Tell No One Who You Are (5 page)

She remembered how often she listened for the front door to unlock as she lay in her crib, and watched the crack of light
shining beneath the door and imagined her brother preparing his bed on the sofa. She would wait for the light to go out again, listen to the faint shuffling of pages being turned in the other room. Her eyes would grow heavy but she forced them to stay open. She would stay awake until her brother went to sleep. Finally, the light went off, and Régine would close her eyes, thinking she would read the same pages the next day.

It had been the same every time Léon brought a book home from the library. Whatever her brother read, Régine wanted to read. Whatever he did, she had wanted to do. She read his favorite authors, listened to his favorite music and ate his favorite food. How excited he would have been to see the room full of books downstairs in Madame Andrés house. She tried to look forward to the new books she could read, but thinking about her brother made her feel sad again. Where was he? Was he all right? What was he doing? And what about his friends? Where was Léon Saktreger? Had he been taken away too? Were the Germans trying to send all the Jews away?

L
ATER THAT DAY
, Madame André showed Régine the rest of the house. Her bedroom was upstairs, too, and next to it was a bathroom with a tub. It was the first time Régine had been in a house with a real bathroom. There was no bathroom in the Millers building. The toilet in the hall was shared with the families who lived upstairs. It had a sink but no tub or shower. Like the other tenants, the Millers went to the public baths nearby, carrying their towels to save money. Régine bathed with her mother and Léon with his father. Whoever finished first waited for the others on the bench outside, and the family walked home together.

Unlike the apartment at rue Van Lint, Madame Andrés house had a separate dining room and kitchen. The window of the library looked out onto the front yard. The kitchen had something familiar to Régine: a big, wooden radio with short legs and large dials.

That night, the small supper showed Régine that food here was as scarce as it was back in the city. By now she was used to leaving the table still hungry. This was not going to change.

After supper they listened to Radio Free London, the same station Régine’s father had listened to at home and in the Demers apartment upstairs. He had explained that Radio Free London was the only station you could trust to give true accounts of the war because the radio stations in occupied
Belgium and France carried nothing but German propaganda. Radio Free London carried a program called
Les Français parlent aux Français
. It always ended with a message of hope and encouragement from the announcer. His words echoed in the house as Régine climbed the stairs to go to bed:
“Bonsoir et courage. On les aura les Boches!”
— Good night and courage. We’ll get those Germans!

The next day, Régine asked whether she could leave the house to walk outside. Madame André refused. “Someone might see you,” she said severely. “No one must know you are here.”

Régine spent the next six days helping about the house. Madame André knitted baby dresses for extra money. She was pleased that Régine knew how to knit and got her started almost immediately on making sleeves for the little dresses. Régine also helped sew up the hems. She learned how to pin the dress to her own skirt so it would stay in place while she hemmed.

They worked together in almost total silence. Madame André did not act any friendlier as time passed. Each day seemed longer than the one before for Régine. It was not that Madame André was mean; she simply made no effort to be nice. Not once that week did Régine see a smile on her face.

The André house had another advantage, in addition to the nice room and bed and the library. Boitsfort did not have air-raid alarms. Madame André pulled the drapes at night but there was no taping of the windows. But Régine would gladly give up all those comforts to be back with her family.

Sunday finally came. The house was still dark when Régine jumped out of bed. She was so eager to see her father, she could not sleep. She had many questions to ask him. Was her mother still in the hospital? Was she feeling any better? And Léon? Had her father heard from him? Where was he?
What was he doing? Then the big question she would ask: might she come home soon? How about if she just went home with him now?

Régine got dressed, ran down the stairs and headed straight for the library. She sat down in a big armchair near the window and stared at the empty road out front.

“What are you doing down here at this hour?” a voice called out.

Régine turned and saw Madame André on the stairs in her housecoat. Her eyes were puffy with sleep. “Waiting for Papa,” she said.

“But you don’t even know what time he’ll come!”

Régine shrugged. She knew he would come soon.

“You might wait for hours!” Madame André said. “He might not even come today. Maybe only tomorrow.”

“He said one week.”

“Yes, but he did not say Sunday.”

“He said one week,” Régine repeated. “He promised.”

Madame André let out a sigh, turned and went back to her room.

Régine looked out at the empty road. When she went into the library on other days, it was to choose a book to read. But now she did not even glance at the shelves.

Hours passed. Régine sat in the chair all morning but saw no sign of her father. For a second she thought she had spotted him in the distance. A lone person was approaching. She craned her neck to get a better view. But it was not her father, and her shoulders sagged in disappointment.

More time passed. She heard the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen and took this to mean that Madame André was preparing to bake. The sun was directly above the house and felt hot on her face as it shone through the window. It was early afternoon.

That’s when she spotted him. There was no mistaking him this time. As before, Régine saw a lone figure in the distance. She could not see his face because he was too far. It didn’t matter. She could make out the fedora on his head.

“Papa is here!” she called out.

Madame André emerged from the kitchen and headed for the front door. Régine watched through the window as her father arrived at the gate in his gray overcoat, adjusted his hat and walked up to the front door. Régine jumped out of her chair, full of excitement. She heard Madame André open the front door and the sound of her father’s voice.

Her excitement was short-lived.

As short as his visit.

Again Madame André did not invite her father into the house. She kept him standing just inside the front door and accepted a second envelope of money. She seemed very anxious for him to leave.

“Papa,” Régine said, stepping around the big woman.

“There you are,” said her father, bending down to give her a hug. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Régine lied, again.

Madame André reached for the door handle, making it clear that she wanted him to go.

“I’ll be back next week,” he told Régine. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yes, I have to go,” he said, glancing at Madame André.

