Black Radishes (6 page)

Papa’s face was grim. With difficulty, he turned the truck around. The stream of people began slowly walking the other way, heading back in the direction from which they had come.

“What do you think?” Papa said to Maman. “We could take another route, but in this mess, we won’t get to Spain for days. It’s obvious that the Germans are deliberately trying to kill civilians on the highways. It seems more dangerous on the road than anywhere else. And we may well be turned back at the Spanish border even if we get there.”

Maman nodded slowly. “And we have so little food, and we may not be able to find more. Or more gasoline. If we go on, we might end up stranded somewhere. Let’s go back to Saint-Georges,” she said quietly.

Gustave sat up. He hadn’t said anything for a long time, and his throat was dry. “But won’t the Germans be in Saint-Georges?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I’m hoping that they won’t bother going into such a tiny village,” said Papa. His voice was weary. “But they may be.”

10

Saint-Georges, June 1940

I
t took almost three more days to get home. On the way back, they passed a town that had been bombed. The black skeletons of buildings reached up into the quiet sky. They drove by abandoned automobiles with flat tires and others that must have run out of gasoline. Flies buzzed over another dead horse at the side of the road, next to a wagon with a broken wheel. Gustave also saw bags and suitcases, a cooking pot, a clock, and a teddy bear, all things that people must have dropped when they got too heavy to carry.

When Papa drove the truck back into Saint-Georges, it was late in the afternoon. The old stone house stood as it had for a hundred years, quiet and solid, behind its low wall. Gustave took the box his father handed him and trudged toward the door. Some men walked over to help Papa unload and to ask what they had seen. Gustave was too tired to talk to anyone.

The first few days back, he slept a lot of the time. Maman returned to her job. Two other families from the village, as well as several young men who feared being recruited into the German army, had left the same day that their family had, she reported when she came home. But they had all returned already, discouraged by the impossible traffic. No one had seen any Germans in the area yet, she said.

But there was other news that Gustave and his family had missed while they were on the road. After a month of hard fighting, Norway had surrendered to the Nazis. Gustave overheard Monsieur Grégoire, the elderly man who lived across the road, telling Papa about it as they both stood, grim-faced, in the street one morning. That night, Gustave slowly painted Norway red on his map. His thoughts were fuzzy, and it took a long time for him to do anything, as if his brain weren’t connected quite right to his body. He stared at the open watercolor box.

The red paint was nearly gone, and the block of blue paint was almost untouched. Nazi tanks were on French soil, and their planes were in the sky over France. And he and Maman and Papa couldn’t get out. They were caught like rabbits waiting, trembling, in a trap.

The next morning, Gustave was tying a long rope to one of the rafters by the open window of his fort to make an emergency exit, when he saw something unfamiliar glinting on the road in the distance. A faint rhythmical pounding was getting louder and louder.

He hurried down the ladder and ran to the gate to see what was going on. A woman emerged from the house across the street, wiping her hands on her apron. Other people opened the doors of their houses and stood watching over the walls and along the sides of the road. The pounding came closer, and then Gustave heard hooves. A man riding a glossy black horse appeared at the bottom of the hill. Gustave stared, but what he saw didn’t change. The man had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and he was wearing a German uniform.

The horse tossed its head and started up the hill. More soldiers straddling muscular horses followed. The hooves clopped up the road, right in front of Gustave’s house. Behind the men on horseback came marching German soldiers, wave after wave of them, as if they would keep on coming forever. Gustave watched the shiny black boots. Eighty-two, eighty-four, eighty-six, eighty-eight, he counted feverishly. If he could only count fast enough, he thought dazedly, he would know how many there were. Ninety, ninety-two, ninety-four, ninety-six. But the boots, rising up and smashing down, swam in front of him, and he lost count. He dragged his eyes away and looked up. Greenish gray uniforms, steel helmets, rifles. Faces like stone. The soldiers looked straight ahead as they marched south, turned the corner, and disappeared out of sight. They seemed to know exactly where they were going. They moved like machines, not men.

Some of the watching French men and women wept silently, tears running down their faces. Gustave could hear his heart pounding, more loudly than the thunderous marching boots. He felt frozen to the ground, unable to move or even to turn his eyes away from the soldiers. German soldiers were marching through the streets of France, his country, his native land. Marching right through this tiny country village, this little, out-of-the-way place, where his family had come to be safe. It was like a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. But it was.

