Tell No One Who You Are Read online

“How long will that be?” Madame André asked.

  The woman turned her head and saw Régine listening in the doorway. “We’ll discuss that another time,” she said to Madame André.

  She closed her briefcase and stood up to go. At the door she bent down and spoke to Régine. Her voice was kind.

  “I’ll be back next month,” she said. “It’s a promise. Es-tu heureuse? Are you happy?”

  Régine nodded, too scared and confused to say anything to this woman who spoke just like her father. A flood of questions came but it was too late. Nicole said good-bye and Madame André had closed the door behind her.

  Régine’s nod had been a lie. Régine was not at all happy living with Madame André. She had been with her two months with no end in sight. There were so many unanswered questions. How long would she stay here? What had happened to her mother and brother? Where was her father? What about Oncle Zigmund and Tante Ida? Why didn’t they come?

  And who was this woman who had come to pay Madame André? She had looked familiar when she bent down to speak to Régine and pushed the blond hair back from her face. Régine was sure she had seen her before. If only she could remember the time and place.

  It came to her that night as she lay in bed. She suddenly remembered where she had seen Nicole before. What had confused her was the name: Nicole. It was not her real name. And the blond hair. It was not her real color.

  Régine remembered sitting up on a table in an apartment, wearing new boots up to the knees. A woman bent over and told Régine how pretty she looked in them. It was a Solidarité meeting in Edgar Herman’s apartment. She remembered him coming to tell her father about meetings, and later, as she got older, guarding his bicycle while he was inside her house. The woman with the blond hair was not named Nicole. She was Fela.

  It all came back in a rush of memories and images. Régine knew why Fela had changed her name and dyed her hair. Fela was Jewish, like the other members of Solidarité, like her father. She was part of the resistance to the Germans, the Belgian underground. She had come to Boitsfort to check up on Régine and to pay Madame André.

  Régine closed her eyes. She fell asleep, feeling that she had someone who would look after her until her father returned.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FELA — NICOLE — came on Sundays in the early afternoon. She stayed only long enough to pay Madame André and ask Régine how things were going, after which she disappeared for another month. As winter approached she brought a coat and some heavy sweaters to last Régine through the colder weather. Régine took this to mean that she would not be leaving Boitsfort anytime soon. Nicole was her only link to happier times in Brussels. She was careful never to call her Fela, even when Madame André was not in the room. To avoid causing problems, she always told her that she was happy, even though that was far from the truth.

  One evening during dinner, a knock came at the front door. Régine saw by the look on Madame Andrés face that visitors were not expected. She went to the front door and, without opening it, shouted: “Who’s there?”

  From where she was sitting, Régine could not hear the answer. Soon Madame André came in and asked: “Do you know a Mademoiselle Descotte?”

  Régine almost fell out of her chair. “Mademoiselle Descotte! She’s my teacher!”

  “Well, she’s here,” Madame André said sharply. “Did you tell her you were living here?”

  “No! I haven’t seen her in months!”

  “Well, somehow she found out you were here. She wants to talk to you,” Madame André said. “She’s outside. She has some books for you. Take them and tell her to go.”

  Régine hurried to the front door. When she opened it, she saw a smiling Mademoiselle Descotte.

  “Hello!” she said. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” Régine said, stepping to the side and closing the door behind her teacher.

  “I’m so happy to see you. I went to your house. Monsieur Gaspar told me you were here,” Mademoiselle Descotte said. “It’s been such a long time. School has started again and we miss you very much.”

  Madame André came out from the kitchen. She was not happy to see a stranger in her house. “You have some books?” she said. “You came to give them to Régine?”

  “No,” Mademoiselle Descotte said. “I came to give her some lessons.”

  Madame André was startled. “There is no room here,” she said.

  “We could use the library,” Régine suggested.

  Madame André shot her a stern look and turned coldly to the visitor. “Who sent you here?”

  Mademoiselle Descotte smiled as if there could be no objection. “I am her teacher. Since she cannot come to the school, I have come to her.”

  Régine led Mademoiselle Descotte into the library, where they spent an hour working on French composition. When they finished, Régine accompanied her teacher to the tram stop without asking permission from Madame André. Mademoiselle Descotte said she would return for more lessons.

  Over the next month, Mademoiselle Descotte came to the house twice a week and each time Madame André showed her disapproval.

  “All she wants is to save your soul,” she told Régine, “like all good Catholics.”

  Régine did not know what this meant and repeated it to Mademoiselle Descotte one day as they walked to the tram stop. As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Mademoiselle Descotte was hurt by the accusation even though it came from Madame André and not Régine. Mademoiselle Descotte was silent as she boarded the tram, and she never came again.

  Afterwards, Régine resented Madame André more than ever and began to spend as much time as possible on her own. When the chores were done and if there was no knitting to finish, she closed herself in her room or in the library while Madame André listened to Les Français parlent aux Français on the radio in the kitchen.

