A Pocket Full of Seeds (5 page)

“What foolishness!” Maman said. “What kind of story is that to be telling Nicole? There is no comparison at all. Believe me, she hates you because you are Jewish. Now go to bed, and don’t worry. I will take care of the whole matter.”

Maman arrived in school the following morning while we were studying mathematics. She was dressed very fashionably. She wore her black hat, her black coat with the beaver collar, a white scarf, black leather gloves, and black pumps. She did not open her coat all the time she was there.

My mother’s voice, it seemed to me, could be heard in every corner of the quiet classroom. The children listened to her complaint about Lucie. Their eyes traveled from Lucie to me and back to the two grownups at the front of the room.

It was hard to hear what Mlle. Legrand was saying. For the most part, she listened. My mother spoke faster and faster, and then finally she stopped and the room was quiet.

“Nicole, come up here, please. And you, Lucie, I want you here too. The rest of the class will continue on with the division problems. If I see anyone’s head up, she will write a homework paper for me on Disobedience.”

Maman looked so nice, I thought. You could see that her face had been made up with special care this morning —powder, rouge, lipstick, a little mascara, and around her, the fragrance of perfume. I felt proud of my mother.

In contrast, Mlle. Legrand wore just a thin line of lipstick that cut across the true shape of her lips. She was a tall, square woman, and had to bend slightly to hear my mother.

“Lucie,” said Mlle. Legrand, “Mme. Nieman has complained that you called Nicole a Dirty Jew yesterday. Is this true?”

Lucie did not reply.

“Is it true, Nicole?” Mademoiselle said, looking at me, but reaching out a hand for Lucie.

“Yes, Mademoiselle.”

“Is it true, Lucie?” Mlle. Legrand put a hand on Lucie’s arm, and moved her toward herself.

“Yes, Mademoiselle, it is true.”

“I see, and may I ask why you called her that?”

Lucie shrugged her shoulders.

“Answer me, please.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Do you, Nicole?”

“No, Mademoiselle.”

“Had you teased Lucie, or insulted her in any way?”

“No, Mademoiselle.”

“Had she, Lucie?”

“No, but she
...
”

“Yes?”

“No, Mademoiselle.”

“Then I think you had better apologize to Nicole, and to Mme. Nieman, and perhaps to the class too for disturbing their lesson.”

Lucie remained silent. I looked quickly at her face, and saw that she had her eyes down. Her face was very red, and she held her mouth shut tight.

I felt sorry for Lucie, and I didn’t care if she apologized or not. I just hoped that she would stop hating me. Still, I was happy that my mother had come to school, looking so slim and fashionable, and smelling so nice.

Lucie remained silent.

“Lucie,” Mlle. Legrand asked softly, “where were your parents born?”

“In Italy, Mademoiselle.”

“Yes,” said Mlle. Legrand, “and where were you born, Lucie?”

“In Italy, Mademoiselle, but I was an infant when we moved here.”

“That may be so,” said Mlle. Legrand, “but Nicole was born here.” She spoke very gently. “I remind you of this, Lucie, because I believe you have behaved in a manner that is not French. As I think I have tried to teach you, France is a country that takes great pride in a very ancient and superior civilization. It is a country that has been generous with immigrants, and willing to offer a new home to people from foreign lands as long as they behave themselves. Nicole was born here. She is French even though she is Jewish. Now I think you had better apologize.”

Lucie apologized. She was crying, but she apologized to me, to my mother, and to the class.

My mother did not look happy, but she thanked Mlle. Legrand, and they spoke a few minutes more about my work, and how I was improving. I could hear her accent, and knew she did not speak the same as most French people. My parents were born in Poland. Both had strong foreign accents, but I had never thought about it before.

Later, when I arrived home, Maman said she was happy that Lucie apologized, but she was not happy with the way Mlle. Legrand had handled the whole thing. What need was there, Maman said, to drag in the completely irrelevant matter about Lucie and her family being born in Italy? What difference did it make where they were born? Lucie had said something wrong and cruel, and needed to understand that she had, and to apologize. But nobody could help where he or she was born, and nobody ever had to apologize about that.

