A Pocket Full of Seeds (8 page)

“What a spectacle France has been in the eyes of the world, as one clamorous, mewling republic after another has tottered and fallen. Our poor torn country has been yearning for a strong leader who would restore sanity and order. And now we have him. His name, as you all know, is M. le Maréchal Henri Pétain."

In front of me, Marie and Georgette were looking at each other. Marie’s eyebrows were raised just a little bit, and Georgette wrinkled up her nose as if something smelled bad. I supposed that their families felt the same way about Maréchal Pétain as mine.

“His wisdom and courage,” Mlle. Legrand said, “have helped us bear the humiliation of France’s defeat. He has helped us to understand that Germany is not our enemy, and Italy is not our enemy. Our enemy is the rottenness here in our own midst which must be ruthlessly cut out. We must cleanse ourselves of the political agitators, the godless troublemakers who have weakened France in the past, and will destroy her completely unless they are eliminated.

“We must all, you and I—but particularly you, for you are the future—pledge ourselves to forge a new France, a strong and glorious one. We must obey our leader, Maréchal Pétain, without question, and we must bear without complaint any little sacrifices he asks of us. We must also understand that if some measures our government takes seem harsh, they are necessary to cleanse our country of weakness, and to restore her to her former place of greatness and glory among the nations of the world.”

I stood in front of Lucie’s house that day after school and looked at the dust and specks of dirt that lay on the stairs. For three days Mme. Fiori had not swept. There was nobody in the house. I knew it, and yet as I climbed the stairs I felt as if I was being watched. I had never been so close to that door before, and I could feel my heart beating high up in my throat, and behind my ears.

I put my hand on the doorknob, and turned. But it was locked. Lucie was gone, and now there was no chance that her door would ever open for me.

It was me screaming that night, not Jacqueline. Me, who Maman was rocking in her arms, chanting, “Shh, shh,
ma poupée,
shh, shh, what is it?”

“Oh, Maman,” I wept, “she’s gone now and she’ll never be back.”

“Who,
chérie?
Who is gone?”

“Lucie Fiori. I’ll never see her again. Never, never, Maman. How can I bear it?”

“Shh, perhaps you will, Nicole. We must hope that the war will end soon.”

“Maman,  why  did  she  hate  me  so  much?   I  always liked her, and tried to be her friend. And now, there will never be a chance for us to be friends, will there, Maman?”

Maman kissed my forehead and held me tighter in her arms. “Of course there is a chance. There is always a chance. Once the war is over, no doubt the Fioris will return. And we will plan a big party for them.”

“But Lucie will not want to come.”

“Yes, yes, she will come. I myself will invite her, and you know, Nicole, I won’t let her say no to me.”

“That’s right, Maman, and once she comes here, and sits awhile with me on the
veranda,
and we talk and maybe play
Aux Dames
or
Belote,
she will see that I’m not so bad as she thinks.”

“Yes, I’m sure she will become your friend once she gets to know you.”

“Do you really think so, Maman ?”

“Yes, I really do, Nicole. And now do you think you can sleep again? Look how Jacqueline has slept through everything.”

“I think I can sleep now, Maman, but come and sit here for just a few minutes more, and talk to me about the party. What kind of food will we serve?”

That April we celebrated Passover. I had never been to a seder before, and neither had Françoise. It was to be at her house because there would be thirty-two guests, but my father would conduct the seder.

There were two tables in the dining room with thirty-two chairs, and still there was room to walk around. Each table had bowls of fresh flowers, tall silver candlesticks, gleaming wine glasses, and gold-rimmed china plates that all matched. Even the children had wine glasses and gold-rimmed china plates.

On each table was a platter containing the symbols of Passover—matzoh (unleavened bread), marror (bitter herbs), haroseth (a paste made of chopped apples, nuts, cinnamon, and wine), the shank bone of a lamb, a roasted egg, and parsley. Next to the platter was a dish of salted water.

