Hiding Edith (12 page)

“Shabbat shalom,” she blurted out. Her eyes sparkled like the stars twinkling above her head. “I wish you peace on this Sabbath.”

Sarah gasped, and Ida and Suzanne quickly looked around. Was anyone watching? Could anyone see them? Could anyone overhear what they said?

“Shabbat shalom,” Edith repeated. “If we speak quietly, no one will hear us out here.”

Sarah hesitated. “Shabbat shalom,” she finally whispered.

“Shabbat shalom,” said Ida, followed by Suzanne.

Edith grabbed hands with her friends and began to dance in a circle. They sang softly and skipped lightly, mindful of the dormitories close by and the possibility of being seen. They danced slowly at first, and then picked up speed until they were skipping and twirling with a joy they had not felt in a long time. They swung each other around and around, rejoicing in a Jewish dance of celebration. Edith knew that in the morning, she would have to pretend to be someone else; but for this moment, under the stars, in the peace of this Sabbath night, she danced, reclaiming her faith and her freedom.

Life was hard for Edith in the new house. It wasn’t that the Jewish girls were treated badly. No one was deliberately cruel. They were simply ignored. It was almost as if they didn’t exist. No one showed them either kindness or concern. No one looked after them. And in the absence of caring counselors, and without the nurturing of Shatta and Bouli, Edith found it impossible to look after herself.

Each day, she put on her only dress for school. She could bring so little with her from Moissac: one dress, one skirt, one pair of overalls, a few sets of underwear and socks. Edith and Sarah tried rinsing their clothing in the sink, but soap was scarce, and as the weeks passed, Edith’s clothes became filthy and ragged.

Even worse, she herself became dirty. In these grubby surroundings, there was no opportunity to bathe. Over time, as no one cared, Edith stopped caring herself. The only things to look forward to were the visits from Germaine.

Henri had promised that someone from Moissac would visit the girls and supply new ration cards each month. The first time
Germaine arrived, Edith nearly jumped into her arms. Germaine brought the girls a small piece of chocolate and an armload of compassion.

Edith (seated right) was sent to the school in Ste-Foy-la-Grande along with Ida (back left), Suzanne (back second from right), and Sarah (seated left).

“The first thing I’m going to do,” she said, “is take the four of you to the bathhouse.” The girls followed Germaine through the town, past the little row of restaurants, the bookstore, and the church. No one paid any attention, even though they must have looked like street urchins.

In the bathhouse, Germaine gave the girls small pieces of soap. The warm water was heaven on Edith’s young body. She threw back her head, opened her mouth, and let the water run over her, washing away a month’s dirt and grime, sorrow and loneliness. If only she could go back with Germaine — back to the warmth of Moissac. There, she had felt protected and cared for.

Edith longed to ask Germaine a million questions: Had she seen Gaston? Where had Eric gone? Was he safe? What about Shatta and Bouli? Yet she sensed that knowing the answers might jeopardize the safety of those she loved. So, Edith said nothing, but cherished the time with Germaine and was saddened each time they had to say goodbye.

Germaine’s visits helped, but one bath a month wasn’t enough to keep the dirt and bugs away. At first, when Edith and Sarah scratched at their scalps, they thought their unwashed hair was making them itchy. But they couldn’t ignore the evidence: they had lice.

The farm girls paid little attention to the bugs. They kept their hair cropped short or treated their scalps with kerosene to kill the pests. Edith and Sarah tried the kerosene treatment, too. It helped Edith, but not Sarah.

“The itching is driving me crazy,” she complained early one morning as she and Edith sat by the stove in their classroom on the ground floor. Their dormitory was bitterly cold now that November was upon them, and there was little heat elsewhere in the house.

“You have to stop scratching, Sarah,” said Edith. “Look what you’re doing to your head!” Sarah’s scalp was raw from the scratching. Ugly red welts stood out amid her once beautiful long hair.

“I can’t help it,” said Sarah, sitting on her hands. “It feels like they’re eating through my skull!” She scratched some more, pulled a tiny bug from under her fingernail, and examined it carefully.

“How can something so small be so disgusting?” she asked, flicking the bug onto the stove. For a moment, it lay there, then sputtered and danced up and down. Finally, it exploded right in front of Sarah and Edith. The girls looked at each other, amazed, then burst out laughing.

“That’s it!” cried Sarah. “We’ll blow them up! Goodbye, lice!”

She and Edith began pulling lice from Sarah’s hair, flicking all they could find onto the hot stove. One after another, the bugs sizzled and popped. It was both crazy and fun.

“Take that, you awful bug!” shouted Edith. “That’ll teach you to come near me!” Usually so wary and gentle, she felt wild and strong. And that was a very good feeling. She and Sarah exploded lice until they heard the teacher and students approaching. Then they jumped into their seats, lowered their heads, and tried to look inconspicuous. Their moment of fun was over.

But as amusing as that moment had been, it didn’t solve the problem of Sarah’s lice. She continued to scrape and claw at her scalp. She tried to stop. She tried to ignore the terrible itching. She tried wearing gloves, day and night, to keep her from clawing at her scalp; but the lice continued to nest, the scratching went on, and the welts grew more inflamed and painful. If the scrapes were not going to become infected, there was only one solution.

“No,” wailed Sarah. “I won’t cut my hair. Anything but that!” She grabbed the strands of her hair and pulled them into a tight bun at the back of her head, trying to hide her hair in her fist. Edith stood in front of her, holding the classroom scissors. She didn’t say anything; she just stood, firmly looking at her friend. Finally, Sarah gave in and sat down in front of Edith.

