to look the same on every block. Where’s the abandoned bed and the grouchy doorman?

  I pedal frantically until I realize that twice I’ve passed a dry cleaning store with a blue velvet tuxedo hanging limply in the window. I hit a chunk of sidewalk, the bike slips as I brake, and I tip over, banging against a wrought iron railing. No one is around, but I’m not so sure they’d help me anyway. It’s too wet to take out my phone. I have to find someplace dry.

  As I check the bike and retie the laces on one of my boots, I spot the green awning that I’d ducked under before. It’s across the street. I jump on the bike and pick up speed, holding tight, barely able to see in the rain. By the time I roll the bicycle into the gym, I’m completely soaked and breathing hard. But I’m home.

  “Where have you been?” Maria starts to hug me, but then steps back. “Honey, you’re drenched to the bone! Dry off and then get over to that pile and find something to change into.” She points to the stack of clothes that’s built up high again. I’m so anxious to wear dry clothes that I actually consider grabbing a pair of extra-wide pajama pants and somebody’s old sweater.

  The hum of the Armory surrounds me, by now a familiar sound. I can detect the occasional family squabble, or the whine of a child who’s sick of being cooped up. Some of the residents of Rockaway Manor are playing cards and giggling, probably because they don’t really know where they are. Others keep calling for a nurse—I could name most of those residents by now.

  I don’t care how grungy that pile of clothing is. I want to disappear into the mound of soft cloth and sleep until everything is back to normal again.

  “Must be raining!” one of the nurses says as she races by with a pile of blankets. “You can’t tell the weather in here. You have to go into the lobby where there are windows!”

  I drag one of the Macy’s bags out from under my cot and pull out a flannel shirt and leggings that my mom had folded neatly on the top. By the time I’ve changed and brushed my teeth, the lights in the gym have been dimmed, and snores have already begun. Nicole ushers Mrs. Sidobeth back to her cot. “You can talk to Miss Collette in the morning, sweetheart. She’s sleeping now.”

  I’d shoved my phone back in my pocket so it wouldn’t get wet, and it buzzes. It’s a text from Johnny: Power on! Restaurant full!!! It’s not the time to catch him up on how I had to dodge flying forks and goldfish or battle Brooklyn in the rain just to find an old pen.

  But I do text my mom. I’d missed her evening call that was followed by a series of texts, so I let her know that I was busy and couldn’t answer. She calls me immediately. “I’m tired, Mom. Busy day.”

  She presses me for more information because she’s my mom. What did I eat today? Is there enough heat? Is Granny sleeping well? As I listen, I want to give in and say, “I need you, Mom.” But not yet.

  The tears are too close and she’d know, so I say good night.

  I grab my blanket and gently curl up next to Granny on her narrow cot. It sinks a bit and wobbles until I can get comfortable. She’s tiny and doesn’t take up too much room, but the edge of the cot still digs into my back. I don’t mind.

  She reaches her hand over her shoulder and pats my arm. “Ma douce,” she says lovingly. I know what that means. My sweet.

  I can’t disappoint her.

  Chapter 14

  The Code

  Brume

  Nearly Spring 1944

  Monsieur Ruse knocks twice on the thick oak door of Marguerite’s elegant home in Brume and walks boldly into the house. Marguerite and Collette race to the front hall. Their tutor has arrived.

  Without breaking stride, Monsieur Ruse brushes past them. His tweed coat smells of garlic and hangs loosely down to his knees. He has a hacking cough, and he whips out a gray rag and spits a glob of phlegm into it. Marguerite’s father opens his office door and holds out a bottle of wine. Monsieur Ruse grabs the bottle, enters the office, and kicks the door shut.

  “The tutor is here!” Marguerite announces, just in case household workers are cleaning nearby, while her mother delivers worn clothing to village families.

  None of the workers know that Monsieur Ruse can’t read or write. He’s not a tutor at all. He’s a resister who brings messages from Marseille to Marguerite’s father. To explain his weekly visits, he pretends to be Monsieur Ruse, a schoolteacher hired to be a tutor. Marguerite’s father has arranged for Collette to join Marguerite on the days that Monsieur Ruse pays a visit.

  It took a while for Collette to feel comfortable around Marguerite. But after a few missions, she found that she felt safer if Marguerite was by her side. They pretended to be two friends on bicycles, a boy in a cap, and a girl with long, brown hair and a blue beret. They made deliveries, spied on Germans, and reported back to Panther. He never thanked them, never commented on their friendship, but he always had something else for them to do.

  They take the front hall stairs two at a time to the library on the second floor. Sleet taps on the windows and scatters frozen pellets on the grounds. Collette sinks into a chair that’s close to a low-burning fire in the massive fireplace. “I hope we don’t have to go out in this weather. It’s so cozy in here.”

