Sur le pont d’Avignon, on y danse tout en rond.” Her mother was making dinner, singing along, Les beaux messieurs font comme ça, et puis encore comme ça. Her brother was playing with his little red train down the long corridor, sliding it over the dark floorboards with a clatter and a bang. Les belles dames font comme ça, et puis encore comme ça. She could smell her home, its comforting scent of candle wax and spices, and all the tempting things cooking in the kitchen. She could hear her father’s voice, reading to her mother. They were safe. They were happy.
She felt a cool hand on her forehead. She looked up to see a young woman wearing a blue veil branded with a cross.
The young woman smiled at her and handed her a cup of fresh water, which she drank avidly. Then the nurse gave her a papery biscuit and some canned fish.
“You must be brave,” murmured the young nurse.
But the girl saw that she, too, like the girl’s father, had tears in her eyes.
“I want to get out,” whispered the girl. She wanted to go back to the dream, to the peace and safety she had felt.
The nurse nodded. She smiled a tiny sad smile.
“I understand. There is nothing I can do. I’m so sorry.”
She got up, headed toward another family. The girl stopped her, grabbing her sleeve.
“Please, when are we going to leave?” she asked.
The nurse shook her head. She caressed the girl’s cheek softly. Then she moved on to the next family.
The girl thought she was going to go crazy. She wanted to scream and kick and yell, she wanted to leave this dreadful, hideous place. She wanted to go back home, back to what her life had been before the yellow star, before the men had banged on their door.
Why was this happening to her? What had she done, or her parents done, to deserve this? Why was being Jewish so dreadful? Why were Jews being treated like this?
She remembered the first day she’d worn her star to school. That moment when she had walked into the class, and everybody’s eyes had been drawn to it. A large yellow star the size of her father’s palm on her small chest. And then she saw that there were other girls in the class who had the star too. Armelle wore one as well. It had made her feel a little better.
At recess, all the girls with the stars huddled together. They were pointed at by the other pupils, by all of those who used to be their friends. Mademoiselle Dixsaut had made a point of explaining that the stars should not change anything. All the pupils were to be treated the same way as before, star or no star.
But Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s speech had not helped. From that day forward, most girls stopped speaking to the children with the stars. Or worse still, stared at them with disdain. She could not stand the disdain. And that boy, Daniel, had whispered to her and Armelle in the street, in front of the school, his mouth cruel and twisted, “Your parents are dirty Jews, you are dirty Jews.” Why dirty? Why was being a Jew dirty? It made her feel ashamed, sad. It made her want to cry. Armelle had said nothing, biting her lip till the blood came. It was the first time she had seen Armelle look afraid.
The girl wanted to rip off the star, she told her parents she refused to go back to school with it. But her mother had said no, that she should be proud of it, she should be proud of her star. Her brother had thrown a fit because he, too, wanted a star. But he was under six, explained his mother patiently. He had to wait another couple of years. He had wailed all afternoon.
She thought of her brother in the dark, deep cupboard. She wanted to take his hot little body in her arms, to kiss his curly blond hair, his plump neck. She gripped the key as hard as she could in her pocket.
“I don’t care what anybody says,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll find a way to go back and save him. I’ll find a way.”
A
FTER DINNER, HERVÉ OFFERED us some limoncello, an ice-cold Italian liqueur made with lemon.
She felt a cool hand on her forehead. She looked up to see a young woman wearing a blue veil branded with a cross.
The young woman smiled at her and handed her a cup of fresh water, which she drank avidly. Then the nurse gave her a papery biscuit and some canned fish.
“You must be brave,” murmured the young nurse.
But the girl saw that she, too, like the girl’s father, had tears in her eyes.
“I want to get out,” whispered the girl. She wanted to go back to the dream, to the peace and safety she had felt.
The nurse nodded. She smiled a tiny sad smile.
“I understand. There is nothing I can do. I’m so sorry.”
She got up, headed toward another family. The girl stopped her, grabbing her sleeve.
“Please, when are we going to leave?” she asked.
The nurse shook her head. She caressed the girl’s cheek softly. Then she moved on to the next family.
The girl thought she was going to go crazy. She wanted to scream and kick and yell, she wanted to leave this dreadful, hideous place. She wanted to go back home, back to what her life had been before the yellow star, before the men had banged on their door.
Why was this happening to her? What had she done, or her parents done, to deserve this? Why was being Jewish so dreadful? Why were Jews being treated like this?
She remembered the first day she’d worn her star to school. That moment when she had walked into the class, and everybody’s eyes had been drawn to it. A large yellow star the size of her father’s palm on her small chest. And then she saw that there were other girls in the class who had the star too. Armelle wore one as well. It had made her feel a little better.
At recess, all the girls with the stars huddled together. They were pointed at by the other pupils, by all of those who used to be their friends. Mademoiselle Dixsaut had made a point of explaining that the stars should not change anything. All the pupils were to be treated the same way as before, star or no star.
But Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s speech had not helped. From that day forward, most girls stopped speaking to the children with the stars. Or worse still, stared at them with disdain. She could not stand the disdain. And that boy, Daniel, had whispered to her and Armelle in the street, in front of the school, his mouth cruel and twisted, “Your parents are dirty Jews, you are dirty Jews.” Why dirty? Why was being a Jew dirty? It made her feel ashamed, sad. It made her want to cry. Armelle had said nothing, biting her lip till the blood came. It was the first time she had seen Armelle look afraid.
The girl wanted to rip off the star, she told her parents she refused to go back to school with it. But her mother had said no, that she should be proud of it, she should be proud of her star. Her brother had thrown a fit because he, too, wanted a star. But he was under six, explained his mother patiently. He had to wait another couple of years. He had wailed all afternoon.
She thought of her brother in the dark, deep cupboard. She wanted to take his hot little body in her arms, to kiss his curly blond hair, his plump neck. She gripped the key as hard as she could in her pocket.
“I don’t care what anybody says,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll find a way to go back and save him. I’ll find a way.”
A
FTER DINNER, HERVÉ OFFERED us some limoncello, an ice-cold Italian liqueur made with lemon.
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