She spoke of it several times, but in the next few days another problem arose that took her mind off Lucie. It was Christmas. In previous years, our family had always been invited to one friend or another for Christmas dinner. This year, Maman had decided to prepare Christmas dinner, and she had invited nine guests—which meant thirteen people all together, counting our family. She could just fit ten around our dining room table, and three or four around the table on the
veranda,
which would have to be brought inside.

“We will just have to squeeze a little tighter,” Papa said, “and Nicole and Jacqueline must make sure not to eat too much or there won’t be any room at all.”

Maman did not have enough dishes that matched. She had seven dinner plates in the fancy china set, and eight in the ordinary set. It was enough, but the dishes would all be different, which was too bad.

I told Françoise about the dishes, and she said, “But we have lots of extra dishes. I’ll ask my mother.”

The following afternoon, Françoise said, “Mme. Nieman, my mother says she would be very pleased if you borrowed a set of dishes from her. She has a service for twenty-four that she hardly ever uses.”

“But where did you ever get the idea that I wanted to borrow dishes,” Maman said, looking at me angrily.

“Nicole said you needed dishes, and we really have more—”

“Well, Nicole is mistaken. Please thank your mother very much from me, but we will have quite enough dishes. And then, I suppose, she will need extra dishes for Christmas herself.”

“No, she won’t. Usually we spend Christmas with my Uncle Georges and his family in Paris, and we have a wonderful time. But this year, Uncle Georges is in the hospital, and all our other relatives are either busy or traveling or going somewhere else. We will be staying home, and having Christmas dinner all by ourselves. I wish
...
” Françoise never finished what she was going to say.

I looked hard at my mother, but my mother avoided my eyes.

“It’s not much fun,” Françoise continued, “to be alone at Christmas.”

My mother said quickly, “I’m sure we would be very happy, Françoise, if you and your family wanted to join us, but—”

“Oh, Mme. Nieman, how nice! How pleased Maman will be! I’m sure we can come. Nobody else invited us.”

Maman said, “I had better send a note home with you. But, of course, if your mother has made other plans, we will understand.”

Papa said that evening, “Where will you put everybody?”

“I don’t know,” said Maman. “And I don’t know what they are all going to eat off. It’s all because of Nicole. As I always tell you, she has a big mouth.”

The Rostens accepted, and Mme. Rosten insisted that Maman borrow the dishes. She even had her cook’s husband bring them over a few days before Christmas, Maman was nervous. Even though she now had enough dishes, and had borrowed a folding table and some chairs, she was nervous. It was all my fault, she kept on saying. People like the Rostens were used to the very finest of everything. They were rich. They were elegant. They were educated. How would they fit in? What could you talk to them about? Even Papa seemed nervous. Normally he drank very little wine and never smoked. But now he wondered if he should buy cigars for the men. Brandy? Special wines?

Maman was cooking a goose, stuffed with apples. The day before, she had baked apple tarts and a nut torte. The whole day the kitchen was filled with delicious smells. I was sent out on errands all through the day—to buy the cheese, the fruit, the bread.

All the tables and chairs were arranged in the dining room, and there was hardly any room to move about. Maman said she didn’t know how she would serve, and everybody would be jammed in so tightly they would be uncomfortable. She knew it would be a disaster. And the goose seemed tough, and the fruit in the tarts was runny, and it was all my fault.

The guests started to arrive. The Rostens came first. They brought wine and brandy and chocolates and presents for Jacqueline and me. The presents were to go under the tree, and not be opened until tomorrow.

“It’s a doll for Jacqueline, and a bracelet for you,” Françoise whispered.

At first everybody seemed to get in everybody else’s way. The Rostens kept saying how much they appreciated being invited, and my parents said it was a great pleasure for them. When the Henris and Latours arrived, the Rostens told each of them how kind it was of my parents to ask them, and my parents said it really was such a great pleasure. Nobody seemed to have much else to say except how cold it was, and did anyone think it would snow.

