Tell No One Who You Are Page 9

  “Cold out there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “There’s a fire in the kitchen. Why don’t you take your coat off and go warm up?”

  “Thank you, monsieur.”

  “But there’s just one thing you must stop doing. You must stop calling me monsieur. My name is Pierre.”

  His wife laughed. “And I’m Sylvie. No more monsieur and madame. We’re going to be friends for the next three months. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” Régine said shyly.

  The man gave some last-minute instructions. “Give Monsieur and Madame Wathieu your ration book,” he said to Régine. Then he spoke to Madame Wathieu. “If you have any questions or problems,” he said, “here is the number to call.”

  “What can possibly go wrong?” Sylvie Wathieu asked.

  Régine repeated the words to herself as she entered the kitchen. What can possibly go wrong? Everywhere things had gone wrong. Would it be different here? She had a good feeling about the Wathieus. It was the first time since leaving home — a year and a half ago — that she had not been made to feel like an intruder. She hoped they could be friends. But part of her was terribly afraid of being disappointed once again.

  In the kitchen, Régine had a chance to observe them. They were older than her parents but not as old as Madame André. Pierre wore a jacket over his shirt and trousers, and wooden clogs on his feet. Sylvie wore a dark-colored dress which almost touched the ground and had an apron tied over it. She also wore wooden clogs.

  The kitchen was large and warmed by a big, wood-burning stove. The dog lay down beside it. A spinning wheel stood on one side of the room and an old radio on the other. It had the same big knobs and short legs as the one her parents owned.

  Régine walked over to the dog and bent down to pet him. He looked very old. He gazed up at her with tired eyes as she scratched behind his ears, then, satisfied with her, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. He looked like a cross between a French poodle and a sheepdog.

  This was her first contact with a dog since she was very little. Before moving to 73 rue Van Lint, the Millers had lived in another apartment in Brussels, and kept a small dog named Diane. One day the dog bit Régine on the lip. Her father promptly got rid of the dog, despite Régine’s cries and pleas to bring her back. The scar never disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  REMEMBERING DIANE brought memories of that first apartment. It was on boulevard de la Révision and many Jewish families from Poland lived in the building. They used to come to Régine’s mother for all kinds of help. This was how it was back then, before her mother fell ill. Régine remembered herself as a tiny girl, falling asleep with her mother bending over her and singing the same cradle songs in Yiddish her grandmother had sung to her when she was little. Sometimes Mrs. Miller told wonderful stories about life in Poland, about her parents and brothers and sisters, especially about her youngest brother, Shlomo, who had been her favorite, the same Oncle Shlomo who was now living in England. Was he alive? Did he know, Régine wondered, what had happened to her mother?

  Two tiny kittens scurried out of the kitchen. Régine was shaken out of her sad thoughts. The mother cat came along next, at a more leisurely pace, and Régine sat down on the floor to pet it with her left hand, while her right hand went on petting the dog. It was good to sit in the warmth of the stove.

  “His name is Marquis,” said Pierre Wathieu from the doorway.

  “He likes to be petted,” Régine said.

  Pierre laughed. “He’s getting old. He has ulcers, but he still works hard. Without Marquis, I wouldn’t be able to run this farm.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He helps me round up the cows.”

  “Round them up?”

  “For milking. When they’re out in the pasture he helps me bring them into the barn. Have you ever milked a cow, Augusta?”

  “I don’t know how,” Régine said.

  “I’ll show you.”

  “I’ll be glad to help,” Régine said shyly, “if you show me what to do.”

  “Would you like something to eat?” Sylvie Wathieu interrupted. “You must be hungry.”

  Régine shook her head. “No, thank you.” She was hungry but was too shy to say so.

  “I’ll show you how to milk a cow tomorrow,” Pierre said. “But school comes first. We’ll go to the village to get you enrolled.”

  “I like school,” Régine said. “One day I want to be a teacher.”