A few houses away, on the other side of the road, two huge, wolflike dogs leapt at the gate from inside, snarling and growling. Their owner, Monsieur Grégoire, leaned on the wall across the road, his face twisted with grief. Let them out, Gustave thought despairingly. Let out the
chiens méchants
!

But of course Monsieur Grégoire wouldn’t do that. Even if those dogs, with their fierce teeth, managed to hurt a few soldiers, the other Germans would just take their rifles down off their shoulders and shoot them. They would probably shoot Monsieur Grégoire too. The waves of Germans marched up the road, as the French people stood watching, and, over and over again, the dogs hurled themselves uselessly against the gate.

When the first tank rumbled up the road, Gustave couldn’t watch anymore. There were too many soldiers. Too many tanks. He ran away from the road and, on his hands and knees, pushed his way under the low branches, into the bushes behind the garage. He sat there, curled up in the tight space, for a long time, trying to stop shaking. When he crawled out, all the tanks seemed to have rumbled by, but he could hear more feet marching.

He scrambled up the ladder to the loft and looked around. The three spears still leaned against the wall, at the ready. He flushed. They didn’t look like spears anymore, just like stupid sharpened sticks. Dumb toys. And he was all by himself. Marcel and Jean-Paul weren’t there. Maybe they never would be. What did he think he needed three sharpened sticks for? He seized the spears angrily and cracked them over his knee, one after the other, until all that was left of them was a mess of splintered wood.

The sound of the marching German boots gradually faded away into the distance, going deeper and deeper into France.

11

“A
large part of our territory will be occupied on a temporary basis,” said an unfamiliar voice on the radio. It was Maréchal Pétain, who had just been appointed the new leader of France.

“Armistice!” Papa shouted back at the radio when the speech was over. “That’s what you call an armistice! Appalling.”

“What does it mean?” Gustave jumped to his feet and grabbed Papa’s arm. “What’s happening?”

“It is a national disgrace!” Papa stormed. “This Maréchal Pétain has surrendered to the Germans, and he’s just sitting back and taking orders from them!”

“It means that France has stopped fighting the war,” Maman explained. “So the Germans won’t be shooting at French people from airplanes anymore or dropping bombs.”

“Sure!” Papa snorted. “But Pétain is going to let the Nazis occupy a large part of France. And who knows what they’ll do. Especially to the Jews.”

“But what
part
is going to be occupied?” cried Gustave.

“Let’s go,” said Maman. She and Papa were already at the front door. “We’re going to get a newspaper and find out.”

The papers were all sold out in Saint-Georges, so they hurried the few kilometers to the nearby village of Francueil. Papa bought a newspaper and an ice-cold lemonade, and the three of them sat at a rickety black metal table in the tiny café to share the lemonade and study the map in the paper. At one of the other two tables, an elderly couple pored over another paper, ignoring their breakfast. A pigeon waddled close to their table, pecked up a large crumb, then fluttered away.

“Look,” Papa said after hastily examining the blurry map in the paper and tracing a line with his finger. “Saint-Georges is just south of the demarcation line between the occupied zone and the unoccupied zone. Ah!” he breathed, slapping both hands on the table and looking at Maman. “What incredible luck! We’re in the unoccupied zone!”

Maman pulled the map toward her. “Incredible!” she murmured. “What if the house we had rented had been just on the other side of the river?”

“So there won’t be any Germans here?” Gustave leaned over Maman’s shoulder.

“No. It says that they have all withdrawn to the northern part of the country,” Papa answered. “The new French Vichy government, headed by Maréchal Pétain, is in charge here, in the unoccupied zone.”

“Oh!” Maman pushed the paper away and put her head down in her hands. “But Paris will be occupied.”

“Of course they want Paris,” Papa exploded, looking at her incredulously. “What did you think?”

“I thought they might just want to take back Alsace and Lorraine,” said Maman, gesturing toward the regions of France closest to Germany, her voice tremulous. “The Boches always thought Alsace and Lorraine should belong to them.”

“Well, they
did
decide to take back Alsace and Lorraine,” Papa said, looking at the map. “But the paper says they aren’t just going to occupy them; they are declaring them part of Germany. It will be terrible for the Jews there.” He sighed and was silent for a while, studying the paper again.

Tears welled up in Maman’s eyes. “Will people be able to get out of the occupied zone? Do you suppose there is any chance I could reach Geraldine again by telephone?”

