Anne Frank and Me (6 page)

Nicole heard the bathroom door open. “Nico?”

Mimi. She'd recognize the voice anywhere.

“I'm in here.”

“David said you're sick. You okay?”

Nicole closed her eyes. “I feel better now,” she lied.

“Get your butt out here, then. You have to tell me what happened with Jack. And Zooms is on the warpath.” Nicole flushed the toilet for show, then came out to wash her hands.

“What's wrong?” Mimi asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nico, this is me you're talking to. What is it? Killer cramps? Pregnant by Immaculate Conception? Work with me, here.”

“I'm fine. Let's just go.” Nicole half ran out the door and across the museum rotunda back to their group, Mimi hurrying to keep up with her.

“What is
up
with you, Nico?”

“It's not important.”

“Mademoiselle Bernhardt, nice of you to rejoin us,” Zooms said dryly. “So glad it fit into your schedule.”

A middle-aged woman wearing a white blouse and black skirt stood before the group. “If I could have your attention. Welcome to the
Anne Frank in the World exhibit.
I'm Marta Wilk and I'll be guiding your visit. This way, please.”

As they followed their guide, Mimi grabbed Nicole's arm. “Nicole, what's going on?”

“I told you—”

“No, you blew me off. Did something happen with Jack?”

Nicole hesitated. Mimi was her best friend. She could tell her the truth. “Yeah. Something happened.”

“On the bus, you mean?”

Nicole nodded. “He saved me a seat. I sat with him, and—”

“Hey, you guys,” Suzanne called, catching up to them. “Did Mimi tell you about our little adventure while the bus was being fixed? Ms. Farmer had an asthma attack, and—”

“We were talking about something else,” Mimi said sharply. Nicole flicked her eyes at Suzanne, signaling Mimi that what she'd been about to say was private. Mimi nodded. Nicole was happy for the reprieve. Telling Mimi would somehow make it even truer.

Their group stopped before a triangular unit covered with text and photos. “We begin in 1929,” Ms. Wilk said. “This photograph of Anne as a baby, in her mother's arms, was taken soon after she was born. You will note that—”

A cheerleader ran over and interrupted the guide. “Ms. Zooms, Ms. Farmer is having another attack and her inhaler quit. She said I should get you.”

“Stay with Ms. Wilk,” Zooms ordered her students. “I'll catch up.” But as soon as Zooms was out of sight, kids began slipping away from the group. Doom and his Doom Squad headed farther into the exhibit hall. Eddie announced he had to hit the john and took off laughing with Peter.

Ms. Wilk led what was left of the class toward the next photograph. “We come now to a photograph from Germany, 1932. This shows how terrible things can often start out very small. It is a poster for an early political campaign of Adolf Hitler. It reads, in German, ‘Hitler—our last hope.' ”

Mimi nudged Nicole. “Nico, quick. Suzanne's back there, talking to David. So tell me what happened with—”

The sound of gunfire echoed through the exhibition hall. Panic struck. Screaming people ran in every direction and dove for cover. “Doom's shooting!” someone yelled. “Doom's got a gunl”

Nicole found herself running toward an exit sign as a piercing alarm sounded. A wave of students pushed her from behind, slamming her against a wall.

Mimi yanked her arm. “Come on!” She pulled Nicole away from the wall, but they were nearly trampled by a line of security guards, guns drawn, charging toward the sound of the shots.

More screams, more crying. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder. Nicole and Mimi were trapped in a mass of students jamming the emergency exit. “Help me!” a girl screamed, as she fell in the crush. A boy stepped on her arm and ran on.

“Mimi!”

“Hold on, Nico!”

Nicole grabbed her friend's hand. “Don't let go!” They were being pushed from all sides.

“Nico, I can‘t—”

Nicole felt Mimi's hand slipping from hers. “Don't fall!” she ordered, as if her voice could keep her friend up. Mimi let go. “Mimi! Where are you? Mimi!”

