suppressed a sigh. “No, I still have more work to do.”
For a few minutes, the marks on the page of my math notebook were stick figures gesturing at me with tiny raised fists.
It had been three weeks since I had seen Zaven. He and I hardly ever crossed paths, and when we did, my brother, if not a whole crowd, was always there too. The few times I’d noticed him looking at me, I had felt too shy to meet his gaze. Once, I was briefly alone with him in the courtyard while he was waiting for Missak, and we had stood in excruciating silence. Or at least
I
was uncomfortable; maybe he was just distracted.
I wanted to blame my awkwardness on my parents’ Old World ways, but Jacqueline’s parents were much like mine, and she had boys and even men trailing behind her. Some of the older lycée girls met their boyfriends after school around the corner and out of sight of the street monitors. I noted with envy the effortless way couples laughed and chatted together at café tables and sat with their arms around each other on park benches. One afternoon when Denise and I were heading home, I saw a girl in the class ahead of ours kissing a German soldier full on the mouth. They were half hidden behind a tree in a small, fenced garden not far from school, but it wasn’t as private a spot as she assumed. I stopped, unable to tear my eyes away, and when Denise tapped my arm to get my attention, my face burned with shame.
Now I glanced back at the notebook on the table before me. The numerals were legible again, and I worked for another hour before going to bed.
In the middle of the night, the sounds of distant blasts and the drone of airplanes overhead awakened me. Air raids near Paris had started a few months earlier, and outings to the designated shelter had become part of our routine. That night, pilots of the Royal Air Force were dropping bombs somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The air-raid sirens had failed to give advance warning, so we stayed in our apartment, standing by the windows with the lights out and the curtains opened. We listened to the explosions and watched far-off flashes above the building across the way. Giving up on getting any sleep, we closed the curtains, turned on the lights, and took our usual places in the front room. I distractedly flipped through an old movie magazine Jacqueline had loaned me.
Auntie Shakeh, tightly wrapped in the shawl, rocked from side to side in her chair. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Missak jumped up from where he was perched on the side of his bed. “I can’t stand it anymore. You can probably see the whole thing from the park. I’m sure Zaven and Barkev are already there.”
“What kind of an onion head are you?” my mother asked.
“They’ve been dropping bombs for over an hour; they’re all in the same place, and it’s miles from here,” Missak said.
My father said, “I think it’s Boulogne. The English must be hitting the Renault factory.”
“Can I go?” Missak asked.
“I’ll come with you,” my father said.
They hurried to the front hall and took their coats from the hooks.
“What about me?” I leaped from my chair.
My mother said, “Maral Pegorian, you are not leaving this apartment. If your father and brother are crazy enough to think there is some kind of show to watch, I won’t stop them. But my daughter is not going into the street at this hour of the night while bombs are falling. And what about the curfew?”
Missak said, “The Germans almost never come this far out, and who would be patrolling during a bombing raid?”
“Good point, my boy,” my father said.
My mother threw up her hands. “Impossible.”
After they left, I sat back down near my mother, who began sewing buttons on one of the vests she had run up earlier on the machine. She stabbed the needle through the cloth as though it were an enemy. My aunt picked up her knitting needles, and the sound of them competed with the clock that
For a few minutes, the marks on the page of my math notebook were stick figures gesturing at me with tiny raised fists.
It had been three weeks since I had seen Zaven. He and I hardly ever crossed paths, and when we did, my brother, if not a whole crowd, was always there too. The few times I’d noticed him looking at me, I had felt too shy to meet his gaze. Once, I was briefly alone with him in the courtyard while he was waiting for Missak, and we had stood in excruciating silence. Or at least
I
was uncomfortable; maybe he was just distracted.
I wanted to blame my awkwardness on my parents’ Old World ways, but Jacqueline’s parents were much like mine, and she had boys and even men trailing behind her. Some of the older lycée girls met their boyfriends after school around the corner and out of sight of the street monitors. I noted with envy the effortless way couples laughed and chatted together at café tables and sat with their arms around each other on park benches. One afternoon when Denise and I were heading home, I saw a girl in the class ahead of ours kissing a German soldier full on the mouth. They were half hidden behind a tree in a small, fenced garden not far from school, but it wasn’t as private a spot as she assumed. I stopped, unable to tear my eyes away, and when Denise tapped my arm to get my attention, my face burned with shame.
Now I glanced back at the notebook on the table before me. The numerals were legible again, and I worked for another hour before going to bed.
In the middle of the night, the sounds of distant blasts and the drone of airplanes overhead awakened me. Air raids near Paris had started a few months earlier, and outings to the designated shelter had become part of our routine. That night, pilots of the Royal Air Force were dropping bombs somewhere on the outskirts of the city. The air-raid sirens had failed to give advance warning, so we stayed in our apartment, standing by the windows with the lights out and the curtains opened. We listened to the explosions and watched far-off flashes above the building across the way. Giving up on getting any sleep, we closed the curtains, turned on the lights, and took our usual places in the front room. I distractedly flipped through an old movie magazine Jacqueline had loaned me.
Auntie Shakeh, tightly wrapped in the shawl, rocked from side to side in her chair. “Lord have mercy,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Missak jumped up from where he was perched on the side of his bed. “I can’t stand it anymore. You can probably see the whole thing from the park. I’m sure Zaven and Barkev are already there.”
“What kind of an onion head are you?” my mother asked.
“They’ve been dropping bombs for over an hour; they’re all in the same place, and it’s miles from here,” Missak said.
My father said, “I think it’s Boulogne. The English must be hitting the Renault factory.”
“Can I go?” Missak asked.
“I’ll come with you,” my father said.
They hurried to the front hall and took their coats from the hooks.
“What about me?” I leaped from my chair.
My mother said, “Maral Pegorian, you are not leaving this apartment. If your father and brother are crazy enough to think there is some kind of show to watch, I won’t stop them. But my daughter is not going into the street at this hour of the night while bombs are falling. And what about the curfew?”
Missak said, “The Germans almost never come this far out, and who would be patrolling during a bombing raid?”
“Good point, my boy,” my father said.
My mother threw up her hands. “Impossible.”
After they left, I sat back down near my mother, who began sewing buttons on one of the vests she had run up earlier on the machine. She stabbed the needle through the cloth as though it were an enemy. My aunt picked up her knitting needles, and the sound of them competed with the clock that
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