  “Good.” He turned and looked up at a clock on the wall. “You should be going to bed. Look at the time.”

  Régine looked up and saw that it was 10 p.m. That was not all she noticed. Something else hung on the wall directly above the clock. She had missed it when she first entered the kitchen, but now that she’d seen it she couldn’t take her eyes off it. She knew it meant the people were Catholic. It was a cross, but Régine had never seen one in a house before. There had been none on the walls of the other houses she had stayed in.

  “Your room is ready,” Madame Wathieu said. “Come along upstairs.”

  Régine went to the front door to pick up her duffel bag. There she saw another cross hanging above the door.

  On the landing at the top of the stairs she passed a semicircular dish made of brass screwed into the wall. The dish was filled with water. Régine wondered what it was meant for. She followed Madame Wathieu into a little bedroom straight ahead. Above the door hung another cross. Every door in the hallway had a cross.

  As she watched Madame Wathieu throw an extra blanket over the bed, she realized she would have a room to herself for the first time since leaving Madame Andrés. Over the big, comfortable-looking bed hung another cross. The Wathieus must be very religious, she decided.

  “You’ll need the extra blanket because it’s going to be a cold, cold night,” Madame Wathieu said.

  “Thank you, madame.”

  “Don’t say madame. Say, ‘Sylvie.’ ”

  “Thank you,” Régine paused and then added, “Sylvie.”

  Sylvie was about to go when she asked quietly, “What happened to your hair?”

  “It was cut off,” Régine said, embarrassed.

  Sylvie seemed about to ask another question, but changed her mind. “It’ll grow back. They say it grows back prettier than before.” She paused at the door. “If you need anything during the night, please don’t be shy.”

  “Thank you,” Régine said.

  “Good night,” said Sylvie Wathieu. She left, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Régine dropped her bag on the bed and looked around. The walls were bare except for the cross above the bed and, on the opposite wall, a framed picture of a mother and child with halos around their heads. There was a window, a dresser with a pitcher of water and a washbowl on it and a mirror above it. A night table beside the bed held a small lamp that provided the only light in the room.

  Régine walked over to the window, and pressed her face against the glass. Outside, she saw nothing but darkness. She walked back to the bed and began to unpack, slowly transferring her folded clothes to the dresser, one item at a time. After she finished, she pulled out Uncle Tom’s Cabin from the bag and placed it on the night table.

  All that traveling had made her very tired. In the darkness she sensed the eyes of the figure on the cross above her head looking down on her and the mother and child staring out of the picture across the room. She was exhausted and yet, for some reason, she could not fall asleep.

  Chapter Thirty

  RÉGINE FELT she had been awake all night when the morning sunlight streamed into the room. She pushed back the covers and hopped off the high bed to look out the window. Her room overlooked the backyard of the farmhouse and a bare winter orchard. A few pigs were rubbing themselves against the tree trunks, as if trying to generate some warmth. Beyond the orchard were woods.

  She got dressed, made her bed and headed for the stairs, noticing again the dish full of water. She went
downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Augusta,” Pierre said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes,” Régine lied.

  “Good. You’ll be ready to join me for work on the farm, then,” he chuckled.

  “Pierre, school comes first. We must enroll her,” his wife said.

  “Tomorrow is time enough,” he said. “Today she can get used to the place.”

  Sylvie placed some fresh-baked bread on the table, along with butter, jam and cottage cheese. A pot of coffee was brewing on the stove.

  “There can’t be too many farms in the town of Marche,” Pierre went on.

  Sylvie brought the coffee pot to the table.

  “Have you lived in Marche all your life?” she asked.

  “No,” Régine said nervously.

  “How long did you live there?”

  Régine reached for a piece of bread, stalling for time. She thought about the story she had told before. Would these people believe it?

  “I haven’t lived in Marche for a long time,” she said. “I live with my grandmother in Boitsfort now.”

