Hiding Edith (11 page)

“Don’t you know who you are?” they yelled.

I know who I am
, she thought wildly.
Mutti, I haven’t forgotten. But I don’t know my new name!
The people in the crowd shouted and pressed closer, grabbing at her.

Edith sat bolt upright in bed, gasping. Then the shadows in her dormitory began to take on their familiar shapes, and she recognized the sound of her roommates’ breathing. The moon shining through the window cast a warm, comforting light. Edith lay back, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.

This is never going to work
, she thought.
I can’t become someone else. I can’t pretend all the time and never make a mistake
. So much was being asked of her and the others at such young ages. At eleven, she should have been thinking about parties and playing games, not hiding her identity in a fight for survival. Edith closed her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. She lay squeezing her pillow until the first rays of the morning sun drifted into the room.

As soon as her chores were done, Edith visited Gaston. “You’ve already had practice at this, Gaston,” she reminded him, as they sat together on the front stoop. “Remember when we went camping and you stayed with a family? You pretended to be their son. You called them Maman and Papa. You’re good at make-believe.”

Gaston seemed quieter and more withdrawn than ever. “Can I come with you when you leave?”

“Shatta and Bouli decide where we will go. You know that, Gaston. If it were up to me, we’d hide together until Mutti came for us. But …”

Gaston looked away. They sat silently until it was time for Edith to leave. She hugged her brother tightly, and promised to see
him the next day; but she worried that she might not be able to keep her promise. Already, several boys and girls had left to go into hiding. They left quietly, accompanied by counselors, usually in the night, so no one would notice. No one asked where they had gone. It was best not to know. Their unmade beds in the morning were the only evidence they had ever been there. Even Eric disappeared one night, with several other boys. Edith never had the chance to say goodbye. Each night she looked around the room, wondering who would still be there in the morning. And she wondered when her turn would come.

She didn’t have to wait long. One night, she suddenly felt someone shaking her shoulder gently.

“Edith, wake up.” She rolled over and looked into the eyes of her choir director. “It’s time to go,” whispered Henri. “Get dressed quickly and quietly.”

Next to her, Sarah was also getting out of bed. Edith had hardly dared to hope that she and Sarah might be going into hiding together. She quickly dressed and grabbed the small suitcase that was packed and lying under her bed. She and Sarah tiptoed out of their room.

Henri and two other girls were waiting for them. They all walked quietly down the stairs and out the door of the house. This time, Edith did not turn back. She didn’t want to see the house in this ghostly darkness. She only wanted to remember what it looked like in the daytime, with the sun glistening off the number 18 and
the windows full of laughing and chattering children. Briefly Edith wondered if Shatta was looking out after them. Edith had not said goodbye to Shatta, or to Bouli, or to any of the other children.

“No sentimental goodbyes,” Shatta had said at their last meeting. “You are all in my heart and we will meet here again, when this war is over.”

Perhaps it was for the best. How could she have said goodbye to Shatta and Bouli? How could she thank them for everything they had done for her? They were family. From now on, she would add them to the prayers that she whispered every night for Papa, Mutti, Therese, and Gaston.

When they arrived at the station, Henri spoke to the girls before boarding the train. “I need to give you information about where you are going.” Henri whispered, even though the platform was virtually deserted. “We will be traveling west about one hundred kilometers, to a small town in the Gironde district called Ste-Foy-la-Grande. There, we will go to a boarding school where you will be staying. The director is expecting us. She is the only one who knows who you really are, and knows you are Jewish. And she is the only one who can know.”

Henri paused, allowing this information to sink in. One by one, the girls nodded — they all understood. This new town would be different from Moissac in every possible way: no townspeople keeping their secret safe, no mayor warning them of danger.

Henri was interrupted by the arrival of the train. He and the girls boarded a third-class carriage, where they sat facing one another on the wooden benches. Edith glanced around at the passengers. An elderly man and his wife slept halfway down the carriage. The
moment the train had left the station, they had drifted off, their heads bouncing in rhythm with the wheels. A young woman several seats away had her nose buried in a book. She didn’t look up. Edith wondered if any of these people could tell that she was in disguise.

The conductor passed through the car. “Billets! Tickets,” he demanded. The old couple awoke; the young woman put down her book. Henri passed the tickets to the conductor, who glanced briefly at the group and moved on. The old couple settled back into sleep, and the young woman continued reading.

Henri motioned to the girls to move close and listen. “I need to finish telling you this,” he said, his eyes darting this way and that, to see if anyone was listening or looking at them. But no one took any notice.

“The girls at the boarding school will be told that a group of orphan children are coming to stay. Your parents have been killed; you have nowhere else to go, so the school has agreed to take you in.”

This was the last piece in Edith’s identity puzzle. Now her disguise was complete. She had a new name, a new place of birth, and her parents were dead.

“I know you have been practicing for weeks, but I must repeat this. From now on, you must call one another by your new names, even when you are alone. You must try to forget about who you were.”

Never!
Edith thought.

“Now try to rest,” said Henri. “We’ll have to change trains later, and we won’t arrive in Ste-Foy-la-Grande until early evening. I’ve brought us some bread and cheese.”

