Tell No One Who You Are Page 11

  It wasn’t the last. Soon afterwards, Pierre introduced the cow to a bull. That terrified Régine. The bull was enormous and he made a lot of noise. But somehow it didn’t work out. The cow seemed as terrified as Régine, so they had to leave and bring the cow back another time.

  Régine had been waiting for some time for the sow to give birth. The animal was so pregnant she could hardly walk. But when the birth finally came, it was a surprise. The litter was large, and Régine had to work fast to clear the newborn baby pigs out of the way in case the mother made a mistake and rolled over on top of them. Some of the piglets had trouble getting milk from the mother so Régine learned to feed them from a bottle.

  The birth of a calf was more complicated and required the services of the same veterinarian who came to slaughter the pig. Régine was fascinated, but she turned away when he put his hand inside the cow to check the position of the unborn calf.

  Régine was particularly fond of sheep even though there were none on the Wathieu farm. Régine had become friends with Irene, the granddaughter of Old Monsieur Bertrand. At seventeen Irene was too old to go to school, so she stayed home to help on her family’s farm where there were many sheep. The Bertrands also had a horse, chickens and more cows than the Wathieus. There was even a phone in Irene’s house, a luxury that the Wathieu home lacked.

  The two girls discovered they had something to share with each other. They both liked knitting. Régine was a good knitter, thanks to Madame André, and Irene knew how to make lace doilies on a circular needle. They got along well despite the gap of six years between them.

  At home, Sylvie taught Régine how to spin wool on the spinning wheel in the kitchen, using fleece that she bought from Irene’s family. Régine knitted a sweater with this wool, but it was very rough on the skin. Régine also learned from Sylvie how to bake flat country bread and sugar pies. These last tartes au sucre were for Pierre because he did not like fruit pies.

  The mending was done by a woman from a neighboring village. She came to the Wathieu house to work on a sewing machine which Sylvie kept covered in the main room. Seeing her work reminded Régine of her father and mother sewing “before the war.” Another woman came once a month to do the laundry by hand in the sink in the back room. The rest of the housework was done by Sylvie and Régine. Every night as news of German losses came on the radio, it seemed the war would end any moment. But as each day came and there was no word of an end, Régine threw herself into the farmwork. At least for those busy hours, she wasn’t lying awake worrying.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  THE WATHIEU HOUSE had a room that was kept closed. It was meant to be the dining room and a big round table stood in the center, but the Wathieus never ate there. Instead, like Régine’s parents, the Wathieus ate in the room that served both as a kitchen and living room.

  The newly laid eggs which Régine or Sylvie brought in were put into a bowl on the big table in the closed room. When villagers came to buy eggs, Sylvie went in and counted out the required number. The milk and butter which Sylvie made was kept in the cellar where it was always cool. She would bring up the butter and weigh it on a scale on that same table. At all other times the door to the room was never opened.

  It was in this spare room that Sylvie one day divulged a secret to Régine. They had gone in to give it a rare dusting. As they worked, Sylvie told the story in the confiding tone Régine remembered her mother using. Because of that tone, Régine listened in silence.

  At the back of the room was a tall cabinet with a glass door. It was filled with plates, glasses, old photographs and other knickknacks. Sylvie opened the glass door and carefully removed all the items one by one, handing them to Régine for dusting. Régine wiped each item with a damp cloth before setting it on the big round table. It took a long time to empty the tall cabinet. Régine examined each piece and was especially interested in the photographs, which were old but well-preserved in heavy frames.

  There were photos of Sylvie’s nephews and her niece. Her sister, she said, who lived near Liège, had six boys and a girl, and sometimes in summer they all came to the farm for a visit. There were also photos of Pierre’s nephew, Victor, who lived in the nearby village of Limont. Victor helped out at harvest-time because he had a horse.

  The last item that Sylvie pulled from the cabinet was a jar which had been hidden behind the last of the picture frames, the biggest and fanciest with an elaborate gold trim. The frame carried no picture.

