“They will worry about it then.”
“I am not going to drag my family out in the middle of the night, and run the danger of having them shot.”
Jacqueline started crying. Papa picked her up, and held her very tight. “My God, do you think I could stand it if anything happened to any one of you?”
“Something will certainly happen to all of us, if we don’t get out now.”
“Leave me be!” my father shouted. “You never stop. I can’t stand it!”
Some nights now, Papa went to the café and stayed there with the men, drinking and playing cards. Maman cried, and waited up for him, and they would argue when he came home. Many times I had to hold Jacqueline in my arms and tell her stories. She was afraid of being put into a prison camp in Switzerland, and she did not want to go.
One night when Papa was out, and Maman was crying in her bedroom, I got out of bed, dressed, and tiptoed out of the apartment. Down in the street I met my father coming toward me. He was looking at me but didn’t seem to know who I was until I said, “Papa” and put my hand on his arm.
“Nicole?”
“Yes, Papa. Please come home now. Maman is crying.”
“But Nicole, you shouldn’t be out on the streets at night. It’s dangerous.”
“It’s dangerous for you too, Papa, and you shouldn’t drink all that wine. You will feel sick tomorrow.”
“I know, I know,” my father said.
He put his arm on my shoulder, and I helped him home.
A few days later, at breakfast, Maman had a smile all over her face. She looked fresh and happy and said she had some good news for us.
“What is it, Maman?”
“Papa has decided that he will go to Switzerland. He will make sure it is safe, and once he gets over he will send word to us, and we will join him.”
“I don’t want to go to Switzerland,” Jacqueline cried. “They will put me in prison, and I don’t want to be put in prison. I want to stay here.”
“It will only be for a little while,” I told Jacqueline, “until the war is over. You can take your doll with you, and once we are there, I will show you how to make a beaded purse for her.”
“Really? But every time I ask you now, you always say you have no time.”
“Yes, but once we are in Switzerland, I promise I will show you how.”
Maman nodded at me approvingly. “You are really growing up, Nicole,” she said.
“I
am
thirteen, Maman.”
“Yes,” said Maman, and she looked me up and down as if she was seeing me for the first time.
Papa was going to take the train to Annemasse on Thursday afternoon. In Annemasse, he would go to a certain address where he would meet the runner, and any other people who were planning to cross the border. He carried a small suitcase, and if anyone questioned him, he would say that he was visiting a relative.
Nobody questioned him. I went down to the station with him, but Maman and Jacqueline stayed at home so that it would not look suspicious.
There were two German soldiers in the station who were waiting to take the train. One of them was eating chocolate, and I could feel my stomach ache with longing. It had been so long since I had tasted chocolate. I watched him as he ate it, quickly, talking to his friend all the time, and hardly noticing what he was eating. “Slow down,” I wanted to say. “Don’t eat it so fast. Let me watch you.” A few crumbs scattered on his jacket, and he brushed them away with his hand.
Papa held his suitcase slightly behind him as he walked through the station house. But the soldiers never looked our way at all.
The train was due in a few minutes. Papa and I walked up and down the station platform while we waited.
“As soon as I can,” Papa said, “I’ll get word to you, and if I consider it safe then the three of you will come.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And Nicole, Maman will have a lot to do while I’m gone, and I want you to promise that you will help her, and do everything she asks.”
“I promise, Papa.”
He put his free hand on my shoulder and said, “You’re a good girl, Nicole, and you’re really growing up.”
“I’m thirteen, Papa.”
“Yes, I know, but even for thirteen you are extremely capable, and very mature.”
I didn’t say anything. What can you say when you hear something like that?
“I don’t feel so bad about leaving when I know Maman has you to depend on.”
I remained silent.
“And Nicole
...
”
“Yes, Papa?”
“Nicole ... just in case you don’t hear from me ..
.
”
“But we will, Papa. You won’t have any trouble getting a letter to us. M. Bonnet and the Simons wrote letters, and so did many of the others who went.”
