Anne Frank and Me (7 page)

Nicole sat at the grand piano and plunked out a melody with one finger. She had no idea what it was. “What I'm experiencing here is a
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
moment,” she muttered to herself. “A really long one.”

Thinking about
Close Encounters
gave her an idea, though. The night before, she'd lain on a feather mattress in a strange bedroom with cabbage-rose-patterned wallpaper. Bazooms had insisted it was her room. But it wasn't. Not only did it look nothing at all like her bedroom, but this room was neat and her room was a disaster area. Sleep was impossible because of the sirens, which her sister claimed were warnings about British bombers. So she'd made a mental list of what was happening to her. Now, even as she tinkled the piano keys, she added a fifth possibility.

She'd been certain that if she could only fall asleep, she'd wake up in her own bedroom in the twenty-first century. But when she'd actually awakened to warm sunlight streaming through her window, she was still in the other place: Paris, during the Nazi Occupation, living the life that Ms. Zooms had assigned her for the
Anne Frank in the World
exhibit.

Logically, she knew that couldn't be true, which gave her another idea.

That could be it. She jumped up and began to look behind the living room paintings, in search of hidden cameras.

“Nicole? What are you doing?” Ms. Zooms looked up from her newspaper.

“Finding the hidden cameras.”

Ms. Zooms patted the couch next to her. “Come here, Nicole.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Nicole moved a still life oil painting. There was nothing there.

“Nicole, I will tell you once again. I am your mother, Renée Bernhardt.”

“I heard you the last ten times. Want proof? Mr. Urkin is my dear old dad, only his real name is Dr. Jean Bernhardt, a doctor at the Rothschild Hospital on something called rue Picpus,” she recited. “What is a Picpus, anyway?”

“You're babbling again, Nicole.”

“Yeah. Like what you're saying makes perfect sense. I'm telling you, I'm American. I live in the twenty-first century.”

“I am trying not to worry. It is difficult,” Ms. Zooms told her. “Your father says it may take some time for your memory to return. But when my daughter believes she is an American from the future, this is not a concussion. This is insanity.”

“Look, Ms. Zooms, you've got to stop calling me your daughter.” Nicole sat at the piano again and plunked out the same melody. “I mean, think about it. You don't even like me.”

Ms. Zooms—Ms. Bernhardt—whatever her name was—gasped, even though Nicole could tell she was trying to do what Mr. Urkin—Dr. Bernhardt—whatever his name was—had told her to do in front of Nicole: Act as normal as possible.

“Why not really play the Smetana?” Zooms asked.

“Because I have no idea what
Smetana
is. Also, not knowing how to play the piano kind of gets in the way of actually playing it.”

“Of course you know how to play the piano.”

“No, I don't. I used to play flute in the geek-fest school orchestra, but I sucked so bad my parents let me quit.”

“I shall prove to you that you know how to play the piano. Do not go anywhere.” Ms. Zooms hurried from the room.

Nicole stared at the piano keys. She vaguely recalled that the ninth-grade orchestra teacher had taught her how to play a major scale. You had to start on the note C, but she had no idea which key was—

Her index finger pressed a key. C. She knew it, though she didn't know how she knew it. Then, even though she felt ridiculous, she cupped both hands over the keyboard.

Too bad this isn't one of those player piano things, she thought. Music would just float out of the piano—

Music began to float out of the piano. But it really was her playing. She stared bug-eyed at her fingers as they moved fluidly across the keys. What she was playing, she had no idea. It certainly wasn't the melody she'd tapped out all morning. But she recognized it from somewhere ... yes. It was from a perfume commercial on television. This impossibly gorgeous model danced through a field of flowers while an impossibly gorgeous guy in a tuxedo chased her, and this music played.

Ms. Zooms ran back into the room. “You are playing, you do remember!”

Nicole stopped. “I really wanted that perfume.”

“What perfume?”

Nicole sighed. “Never mind.”

“Oh, my darling child.” Before Nicole could stop her, Ms. Zooms was embracing her. “It's Beethoven's
Für Elise.
It is so beautiful. Beethoven was a wonderful German, not like the horrid Huns out there.”

Being pressed to Bazooms' bazooms? This was over the top. Nicole closed her eyes. Please, please, please, she prayed. I don't care what this is, please let me go back to my real life. She opened them. Ms. Zooms was still squishing her.

“I brought some of your journals, Nicole. There are programs inside from your recitals. I thought perhaps it might trigger your memory to see them.” She handed Nicole several thick notebooks bulging with newspaper and magazine clippings. “Look through them while I boil our rutabaga for supper.”

“Rutabaga?” Nicole made a face.

“Yes, rutabaga.”

Nicole saw Zooms' anxious expression. “I know this can't be fun for you,” she acknowledged. “I'm sorry.”

“Read the notebooks, Nicole, before your friends come over.” Ms. Zooms nodded quickly, then, as if to hide her emotions, took off for the kitchen. Nicole moved to the couch, plopped down, and put her feet up. She might as well be comfortable. She opened the notebook that had 1940 written on it to a random page. It was dated 20 October 1940. The handwriting was undeniably her own.