  “Boitsfort?” Sylvie asked. “Where’s that?”

  “Near Brussels,” Régine said.

  “Brussels!” Pierre said. “We really do have a city girl on our hands!”

  Sylvie did not seem to share her husband’s amusement. Something else was on her mind, and she gave Régine a puzzled look.

  “Where are your parents?” she asked.

  “My parents?” Régine kept her eyes on her piece of bread, which she held in her hand. “Papa’s a prisoner of war.”

  “A prisoner of war,” Pierre said, suddenly showing concern. “He must have been a very brave soldier, your father.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Régine.

  “What about your mother?” Sylvie asked.

  Régine did not have a story to explain her mother’s absence. She kept her eyes fixed on the piece of bread as she blurted out: “I don’t know.”

  The room fell silent and Régine sensed right away that she had said the wrong thing. She looked up and saw Pierre and Sylvie glance at each other. “You don’t know?” Pierre asked. His voice was kind, but the question was asked.

  “No,” Régine said, lowering her eyes again.

  “How can you not know?” Pierre looked at his wife.

  Sylvie shook her head to cut him off, then Régine heard her whisper, “Walking the streets? You know Brussels.”

  The room became quiet again. The friendly atmosphere changed to one of tension. Pierre reached for some bread and jam and Sylvie did the same.

  Régine could not eat. She did not know exactly what it meant to be “walking the streets” but she knew it was not nice. She was ashamed at not being able to respond to such an insult to her mother. Yet all she could do was say nothing and stare blankly, as she had learned to do in these uncomfortable situations.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  AFTER BREAKFAST, the three got dressed to go outside. Pierre wore a heavy coat and traded his wooden clogs for rubber boots. Sylvie did the same. She had an extra pair of boots for Régine. Régine pulled on the boots, then slipped into her coat and followed them out the door. Marquis was already running up ahead.

  She gazed with pleasure around the front yard of the farm. The latrine was at the side of the main house. The Wathieus had no indoor plumbing. For washing, there was a big trough built to hold rainwater. Pierre explained how to carry water to the house in two buckets strung across the shoulders. At the bottom of the field there was a spring for drinking water.

  They visited the barn and the pigsty, and finally the cowshed. All were dark and smelly. Régine counted seven cows, each in a separate stall under the low, wooden ceiling.

  Pierre asked her to choose a cow.

  Régine was startled. “What do you mean?”

  “The cows,” he said. “Pick any one. Pick your favorite.”

  Régine shrugged and pointed to the cow in the first stall.

  “Okay,” Pierre said. “From now on, that will be your cow. That means she’s your responsibility. You’ll milk her and keep her fed and clean. Do you think you can do it?”

  “I — I don’t know how,” stammered Régine.

  “I’ll show you,” Sylvie offered. She dragged a low stool into the stall.

  “Don’t you want to know her name?” Pierre asked.

  “Her name?”

  “All my cows have a name. Yours is called La Blanque.”

  La Blanque was Walloon for la blanche, meaning the white one. The name was appropriate. La Blanque was completely white.

  Régine watched Sylvie sit on the low stool and reach under La Blanque to milk her. The first step, she was told, was always to wear a handkerchief on her head. The reason for this became clear as Sylvie went to work. La Blanque had the annoying habit of swinging her tail at the face of the person milking her.

  Régine got her first lesson in how to milk a cow but her hands grew tired quickly and she had to stop. Sylvie did not seem to mind and she finished milking La Blanque. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get used to it. It takes practice.”

  Régine then helped carry the full buckets out past the barn to the milk room which was attached to the farmhouse. She walked slowly in her big rubber boots, being careful not to spill any of the top cream. The milk room held a machine that Pierre said was used to separate the milk from the cream. Another machine turned the milk into butter and cheese. Régine emptied her buckets into one of the metal containers and went back to the cowshed for more.