But after we sat down to eat, Jacqueline said there were so many legs under the table, she wasn’t sure which was hers. Then everybody began to laugh, and it was so much fun even if we all were squashed together. The food was delicious—the goose wasn’t tough and the tarts were very good even if the fruit was runny. Dr. Rosten told some stories about funny things that happened to him when he was in medical school. And the grownups kept laughing and laughing.

Papa offered cigars around, but Dr. Rosten said he never smoked. And then Maman started laughing and couldn’t stop. Nobody knew why except Papa and me.

Later, the children went out on the
veranda.
Maman gave us a little tray of chocolates, nuts, and hard candies, and we sat outside, and munched, and whispered about what kind of presents we thought we were getting the next day. But it was too cold to stay out for very long. The other children went back inside first. Françoise and I stayed out a while longer. She said her parents had been nervous about coming. They didn’t know what kind of people my parents were, but it seemed as if everybody was getting along very well. She said she was having a better time than she had ever had before on Christmas Eve, and she hoped the two of us could always spend it together.

I said I hoped so too. Then the two of us stood up to go inside. I could see through the windows of the
veranda
that all the lights were on in Lucie’s house. And I wondered if she ever looked out one of her windows, and thought about what was happening in my house.

July 1940

The war didn’t really start for me until January 1940, when my father enlisted in the army.

“Why?” Maman kept demanding. “Why you? Why a man, thirty-eight years old, who has never handled a gun, and who has a wife and two young children? Why?
...
Why should such a man, and with a nervous stomach, too ... why?”

Papa never answered all Maman’s whys. He just kept saying the war would be over in no time, and probably he would be home in a few months.

He looked like somebody else in his uniform. Our Papa, who usually wore a cap, an old gray and blue sweater, and baggy pants. Our Papa, transformed into such a glamorous figure in his khaki uniform with the double row of gleaming gold buttons down the front of his long greatcoat, and a soldier’s hat on his head.

We received letters from him at first and photographs, showing him with his companions. Papa was in the First Infantry Division, stationed a few miles outside of Sedan, near the Belgian border.

He wrote that he missed us all very much, and Maman was not to worry. He was warm and dry, and had plenty to eat. But it was too quiet, Papa said. It was boring. Everybody knew the Germans were afraid and were looking for a way out. Hitler could intimidate weak, little countries like Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Austria, but the combined strength of France and England must be giving him many a sleepless night. Since September, when Hitler invaded Poland, and England and France declared war on him, there hadn’t been a peep out of Germany. Everybody knew that Germany was finished.

To me, the war meant that Papa was away. Nothing else was different.

But in May, Germany attacked Belgium, Holland, and Luxembourg. In a few days, the German army had invaded France. The newspapers and the radio spoke of our victories, but Holland surrendered and so did Belgium and Luxembourg.

When the German army attacked along the River Meuse, at the town of Sedan where Papa was stationed, Maman stayed home and listened to the radio for the four days that the battle lasted. Still the commentators on the radio spoke of victory, but at the end Sedan fell, and the Germans had won.

There were no more letters from Papa after that. In June, German soldiers marched up the Champs d’Elysées in Paris, and a few weeks later the armistice was signed. France had been defeated. Two thirds of France—in the north and the west—would be occupied by German troops. What was left—and that included our town of Aix-les-Bains—would be unoccupied. But now we had a different government, and Maréchal Pétain was our new Chief of State.

There was no news about Papa. Each day, after the mail arrived, Maman smiled. She wanted a letter from Papa very much, but even more, she did not want a letter saying he had been killed, or had been taken as a prisoner of war.

It was nearly two months since we had heard from Papa. Maman wrote letters and went to see officials in the town. Nobody could tell her anything. All was in confusion. As French soldiers came through Aix-les-Bains back from the war, Maman tried to talk to them and find out if anybody had seen Papa or heard anything about his division. Nobody had seen Papa but one soldier said that the First Division had not fought—just ran.

But that had been nearly a month ago, and still Papa did not come. Sometimes, as the weeks went by, Maman did not seem to hear what people said. She was listening for other sounds. One night, I heard her get out of bed and open the outside door. She whispered, “David?” and I came running out of bed, thinking Papa had returned. But no one was there.