Papa explained that Passover is a holiday which celebrates freedom. It is a very ancient holiday, going back to the time when the Jews were the slaves of the Egyptians. Moses was the leader who led the Jews out of Egypt to freedom. Each of the foods on the platter had a meaning, Papa said. The matzoh is the flat bread which the Jews ate after they fled in the night from Egypt. There had been no time for them to wait for their bread to rise. The bitter herbs symbolize the bitterness of slavery. Haroseth represents the mortar that the Jews used in making bricks for their Egyptian masters. The shank bone stands for God’s mighty arm, and the egg is an allusion to his love and kindness. The parsley symbolizes the rebirth of all things, including hope, and the salt water represents the Red Sea which our ancestors crossed over in their flight out of Egypt.

Each of the men wore yarmulkas on their heads. Dr. Rosten had a new white one, and he laughed and said he had never worn one in his entire life. He had never been inside a synagogue, he said, and of course had never been to a seder. He had read over the
Haggadah
my father had given him, and would do the best he could to follow along during the ceremony.

Papa’s yarmulka was an old one which he said had belonged to his grandfather. It was made of blue velvet with gold embroidery.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Dr. Rosten said to Papa. “I never knew I was a Jew until Hitler surfaced, and my wife’s family was even more remote. Her great-great-great
-
grandfather was an adviser to Napoleon, a colonel in his army, and one of the first to be killed in the Russian campaign. We have always been sure of being French but not at all sure of being Jewish. Now, suddenly, we are sure of being Jewish, and not at all sure of being French.”

“And I,” said Papa, “was trained as a Jew, and tried to forget it, but that too was impossible.”

Even though Mme. Rosten had a cook—a Jewish one now—most of the women guests were busy in the kitchen, helping to arrange the food in large bowls and platters. The smells of these and the roasting chickens were overpowering. I had not seen so much food in one place for a long, long time.

“Carrots,” one of the guests was saying to Mme. Rosten, “are so expensive, I don’t think I’ve eaten any for ages
...
and leeks!
...
where did you ever find leeks?”

Françoise and I helped carry the food out to the table, but it was difficult with all the younger children underfoot.

It was time to begin. The candles were lit, and my father recited the kiddush in Hebrew, blessing the wine. Then he at his table and Dr. Rosten at ours divided up the symbolic food so that each of us had a taste—the bitter with the sweet.

At first, everybody was quiet as my father began the long service which told the story of Passover. After a while, the younger children began squirming and then giggling, and even I found myself waiting for the talking to end and the eating to begin. I think my father skipped some portions because it wasn’t too long before all of us were singing the Had Gadyah.

“The one kid, the one kid, that my father bought for two zuzim, the one kid

And the cat came and ate the kid that my father bought for two zuzim, the one kid

And the dog came, and bit the cat that ate the kid that my father bought for two zuzim, the one kid

And the stick came and beat the dog that bit the cat that ate the kid, etc.

And the fire came and burned the stick that beat the dog, etc.

And the water came and put out the fire that burned the stick, etc.

And the ox came and drank up the water that put out the fire, etc. And the butcher came and butchered the ox that drank up the water, etc.

And the Angel of Death came and slaughtered the butcher who butchered the ox, etc.

And the Holy One, blessed be He, came and slaughtered the Angel of Death, who slaughtered the butcher, who butchered the ox, who drank up the water that put out the fire, that burned the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the kid, that my father bought for two zuzim, the one kid, the one kid.”

The food was so good, I didn’t start talking until the soup when I said to Françoise, “You know that song we sang, the Had Gadyah? My father said that the kid stood for the Jewish people, and all the animals and people and things that hurt the kid are the countries like Assyria and Babylonia and Persia who used to persecute the Jews in the ancient world. At the end, all of them are destroyed.”

Françoise blew on a spoonful of soup. She put it into her mouth and swallowed, then she turned toward me. “Yes,” she said, “but the kid is destroyed too, so what good is it?”