A sudden pain pierced Nicole, red-hot. And then, there was nothing at all.

seven

The blaring high-pitched whine of sirens. A terrible pounding inside her head. Raw, rhythmic waves of pain. Nicole clamped her hands over her eyes and moaned. It was as if her mind were swimming through muck, coming up from another place. Who and where she was, and what had happened, returned to her slowly, like faces materializing on a developing photograph.

The state museum. Doom. Gunfire. Panic. Death.

Like TV news footage, images played inside her mind—SWAT teams, police setting a perimeter so the shooter couldn't escape, innocents led away by teachers, ambulances lined up like soldiers at inspection. Inside the museum—Oh, God. Bodies everywhere, bleeding on the floor.

But this wasn't television, live from Colorado or Oregon or Georgia. It was happening in her state, to her classmates. To her.

Nicole felt the pull of unconsciousness lulling her back to safety. Fight, she told herself. Focus. What else must be happening? Had the television trucks arrived? Helicopters? Were they talking about Doom, showing his picture from the ninth-grade yearbook on the air? What if he still had a gun? My parents must be worried. Maybe they're on their way with Mimi's parents. Mimi. Caught in the crush. I have to make sure Mimi is okay.

That last thought got Nicole to open her eyes; fast, like a bandage ripped off in one quick move. She struggled to rise; strong hands on her shoulders held her in place. “Mimi,” she mumbled. “Got to find Mimi.” She looked up. The eyes of Mr. Urkin looked back.

“Rest now,” he told her. Ms. Zooms' face loomed cartoon ishly near his.

“Doom has a gun. We have to get out of here!” Her own voice hurt her head as much as the sirens. She struggled to stand, but Urkin gently pressed her to the couch. Couch? That had to mean she wasn't on the floor of the museum anymore. Someone—Zooms, Urkin, both of them?—must have rescued her.

She turned to see where she was and the movement felt like a punch to the skull. Weird. She seemed to be in someone's living room. The upholstered furniture was old-fashioned, a grandfather clock stood in one corner, a grand piano faced one wall, and above it hung Impressionist paintings like those her French teacher always raved about.

So, where was she? In a museum room that had been made to look like Anne Frank's home? Possibly. But if she and Urkin and Zooms were safe, why weren't more people with them?

“Where's Doom? Did the cops get him?” She touched her cheek, which was throbbing. It was bandaged, wet to the touch. She looked at her finger. “I'm bleeding.”

“Just a scratch,” Urkin said.

“Did Doom shoot me? He did, didn't he? That's why you look so worried.”

“What is she talking about?” Zooms asked, as Urkin took a little light from a black bag and shined it in her eyes.

“A concussion,” he concluded. “It can be very disorient ing. I do not know if she even knows where she is.”

“Of course I know where I am,” Nicole insisted. “I'm in the state museum. Now, what happened to Mimi? And Doom?”

“Doom?” Zooms echoed. In a flash, Nicole realized what was going on. Bazooms didn't know who Doom was.

“Richard Hayden,” she explained. “We all call him Doom.” Zooms still looked at her blankly How could she be so dense? Nicole lay there, frustrated, her head throbbing, as the sirens diminished and finally stopped. The silence was a gift.

“No more sirens, they must have got him,” Nicole concluded. “Can I go now?”

“John, this is breaking my heart,” Zooms said. John? Since when did Zooms call Urkin by his first name in front of a student?

Urkin took a pocket watch from his vest and timed her pulse. “Seventy beats per minute. Your heart is beating wonderfully.”

“Great to hear. It's really nice of you to be so concerned about me,” Nicole told him. “But can we just go? Everyone must think we're dead.”

Zooms' hand flew to her mouth as if Nicole had just let fly a string of colorful profanities in class. That was it. Nicole couldn't take any more.
“Let's go!”
She pushed Urkin's hands away and stood up. Sharp pain exploded in her head. She moaned and slumped back down.

Urkin began to stroke her hair. Very strange. It felt good, though. “Just rest now,” he told her.

“But—”

“Rest.”

“At least tell me what happened, please.”

