Anne Frank and Me (14 page)

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Authors: Cherie Bennett

BOOK: Anne Frank and Me
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Dr. Bernhardt took the pulse of an old woman who had broken her hip. She reminded Nicole of Bubbe Einhorn, with a long white braid. “Your pulse is strong and your hip is mending well, Madame Nadler,” her father pronounced. “I think you can begin to use a walker in the hallways.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Docteur Bernhardt. I do not know what I would do without this place. And you.”
Nicole's father pulled a chair up to Mme. Nadler's bedside. He asked after her family, as he had done all morning long with each elderly person he had examined. Most were immigrants who spoke poor French, but her father had listened patiently as they poured their hearts out to him. Nicole didn't see how he could bear it.
“They shot my grandson Mounie, Docteur Bernhardt.”
“I am so sorry.”
“He edited
The Yellow Star.
A so-called friend betrayed him.”
Nicole shuddered. She knew that
The Yellow Star
was an underground Yiddish newspaper. Her father spoke with Mme. Nadler a little longer, then kissed her on each cheek.
Nicole said a polite good-bye and followed her father into the hall. “Will Mme. Nadler be able to go home soon?”
“Considering what has happened to her grandson, I feel certain that her medical condition will not permit her to leave here.” Dr. Bernhardt looked at Nicole sharply. “Do you understand?”
“Do you mean she's safer here, Papa? Can't the Boche—”
A hearty voice called from down the hallway. “Good morning, Docteur Bernhardt!” Coming toward them was a young man so handsome that he took Nicole's breath away—tall and muscular, with electric blue eyes, glossy chestnut hair, and a cleft in his chin just like Clark Gable's. He wore a Gestapo uniform.
Nicole looked quickly at her father. His face betrayed nothing. “Good morning, Inspector Gruber,” Dr. Bernhardt said politely.
The young Nazi's eyes fell on Nicole. “And who is this lovely young lady?”
“My daughter,” her father said.
“But you must make us a proper introduction,” the young man insisted, in excellent French. “It is not every day that I come upon a sight so lovely in a home for old Jews.”
Dr. Bernhardt hesitated, then said, “Inspector Gruber, may I present my daughter, Mlle. Nicole Bernhardt.”
“Enchanted.” The Gestapo officer brought Nicole's hand to his lips. Only fear kept her from snatching it back and wiping it off on her sweater.
“I am the Gestapo liaison to this establishment,” Inspector Gruber explained pleasantly. “But we needn't be so formal. After all, I am not so much older than you, mademoiselle, I suspect. Your age is?”
“Fifteen.”
“Charming. What do you do for enjoyment, Mademoiselle Bernhardt?”
Her father took her arm. “If you will excuse us, Inspector Gruber, I still have patients to see.”
“Just another moment, if you please. Your lovely daughter has not had the opportunity to answer my question. Mademoiselle?”
“I ... see my friends.”
The inspector nodded earnestly. “Friends and family are the most important things. Especially during such trying times. Your father, the famous Dr. Bernhardt, also values his wonderful family and friends. So many people love and respect him so very much. I am sure you are very proud of him.”
“Yes.”
“His contributions to the UGIF are valuable. That is why he has been granted an Ausweis. It would be a terrible loss if he were to disappear. We should be forced to seek out his family and friends—perhaps also your friends—in an effort to locate him. That is how dearly he would be missed.”
Dr. Bernhardt took Nicole's arm again. “We really must be going, Inspector Gruber. I must finish my rounds.”
“Yes, of course.” The German bowed to Dr. Bernhardt and then to Nicole. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Bernhardt. I hope to see you again soon. By the way, it would be unfortunate should you decide to ignore what I said. You would find your way far more difficult. I bid you both a good day.”
As Nicole's father steered her away, the Gestapo officer called out once more. “Mademoiselle?”
Nicole stopped. Inspector Gruber walked over, took something from his jacket pocket, and pressed it into her hand. It was a bar of real chocolate, something she hadn't seen in a very long time. “For your little sister,” he told her. “I understand that she is quite a beauty.”
Her father led her down the hallway. When they rounded the corner, Nicole dropped the precious chocolate into a trash bin as if it had been poisoned.
nineteen
NOTES FROM GIRL X
21 November 1942
 
