Black Radishes (14 page)

27

M
onsieur Morin looked at Gustave, puzzled. “Radishes?” A slow smile broke across Papa’s face. “Radishes!” he said. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?” He beamed at Gustave, making him feel warm all over. “As Gustave has very good reason to know,” Papa went on, smiling at Nicole and her father, “the Germans love black radishes!”

Gustave told the story, and Nicole and her father listened intently. Then Papa and Monsieur Morin worked out the details of the plan. Gustave’s father would start crossing the demarcation line, working hard to get on friendly terms with the guards again. Both on this side of the line and the other side, he would use the cloth and shoes he had left to barter with, but instead of looking for farmers who had butter or cheese hidden away, he would look especially for farmers who had black radishes. He would be sure to have a few lying about to offer to the German border guards whenever he crossed over the line.

“The most easygoing soldier at the demarcation line on this stretch of the river is a redhead named Karl,” said Monsieur Morin. “I’ll find out when his shifts are, and you can use the radishes to get friendly with him.”

“The Roberts may know who has been growing black radishes,” said Papa to Gustave as they left Nicole’s house. “The first time I cross, I’ll stop in and see them.”

Karl’s next shift was on a Monday, so on Monday morning, Papa took the truck and drove off toward the line. For Gustave, it was a long day. He squirmed on his hard seat at school, thinking about his father when he was supposed to be memorizing his English vocabulary words. Was Papa at the Roberts’ farm now? Did they have any radishes for him? Was he driving around the countryside? What if he stopped at the wrong farm, trying to barter for radishes, and the people weren’t friendly? Even when Gustave was outside at recess, he kept wondering about Papa.

“Stop fidgeting, and study,” said Maman to Gustave as he jumped up from the kitchen table for the fifth time to peer out the window. “Papa should be here a little after five o’clock our time, since he’s waiting to cross at the very end of Karl’s shift.” But Maman fidgeted around the kitchen herself. She jumped when she heard a sound from the street outside and nicked her finger with the knife she was using to peel a potato.

“Oh, I wish he would come,” she said, squeezing her thumb against her cut finger to stop the blood.

At exactly fourteen minutes after five o’clock, the door opened, and Papa came bounding into the kitchen, bringing a blast of cold, fresh outdoor air with him.

“Yes, indeed, Karl loves those radishes!” he said, thumping Gustave on the back. “I found two, and I left them on the seat next to me in a basket. He asked me—rather nicely!—if he could have one. He said they reminded him of home. I gave him both, and he was so happy, he started telling me all about his mother and the place he grew up. I chatted with him about the cloth business, and I told him I meet frequently with a client in the occupied zone. He didn’t even open the back of the truck. In fact, he was one of the guards we ran into before, the day they took the radishes. The first one, the redheaded, friendlier one?”

Gustave didn’t remember any of them as being friendly.

“He was on my side of the truck. Don’t you remember? He laughed when I made a joke? He didn’t help the other two take your radishes? Anyway, he remembered us, and he even asked where you were. Turns out he has two sons himself, one older than you and one younger. You were in school, of course, I told him.”

Gustave still didn’t like thinking about that day. “So, what happens next?” he asked.

“I’ll go back and forth a few more times when Karl is on shift, making sure I have radishes on the return trip each time. He and I should be firm friends by the time our relatives and friends arrive at the Roberts’ house, which will be in about two weeks, according to Monsieur Morin’s contacts. Oh, and speaking of the Roberts,” Papa went on, “they know lots of farmers in the area who might have radishes to trade, and Marguerite needs boots two sizes larger, and”—Papa pulled something out of his coat pocket—“look what I have for you, Gustave!”

“Monkey!” Gustave exclaimed. He turned Monkey over in both hands, feeling his warm fur. He wasn’t much more worn than he had been last year.

“Did Marguerite cry when you took him?” he asked.

“No. I guess Madame Robert has been talking to her about giving Monkey back for a long time,” Papa said. “She finally got a pass to cross the line to visit her elderly mother, who hasn’t been very well. She and Marguerite have been crossing the line often, it seems, to visit the grandmother. They always brought Monkey along in case they saw one of us in Saint-Georges, but they never did. They didn’t want to call attention to us by asking where we lived. It seems Marguerite has crossed the line so often holding Monkey that the guards at the line call her ‘the little girl with the monkey’! The guards all think Marguerite is so cute, Madame Robert said, that they never give them any trouble.”

Gustave stroked Monkey’s fur and smiled at his funny little face. So, Monkey had been on this side of the line, nearby, many times, and Gustave hadn’t even known. It was good to see Monkey again after a whole year, but it felt suddenly as if he had carried him around in his pocket a long time ago, when he was much younger.