“You fell and hit your head,” Zooms explained.

“I know that. I mean, what happened to everyone else?”

“I think her brain is damaged.” Zooms gave Urkin a look of pure anguish. “She talks about this doom like it is a person.”

Nicole felt like screaming. “Not an it, a he. I
told you, Richard Hayden.”

Zooms touched Nicole's hand. “Do you know your name?”

“I'm wounded, not stupid. My name is Nicole.”

“Good.” Urkin nodded, and a strange thought crossed Nicole's mind. A teen on a shooting rampage at the museum would be a big story. And she'd been shot. Did that mean she'd be interviewed on CNN?

“And your last name is—” Zooms coaxed.

Nicole sighed irritably. “Burns.”

“Bernhardt,” Zooms corrected. “I am your mother, and this is your father.”

Nicole had to laugh, even though it hurt. They were definitely not her parents. And Nicole Bernhardt was the name on the biography sheet that Zooms had handed her when they were still outside the museum.

“Why are you laughing, little one?” Urkin asked.

Little one? “I am laughing,” Nicole began deliberately, “because you are my principal, Mr. Urkin. And she is my English teacher, Ms. Zooms. And Zooms named me Bernhardt. For the museum thing.”

Zooms turned to Urkin. “Do something,” she demanded.

“Do you have any idea where you are?” her principal asked. “Do you know that you're in Paris?”

“Paris? Paris,
France?”

“Very good.” Urkin sounded relieved. “See, Renée, she knows where she is.”

“Right. If this is Paris, France, what language am I speaking?” Nicole challenged.

“French, of course.”

“Ha! I'm practically flunking French.”

The two adults stared at her blankly.

“Okay, that's it, I'm gone.” Nicole tried to stand again, but the pain was overwhelming. “My head's killing me,” she moaned.

“Liz-Bette?” Urkin called. “Bring some ice for your sister!”

“Wait a second,” Nicole protested. “My sister isn't here.”

“Of course I'm here,” a familiar voice responded. “I have ice. I chipped it from the icebox.”

Her sister was standing before her, carrying a towel-wrapped bundle. “Little Bit?” Nicole asked, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

“Liz-Bette,” her sister corrected, as Zooms took the bundle from her. “Is she all right?”

“A concussion, your father thinks,” Zooms said. She pressed the ice to Nicole's forehead. Nicole winced.

“You were dancing down the stairs from the roof,” Urkin told Nicole. “The railing broke; you hit your head.”

Nicole barely heard the explanation. Instead, she stared at Little Bit, who looked truly strange. First of all, her hair was neatly braided. Little Bit would rather chew glass than wear braids. Then there was her outfit. Little Bit had a closet full of trendy clothes. But she now wore a calf-length plaid skirt and a white shirt buttoned to her neck, under a navy cardigan. On her feet were very worn shoes. With white socks.

“It serves you right, Nicole,” Little Bit admonished. “Dancing on the stairs after Maman told you not to a hundred times was extremely immature.”

“Different clothes, same brat. And what is that thing?” She pointed at a yellow star sewn over the heart of Little Bit's sweater. It was fist-sized, but it didn't have five points like the one that went on top of a Christmas tree. It had six points. On the star were the letters Juif.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Little Bit smirked.

“It's the Nazis' star for the Jews,” Zooms explained. “You have one, too.”

“There is no way I—” Nicole looked down when she felt something sewn to the left side of her sweater. A star just like Little Bit's. On a gray sweater she didn't own.

Pain pulsed again inside Nicole's head. “Just a minute. Do you mean to tell me that I'm Jewish?”

“Of course,” Mr. Urkin replied. “We are all Jewish.”

Nicole held both hands to her head. The pulsing grew louder and louder; she didn't feel as if her skull could contain it. “You have to tell me.” Her own voice sounded distant to her ears, like she was at the bottom of a well. “What year is it?”

The moan of the sirens began again. “Nineteen forty-two, my darling child,” Urkin said. “Nineteen forty-two.”

eight