Skylark and Wallcreeper

by Anne O'Brien Carelli

  I can feel my spirits lift immediately. Rosie sounds like someone who could understand what my life has been like over the last week.

  The door to the shop flies open, and all I can think of is my third-grade teacher who always burst into our classroom all disheveled, just when the bell rang. Rosie commands the same attention. She fills the doorway wearing a pink shiny robe with gigantic flowers and is holding a pair of pink slippers with fluffy pom-poms. I recognize the robe as a kimono because Granny gave me her old one when she cleaned out her closet before going to the nursing home. This kimono is loosely wrapped around Rosie, tied around her ample waist. Green-striped pajamas peek out from under the robe.

  She stands in the doorway and purses her pouffed lips as she peers into the shop. She runs her fingers through thick, curly hair piled on her head. The color of her hair is a vibrant shade of red I’ve never seen on another person, and I’ve been out on the streets of Brooklyn.

  “What?” she asks again, and slides her feet into the slippers. Her toenails match her fingernails—glittery pink.

  “Nice of you to join the land of the living,” Henry comes from around the counter and shuts the door behind her. The small shop is now overloaded with pens and people, and feels damp and steamy. There’s a new smell that I can’t place until Johnny whispers, “Coconut. She smells like coconut.” He looks around the store in every direction, but his eyes keep gliding over Rosie in her robe. She lowers her eyes at him, pulls the robe tighter, and says playfully, “Hello there, boys and girls.”

  Henry returns to his stool behind the high counter. “My daughter is the understudy for the chorus of an off-Broadway play. She sits in the theater all night waiting for someone to sprain their ankle, and then she sleeps all day.”

  Rosie scowls, but she doesn’t look like she’s actually annoyed. “At least I’m not trapped in a room with fountain pens all day.”

  They seem to be enjoying each other, even though the words are tough. I think of conversations with my mom when I get impatient with her. Two hours later, I’ll miss her voice.

  Henry holds up the letters. “We need a translator. How’s your French?”

  Rosie wiggles by Johnny and me and scoops up the letters. “It was pretty rusty, but there’s a French guy in the show and we talk every night in the dressing room. I’ve been getting a lot of practice. He misses home.” She opens the first one. It’s neatly written in black ink on thin, yellowing paper. We gather closer around the counter. She flips through the rest of the letters. “It looks like the last one was written in 1950.” She looks up, puzzled.

  “My granny gave those letters to me to keep. I have no idea what they say.”

  “Well, let’s find out.” She extends her hand. “I’m Rose, but I guess as long as I’m stuck living under my father’s roof, I’m called Rosie.” We introduce ourselves as she vigorously shakes our hands and says, “Bonjour! Bonjour!”

  Rosie starts to read aloud in a surprisingly soft voice, rarely hesitating as she translates.

  Chapter 20

  The Letters

  As Rosie reads the first letter, she keeps stopping to ask me questions. But I can’t answer them. All I know is that the letters were written by Marguerite to my granny Collette, a long time ago. “Keep reading.”

  I watch her run her finger along each line.

  November 1944

  Madrid, Spain

  Dear Collette,

  By the time you receive this letter, I hope I will still be in Spain and you can write me back. Send letters to the French Embassy in Madrid. My mama says they will find us because my papa had to register with the embassy.

  I am sorry that I could not say good-bye, and I hope you are safe. In August, right before the Americans landed in Marseille (freedom!), Rabbit told us that we had to leave Brume in the middle of the night. There were too many people in town who thought that my father had helped the Germans and we were in danger.

  At first we were told we could take one suitcase and meet by the fountain on the Rue Grand in the morning. But Rabbit said that was a trick and we were going to be deported. So we took what we could carry and left in the dark. I wish I could have told you, but we had no time.

  I still don’t know if I can tell anyone that my father was in the French Resistance, spying on the Germans and French Milice when they came to our home. In fact, I’m afraid to write that in this letter because it’s hard to figure out who to trust. So many collaborators have been killed or deported. I hope my father can tell his story so everyone knows the truth. He was not a collaborator! Monsieur de Gaulle should help him!

  Wallcreeper—we have so much we could tell, don’t we?

  I am also sorry that my mother packed our suitcases many months before we escaped, so my clothes are all too small! You probably have to dress like a girl now. I’m sure you are very uncomfortable.

  Can you check to see who is living in our house in Brume? I know that you can climb over the wall and get inside. My papa says he’s heard it’s empty—everything is gone—and no one wants to live there, but please take a broom to it and take care of it for us until we can return.

  Please write back,

  Marguerite (Skylark)

  “I don’t know the word wallcreeper,” Rosie says, pointing at the word. “What does it mean?”

  I pull out my phone and look it up. “A wallcreeper is a bird that lives in cliffs in southern France. I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

  “And skylark?”

  “Skylark . . .” I search and find a description. “It’s a bird that lives across Europe. It sings when it’s in flight.” I play the recording of the birdsong while Rosie reads the letter again.

  “I don’t get this,” Rosie says, scanning the letter. “Marguerite is writing to Collette, right? So Marguerite is Skylark—and Collette is Wallcreeper. But who’s Rabbit?”