Papa shook his head. “I’m sure that the Germans have cut off the phone connections between the two zones, as well as the mail and the telegraph service. There’s no way to communicate.” He looked at Gustave. “Why don’t you go and play and meet us back at the house later,” he said. “Maman and I need to talk.”

“Be careful, Gustave,” Maman added.

Gustave nodded and ran away from the tiny café. Did they really think that he still didn’t understand? Paris was a dangerous place to be now if you were Jewish. So was the whole occupied zone. The Nazis would rule that part of the country, would do whatever they wanted, to innocent people. But he wondered what the demarcation line between the two zones of France looked like. How could the Nazis make a line across a whole country? Would they paint a black line on the ground? Then why couldn’t Jean-Paul’s family or Marcel’s or anyone who was trying to get out just run over the line when no one was looking?

Francueil was a quiet, empty-seeming little village, a lot like Saint-Georges. Gustave took his slingshot out of his back pocket and flicked a pebble ahead of him, watching it skitter up the road and stop at the top of the hill. He ran to pick it up. Just over the crest of another hill, three boys were kicking a soccer ball around the road. Two of them were about Gustave’s age, and one was several years older. Gustave tucked his slingshot back into his pocket, studied their faces, then walked slowly forward. As he got closer, he heard the word “Boche.” Everyone was talking about the Germans today.

“They won’t get us,” the tallest boy was saying, exultantly. “We’re on the free side of the line.”

The ball rolled toward Gustave, and he kicked it back to the boy nearest him, who had a friendly face.

“Are you new around here?” asked the boy.

“Yes,” answered Gustave warily.

But the boy smiled and stretched out his hand. “I’m Henri. That’s Julien”—he indicated the older boy—“and his brother, Luc.”

Gustave and Henri shook hands. Julien stopped the ball under his right foot and looked at him.

“Have you seen the line?” Gustave asked them. “Is it on the ground?”

“Oh, it isn’t a line on the ground,” Henri said, but not as if Gustave were stupid for asking. “My uncle said that in some places, the Boches are putting up barbed wire. In other places, they march along and patrol it. Here, they use the river Cher for the line.”

“They’re putting up barriers at all the bridges,” Julien explained. “Yesterday, we saw them building one near Saint-Georges. You want to go see?”

“Sure,” said Gustave.

They kicked the ball back and forth all the way to the river.

“Do you go to school in Saint-Georges?” Gustave asked Henri on the way, feeling hopeful. It would be good to know someone friendly who might be in his class in the fall.

But Henri shook his head. “No, Luc and I both go to boarding school in Lyon. Look, there’s the river.” He picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm. Gathering into a tight group, the boys walked slowly forward.

At the bridge between Saint-Georges and Chissay, the village across the river, some German soldiers were installing a moving barrier on a post by the side of the road. One of them was painting a recently built shelter. When he smelled the wet paint, Gustave’s feet moved more slowly. Would the Germans be able to tell that he was Jewish? If they could, what would they do? Maybe he should go back to the house. But he wanted to be with the other boys and see what was happening.

One of the soldiers looked up at the four boys and said something to the man next to him. They went on working. “Cowards,” muttered Julien furiously. Gustave glanced up at Julien’s scowling face. He had the dark shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. Henri murmured in agreement.

“Be quiet, Julien—they might hear you,” said his younger brother nervously.

“I just can’t stand them. Those filthy Boches!” said Julien, this time speaking loudly.

At that, the same soldier lifted his head again. He stood up, picked up his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and strolled toward the boys, smiling slightly. As he got closer, Gustave could see that he was young, although his head was already nearly bald. He was short and slight, but he strutted as he walked, thrusting his chest out each time he took a step forward, like the rooster that lived behind Gustave’s next-door neighbor’s house.

“Do you have something to say to us, boys?” the German soldier asked. His French sounded foreign, harsh. Gustave wished he could run away, but his knees felt watery. No one said anything.

“Who said that word, ‘Boche’?” The soldier wasn’t smiling now. His eyes were cold and blue.

“I did,” said Julien, stepping forward. He held his head high. He was taller than the German soldier.

“It is against the law to use that word now,” said the soldier. “You know what we do to French people who say it?”

Julien didn’t say anything.

“We shoot them,” said the soldier smoothly.

He took his rifle down from his shoulder and pointed it at Julien’s chest. Julien’s face turned white. Luc gave a strangled cry. He started forward, but Henri grabbed his shirt and held him back.

But this is our side of the line! Gustave wanted to shout. You aren’t in charge here! But his throat was choked, and he couldn’t say anything. For a second, he couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe.