“Yes, of course I won’t have any trouble,” Papa said, “but just in case
...
”
I waited.
“Just in case
...
”
“We will come looking for you, Papa. Don’t worry I And we will find you.”
“No!” said Papa. “If you don’t hear from me, I don’t want you to come. I want you to
...
”
“To what, Papa?”
“I don’t know,” my father said. We could hear the train approaching, and the other passengers came out onto the platform. The two German soldiers walked in our direction. One of them was combing his long, blond hair with a black pocket comb. They passed us, and Papa said, “Why am I going? How can I go? What kind of a man am I to go away and leave my family here?”
“Papa,” I urged, “it will only be for a short time.”
“No,” said Papa. “Look at Henri Bonnet. No!” He put his suitcase down on the ground. “I’m not going. It doesn’t make sense. And besides, we’re making it all much worse than it really is. All those crazy stories! Who can believe them?”
He turned to look at the two German soldiers who were about to board the train. “A few more months and it will be over. You heard the BBC broadcast the other night. The Allies are already in Italy. For a few more months, why should I go? Nothing will happen in our town.”
“Papa,” I said, “Maman will be disappointed.”
But he stood there, and I stood next to him. After a while, the train pulled out of the station, and he picked up his suitcase and said, “Let’s go home.”
Maman cried when she saw him, but she kissed him, and hugged him, and she kissed me, and I kissed her, and Jacqueline kissed Papa, and then we were all kissing and nobody really felt sorry that my father hadn’t gone.
After that, Maman never spoke about going to Switzerland.
November 1943
That last night the Rostens came to say goodbye. Earlier in the day, Maman handed me one of the last of her stock of sweaters, and two pairs of cotton stockings, and told me to take them out to the Blanchards.
They had a farm about ten kilometers outside of Aix-les-Bains, ordinarily a short, pleasant ride on my bicycle. But on that day, there was a wind blowing against my face all the way there, and I had to pedal hard to make progress. I was out of breath when I arrived, and Mme. Blanchard gave me a glass of water, and told me to rest a few minutes before biking back.
She was pleased with the sweater. She asked me to tell Maman that if she had any gloves or hats, she could use some of them, too.
Then she went off and after a while came back with a chicken and a bag with four or five potatoes. She helped me put the food in my bicycle bag and cover it with the old school books I always carried just in case I was stopped.
I was about to leave when Mme. Blanchard hesitated, and said, “Just a minute, Nicole." She headed off to the chicken coop and in a few minutes came back, carrying two eggs.
“Eggs! Mme. Blanchard, we haven’t had eggs for so long I can hardly remember what they taste like.”
She began complaining how the Germans took everything, and that she and her family had barely enough to cat for themselves. She said that the hens hardly laid any more, and even if they did, she was supposed to turn all the eggs over to the Germans, so she never ate eggs either. I nodded sympathetically, even though I was pretty sure that there were secret places throughout the farm with more food hidden than I could bear thinking about.
On the way back I passed a patrol of four German soldiers riding around in an open car. If they found the food in my bag I knew I would be in trouble. But it wasn’t the first time I had ridden out to the farm on such an errand, and I had never been searched or even stopped before. I moved discreetly over to the other side of the road and passed the car, my eyes down. But I could hear the car stopping, and in a moment a voice behind me shouted in French, “You!”
My heart beat fast in my throat, and I was frightened. I stopped my bike and turned my head. “Me, Monsieur?”
“Yes, you.” There was some laughter, and then, “Come here!”
I laid the bicycle down on the side of the road, and walked slowly toward them. The road was quite empty, and it was beginning to rain. I stopped about three or four feet from the car, and the driver said, “Come here!”
On both sides of the road were fields that were fenced in. But a little to the right of the Germans’ car, I noted that the fence was missing a bottom piece. If it proved necessary, I could squeeze through the opening there, and run while they would have to climb over. Of course, if they had guns
...
I moved a little closer.
“What is your name?”
“Nicole Nieman.”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven, Monsieur.”