Nicole stopped reading. This was so bizarre. She flipped the pages toward the front. Throughout, it was definitely her handwriting.

Nicole turned the page.

Dazed, Nicole put the notebook down. She picked up the next one, dated 1941. Sheets of paper fell out—newspaper clippings, movie advertisements, and the like. One was a handwritten playbill for a piano recital featuring Mme. Goldsteyn's students. Nicole looked at it closely. The third student scheduled to play was Nicole Bernhardt.

She picked up the movie advertisements. The titles were unfamiliar, and so were the stars: Viviane Romance, Albert Préjean, Danielle Darrieux. On one of them, she had crossed out Danielle Darrieux's name and scrawled Nazi swastikas all over it, along with the word
collabo.

Collabo?
What was that? From the swastikas she guessed that it wasn't a compliment. As she looked through more of the clippings, there was an enthusiastic knock on the front door.

“Take my key and please answer,” Ms. Zooms called from the kitchen. “It's your friends.”

More knocking, louder. Nicole put the journals and papers on the coffee table, got the key, and went to open the door. “This is just a dream. A really terrible dream.”

She opened the door. Standing outside was Jack Polin.

“Nicole!” he exclaimed, and wrapped his arms around her. “I was so worried about you.”

“On the other hand, I've had worse dreams.” Nicole smiled wildly, as he held her at arm's length.

“What are you saying about dreams?”

“This is all just a little confusing. Uh, what are you doing here?”

His eyes searched hers. “Please say you remember me, Nicole.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“You
must
remember me. After all, I've been in love with you since the third grade.”

nine

You?” Nicole asked incredulously. ”In love with me?”

Jack laughed. “You say it like it is news to you.”

“It is.”

“Very funny, Nicole,” said someone standing behind Jack.

Nicole peered around him. “Mimi! I'm so glad to see you!” She hugged her friend. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I'm okay, you nut.”

“But at the museum you—”

“Nico, I'm fine.” Mimi kissed Nicole on both cheeks and sailed into the living room, Little Bit and Jack trailing in her wake.

“Now you see what I mean,” Little Bit told them.

Jack took Nicole's hand. “Your sister said that as of this morning you still had not recovered your memory. Are you feeling any better now?”

Nicole gazed into his eyes. “Better and better all the time.” Her fingers were entwined with his and he was look ing at her the way she had always dreamed he would.

“Are you going to kiss her now?” Little Bit asked.

“Perhaps,” Jack teased.

“What a great idea!” Nicole exclaimed.

Little Bit made a face. “That would be extremely disgusting. As well as immature.”

“You know, Little Bit, this part of my dream would have been too perfect without you.”

“Little Bit?”
Jack echoed. “As in, a small morsel?”

Little Bit shrugged. “Right after she hit her head, she started calling me Little Bit.”

“Liz-Bette?” Ms. Zooms appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Please leave Nicole alone with her friends and come set the table. Hello, Jacques, Mimi.”

“Madame Bernhardt? We brought you a present.” Mimi handed Ms. Zooms a cloth sack. “It is from our uncle's farm.”

“Oh, thank you, Mimi.” Ms. Zooms peered eagerly into the bag. “Vegetables. Tomatoes, zucchini, peppers. And cheese. How I love fresh cheese. I could eat an entire wheel of it by myself.”

“No offense, Ms. Zooms,” Nicole said, “but you could stand to lose a few el-bees. Do you know how many fat grams there are in cheese?”

“El-bees?” Mimi echoed.

“Dear God, my daughter has lost her mind.”

“Bazooms, for the zillionth time, you have to stop calling me your daughter.”

“Bah-Zooms?” Jack asked.

“She calls me Bah-Zooms,” the older woman explained. “I have no idea what this means.”

“I am going to call you Bah-Zooms, too,” Little Bit declared.

“Enough rudeness, young lady Come help me.”

“But, Bah-Zooms, I want to stay here.”

Mimi tugged on one of Little Bit's braids. “Come, Liz-Bette, I will help, too. Bye, Jacques, bye, Nicole. Have fun.” She winked mischievously at them over her shoulder.

Nicole couldn't stop grinning. “Jack Polin,” she marveled. “Alone with me. On purpose.”

“Jacques Poulin,”
he corrected, making the
J
soft and changing the pronunciation of his last name. He sat on the couch and beckoned for Nicole to join him. “Do you think this is a Hollywood movie and I am some American movie star named Jack?”

Nicole laughed. “Works for me.”

“Mimi and I have been so worried. Your mother saw our mother last evening and told her that you'd hit your head. I wanted to ring you, but since you don‘t—”

“Hold it.” Nicole held her palm up. “Are you telling me that you and Mimi have
the same parents?”

“It is usual for twins, don't you think?”

“You're
twins
?
”

“I was born four minutes ahead of her, which is why I am smarter and better looking.” He looked at Nicole expectantly, then frowned. “That is what I always say to make Mimi mad. You really don't remember?” Nicole shook her head.