Before Gustave got into bed that night, he sat Monkey down on the dresser, next to the torn picture that he still kept in the silver frame, even though it no longer had any glass in it. He looked at Jean-Paul’s face and the space where Marcel’s face had been. Soon, he hoped, they would be together again, all of them, the Three Musketeers. All for one—one for all. And then Gustave and Jean-Paul would leave for America, while Marcel and his mother would stay in Saint-Georges, where at least they would be safer than in Paris, with the Morins helping them. Maybe later, Marcel and his mother could get visas too and come join the others in America. Gustave couldn’t imagine what it would be like living in a foreign country, learning to speak a new language. The kids there probably wore different kinds of clothes, ate different food, and played different games. How would he fit in, in a strange new place?

He climbed into bed and lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. America would be safe, Papa said. They were unbelievably lucky that Papa had a cousin there who could help them get immigration visas. There were no Nazis in America, no laws discriminating against Jews, no French police who obeyed the Nazis, no French collaborators—like Philippe and his grandfather—who enjoyed turning Jews over to the police.

What was it that his teacher had said that day in school, the day Gustave had found Philippe’s note? Without equality and brotherhood, there is no real liberty? It was true, Gustave thought suddenly. People like Philippe and his grandfather might believe that they could be free while treating others as less than human. But their minds were trapped. Trapped by hatred. Trapped by thinking the way the Nazis told them to think.

“All men are created equal.” That was what Thomas Jefferson had written long ago in America’s Declaration of Independence. Gustave had learned that in school in Paris, before the war, because it had influenced the slogan of the French Republic, “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.” Everyone equal. Would America turn out to be a place that lived up to that promise?

France had not lived up to the slogan of the Republic. But France was his country, his home. Until that day in Paris a year and a half ago when he had overheard that he and his family might one day have to leave France, Gustave had not given his country or his freedom a second thought. Being French was like breathing. But when he saw graffiti saying that Jews didn’t belong in France, when the Nazis marched through his country and flew their flag in France—then he knew how deep a part of him it was, being French. And how much it would hurt to leave.

Leaving France would mean leaving good people, brave people. People who weren’t Jewish but who took risks to help Jews. People who believed in equality and fraternity. People whose minds were truly free. The Robert family. Monsieur Brunel, Gustave’s teacher at school. Monsieur Ferrand, with his friendly little dog, at the café. Nicole’s father. Nicole. Gustave thought about her laughing eyes and the feeling of her warm hand clasping his. After he and his family left for America, Gustave thought, turning onto his side and looking at the shadowy square of the blacked-out bedroom window, would he ever see any of them again?

Papa crossed the line four more times over the next two weeks. Each time, he made sure that he had a radish or two in a basket beside him on the front seat, mixed in with a bunch of rutabagas or Jerusalem artichokes, to give to Karl when he came back across the line. Then one Wednesday evening, as it was getting dark, someone knocked three quick, light taps on the door.

Gustave jumped up from the sofa, where he had been reading, and opened it. It was Nicole. She handed him a piece of folded paper, looking at him with an expression that Gustave didn’t understand, then ran away into the twilight.

Papa came up behind Gustave. “From the Morins?”

Gustave handed him the note, and Papa read it. Maman stood quietly behind him in the entryway. “ ‘Geraldine and the children ready for your help tomorrow,’ ” Papa read out loud. “ ‘Unable to contact the Landaus. No further news.’ ”

Gustave snatched the paper and read the words over and over again, but they said exactly what Papa had read aloud.

“Why not? Why not?” he said frantically. “Where could Marcel and his mother be?” He turned to run after Nicole, but Papa grabbed his arm.

“It says ‘no further news,’ ” he said quietly. “That’s all they heard from their contact.” Papa’s face and Maman’s were shadowy in the dark hall.

“I need to talk to you about tomorrow, Gustave,” Papa went on, moving back to the living room. “That is what we need to concentrate on now. I would like you to come with me when I go.”

Maman gave a faint cry. In the lamplight, her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“I think it will make everything seem less suspicious if you’re with me,” Papa continued, putting his hand on Gustave’s shoulder. “It will help distract Karl to see you. He asked about you again last time I crossed the demarcation line. He misses his own sons. I told him that you were born here in France and don’t speak German. He keeps telling me that we should move back to Switzerland so that you can speak German too. He was glad to hear that you were a Boy Scout. He used to take long hiking trips with his older son. He’ll be even easier to chat with than he usually is if you’re there with me.”

“I don’t like Gustave taking that risk, Berthold,” said Maman.

