Odette's Secrets (5 page)

Everywhere we look now, we see soldiers in Paris.

Some strut past us, some thunder along on motorcycles.

Still others roar past in big cars.

They all wear huge black boots

and stiff uniforms belted with shiny buckles.

Some have lightning bolts

on their collars.

Mama says they are dangerous.

Most of them don't
look
dangerous to me.

They are young, blond men.

I see their blue eyes follow the pretty Parisian ladies.

The soldiers put up new street signs in German.

They take the nicest homes for themselves.

But they don't destroy Paris.

No, they stroll along the boulevards.

They eat juicy beefsteak

and drink red wine in the sidewalk cafés.

They buy fine French perfume

and pretty clothes to send home to Germany.

Some of the soldiers speak French.

They try to make friends with children.

They offer us candy.

“Don't take it,” Mama warns me.

“Don't take
anything
from them,
ever
.”

Lonely

Aunt Georgette, Sophie, and Papa … all gone.

One sad morning,

I meet Jakob, a Jewish boy I know,

on my way to school.

“I just got some toys from a cousin who left Paris,”

Jakob tells me.

“Let's go to my apartment and play with them.”

I know I shouldn't skip school, but I need a new friend.

I go with him.

We have to be quiet and not turn on any lights,

so the neighbors won't know we're there.

They would tattle to his mother,

“Your son was playing at home while you were at work!”

Jakob shows me his new toys:

trucks, tanks, airplanes, and lots of soldiers.

Some are German, some are French.

He lines them up on the floor.

“Do you want to be German or French?” he asks me.

“I'll be French,” I say.

But I don't know how to play this game.

I make my soldiers do all the wrong things.

“Stupid!” Jakob says, taking my soldiers away.

“The French wouldn't fight like that.”

He turns his back on me.

I wish I were at Madame Marie's!

She never calls me stupid.

If I were there now, I'd play with Charlotte,

make her a shawl.

“I'm leaving,” I tell Jakob.

“Close the door after you,” he says.

He dives his airplane down at the Nazi soldiers.

“And don't make any noise.”

I have escaped the war!

I'm free!

My Mistake

I skip home through day-lit streets.

But when I run into our building

and pull open the door of Madame Marie's apartment,

I know I've made a
big
mistake.

Madame Marie's sharp eyes look at me in surprise.

She turns and checks the old wooden clock.

Too early, it says.

Too early for Odette to be home.

Shaking her head, Madame Marie puts a stool against the wall.

“Sit there,” she commands me.

“Face the wall.

Don't look back.”

I stare at the clock.

Its ticking goes on as though nothing has happened.

But Madame Marie, who loves to talk, says nothing.

Her silence is terrible.

I know I've done something wrong.

What if Madame Marie tells Mama?

After a long while, Madame Marie says,

“What did I tell you the heart is like?”

“The heart is like an apartment,” I tell her.

“And how often do you have to clean it

and put everything in place?” she asks.

“Every single day, Madame Marie,” I reply.

She picks up another sleeve, lines it up with her needle.

“All right then,” she says,

“clean up the mess in your heart.

Take a good look and see what needs to be done.”

I do what my godmother tells me to do.

I think about what I did that was wrong.

Instead of going to school,

I listened to a boy who told me not to go.

Jakob made it sound like it would be fun

to play with his toys.

But it wasn't!

And it wasn't fun getting caught, either.

I know better now.

I'll never skip school again.

I want my mother and Madame Marie to trust me.

My heart feels cleaner now,

and I feel better.

I take a deep breath.

Can I smell the flowers

Madame Marie told me about?

She turns from her sewing machine

and glances at me over the tops of her glasses.

Still she doesn't say anything.

“You won't tell Mama, will you?” I ask her.

“Will this happen again?” she asks.

“Never,” I say.

“Then there's no need to worry your mama,” she replies.

I have one more question.

But I wait a minute before asking it.

“What if Mama asks me about school today?”

“Then you must do what your heart tells you,”

says Madame Marie.

I sigh.

I know what my heart will tell me.

But I don't want to think about that yet.

“You can climb down from that stool now,”

my godmother says.

She bites through the thread she has been unspooling.

She angles it into a needle.

“Would you like to learn how to sew on a button?”

What a grown-up thing to do!

“Oh, yes,” I say.

So Madame Marie shows me how to guide my needle

in and out,

in and out,

through the holes in the button.

I do it over and over and over again.

Then she shows me how to make a loop

and slip the needle through.

The knot pulls tight.

The button won't fall off.

“Well done,” says Madame Marie.

Her praise is rare.

I know I have done a good job.

I sew on four more buttons

before Mama comes through the door that evening,

Madame Marie shows her what I have learned.

“My, these are strong!” Mama says,

testing the buttons.

“I couldn't do a better job myself.”

Mama hums a tune she likes

as we climb up the stairs to our apartment.

She does that when she's happy.

She forgets to ask about my day at school.

I decide I'll never,
ever
skip school again!

A Second Secret

One day, Madame Marie asks me to come into her kitchen.

Together, we fill a box with food to send to Papa.

Now that he is a prisoner in Germany, not France,

we don't get many letters from him.

“I registered myself as
his
godmother too,”

Madame Marie tells me.

“That way I can send him packages,

just like your mama does.”

She fits cans of beans and meat together.

I drop in some candies I have saved,

wrapped in red and gold.

Madame Marie covers the box with paper

and winds string around it …

once, twice, three times.

I put my finger on the string for her so she can tie it tight.

“Is Germany far away?” I ask her.

“Very far,” she says.

“Will Papa come home one day?”

“But of course!” she says. “I'll tell you a secret.

When your papa left for the army,

I made a yellow blanket for him, just like yours.

I stitched a holy medal on it,

one of Saint George, the dragon slayer.

He's the patron saint of soldiers.

I told your papa that whatever happens,

he must hold on to that blanket.

He promised me that he would bring it back home.

So don't worry.

Your father will keep his promise.”

What a good secret!

Saint George is looking after Papa.

They have the same name.

My blanket has kept me safe so far.

Maybe Papa's blanket will work for him too.

My Orange