Régine did not want him to leave. She wanted to ask him about her mother and brother. But Madame André was opening the door now and there was no time.

“I’ll see you next Sunday,” her father said, with a little wave of his hand. “That’s a promise.”

Madame André quickly locked the door behind him.

O
N THE SECOND SUNDAY
, nothing changed. Régine waited all morning at the window, and her father arrived in the early afternoon. He stayed only long enough to hand Madame André another pay envelope before he promised to visit Régine again in one week.

The third Sunday was different. This time her father did not seem to care that Madame André already had her hand on the door handle. He pushed his way in and pulled Régine close. He had tears in his eyes and Régine asked him what was wrong.

“It’s about Mama,” he whispered. “She’s very sick. Much sicker than before.”

“How come?” Régine said in a loud voice. “Isn’t the hospital helping her?”

“That’s just it,” her father said, trying to keep his voice down. “She’s not at the hospital anymore. They’ve sent her home.”

“What do you mean, Papa? If she’s sick, why did they send her home?”

“They can’t keep her anymore,” he said. “They’re not allowed to.”

Régine lowered her eyes. She understood too well. Her mother was not allowed to be in hospital because she was Jewish.

“Can I come home?” she asked. “I want to see Mama.”

“Not yet,” her father said.

“When can I see her?”

“Soon,” he said.

Her father gave her a hug and turned to leave. “I’ll be back next Sunday.”

Once again, Madame André locked the door the moment he stepped outside.

On the fourth Sunday, her father did not come.

That morning Régine was up early and took her regular place by the window. Hours passed with no sign of her father on the empty road. In the early afternoon, at the usual time, her heart jumped when she finally spotted a lone figure in the distance coming this way. As the man approached, she saw that he was not her father.

Régine hurried from her chair to the front door as Madame André emerged from the kitchen. The old woman opened the door and jumped back in surprise when she saw that the man was not Monsieur Miller. It was Oncle Zigmund. Régine had not seen him in a long time.

“Who are you?” asked Madame André, her voice filled with suspicion.

“I am the little girl’s uncle,” he said. “I have brought the money.”

“Oh.” Madame André let out her breath. “Come in quickly,” she said, closing the door behind him.

Zigmund Miller reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to her. Once or twice he shot Régine a nervous glance, but avoided her eyes.

“Where is Papa?” asked Régine. Something was wrong.

Her Oncle Zigmund hesitated. “Papa could not come today,” he said finally.

“Why not?” Régine asked, feeling afraid all of a sudden. “Where is he?”

“He couldn’t come,” her uncle said, then changed the subject. “What about you? Is everything all right with you?”

“Why couldn’t he come?” said Régine.

Her uncle glanced at Madame André. “I can’t tell you right now,” he said.

“Will he come next week?” Régine asked.

Oncle Zigmund hesitated again. “Maybe.”

On the fifth Sunday, neither her father nor Oncle Zigmund came. This time it was Tante Ida who knocked on the door and hugged Régine, asked her how she was, paid Madame Andre, and left.

On the sixth Sunday, no one came at all.

O
N THE SEVENTH SUNDAY
, Régine was still keeping vigil at the window even though she had not seen her father in a month. Madame André told her she was wasting her time, but Régine did not listen.

In the afternoon, a man pushed open the gate and walked up to the door.

It was Monsieur Gaspar, the friend who had told her father about Madame André. Why had he come? Madame André let him in, and the two went into the kitchen. Régine followed. The three of them sat at the table.

Monsieur Gaspar looked at Régine and said, “Don’t you have something to do?”

Régine did not answer.

“It’s all right,” Madame André said. “She can stay.”

Monsieur Gaspar shifted in his seat and again addressed Régine. “I have something to discuss with Madame André,” he said.

Madame André turned to Régine. “Why don’t you go upstairs?”

Régine folded her arms and shook her head.

Monsieur Gaspar tried again. “Does she speak Flemish?”

Madame André shook her head.

Monsieur Gaspar began speaking in Flemish.

But Régine did know a little Flemish. She had studied it for one year at the
école primaire
where it was taught as a second
language. She knew how to read it quite well and was beginning to understand when people spoke it. This time she understood immediately.

Monsieur Gaspar spoke quickly, as if he wanted to get the news over with.
“Haar moeder en haar broer zijn niet meer.”

Régine froze in her chair. It couldn’t be true. She could not have heard it right. For a few seconds, all went silent at the kitchen table. Madame André looked at Régine nervously, then back at Monsieur Gaspar. That’s when Régine realized the words were true and the full meaning hit her. She let out a violent scream and ran out of the kitchen. She tripped as she ran up the stairs to her room, picked herself up and kept on running and screaming. When she got to her bedroom she slammed the door behind her and threw herself onto the bed. She buried her head in the pillow and her screams slowly turned to sobs.

During the next week she spent most of her time in her room. Madame André never came near her, except to call her for meals. She lay on the bed half asleep, half awake, sometimes going over the scene — seeing Monsieur Gaspar at the front door, following him into the kitchen, sitting at the table and hearing his words:
“Haar moeder en haar broer zijn niet meer.”
— “Her mother and her brother are no more.” No more what? No more alive? She tried to think of another meaning the words could have. But if they did not mean something terrible, why would he have said it in a language he didn’t think she understood?

At other times, she would go over the last time she had seen her brother. She saw herself walking with her parents and Léon toward la Gare du Midi. She saw again the crowds, the commotion, the German soldiers. She saw herself in the crowd, watching Léon hunch under the weight of his rucksack as the soldiers hustled him into the station.

Sometimes the scene was exactly as it happened. Sometimes it changed as she followed Léon into the crowd as far as the soldiers let her. When she came back to where she had left her parents, she found only her father, alone and crying.