  The jar held some sort of liquid and Régine was surprised to see it in the glass cabinet which was reserved for family mementos. It seemed out of place among all the precious items, but Sylvie held it as if it were a treasure. She did not hand the jar to Régine. She held it up to the light and turned it on its side to show Régine what floated in the liquid. Régine leaned forward to take a closer look but could not guess what it was. But she sensed its importance as Sylvie wiped the jar with a damp cloth and placed it gently at the back of the glass cabinet.

  “This is the baby I never had,” she said.

  Régine did not understand.

  The mystery only deepened when Sylvie added with great sadness: “It would have been a boy.”

  In later years, as Régine remembered the pain on Sylvie’s face and the sad voice, she understood the significance of the jar and the empty picture frame. Although Régine did not understand at the time, she realized that Sylvie had told her something deeply personal and delicate. Probably even Pierre did not know about the hidden jar. It was something you could only tell another woman. From that day on, Régine felt more like a friend to Sylvie. She also felt more grown up and less of a stranger.

  Soon it would be Régine’s turn to have a secret revealed.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  BY EARLY 1944, the Allies were bombing Europe almost daily. They were doing well in Italy and the Russians were pushing the Germans farther west. But nothing had changed in Belgium. The Germans were still very much in control. Régine’s three months on the Wathieu farm were nearing an end but she heard nothing about being moved. Would the man from Aide paysanne be coming to get her? Where would they send her now?

  Spring was on its way, even though the air was cool. The day began as usual. Régine was awakened by the crow of roosters and hopped off her high bed as the sunshine broke into her room. She looked out the window and saw Pierre head off on his bicycle. Downstairs, Sylvie sat alone at the table. Marquis lay at his usual spot on the floor, and wagged his tail when Régine appeared. “Pierre had to go to to Esneux today,” Sylvie said. “He’s gone to the maison communale to get the ration cards renewed.”

  The maison communale was the equivalent of a town hall for the surrounding area. It was not the first time that Pierre went on an errand in Esneux, but this time Régine had a bad feeling which she could not explain. Was it the mention of the ration cards? That was her only proof that she was Augusta Dubois. All morning Régine could not shake the bad feeling. She was scared.

  In the early afternoon, Régine was feeding the chickens out front when Pierre rode up on his bicycle, his wheels spinning on the few icy patches that still lay here and there on the dirt road. As soon as she saw him she knew something had happened. Sylvie stepped out onto the porch to greet him.

  Without looking at Régine or saying a word he went to lean his bicycle against the side of the house. Régine watched, and the bad feeling inside of her grew worse. Pierre turned and stared at her for a minute as if seeing her for the first time. Then he walked away, up to the house.

  Régine watched as he spoke quietly to Sylvie. Sylvie looked over at Régine as if puzzled. Pierre called out: “Come over here.” Régine noticed he did not call her by name as he usually did. It made the order all the more frightening.

  In a daze Régine walked to the porch where the two stood staring at her. Then she heard the question she guessed was coming, the question she feared most, the question she knew she must not answer, no matter what: “Are you Jewish?”

&
nbsp; She stood as if frozen, her head bowed, her eyes on the ground. All she could think of were Nicole’s words of warning. Tell no one who you are. Tell no one you are Jewish.

  Then suddenly, it was all too much, too hopeless. She burst into tears.

  Pierre continued with another question. “What is your real name?”

  Régine covered her face with her hands, turned, and ran crying into the house. She climbed the stairs to her room as if comfort were to be found there, jumped onto her bed and buried her head in the pillow. It was the first time that she had cried so hysterically since she heard about the disappearance of her mother and brother almost two years before, and now it seemed she was crying for them all over again, and for herself.