  “My granny is Collette, but I don’t understand this any more than you do. Henry told us that Marguerite lives up the coast, outside New York City. Maybe Marguerite can explain things because my granny has never mentioned any of this.”

  “What does Marguerite mean about the suitcase and the fountain?”

  Henry reaches for the letter. “Last time I studied French was in high school.” He traces Marguerite’s signature. “This was written many years ago. It sounds like Marguerite and her family escaped after the Allies liberated the south of France.”

  “The Allies?” Johnny and I say together.

  “The countries that fought against the Germans in World War II were called the Allies, like the British and the Americans. In the summer of 1944 there was a big battle in northern France, and an invasion in the south of France. The Allies drove the Germans out of France, and the war in Europe ended soon after that.”

  He turns the letter so I can see the careful handwriting. “This letter was written in 1944. It was sent to Brume, in the south of France.”

  I’m trying to follow this, but we haven’t studied World War II yet, and it’s hard to picture all of this as my granny’s life. “So this woman—girl—named Marguerite was a friend of my granny’s in France? I don’t get why she and her family had to leave suddenly and go to Spain. It sounds like the war was over.”

  Rosie leans forward so that her pile of red hair shifts to the side and loose curls fall across her face. “I’ve lived in Paris, so I know a little bit about this. I had so many friends in France.” She stares off in the distance. By the look on her face, she seems to be lost in pleasant memories. “We spent many hours in restaurants with bottles of wine and amazing food, talking about art, and literature, and history.”

  She refocuses on the letters. “That time in France is known as the Dark Years.” She twists the strands of hair gently around her finger and tucks them behind her ear. “When the Germans took over France during the war, there was little fighting in the south, near towns like Brume. But it was still terrible. Most of the French people were starving and terrified of the Germans
.” Her hair falls in her face again, and she pulls a wide silver barrette out of her kimono pocket, wraps up the wayward strands, and clamps the barrette shut. “But some of the French people made friends with the Germans. Those people were called collaborators.” She pauses for a moment. “They were French people who made friends with the enemy.”

  Henry points to a passage in the letter and stumbles through the French, reading it aloud. “It sounds like Marguerite’s father pretended to be friends with the Germans,” he says, “but was really spying on them.” He taps the letter and looks up at me. “The Germans could have found out, so he was risking his life! And some people in town would’ve been very angry that he was treating the Germans so well. He was a very brave man.”

  “People in the French towns who secretly spied on the Germans,” Rosie adds, “also stole German food and equipment. They were so courageous! They reported to the Allies where the Germans hid their tanks and ammunition. It was very dangerous for the spies, and many of them were caught and—” She looks over at me, suddenly solemn. “—didn’t survive. Those brave people were in the French Resistance. They resisted the Germans taking over their country.”

  Henry continues, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “It sounds like Marguerite’s father was in the French Resistance and probably reported information about the Germans to Charles de Gaulle, one of the leaders of the Resistance. That’s why Marguerite says that de Gaulle should help him.”

  Could all of this have happened to Granny’s friend Marguerite? Why didn’t Granny ever tell me about it? She never said a word about Marguerite, Rabbit, or a resistance—or even the war—and we talk all the time, even when she can’t remember what we were talking about. “Do you think my granny knew that Marguerite’s father was in the French Resistance?”

  Henry hands the letter back to Rosie, and she returns it to the envelope. “Marguerite and Collette both must have known.” She taps the stack of letters. “They had to keep a very dangerous secret. Where’d you get these?”

  “My granny kept them. She just turned eighty, and she’s kept the letters in her favorite pocketbook.” I briefly tell her why I’m at her father’s store, leaving out the part that no one but Johnny knows where I am. I make it sound as if I’m in constant contact with my mom and Granny.

  Johnny pitches in a few more details but doesn’t give me away. “This is all very cool, but I still don’t get that part about a rabbit.”

  The man rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember much about the war. Believe it or not, I’m not that old.”

  Rosie interrupts, flapping the letter in the air. “I think I can explain the Rabbit part!” She looks at me, her eyes wide, and I can see she’s wearing false eyelashes. She’s caught up in this mystery, but I’m getting uncomfortable with my granny’s letters being opened and passed back and forth.

  Rosie picks up a pen, pops off the cap, and scribbles Collette on a small pad of white paper. “So your grandmother is Collette, right?”

  “That’s right.” Should I be talking to another stranger about Granny?

  “She has a code name, so she must have been a Resistance fighter, too.” Rosie writes Wallcreeper next to Collette. “Everything was very, very secret, and many resisters had secret names. Have you ever heard of Marie-Madeleine Fourcade?” She looks around at all of us and we shake our heads. “Oh—she’s very famous in France. She was in charge of hundreds of people in the French Resistance. Her group of Resistance fighters were called Noah’s Ark by the Nazis.”

  “Noah’s Ark?” I ask.

  Johnny chimes in, “You mean the animals, two by two?”