  The library was Régine’s favorite place. Every night she picked a book from the shelf, settled into a leather chair and read until her eyes grew heavy with sleep. Sometimes she even took a book into her room and slept with it in her bed. That winter she read all eight volumes of Les Misérables.

  It was a good story, but it had not been her first choice. Months earlier she had searched for a familiar title among the rows of books, arranged in alphabetical order. She found the “S” section and cocked her head to read the name of each author. She looked carefully but nowhere did she see the name of Walter Scott — her brother’s favorite author.

  As she read Les Misérables night after night, she often cried over the character of Jean Valjean. One evening she fell asleep wondering if her brother had read the book, too. In her dream, Léon came home after school and apologized to his parents for being late for supper. He had been to the library, he said, and had a copy of Les Misérables which he set down on the table near the sofa. Then he rushed through dinner and ran out the door to meet his friends. “Don’t wait up for me!” he called, waving as he disappeared down the stairs. In her dream, Régine cleared the table and helped her mother wash the dishes. Then she sat down on the divan, turned on the table lamp and read Les Misérables. Later, lying in her crib, she heard the sound of a latch being opened beyond the closed door of the bedroom. Then a stream of light appeared under the door. It was Léon. Léon had come home!

  “What are you doing?” snapped Madame André.

  Régine shook herself awake. She had fallen asleep in the leather chair, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Why are you crying?” Madame André said, spotting the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”

  “Les Misérables,” Régine said softly. “You know, about Jean Valjean.”

  Madame André marched across the room and took the book from Régine.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “You cry over Jean Valjean but you never shed a tear for your own family.”

  Régine said nothing as she went into her room. Her family was all she thought about, but she did not have to
prove it to Madame André. She closed the door of her bedroom and leaned against it, looking across the room at her bed. Then began the game that she now played every night before getting into bed.

  She positioned her feet so they were exactly side by side, each within a separate square on the parquet floor. She curled her toes because it was very important that they should not touch any lines.

  She studied the floor ahead of her as if it were a map, and focused on the first square where her right foot would land. She swung back her arms, and threw herself forward, landing in the center of the square. With arms extended for balance, she teetered on her right foot. She curled her toes and looked down at the floor, making sure she had not stepped on any lines.

  Now came the hard part. She focused on another square a little to the left. She swung her arms back, pushed off her right foot and flew through the air until her left foot landed on the second square. Again she extended her arms, curled her toes and looked down to make sure she had not stepped on any lines.

  She leapt from square to square until she reached the bed. She must not step on any of the lines. If she did not step on the lines, it meant her father was still alive and would soon come back to get her.

  Régine learned to curl her toes so that every time she played the game, she won. So tonight, as on other nights, there was no doubt in her mind, absolutely none at all. Her father would come back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MADAME ANDRÉ kept a garden in the back of the house where she grew vegetables and flowers. Régine loved the garden. She had never worked in one before. She picked the red currants, watered the primroses and pulled the weeds. She wished her father could see her with her garden tools. Papa would be proud.

  But she was not allowed to go out in the front of the house during daytime. Madame André was afraid of attracting attention. She took Régine out only in the evening, after dark, to deliver the baby clothes she made or to visit her sister who lived a few streets away.

  Madame André remained unfriendly. She spoke little to Régine, and never about herself. At her sister’s house, the two women did not include Régine in their conversation. Régine discovered that the old woman was a widow by peeking at the letters that came to the house addressed to Madame Veuve André — Mrs. Widow. She decided Madame Andrés late husband had been a writer because two books with the André name sat on the shelves in the library.

  She also learned that Madame André had a son when a package arrived from him early one morning. The knock came at the front door as they were having their usual breakfast of bread, jam and coffee. The jam was made from red currants from the back garden, and the coffee was not coffee at all but a mixture of roasted malt and chicory which everyone called ersatz. With unusual excitement, Madame André bolted from her chair and rushed to answer the front door.

  Régine went to the library window and pulled back the drapes. Parked out front was a military vehicle with a red cross on its hood. A man in uniform stood at the front door with a parcel under his arm. Madame André took it from him, closed the door, and returned to the kitchen.

  Régine followed Madame André back to the kitchen and watched her tear the plain-brown wrapping and take out its contents: tins of sardines, bags of flour, figs, cookies and other foods that were hard to come by in wartime Belgium.

  “It’s from my son, Jean,” Madame André announced. “He lives in Africa. In the Belgian Congo.”

  Régine had never seen Madame André so excited. It was the first time she had shown any pleasure.

  Minutes later, another knock sounded at the front door. This time the visitor was a woman whom Régine had seen but never met. It was the next-door neighbor. Régine had noticed her beyond the hedges when she worked in the back garden but they had never spoken. The neighbor carried a carton of eggs into the kitchen, put it on the table and waited while Madame André poured some of the newly arrived flour into a bag. The Red Cross truck meant Madame André had received another parcel from her son and the neighbor wasted no time coming over to trade her eggs for flour.