To the people of Paris,
When my father told me that I could no longer attend school, I felt helpless. Trapped. But then, I got an idea. I asked my friend M if she would help. She agreed, because she is courageous.
Dear reader, you hold in your hands
an
entry from the diary of Girl X, an ordinary adolescent girl in the City of Light. She is French. She believes in “liberty, equality, and fraternity.” She is Jewish. She despises the Boche and those French traitors who help them. During the day, she recopies journal entries onto sheets of paper like this
—
three, four, five copies
—
however many she can accomplish. Her friend M visits her after school, takes the copies of Girl X's journal, and secretly leaves them places for you to find. On a park bench. At the Trocadéro metro station. In the Tuileries. On a movie seat. Where did you find this, dear reader?
I am Girl X, now being taught at home by my mother. Regular subjects in the morning, Torah study in the afternoon. We light Shabbos candles on Friday night. Maman puts them out after only a few minutes so that we can conserve them. Then Papa makes a kiddush with whatever there is to drink, puts his hands on my head and then on my sister‘s, and blesses us. Yivarechecha Adonai viyismerecha. For that instant, the world feels perfectly safe to me again.
But it is not safe, dear reader. This we know. The Allies have invaded North Africa, and the Boche have occupied our entire country to guard the southern coast. When will the invasion of Europe come? When?
twenty
NOTES FROM GIRL X
3 December 1942
 
To the people of Paris,
Yesterday I awoke at five o‘clock because I knew that I would visit before school. J is the boy I love. He brought me news and in some ways I wish he had not. His older brother has fallen in love with an actress. She acts in plays that are approved by the Nazis. I said she claims to be above politics. I told him it is wrong for her to perform on stage when there are Boche swine in the audience. We had an argument and I feel terrible.
Every day my life is the same. Inside I am changing but I am allowed no new experiences, no way to express these changes. It makes me want to scream. I read books to lift me out of this dreary world and into another where I am not hungry all the time. There is still no food. Thank God for what I and M bring us. We eat beans almost every day.
The Nazis are attacking Russia near Stalingrad. My father says they should have paid more attention to French history, because Napoleon met his greatest defeat in Russia. In my opinion, even if the Germans freeze to death in Russia, the eastern front is still very far from France.
Dear reader, I implore you, do not remain indifferent to the terrible things that the Boche and their traitor friends are doing. Even elderly Jews from a UGIF home have been sent to Drancy. What are they going to do with old people? They cannot work! If you are free to read this, you are free to help. Why do you not all write letters to the Pope? Some of you are certainly happy writing letters to the Gestapo, denouncing Jews.
twenty-one
23 February 11743
 