Which was not true, of course. But on a deserted country road, with four German soldiers looking at me, I thought it was wiser to take advantage of the fact that I was small for my age.
One of the soldiers snorted and said something in German. The driver started up the car, and without another word they were off. That was the first time I ever spoke to a German soldier.
Maman boiled the eggs for Jacqueline and me. It had been a long time, six months or more since I had eaten an egg, and it was like discovering an entirely new food.
My mother listened to my account of the meeting with the German patrol. She shook her head and said, “You handled that very well, Nicole. I am proud of you. But I think from now on we won’t have you go alone out to the farm.”
“But why not, Maman? The Germans didn’t even ask me what I had in my bicycle bag. They never ask children.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t want you biking out in the country by yourself any more. Only if Papa or I or some other adult is along.”
“But Maman, I can look after myself.”
Maman exploded. “You do what I tell you, Nicole! Do you hear?”
I turned my face away and refused to answer. She took my arm and shook it. “Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear.” I pulled my arm away and started to leave the room.
Maman said quietly—her cheeks were still red but her voice had no anger in it—”I know you can look after yourself, but thank goodness you don’t have to—yet. One day, I hope, when you are a little older, you will look after yourself, and I know you will be able to do it. But not yet.”
I ran out of the room and sulked on the
veranda
until I remembered that tonight the Rostens were coming to say good-bye, and after that I would not see Françoise again.
“Maman,” I cried, running into the kitchen, “may I spend the rest of the afternoon with Françoise ?”
She was sitting at the kitchen table, plucking the chicken, and she started shaking her head, but then she stopped and said, “It’s all right with me if Mme. Rosten doesn’t mind. They will be busy getting things in order, but if she doesn’t think you are in the way you may stay until all of you come back for supper.”
“Do you need me to help?”
“Mmm
...
” Maman looked around the kitchen and said, “That’s all right. Today Jacqueline will help. After all, she is nine years old and is also very capable.”
I kept my doubts on that score to myself and hurried off to Françoise.
You would have thought that this being their last day in Aix-les-Bains, everything would be upside down, and Mme. Rosten would be tearing around, her clothes somewhat creased, her hair disarranged. But no, she was seated at her desk in the downstairs study, writing letters. She was wearing a soft white blouse, and her shining dark, curly hair was all in place.
Mme. Rosten had a way of wearing blouses that I had tried to copy ever since I met her. Her blouse always stayed tucked in at her skirt, and if she wore a sweater, a tiny edge of her sleeve always showed, crisp and neat below the sweater cuff. I wore blouses too—almost every day, as did most of the girls in my class. But my blouses became rumpled and never stayed in place. Françoise had the same cool, unrumpled look as her mother. Both of them could wear the simplest clothes and look more elegant than someone dressed in the height of fashion. It was this look that I strove for and never attained.
Everything looked the same in their house. They were taking nothing with them. Tomorrow morning Dr. Rosten would leave first, just as he did every morning, on his way to see his patients. But he would not see any patients. Instead, he would take the train to Annemasse and wait for his wife and children. Later in the morning, Mme. Rosten, Françoise, and Monique, with one small suitcase between them, would also take the train, and meet Dr. Rosten that same evening. Hopefully, by the following day they would be in Switzerland.
Dr. Rosten brought a few apples and a small piece of Brie cheese to supper that night. Maman had bowls of chicken stew for everybody, and by eating slowly and taking small bites and chewing more times than was really necessary, it was enough.
Papa was cheerful. He listened to the BBC broadcasts almost every night now in his bedroom with the curtains drawn. The Germans were losing ground every day now in Russia, the Allies were advancing in Italy, and Mussolini had already fallen.
“A matter of months,” he said. “By spring or summer at the latest, it will be over.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Dr. Rosten, “but still I think you would be wise to leave.”
“Why?” said my father. “We can manage until the end. The Germans have been here five months and it is no worse than it was before. They would not dare to bother us. They know as well as we do that the end is in sight.”