  What was going to happen now? What would Pierre and Sylvie do with her? They could be arrested and shot if the Germans found out they were hiding a Jewish child. They would surely get rid of her as soon as possible. They would contact Aide paysanne to have her taken away. She was at the end of her three months, in any case. What had happened at the maison communale over the ration cards? What if the Germans already knew and were on their way to the house?

  It was too much. She felt so tired. I don’t care anymore, she thought.

  Her face was so deeply buried in the pillow she did not hear the knock at the door. It was Sylvie.

  “Come downstairs. Pierre wants to talk to you.” She put her hand gently on Régine’s back and repeated, “Come.”

  Régine dried her eyes and climbed down from the high bed. She walked slowly out of her room, past the basin of holy water, and down the stairs, with Sylvie following.

  “Sit down,” Pierre said. He sounded worried now — not like when he spoke to her outside. Was it because he was sorry to have to tell her she must go?

  “We’ve reached a decision,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “You will stay here with us. We won’t tell anyone, except Monsieur Le Vicaire. He will have to know. You will continue to go to church like before, so no one will suspect.”

  He paused. “We will not have you baptized,” he added. “Your parents would not have wanted it.”

  Sylvie smiled at her and nodded.

  Régine closed her eyes and felt a tremendous sense of relief. Then she burst into tears again as Sylvie put her arm around her to comfort her.

  “No need to cry,” Pierre said. “No need to cry.”

  Later, Pierre told the story of what had happened at the maison communale. He had gone there to renew the ration cards for himself, Sylvie and Régine. The maison communale was under control of the Germans, but it was staffed by Belgians.

  When the clerk checked the names on the ration cards against an official list that he had in front of him, he found the names of Pierre and Sylvie Wathieu but could not find an Augusta Dubois. After checking again carefully, he looked at Pierre and said in a low, secretive voice: “There is no such person as Augusta Dubois, but here is a replacement card all the same.”

  Pierre understood immediately. Only Jewish children needed to hide. He gathered up the ration cards and left the office in a hurry. He felt lucky the clerk was a good Belgian like himself who had no intention of turning anyone over to the Germans.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  AFEW DAYS AFTER Régine’s twelfth birthday in March of 1944, she was awakened early in the morning by Sylvie. “Get dressed and come down.” Sylvie tried to sound gentle but Régine recognized it as an order.

  “What is it?” asked Régine, still muddled with sleep.

  “There are German soldiers downstairs.”

  “What!?”

  “It’s best if you come down and pretend nothing is the matter.” Sylvie put her hand on Régine’s shoulder to stop her trembling. “It’s safer if you do what I say. Just act normal and everything will be all right.”

  Sylvie left the room, closing the door behind her. Régine climbed out of bed and tried to control her trembling as she got dressed. At the door, she stood for a moment and breathed deeply. Act normal, she told herself. But how do you keep fear from showing? How do you stop shaking?

  She took another deep breath and descended the stairs, feeling her body tighten with each step.

  Three German soldiers were sitting near the stove. They had their backs to Régine and all she saw were their uniforms which seemed to fill the room. She stared at their big boots, and then at the guns in their holsters.

  The soldiers were laughing and talking among themselves in German. Pierre and Sylvie were nowhere in sight. Even Marquis had disappeared from his usual spot on the floor. Régine waited at the kitchen door and tried to swallow her terror.

  The talking and laughing stopped when she appeared. Act normal, she told herself as she stepped forward. The soldiers glanced at her, then turned to each other and went on talking. She decided she should speak.

  “Bonjour,” she said. Her voice sounded foreign in her ears.

  One of the soldiers nodded but did not respond. Sylvie came in from the other room with a bowl full of eggs and set them on the table. Pierre arrived soon after with a milk can which he had filled. Sylvie then went to the cellar and returned with butter which she put on the table. Pierre lit his pipe. It seemed to Régine that everyone was trying too hard to pretend that nothing was wrong. Surely the Germans would notice something strange and start to ask questions. But the Germans went on talking and laughing. Régine should have understood a little because German is similar to Yiddish which she had spoken at home with her mother, but she was too scared to listen, glad they did not seem to pay attention to her.