“I know,” said Papa soberly. “Do you think I would ask him if there were another way? But his being there will make everything safer all around, especially if Karl has another guard working with him tomorrow. Why would I bring my young son if I were up to anything dubious? The people the border guards tend to be most suspicious of are adults, especially men, traveling alone.”

Maman nodded slowly. “We will leave the decision up to you, Gustave.”

Gustave’s palms tingled. “I’m coming,” he said firmly.

“Good.” Papa nodded. “And no questions about the Landaus until we get Aunt Geraldine and your cousins safely here. One thing at a time. We all need to stay calm and focus on getting them across the line.”

Papa had built a false back inside the rear of the truck, with just barely enough room for the two families squeezed tightly together. It wouldn’t be so tight now. Jean-Paul and Aunt Geraldine and the baby would slip into the small space, and then Papa would pile heavy barrels and large boxes in front of it, cumbersome things that no one would want to move, especially not a soldier at the end of a long shift. A doctor who worked with Nicole’s father to help people cross the line had given Papa some drops to make the baby sleep so that Giselle wouldn’t cry and give away the hiding place.

But would the plan work? The plan to contact the Landaus hadn’t. Where were they? Gustave bit down on his lower lip. And what if the German guards decided to examine the truck thoroughly for some reason and found the hiding place with Jean-Paul’s family squeezed into it? What would happen? “Karl has never searched the back of the truck? Not even once?” Gustave asked.

“No,” said Papa confidently. “He has never even opened it. And by now, he and I are well acquainted. He’s a decent man, even if he is a German. He thinks of me as a friend. He’ll be delighted to see you again, and, with you there, what he’ll be thinking about is his sons and his home, not the black market. There’s no reason at all why he would search the truck now.”

28

A
s Gustave and Papa approached the demarcation line on their way into the occupied zone the next morning, Gustave felt his hands getting damp. But a German soldier with reddish brown curls strode toward the truck, smiling and peering in at Gustave. He and Papa immediately began to chat in German.

“Nice to see you again, Gustave,” the soldier said after a while, switching into French and reaching across Papa to shake Gustave’s hand. “No school today,
hein
? It is a strange school schedule you have here in France—school on Saturday but no school on Thursdays or Sundays. Do you like that schedule?”

Gustave wiped his damp palms on his pants. Of course he couldn’t say anything to a German soldier about the Jewish Sabbath. He tried to smile. “Yes, Monsieur. I like having a day off in the middle of the week,” he managed.

“So school is not your favorite thing?” Karl grinned. “Just like my younger son.” He nodded at Papa. “All in order—go on across.”

When they were on the other side of the river, Papa and Gustave looked at each other. “You see?” Papa said. “Not a bad man. He said to me in German that you are getting tall. ‘My own son will be almost a grown man when I see him next,’ he said. He sounded wistful.”

Gustave nodded. Karl really did seem like a decent man, one who would rather be home with his family than fighting, even though he wore a German uniform. But he was under Nazi command. And he did have a rifle. Gustave jiggled his legs nervously up and down against the front seat.

When they pulled up to the Roberts’ farm, Gustave jumped out of the truck and ran toward the house. The younger Madame Robert had the door open before he and Papa got there. As soon as Gustave stepped into the Roberts’ kitchen, Aunt Geraldine’s arms were around him. She didn’t feel as soft and cushiony as she used to, and Gustave could feel her trembling. But she still gave big, wet kisses.

“Gustave!” she exclaimed, kissing him not twice but three times, first on the left cheek, then on the right, then on the left again. “You’ve grown so much!” When Aunt Geraldine saw Papa, she released Gustave and swooped down on him. “Berthold!”

Gustave took a few steps back and surreptitiously rubbed the back of his hand against his damp cheeks, embarrassed but smiling. Jean-Paul was sitting at the table, eating some bread and a bowl of soup. “Jean-Paul!” Gustave cried joyfully.

Jean-Paul looked up. He was pale and much thinner than when Gustave had last seen him, a year and a half ago. “Hey, Gustave,” he said. His voice was serious-sounding and deeper than it had been before. When Jean-Paul stood up to shake hands with Papa, Gustave was surprised to see that he now came up almost to the top of Papa’s ear.

It was strange to see Jean-Paul by himself when, for so long, Gustave had imagined him and Marcel coming together to Saint-Georges. Gustave’s heart thudded. Couldn’t he just ask Jean-Paul in a whisper what he knew about Marcel and Madame Landau? But Papa shook his head and gave Gustave a warning look. Gustave sighed and sat down next to his cousin at the table. But if he couldn’t ask about Marcel, he didn’t know what to say. Jean-Paul looked as if he didn’t know what to say either. It seemed to Gustave as if that night he had said goodbye to Jean-Paul and Marcel in Paris had been about a hundred years ago.