“No, no,” I said. “You are wrong. The kid is not destroyed. It can’t be, otherwise we wouldn’t all be sitting around here arguing about it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Françoise said. “Of course it’s destroyed. The cat eats the kid, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s the end of the kid, no?”

“No. Because maybe the cat swallows the kid whole, and somehow or other, when they’re all busy killing one another, the kid manages to come out of it alive. I think he is maybe a little bit weak at first, and probably he doesn’t stand up straight for a while, and I think he must wobble when he finally does walk. But he doesn’t die. He can’t die.”

Françoise reached out for another piece of matzoh.

“Françoise?” I said.

“What?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think,” said Françoise, “that you should eat your soup. It’s getting cold.”

September 1943

The Germans occupied Aix-les-Bains in June of 1943. Most people expected them because of the allied victories in North Africa, and the threat of an allied invasion through Italy. Most people said that, in spite of Maréchal Pétain’s assurances, the Germans would take over unoccupied France. My father said they would not come. He believed that when the invasion took place it would be through western France and not Italy. All through the winter, as one town after another was occupied by German troops, my father said they would never come to Aix-les-Bains.

One day they were suddenly, quietly there. We saw German nurses walking together along the Rue de Geneve. Like the summer tourists, they laughed and talked and acted as if they belonged here. There were no parades, no tanks, no banners as we had expected. We saw very few soldiers—a couple of officers sitting at the café, and politely moving their chairs to allow other people to pass, a few of the soldiers, in their gray-green uniforms with cameras in front of the Arc de Campanus.

“It’s unreal,” Maman said. “They wipe out towns, kill hostages, imprison, torture, burn
...
But here, they enter the town like tourists, and everybody acts as if it’s all very ordinary. For two days we all stay in, but now nobody seems to notice they’re even around.”

“We’re   not   important,”   Papa   said.   “Thank God! There’s just a small force stationed here. They don’t have the strength to do anything. They’re harmless.”

“Last week in Les Beauges,” Maman said, “they shot three members of the underground, and also the family that was hiding them. How can you say that they’re harmless?”

Maman talked all the time now about leaving France. She wanted to go to Annemasse and pay a runner to sneak us across the border into Switzerland. Papa said it was too dangerous. Maman said that staying in Aix-les-Bains and waiting for the Germans to come and get us was not only more dangerous, it was stupid as well. Papa said people got shot crossing the border illegally, and even if you did get over, and the Swiss Guards didn’t send you back, then they would put you in a prison camp where you’d probably starve to death or die of the cold before the war ended.

“It’s the only chance we have,” Maman said. “At least we will be safe in Switzerland, and not be treated differently from any other refugees just because we’re Jewish.”

Every day now, people we knew were leaving for Switzerland. Even M. Bonnet had gone weeks ago.

“Now he will never find his children,” I said to Maman.

“Yes he will,” said Maman. “He has a much better chance of finding them if he is alive to look for them, and he will remain alive in Switzerland.”

Papa said it didn’t make sense to go to Switzerland. He said the Germans were losing. It was only a matter of time. To leave France would be to give up everything. Perhaps it would be impossible to get back again. And then, we had so many good friends in the town. Even if the Germans were planning a roundup of the Jews, he was positive that we would hear about it beforehand and have plenty of time to go into hiding.

Maman talked about leaving all the time now. The business was dead, and my father had stopped going to the markets. Maman still sewed at home but there was hardly any money coming in, and even if there was, there was not much to buy—bad bread, synthetic coffee, hardly any meat or cheese, no eggs, no potatoes, very few fruits or vegetables. Everything was rationed—clothing as well as food.

My parents argued every day now. Their voices grew hard and angry. Even Jacqueline’s tears did not make them stop.

“Mme. Labarthe heard from her brother and his family, and now she will be leaving in a few days. They are in a detention camp, but people are kind to them. There is a school for the children, and the Red Cross and other organizations bring them extra food and clothing. There was no problem crossing the border. Mme. Labarthe says the guards usually look the other way.”

“And what will happen when they come back, if they come back?”