  She was much younger and considerably more petite than Madame André and also more pleasant. She turned to Régine and introduced herself. “I’m Madame Charles.” She sounded friendly. “I’ve seen you working in the garden. If you ever want to give me a hand with my garden, you’re always welcome. Come over anytime.”

  “Thank you,” Régine said and looked at Madame André.

  The old woman did not object. “You’re allowed to go to Madame Charles’s house, but nowhere else.”

  The two women must have discussed her. Madame Charles must know Régine was Jewish and could be trusted to keep the secret or Madame André would never let her go there.

  “If you want to come today you can help me pick some red currants and make some jam.”

  Régine turned to Madame André. “May I?”

  “Straight there and back. Understood?”

  “Yes,” Régine said.

  That afternoon Régine and Madame Charles poured red currants into pots, added sugar and poured the jam into glass jars. They sealed the jars with squares of paper and elastic bands. Madame Charles did most of the talking and asked many questions. How old was she? Did she have any hobbies? What did she want to do when she was older? Had she ever traveled? Hungry for conversation after so many weeks, Régine told Madame Charles that she was ten years old and that her birthday was in March, that she loved to read and knit, and that she wanted to become a schoolteacher someday. She told her all about Mademoiselle Descotte, her teacher at the école primaire in Brussels who had come to give her lessons. As for traveling, she had traveled only once, to England for a visit to her Oncle Shlomo.

  Régine was too shy to ask questions. She knew Madame Charles was married because her husband left for work each morning. They had no children, or their children were no longer living at home. Régine never saw anyone else at their house.

  The jam-making sessions continued once a week throughout the late summer. Madame Charles continued to do most of the talking as if she wanted to make Régine feel comfortable. Sometimes Régine brought gooseberries from Madame Andrés garden and in the early evening she was handed two full jars of jam. She liked the feel of the warm fruit jars in her hands as she carried them back to Madame André.

  When she was not visiting Madame Charles, Régine helped Madame André at home with the housework: cleaning floors, dusting furniture, changing sheets and washing clothes. They made bread from the flour her son sent from Africa, and ate it at breakfast with the jam from next door. Régine helped knit the baby dresses and sometimes, after dark, Madame André took Régine with her to deliver them to her clients.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE WAR WENT ON and on. March 16, 1943, arrived: Régine’s eleventh birthday. A year ago she had been with her family. Now the best birthday present she could imagine would be if her father came to get her.

  She climbed out of bed and crept to the window. From the second floor she could see over the tops of trees to the neighboring houses. The trees were already starting to bud. There was one house in particular that she always looked at because she could see inside the top window. That was where the boy lived.

  She had seen him there for a week now. He looked about her age and had straight, auburn hair just like hers. The boy smiled shyly from his window. When Régine smiled back, she felt warm inside.

  That was all. They never waved or mouthed any words to each other. The boy appeared only in the window, never in the yard or on the street. Every morning, just before seven o’clock, they looked across at each other from their windows. Then Régine went downstairs to join Madame André at the breakfast table.

  That morning of her eleventh birthday, Régine was particularly grateful to see the mysterious boy. She continued to see him for another week. Then one morning he was not there. She waited for half an hour in case he was late but he did not appear. Régine did not know what to think. Had she offended him? Had he grown tired
of seeing her?

  “What are you doing at the window? Didn’t you hear me call you to breakfast?” Madame André stood in the doorway of the bedroom. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” Régine said.

  Madame André walked to the window. “What’s so interesting outside?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then come downstairs.”

  Madame André walked out of the room. Régine followed. At the top of the stairs she turned, rushed back to her room and looked out the window once more.

  Every morning in the days that followed, she continued to look for him but she never saw him again. She never knew his name or where he came from. She never mentioned him to anyone, not even to Madame Charles or Nicole. The secret would belong to her and the mysterious boy.

  In later years she often thought about the boy. Maybe he did not live in that house and was not even a visiting relative of the family. Maybe the boy was Jewish. Maybe he too had been taken to a stranger’s house to hide from the Germans. She never forgot him. He became yet another person who disappeared from her life.

  One evening Madame André announced: “We’re going to Brussels.”

  “To Brussels?” Régine asked.

  “Yes. To deliver some dresses. A customer needs them right away.”

  Although Madame André took Régine out now and then when she went to deliver the baby clothes, this was the first time they would be going all the way to Brussels. Régine was frightened at the prospect. As usual, they waited for darkness before leaving the house. They walked to the tram stop, each carrying a box filled with the knitted baby dresses.

  By the time they reached Brussels, it was pitch black outside. Régine squinted through the window and tried to make out the shops and buildings in the shadows. Was she close to rue Van Lint? Madame André tapped her on the shoulder, indicating it was time to get off.

  Régine followed her to the exit carrying the box. She hopped onto the street and felt the familiar rough edges of the cobblestones under her feet. For a second she thought that maybe this was rue Van Lint. She looked around but did not recognize any of the buildings.