  “Yes, that’s where it came from.” Rosie’s voice is becoming fuller and louder as she gets caught up in her explanation. I can see how she could be on the Broadway stage. “In Noah’s Ark, every Resistance fighter had a secret animal name. It looks like Rabbit was a member, Marguerite was Skylark—and your granny was Wallcreeper.” She jots down Marguerite = Skylark.

  She pulls the letter out of the envelope again, and snaps it open. “Listen to this: Wallcreeper—we have so much we could tell, don’t we?” She looks up at me, and her eyes are bright. She has big pouty lips, and she lights up when she smiles. “Your grandmother was in the French Resistance, little one. And if she’s eighty now, she was about your age. That’s amazing.”

  “Can we read more?” Johnny looks expectantly at me. I’m just as curious and drop my backpack at my feet. My little granny? A spy?

  I nod at Rosie. Henry pulls another stool over and pats it. “Climb up, Rosie, and keep reading.”

  Chapter 21

  Letters from London

  Rosie gently pulls the second letter out of its tattered envelope. This one includes a black-and-white picture of two young boys. They’re standing in front of a stone wall, their raggedy, too-big pants rolled up to their knees, their sleeves pushed up around the elbows.

  One of the boys is grinning and aiming a long stick at the camera, while the other is leaning forward, laughing. Their hair is cut very short, and they’re both wearing giant boots.

  Rosie hands the photo to me, and I study their happy faces. The sun is bright in the photo and clusters of flowers are at their feet.

  I flip the photo over. Someone has scrawled Marguerite and Collette on the back.

  “This is my granny!” I study the details more closely—the stone formation of the wall, the skinny legs, the chopped hair.

  “Which one?” Rosie asks, leaning in to look.

  “I don’t know. They look alike.” I show the picture to Henry, and he comments on how relaxed and joyful the two girls look. “It’s like they were twins,” he says. “And to think that these beautiful girls were up to no good.” I run my finger over their faces and take another long look before I slip it back into the envelope.

  “This next letter’s from London,” Rosie says. We all lean forward, ready for another chapter.

  August 1945

  Dearest Collette,

  I was in such despair when I did not hear from you, but then your letter finally arrived here in London. We left Spain when Father was cleared to go to work—and, Collette, he has been awarded the Croix de Guerre! Such an honor! I am so proud of him! (You should get one, too, you know.)

  It takes so long for our letters to find each other. I hope your mama is feeling better and you are not so lonely. You can always write me here—we have no plans to leave London, but I think often of home.

  I am happy to hear that some of the French boys are beginning to return to Brume. Are there any handsome ones? I know there isn’t much for them to do but clear the fields for next spring, but can you imagine what you will finally be able to grow again?

  I have enclosed the picture that my father took after our encounter with the train, when you were still using a crutch. I am sure that your scar is not as ugly as you say. At least we can cover up our scars and no one will see them. But I agree, we will always have those reminders.

  Mama insisted that I grow my hair out again. I’m actually quite pretty! She says that I have to meet a nice boy, not BE a nice boy! She has no idea how much I miss wearing pants, especially when I ride my bicycle.

  Collette, I am delaying in this letter. There is sad news—Panther is gone. Perhaps you have heard? He was part of a raid on Milice headquarters in Vichy and did not survive. You said in a letter that Rabbit and Hélène still keep up the fight to rid France of all collaborators, but they don’t want you to deliver for them anymore. As they say, go to school. No more secrets.

  Please write and tell me about my lovely Brume.

  Marguerite (Skylark)

  I pull out the picture again and point to the girl with the stick. “This must be Granny with the crutch.” It dawns on me that Granny wasn’t asking for a broom to clean the Armory. She was talking about the “lovely Brume” in Marguerite’s letter. My heart sinks as I wish I had understood.

  Rosie studies both sides of the letter again. “I wonder what they meant about be
ing a boy and their encounter with the train?”

  “Maybe they blew one up,” Henry chuckles. “They did that, you know—the Resistance. Kept the supply lines shut down, killed a lot of Germans that way. Sounds like your granny tangled with a train.”

  Johnny and I look at each other in dismay. This time Johnny says, “Granny?”

  “Lily?” Rosie leans on the counter and props her chin up with her hands so that her pink nails glow on her cheek. “Does your grandmother have a scar?” She looks at me with kind eyes, and everyone grows quiet.

  I’ve helped Granny into her nightgown so many times. I’ve pulled her cotton shirts over her head, trying not to look at her thin, freckled skin and saggy underwear, and have gently eased her into tops that she didn’t have to button, and pants with elastic waists. Because I didn’t want to embarrass her, I always stood to the side or behind her back. But I knew she had a scar.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it.” With my finger I draw a zigzag line on my thigh. “She has one a few inches above her knee. I’ve asked her about the scar a couple of times, but all she said was that it was caused by an accident when she was a little girl, but it healed quickly.”

  We stay silent for a moment. Then Rosie heaves a dramatic sigh and reaches out to touch my arm. I picture Granny in her red sweater and pink beret, waiting for me back at the Armory. My throat feels tight, and suddenly I want my mom. She would hug me too much and lecture me about running into danger, but that’s what my mom is good at. She would feed me junk food and ask me all about my homework and basically drive me nuts. But I wouldn’t mind some of her overkill right about now.