  Then they fell silent and looked around, and Régine felt a stab of new terror. She turned to Sylvie to hide the feeling she had of falling into a deep, black hole.

  “Can I help?” she asked in what she hoped was her usual voice.

  “No. We’re almost finished now,” Sylvie said. “These gentlemen are about to leave.”

  One of them turned to Régine and in German asked her name.

  Régine played dumb. “Je ne comprend pas l’allemand,” she said, speaking the French words carefully, her eyes lowered.

  To her relief, the soldiers turned away and resumed their conversation. Pierre and Sylvie continued to stack the table with food. It seemed to Régine they were taking forever. She wished they would give her something to do. It would be better than standing there, scared and alone with her back to the wall, just staring at the floor.

  When were they going to leave?

  They seemed to be making themselves more at home. They broke off pieces of bread and began to eat. One held out apiece of bread to Régine. She shook her head and the soldiers laughed. They tried to sound friendly. But Régine felt as if she were back at the Gare du Midi. She saw the soldiers again, pushing Léon into the station. She must not show the fear or anger. She must behave like a country girl who had not seen them take a brother away.

  Sylvie brought out bags and filled them with food from the table. Finally the soldiers got up. Two lifted the bags of food and the third carried the milk can. Régine did not look up as they walked out of the room. She listened to the sound of their heavy boots on the floor. Pierre and Sylvie followed them to the front door. Régine heard it open and close, then the sound of their jeep starting up and moving away.

  Exhausted, she walked to the kitchen table, fell into a chair, and rested her head on her arms.

  Sylvie came up from behind and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  THAT SPRING DAY IN 1944 was the only time Régine saw German soldiers at the farm. From then on, their presence seemed to lessen. With the coming of summer, Hitler’s Third Reich was everywhere on the defensive. Her three months at the Wathieus’ had long passed. Everyone expected the Allies to land in France any day.

  At last, the hoped-for landing took place in June. When this announcement was broadcast, Pierre turned up the volume on the old radio. Pierre and the old men who had come to lis
ten that night, pour la soirée, were very excited. The landing at Normandy signaled the beginning of the end of the war.

  That same month, the Allies took over the rest of Italy and Russian troops were pushing hard from the east. The Germans were trapped in the giant vise that would ultimately crush them. Every news broadcast brought hope, and Régine, after more than two years of waiting, could actually think about her father returning soon. And her brother. Yes, he would return, too.

  But the war was not over yet. The summer of 1944 was a strange and dangerous time. The German army was retreating across Belgium. Some days the fighting seemed closer to Régine than it had been in 1942 when air-raid sirens wailed over Brussels and bomber planes roared above the apartment on rue Van Lint. Other days were so peaceful and uneventful that Régine helped Pierre and Sylvie with chores on the farm without hearing the sounds of distant guns.

  The pattern of work was different in summer. A woman still came from another village to do the washing in the back room, but now Régine helped spread the wash on the grass where it was bleached by sunlight. The laundry took a full day and Régine loved the smell of freshly washed clothes.

  She helped Sylvie bake pies and fruit tarts using plums and apples from the orchard at the back of the house, and for Pierre they made his favorite sugar pie. Sometimes they baked waffles on a waffle iron.

  Régine worked in the fields, spreading dung with a spade and helping to gather beans, gooseberries, raspberries, lettuce and potatoes from the garden. Picking vegetables brought back memories of the early days of hiding when Régine worked in the garden of Madame André and then made jam with her neighbor, Madame Charles.

  Every evening Pierre lit his pipe and sat down to read La Libre Belgique, which came in the mail. Then the old men knocked on the door and spent the evening by the radio, talking about the war. Régine helped Sylvie peel potatoes for the next day and the cats still gathered for Sylvie to throw them a little piece of raw potato.