 
Nicole stood on a chair and peered over her shoulder at Mimi, who drew a line with an eyebrow pencil up the back of Nicole's leg.
“It's not supposed to snake around like that,” Nicole protested.
“Well, hold still, and it won't.”
“Does it look like a stocking seam?”
Liz-Bette put down the book she was reading and came over to pass judgment. “No,” she pronounced. “It looks like someone drew a line up your leg.”
“Who are you, the new style editor of For Her magazine?” Nicole teased, as she stepped down from the chair.
“I would be a very good editor. And then I could have real stockings.” Liz-Bette climbed onto the chair.
“After the war,” Nicole sighed.
“After the war, after the war, everything is after the war,” Liz-Bette complained. “But the war just goes on and on. Do my legs, Mimi.” She posed one palm up, the other on her hip, like a runway model.
“A line on your leg will look just as ridiculous on you as on me,” Nicole pointed out.
“I don't care.” Liz-Bette lifted her three layers of skirts, worn to ward off the cold.
“Your wish is my command, mademoiselle.” Mimi dropped to a knee and began to draw up the back of Liz-Bette's right leg.
Liz-Bette struck another pose. “This is what American girls do, you know. I wish I were American. I could meet Clark Gable and he would fall madly in love with me.”
“His wife just died, Liz-Bette,” Mimi said.
“And you're eleven,” Nicole added.
Liz-Bette shrugged. “So? I'm a broad-minded woman.”
“Ugh, that's what Monique always says,” Mimi groaned, as she started to work on Liz-Bette's left leg. “Nicole, did Jacques tell you that she and André are now officially engaged? He's bringing her over tonight to celebrate—her director at the City Theatre gave her a ten-year-old bottle of calvados.”
A hard lump of resentment welled up in Nicole's throat. The party for André and Monique's engagement would be yet another event that she would have to miss because of the Jewish curfew. “It sounds like fun,” she admitted.
“It won't be,” Mimi assured her. “Monique is loathsome. I can assure you, you won't see her getting skinny, because she wines and dines with the enemy. And her best friend, Simone, is pregnant by one of the Boche.”
Nicole made a face of disgust. “Now, that is loathsome.”
“How can André be with her?” Liz-Bette asked.
Mimi rolled her eyes. “He claims to love her for her pure artistic spirit. Personally, I think it's because she looks like Hedy Lamarr.”
Liz-Bette sniffed. “That is very shallow.”
“But Jacques says André is a hero,” Nicole protested.
“My twin is supremely juvenile. I don't know whom he worships more, André or your father.”
Nicole used her handkerchief to rub out the line on the back of her leg. “It's more than that. Jacques said that last week André was ordered to pick up some Polish Jews. He went to their apartment and told them he was coming back for them in fifteen minutes, so that they'd have time to get away. And they did.”
“That's heroic,” Liz-Bette decreed.
Mimi shrugged. “Perhaps. But it would be more heroic if he quit the police and refused to work with the wretched Hun pigs altogether.”
“He'd just be sent to Germany to work for the wretched Hun pigs anyway,” Nicole pointed out.
Of all the edicts the Nazis had implemented in France, none were as hated by most French people as the STO, the Service du Travail Obligatoire. Under it, the Nazis were now drafting French young men to work on German soil in place of soldiers who were fighting the Allies.
Mimi recapped the eyebrow pencil. “Some things are worth fighting for, Nicole.”
Liz-Bette nervously twisted the end of one blond braid. “What if we got taken away on a big bus before André could warn us?”
Mimi and Nicole traded looks. “That will never happen to a magnificent French beauty like you, Liz-Bette,” Mimi finally said. “There. All done. You are the epitome of Parisian chic.”
Liz-Bette jumped down and paraded around the room like a runway model while Mimi and Nicole oohed and aahed dramatically. That made Liz-Bette giggle, which made Nicole and Mimi laugh, too. Mme. Bernhardt ran into the living room.
“What is that noise?” she demanded. Exclamation points of anxiety were etched between her eyes.
“Nothing, Maman,” Nicole assured her. “We were just laughing.”
“Nicole, call me the instant your father—”
The front door opened and Dr. Bernhardt wearily entered the flat. “Papa!” Liz-Bette ran to hug him.
He kissed the top of her head. “Hello, little one.” He hung up his hat but kept his coat on against the cold.
“Mimi, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave,” Mme. Bernhardt said. “We have family business to take care of.”
“But Mimi is practically a member of the family,” Liz-Bette protested. “In fact, why don't we exchange her for Nicole?”
“I am in no mood for your foolishness, young lady,” Mme. Bernhardt snapped. “Please forgive my rudeness, Mimi.”
“It's all right. I have to leave anyway.” Mimi put on her beret, embraced Nicole, and slipped out the front door.
As soon as she was gone, Mme. Bernhardt turned to her daughters. “Girls, sit down.” Her tone was so abrupt that Nicole was taken aback.
“Renée?” Dr. Bernhardt asked.
“Sit!”
Nicole and Liz-Bette took seats on the couch. Mme. Bernhardt locked eyes with her husband. “It is about your so-called upstairs office.”
He paled. “Let the children go to their rooms.”

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