“At least, that’s what we do to men,” said the soldier. He was smiling broadly now, enjoying himself. “I guess we wouldn’t do that to a little boy. Which are you?” he asked Julien. “A man or a little boy?”

Julien’s face flooded with color. “I am sixteen,” he said stiffly.

“So, you need to tell me,” said the soldier. “If you tell me you are a man, I’ll shoot you. If you say that you are a little boy, I won’t. Which is it?”

There was a long pause as Julien stared at the soldier. Gustave felt his pulse pounding in his throat. The soldier shifted. Julien dropped his eyes.

“A boy,” he muttered.

“I didn’t quite hear that,” said the German. His rifle clicked. “I’ll give you one more chance. If you look at me and shout, ‘I am a little boy,’ I won’t shoot you.”

Julien looked up. His face was a furious crimson. “I am a little boy!” he shouted. His voice broke, and the last words squeaked out. The soldiers installing the barrier all looked up and laughed.

“Yes, you are,” said the soldier. “Now you will march here with me for an hour, up and down the bridge.” He reached up, grabbed the back of Julien’s neck, and squeezed, shoving his head down. Julien coughed, choking. The soldier squeezed Julien’s neck again and shook it, his fingers digging into Julien’s flesh. “You will shout out, over and over, ‘This is a German, not a Boche. This is a German, not a Boche.’ ” He glared over at the other boys. “You—stand here and watch.”

Julien marched with the soldier and shouted. Each time he came to the end of the bridge, the soldier shoved him to turn him around. Gustave and the others stood helplessly and watched. A streak of heat burned on each of Gustave’s cheeks. How could he and the others let the soldier do that to Julien? His fingers moved to his back pocket. But what good was a slingshot? They were just kids. There was nothing they could do, and the soldier knew it. Gustave stood still and watched as the German had commanded them to, his body tingling with shame.

“Louder,” said the soldier from time to time, smiling maliciously, glancing first at Julien and then at the younger boys. “Louder, boy.”

Julien’s eyes were glazed, his face now a dull purple-red. Long before the hour was up, he could no longer shout. His voice was a rasping whisper. The soldier finally let go of his neck, shoved him to the ground, and kicked him, twice. His boots thudded into Julien. Julien groaned. Gustave bit down on the tip of his tongue and clenched his fists. But he stood still, and so did Henri and Luc.

“Get away from here,” the soldier said in disgust.

Julien scrambled to his feet. Without looking at anyone, he stumbled away from the bridge and vomited on the side of the road. His younger brother ran after him, crying. Julien turned. “Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!” he croaked.

Luc continued to run, sobbing, away from the bridge, with Gustave and Henri right behind him. Without turning to say goodbye to Gustave, Henri and Luc ran off toward Francueil.

Before heading in the other direction, toward Saint-Georges, Gustave looked back. The balding German soldier was strolling over to join his comrades, whistling tunelessly, stopping to pick up stones and skip them into the river. The other soldiers had finished their carpentry while Julien was marching and shouting. The red-and-white-striped barrier rested on posts across the road over the bridge, dividing the two zones of France, its fresh paint gleaming in the morning sun.

When he got to the house, Gustave grabbed the folded newspaper off the kitchen table and ran upstairs. He snatched up his fountain pen, which was lying on the bureau. He looked at the demarcation line on the map in the newspaper, and he traced it furiously onto his map. It looked alien and ugly, curving up across the familiar shape of France. There was one more thing he had to do. He ran downstairs with his pitcher, pumped water into it in the kitchen, and raced back upstairs. The water sloshed out as he ran, but he didn’t care. He scratched violently at the few bits of red paint left in the paint well and paused, breathing hard.

He ran his finger softly over the watercolor blue of Paris, where home was, where Marcel and Jean-Paul probably were still.

“Goodbye, Paris,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Then he looked at the map in alarm. A dark smear of blood followed his finger, soaking into the paper. Gustave looked at his hand and breathed in sharply with surprise. The keen edge of the paint well had sliced the tip of his finger, and he hadn’t even noticed. Now that he saw the wound, though, it started to throb painfully.

But he had to finish what he had started. He dripped water onto the last fragments of red and washed paint over the rest of the occupied zone, the watercolor pigment mingling with the dark stain on the map. Now the coast and the northern part of France were red too, just like all those other trampled countries. Blood-red. Gustave let out a gasping sob.