Just inside the doorway, the two Madame Roberts, Papa, and Aunt Geraldine stood talking in low, intense voices. Now that Gustave looked at Aunt Geraldine from farther away, he could see that her eyes were red and that she had been crying. Papa frowned. “She has to be silent,” he said. “Absolutely silent. It will cause a disaster if she cries.”

Something seemed to be going wrong. Was it Giselle they were talking about? But wouldn’t the sleeping drops they were going to give her keep her quiet? “What’s the matter?” Gustave whispered to Jean-Paul. “Do you know?”

“Giselle is really sick,” Jean-Paul said quietly. “She has a high fever, and she keeps waking up and screaming. Maman says it isn’t safe to give her the sleeping drops when she isn’t breathing well.”

A high, thin wail came from the floor above. Aunt Geraldine hurried up, the stairs creaking under her feet. In a few moments she came back down, nestling Giselle against her. Giselle wailed and wailed, her nose running, her dark eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. She was older and bigger, a toddler now, but it was startling to Gustave to see how thin and spindly she had grown. The last time he had seen her, she had had such funny, chubby little baby legs. Aunt Geraldine paced up and down with Giselle for a while, crooning to her, and then, when Giselle quieted, she sat down with her at the table, across from the boys. The others sat down too.

“I just don’t know what is to be done,” said the younger Madame Robert, rubbing her hands nervously on the back of her neck. “I’m sure Geraldine is right that the sleeping drops would be dangerous for her.” Across the table, Aunt Geraldine began to weep silently, holding Giselle close.

“You have to leave soon, you say?” the older Madame Robert said to Papa.

“Yes,” said Papa. His voice was thin and tight. “We have to get them across tonight or, at the very latest, tomorrow. We need to get through Spain and into Portugal, and we’ll need time there to book our passage on a ship and time to make the sea voyage to the United States before the immigration visas expire.”

“You could all stay overnight with us, but that just isn’t enough time for the little one to get better, even if we could take her to the doctor. And bringing the doctor a strange child might arouse suspicion,” said the younger Madame Robert, nervously flipping her hair away from her neck.

A small figure in a nightgown appeared in the doorway. “Baby cry,” said Marguerite.

She ran to her mother and rested her head in her lap. Gustave reached out and fingered one of Marguerite’s curls. Even now, when he was worrying over Marcel and about how they were all going to get back across the line, he couldn’t help doing that. Marguerite’s curls were still silken and light brown, just like Giselle’s. The two little girls looked so similar that they might easily have been sisters, even twins.

“They look so alike, you know?” said Gustave to Marguerite’s mother.

She looked over at him, her hand on Marguerite’s head, as if she hadn’t heard. So Gustave said it again. “Marguerite and Giselle—they look so alike.”

Marguerite lifted up her head, and Madame Robert slowly looked from one child to the other. “Not to their mothers, of course,” she said, smiling at Aunt Geraldine. “But to someone else, to the Germans … Oh! It might work! I think we have a plan!”

Marguerite’s grandmother crooked her white head, looked at the two girls, and started to laugh. “Yes!” she agreed. “Of course! Giselle must wear Marguerite’s red jacket. Too bad we don’t have that monkey.”

Gustave reached into his pocket. “But I
do
have him!” he said, putting Monkey on the table. “I brought him along to say hello to Marguerite. Here he is.”

Papa and Aunt Geraldine looked bewildered. “What might work?” Papa asked.

Gustave smiled at them. “Don’t you see, Papa? Giselle looks like Marguerite—and Marguerite is allowed to cross the line with her mother!”

“I will dress Giselle in Marguerite’s little red jacket,” Madame Robert told them, “and she’ll carry Monkey, just the way Marguerite always does. Marguerite can stay here with her grandmother. I will bring Giselle with me across the line, the way I always bring Marguerite, as if we were going to see my mother. I’ll cross back at another bridge so that they won’t notice that I’m returning without a child.”

“It’s very kind of you to offer to do that,” said Papa slowly. He looked from one little girl to the other. “I think it would work,” he said. “They do look very alike. I’ve heard a lot of men say that all babies look exactly the same to them, anyway. But Giselle is so much thinner.”

“So, we’ll pad her with extra clothing underneath the red jacket to make her look more plump,” said the older Madame Robert. “My daughter-in-law can cuddle her close, telling them the child is sick and fussy.” She held her shoulders erect, her white head high, and she spoke with scornful confidence. “The Boches will never know the difference!”