  After the milking was done, she helped sweep the cowshed with a heavy broom. Sylvie shoveled dung into a wheelbarrow which Pierre pushed to the manure heap out front. Régine did not mind the work. She even enjoyed it, because Pierre and Sylvie worked hard, too.

  In the afternoon, Régine went with Sylvie to the village to register for school while Pierre continued to work on the farm. The school was at the end of the village. When they arrived Régine saw that it was almost identical to the village school she had attended in Andoumont.

  Inside they met the teacher, a man this time. Sylvie introduced Régine as Augusta Dubois and said she was visiting for three months.

  “Does your class have room for one more girl?”

  “Of course,” the teacher said. The school had only one classroom and boys and girls studied together. “We always have room for another student.” He pulled a book from his desk and wrote down Régine’s name: Augusta Dubois.

  On the way back to the farm Régine saw a building she had not noticed on their way to the school. It was up the road beyond the farm, a kind of fort. What caused her to stop was the sight of a German flag waving above it.

  “Why is the German flag there?” she asked, suddenly frightened.

  “German soldiers,” Sylvie explained. “They’ve been stationed there since the occupation began.”

  “Do they stay there all the time?” asked Régine. She tried not to sound too concerned.

  “What do you mean?” said Sylvie.

  “I mean, do they ever come to the farm?”

  “Yes, sometimes,” Sylvie said. “They go to all the farms.”

  Régine was terrified. “What for?” To look for Jewish children?

  “For food. They come whenever they want and take whatever they want.”

  Régine pictured the soldiers at the Gare du Midi with their clubs and bayonets. She looked up and saw that Sylvie sensed her fear.

  “Don’t worry. They won’t hurt us. All they’re interested in is food. And they need us to stay alive to provide it.”

  But Régine did not feel better as they resumed their walk back to the farm. Sylvie went on talking, trying to reassure her.

  “They’d be foolish to hurt us,” she was saying. “They need us for bread, eggs, butter, milk. Sometimes they take a whole pig or a cow. They have nothing against us. They give us forms to fill out so that they can keep track of everything — so complicated, these Germ
an forms! Most of the old farmers around here can’t even read them! They have to come and ask Pierre.”

  As she walked beside Sylvie, Régine stared at the fort in the distance. It was true that the German soldiers had no reason to hurt her, as long as they did not discover she was Jewish. Tell no one who you are, Régine said to herself and pressed her fingers tightly into her palms. Not even Pierre and Sylvie.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  THAT NIGHT, after supper, Pierre lit a pipe and sat down next to the stove to read the newspaper while Régine and Sylvie washed the dishes and put them away. Bricks had been placed in the stove and would later be wrapped up in cloth to be used upstairs as bed warmers. After he finished with the paper, Pierre leaned over and turned on the radio.

  Soon there was a knock at the door and Régine felt her heart stop with fear. She was relieved to see the knock announced some of the old farmers Sylvie had mentioned. “Ils viennent pour la soirée” — they’re coming for the evening, she told Régine. It was their nightly routine to gather and read the newspaper and listen to the radio. Two of them came in together, pulled up chairs and sat with Pierre in front of the stove, while Marquis continued his snoozing at their feet. Within minutes a third man — “Old Mr. Bertrand,” Sylvie whispered — arrived and joined the others.

  Pierre introduced the three old men to Augusta Dubois: “The girl I told you about. She will be staying for three months.” This sparked a lot of interest from the visitors.

  It frightened Régine to think that the Wathieus seemed to have informed everyone in Lagrange about her arrival. The less people knew about her the better. She hoped she wouldn’t be asked questions about her family. She nodded to the three men.

  They were talking in Walloon among themselves. She was beginning to pick it up after having spent a month and a half in Wallonie with the Carpentier family in Andoumont.

  Monsieur Bertrand turned to her suddenly and, speaking French, suggested that she visit his farm to meet his granddaughter, Irene.

  “The two of you could be friends,” he said. “We live in the last house in the village.”