For the remainder of the journey no one spoke. Strangely, Edith did not feel frightened, just numb. Sarah, sitting quietly next to Edith, seemed equally dazed. Edith looked over at the other two girls. Both were older. One of them she did not know well. The other was Ida, the same girl who had first told Edith and Therese about Moissac. It was a relief to know that they would all be in this boarding school together. There was comfort in that. Suzanne, the oldest, had kept her first name, as Edith had. Ida had become Irene.
Suzanne, Irene, Edith, and Simone
. Edith whispered their names over and over, turning them into a rhyme.

Suzanne, Irene, Edith, and Simone,
Four Jewish girls who have no home …

The silly jingle danced around in Edith’s head until they arrived in Ste-Foy-la-Grande.

From a distance, the school was unimpressive, a square, two-storey brick building on a quiet street. It had a small front yard surrounded by a wrought-iron gate. The yard was filled with beautiful ash trees, their delicate green leaves glowing in the dusky light. The school was next to a cemetery, and Edith shuddered at the idea of gravestones for neighbors. The girls followed Henri up the stairs and into the director’s office.

“We are taking you in at great risk,” the director, Madame Picot, said, as she greeted the children. She was formal in manner, with neither the kind words of Shatta nor the warmth of Bouli. “You must never, I repeat, never, reveal your real names or your religion,” she continued. “Your lives will be in jeopardy if you do so, and so will ours. You are Catholic orphans who have come to board with us.”

Henri came forward. “We are most appreciative of everything that you are doing,” he said. “The children understand the risks you are taking, and they will be careful. Here are their baptism certificates, identity papers, and ration cards,” he added, placing the documents in the director’s hands.

“There isn’t much food,” the director replied. “But we’ll get what we can.” Madame Picot looked over the girls once more. “There are not many who will take Jewish children these days. So I expect you to be grateful for what you are given.”

Henri turned back to the Edith and the other girls. “I must go now. But one of us from the house will try to visit you once a month, if we can. Here.” He pulled four small, wrapped packets from his pocket. “Chocolate — from the cook, to say goodbye. Look after one another,” he said. And with that, he was gone.

Edith looked down at the chocolate, a treasure in these days of rationing. But she would have gladly given it up to be back in Moissac.

“All right, then,” Madame Picot said, after Henri had left. “Follow me. You will unpack and meet your roommates.”

The girls followed the director up the stairs. She paused at one large room and motioned Ida and Suzanne inside. Then she continued on to the room for Edith and Sarah.

How grimy the room was — so different from Moissac, where everything had been clean and fresh! Here the walls were stained; several shelves were broken, and the wooden floor was cracked and discolored. A stale odor hung in the air. There were at least twenty beds and, at one end of the room, a row of basins. There were tall, dirty windows along one long wall. Edith was relieved that the two empty beds were next to each other. The girls placed their suitcases on them and began to unpack. Edith glanced out the window and shuddered. The room overlooked the cemetery.

“If you’re not careful, the ghosts will float up and get you while you’re sleeping.”

Edith turned to face several girls who were staring at her and Sarah.

“What’s your name?” The tallest girl was speaking to her. All of the girls looked older and not particularly friendly. Henri had said that they were mostly farm girls who lived in the house during the week while attending school. On weekends, they returned to their homes in the country. “What’s your name?” the girl asked again, louder this time.

“Edith,” she replied, and then paused. “Edith Servant.” The name tasted strange in her mouth.

“Hello. I’m Simone Carpentier.”

Edith wondered where Sarah got such confidence.

The girls stared at Sarah and Edith a little longer, then shrugged and turned away, uninterested.

“Orphans,” the tall girl muttered.

Edith didn’t have very much to unpack, and it took only a few minutes to stack her things on the small shelf next to her bed. She sank onto her bed. This room looked as abandoned as Edith was feeling. Even with Sarah here, she felt completely alone. She didn’t have her parents or siblings to comfort her. She didn’t have the people from the house in Moissac to protect her. She no longer even thought about Sophie, or whispered to her when she needed something to hold on to. Edith realized that she had only herself to rely on — herself and whatever memories she could summon.

She gazed out the window, careful not to look at either the cemetery or the hole in her grubby blanket. She was exhausted: tired from the journey and weary from being Edith Servant. And this was only the first day. How would she ever manage in the days and weeks to come?

The first stars were just beginning to peak out, glittering in the dim skies outside her room. A sliver of a moon appeared on the horizon. Edith gazed at the darkening sky. It was Friday night. If she were back in Moissac, Sabbath preparations would be well under way: white tablecloths and candlesticks, chicken soup, and songs performed by the choir.

Edith looked around the room. The girls who hadn’t left for the weekend were reading or chatting. Suddenly, she had an idea. She
motioned to Sarah, who looked puzzled but followed Edith out of the room and down the hall. Edith signaled for Sarah to wait outside the other dormitory. She emerged a moment later with Ida and Suzanne. The girls tiptoed down the stairs and out the back door into the large yard. They dashed to a small, secluded area away from the house. When they reached this farthest corner of the yard, Edith stopped and faced the others.