  “This bad weather won’t stop the Germans,” Marguerite remarks as she picks up a book from an old rolltop desk and shoves a heavy chair next to Collette. She drapes a soft red plaid blanket over both of them. They kick off their boots and extend their toes closer to the fire.

  The room is wall-to-wall books. The two girls have already worked their way through the bookshelves as they have waited for Monsieur Ruse to finish his meetings. They’ve flipped through tomes about the history of France, or journals about farming or manufacturing.

  When the war first started, before the Germans occupied Brume, Marguerite’s father had quickly gone through his extensive collection of books and removed almost half of them. The Germans had been destroying books and disapproved of so many titles and authors
. It was not worth the risk to display them on his shelves or hide them away. When Marguerite asked where he had taken them, he flushed and rested his hand on her shoulder. “They are in the sea, my love. The French do not burn their books.”

  Marguerite had helped him reorganize the rows of bookshelves so that they still looked packed. To fill an empty shelf, she spread out her seashell collection from trips to the Côte d’Azur that her family had taken before the war. She propped up a few books to show off their elaborate dustcovers, even though the titles were tedious. Insects and Grapes and Plowing in Sandy Soil were prominently displayed on metal stands.

  Her father added to the shelves the pottery he’d collected in Provence, as well as inkwells, cut-glass paperweights, and Chinese porcelain jars. He hung claret-colored velvet curtains to block the window.

  The result is a cluttered array to make the room appear to be a comfortable sanctuary.

  But there are no radios, no newspapers or maps, and no personal papers ever in plain sight. Marguerite knows that her father has them somewhere. She’s seen her father studying the silk maps and underground newspapers that Monsieur Ruse brings when he can get them.

  But none of these things are in the library, where dinner guests often wander in to explore the shelves and smoke pungent cigarettes. The smoke from the fireplace and the cigarettes soaks into the pages of the old books.

  Marguerite has grown used to the smell. Her father often reeks of cigarettes and hair pomade, and she doesn’t mind at all. She hands the book from the desk to Collette. “This week’s book is about growing sugar beets. It was delivered yesterday.”

  Collette opens the book and scans the fuzzy black-and-white photographs of fields of beets, and detailed, colored drawings of the fat yellow root with crinkly leaves. Most of the words are too technical for her to understand, but she’s able to pick out the names of places like Paris, Germany, Russia, and Ukraine. For some reason, a chapter is devoted to Napoleon Bonaparte. She imitates a picture of him with his hand tucked in his vest.

  Her stomach starts to rumble as she looks at pictures of the sweet purple sugar beet syrup. She longs for a chunk of fresh bread with a slice of peppery Gaperon cheese or perhaps a handful of tangy green olives. She finds every opportunity to visit Marguerite’s kitchen and stuffs her pockets to take food back to her family. Marguerite’s kitchen larder has less to offer this winter, but Collette’s family cupboard is frequently empty.

  Marguerite sighs. “I hate waiting.” She flips her legs over the side of the comfortable chair, leans back, and counts the beams in the ceiling. “I wish my father still had the big globe we could spin, or his typewriter. But the Germans took those away a long time ago. I wonder if we’ll ever get them back.”

  Collette points at a sketch of a giant sugar beet. “This might be a way for France to have sugar again.”

  She’s interrupted by Monsieur Ruse, who slowly climbs the stairs, sneezing loudly. He enters the room dabbing at his wide nose, leaving a string of green goop stuck to his mustache. His spectacles, low on his nose, are crooked, and his black hair hangs in clumps. He wears the glasses to look more like a teacher, but Collette and Marguerite know he doesn’t need them. The second he enters, he stuffs them into his pocket and takes in the room with rheumy eyes.

  Collette pictures actually being tutored by him and tries to make herself invisible in the chair.

  “Why are you sitting there doing nothing?” His voice is raspy as he shouts his question into the hallway, slams the door, and says urgently, “It’s a short one today. Get busy.” He hands Collette a piece of butcher paper used once for wrapping raw meat. She doesn’t hesitate to grab it from him, even though the paper is smeared with blood spots and grime.

  The two girls scramble out of their chairs and Monsieur Ruse claims the one closest to the fire. Before they can settle at the big desk, he has pulled out a footstool and rested his filthy boots on it. He tugs the blanket over himself, closes his eyes, and wheezes in a steady rhythm.

  The girls go to work. Collette lays the book down in front of her on the desk and Marguerite picks up a stubby pencil. They are ready to decode.

  Marguerite reads the first set of numbers on the scrap of butcher paper, “Twenty-one, two fourteen.” Quickly, Collette finds page twenty-one, runs her finger down to the second paragraph, and over to the first letter of the fourteenth word. “P.”

  Marguerite records the letter, then reads the next batch of numbers, “Thirty-four, thirty-seven.” Collette finds page thirty-four, the third paragraph, seventh word, first letter. “A.”

  They rapidly complete the first line. “Hmm, pas de citrons,” Marguerite reads, puzzled.

  Collette taps the paper. “Pas de citrons!” No lemons!

  Within minutes, they’ve figured out the entire message, even though they have no idea what it means. Marguerite reads aloud, “Pas de citrons. Pas de poires. Les fraises de Bessan sont en avance.” No lemons. No pears. Bessan strawberries are early.

  Monsieur Ruse pops up. “Early?” He tosses the blanket aside and drops his boots to the floor, leaving a smear of mud on the braided rug.

  Marguerite reads the message to him.

  “Go!” Monsieur Ruse picks up their boots in front of the fireplace, tosses them at the girls, and has a coughing fit. He doubles over to catch his breath. “Go tell . . . your . . . father,” he wheezes.

  Collette grabs the boots while Marguerite tears the butcher paper into tiny pieces.

  “I’ll do that!” Monsieur Ruse slumps in the chair and waves them toward the door. He wipes his face with the rag, already soaked with fluids. “I’ll burn the scraps. Now go! Vite! Vite!”

  As the girls dash down the stairs, Marguerite’s father steps out of his office. “Your tutoring is over so soon?” he asks loudly. He ushers them in and firmly closes the door. “Where’s Monsieur Ruse?”

  “He told us to tell you the message. He’s very sick, Papa.”

  “No lemons, no pears,” Collette reports as she slides on her big boots. “And Bessan strawberries are early.”

  Marguerite’s father flings the door open and calls up the stairs. “Monsieur Ruse, come here, please.”

  Monsieur Ruse shuffles to the top of the stairs and abruptly sits down on the top step. “I cannot.” When Marguerite’s father growls at him, he grabs the railing and pulls himself up. He wavers for a moment and stumbles down the steps clinging to the handrail, coughing so that droplets fly about. “I am too slow.”

  Marguerite’s father pulls him into the office. “The strawberries are early! We must get him to Spain!” Collette has never seen Marguerite’s father so frantic.

  Monsieur Ruse slumps into a chair and moans.

  “Papa!” Marguerite pulls on her father’s arm. “Who has to get to Spain?”

  Both men slowly turn toward Marguerite.

  Collette freezes. She knows he can’t answer her, but she can sense what’s coming. Monsieur Ruse stops his groaning and leans in as Marguerite’s father tucks his finger under Marguerite’s chin and stares into her eyes. “You two are going to have to deliver this message as quickly as you can.”

  Marguerite’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t flinch. “Where?”

  “The drop spot is a log in front of Madame Monette’s. But skip that. You have to deliver the message to her personally.”

  “Madame Monette!” Marguerite exclaims. “She’s an old lady!”

  Collette double-ties her boot laces. “We’re ready.” She knows that Madame Monette is a very old woman, but if two young girls can play a part in resisting, so can old Madame Monette, living alone in the country.

  “Make sure,” Monsieur Ruse says to them through his grubby rag, “Madame Monette understands that Bessan strawberries are coming early. She’ll know that Bessan is near the border of Spain.”

  “Tell her no lemons, no pears,” Marguerite’s father repeats, as if they might forget. “Give her the whole message. Say that the greengrocer thought she’d like to
know that Bessan strawberries will be early.”

  Marguerite decodes the message as she listens. Something is happening sooner than expected—a lot sooner—and it isn’t about lemons, pears, or strawberries.

  Marguerite’s father gives his daughter a quick hug. “Get your coats. Be safe. Go fast.”

  “You can trust us, Papa.”

  “I know I can. But this is . . .”

  “More dangerous?”

  He pauses and rubs his forehead. “It’s . . . it’s very important. He has to get out of Brume and go south to Spain. I hope it’s not too late.”

  Chapter 15

  Invisible

  Brume

  Nearly Spring, 1944

  “Wait!”

  The girls press back on the pedals so that both their bicycles come to a halt and slide on the gravel of the drive. It’s another wet and windy day. Collette pulls her cap down to cover her ears and tightens the thick black scarf around her neck. She looks back to see Marguerite’s father standing on the porch. He’s not wearing a coat, and sleet splatters down on him. He’s holding up a basket and three skinny carrots by the greens and waving them. “Take these carrots to Madame Monette!”

  “He’s really making a big show out of carrots,” Marguerite mutters to Collette as he scurries down the steps and walks briskly across the drive. A swirl of brisk wind scatters dead leaves at his feet.

  He places the wicker basket in Marguerite’s bicycle basket and shows her that under the cloth cover is a potato. He adds the carrots, folding the greens over and replacing the cover. “We don’t want Madame to go hungry.” He adjusts Marguerite’s coat collar and turns back, crossing his arms against the cold.

  The girls resume their trek through the village streets to the outskirts of town. They don’t try to hide, but they take side streets, as usual. Not many people, including soldiers, are willing to go outside and fight with a frosty wind that bites at their cheeks.