Wordlessly, Edith began to cut. Sarah winced each time the scissors sliced through her hair. But she didn’t cry and she didn’t complain. The hair kept falling, almost like tears themselves, cascading in a puddle around her feet.

In the days that followed, Sarah became quiet and withdrawn, as if her spirit had been cut off with her hair. Her eyes grew sadder and more hollow, and her stare more vacant.

“Sarah, please don’t be so sad,” begged Edith, trying to give back some of the hope her friend had always given her. “Your hair will grow back, you’ll see.” Sarah didn’t respond. Besides, Edith knew that it wasn’t just losing her beautiful hair that made Sarah so sad. It was losing everything in her life – her family, her freedom, her identity.

Edith tried to cheer Sarah by appearing lighthearted; but deep inside she was as sad as Sarah. Hiding like this was so much harder than hiding in Moissac or in the woods during Camp Volant. Here, Edith had to hide who she was. She knew there was no way to pull Sarah out of her despair and didn’t have the energy to keep trying. Besides, lice and dirt seemed minor problems compared with hiding your identity — and starving.

Edith was always hungry. Rationing had become so severe that some days all she had to eat was a bowl of porridge for breakfast and soup with one piece of potato for lunch. Dinner was a disgusting mush of creamed leeks, a creation so vile that Edith’s stomach lurched at the smell. She could see the bones on her chest. She could feel her ribs sticking out. It didn’t help that the farm girls made jokes about the bad food and rationing in the cities and competed in their descriptions of the fresh produce, meat, and cheese that awaited them at home on the weekends. Edith and Sarah could only listen and dream of food.

“When I go home, I’m going to have a huge bowl of stew, with mountains of mashed potatoes, and ice cream and fruit tarte and …”

Edith and Sarah were walking in the yard one Sunday morning. Here, out of earshot of the house, they could talk without fear of saying something that might give them away as Jews.

Sarah nodded and smiled faintly. “I just want to go home.”

“I know, but I can’t help talking about food.” Edith was trying to ignore Sarah’s gloom. “Maybe I’ll have a croissant — maybe ten — or a huge bag of sweets.”

The girls knew this yard well. It was here, in the far corner that they danced every Friday night, wishing Suzanne and Ida another peaceful Sabbath. But now their attention was drawn in the other direction, toward the kitchen. The cook was dumping something into a large bin. She scraped and shook her pot, then turned and walked into the building.

“Come on,” said Edith. “Let’s see what’s over there.” She maneuvered Sarah toward the garbage bin. The girls looked around carefully, making sure no one could see them, then peered inside. The smell was overwhelming — a combination of rotting vegetables and decaying meat. But amid the decomposing waste, Edith spotted something.

“Hey,” Edith said. “I think there’s some food in there.”

“Let’s just go.” Sarah peered fearfully about. “We’ll get into trouble.”

“It’ll just take a second.”

Edith plugged her nose, reached into the garbage, and pulled out a bunch of rotting carrots.

Then the two girls ran toward the outhouses in the yard. Safely inside, Edith examined her find, carefully cleaning away the muck and breaking off the bits of carrot that were too moldy to eat.

“It’s not farm food, but it’s better than nothing.” Edith grinned.

She handed half her prize to Sarah, who smiled gratefully. The girls sat down to eat.
The cook was sloppy to throw away food that can be eaten,
thought Edith. If the director had known, she would have been furious. But the cook’s carelessness proved Edith and Sarah’s salvation. Rotting carrots had never tasted so good. It wasn’t a feast, but it filled some of the empty corners of Edith’s stomach. The girls finished eating just as the church bells began ringing. They had lost all track of time.

They ran into the house just as the director was coming out of her office. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

“Just for a walk in the yard, madame,” Edith replied, breathing hard.

Madame Picot eyed the girls suspiciously. “Well, join the others,” she said finally. “It’s time for church.”

Edith and Sarah fell into line behind the director, and marched off toward the church.

When the girls were told that they would have to attend weekly church services, Edith was terrified. It was one thing to
tell
people she was Catholic, but how could she
act
Catholic. Others would expect her to know the rituals of the Church, and the Latin service. Surely someone would notice her ignorance, and her real identity would be revealed.

But she had no choice. She watched the girls around her and copied every movement — kneeling when they kneeled, folding her hands in front of her, bowing her head, and crossing herself in perfect rhythm. She learned the appropriate French responses, and muttered an inaudible chant when Latin was required. Before long, the charade became familiar and easy.

The grandeur of the church in Ste-Foy-la-Grande never ceased to amaze Edith. It was an enormous, gray stone building with two high steeples and a large cross above the door. The rich dark wood of the pews shone; and the sun filtered through the colorful stained-glass windows high above, casting bright, multicolored light the length of
the aisles. The statue of the Virgin Mary seemed to smile down at Edith, reaching out as if to offer the protection and caring that she longed for. There may have been a war raging, but here, in this place of worship, there was only peace and serenity.

Edith walked confidently to the rows of pews and bowed her head. She slid across the pew next to Sarah and knelt on the narrow kneeler in front of her. Then she made the sign of the cross, just as she had watched the others do. With the first two fingers of her right hand, she touched her forehead, the middle of her chest, then her left then right shoulder. Finally, she folded her hands and closed her eyes.

God, you don’t mind, that I’m pretending to be Catholic, do you?
Edith asked silently. She knew that God was God, no matter where you were or how you prayed. The God in the church was the same God that she knew, and she prayed under her breath.

“Keep Mutti and Papa safe. Watch over Gaston and Therese, and all the children of Moissac. Look after Shatta, Bouli, and Germaine and Henri. Sarah is so sad. Please protect her and help her smile again. And, God,” she whispered, “I’m trying to be brave, but I’m really scared to be here. Please help me, too.”

Edith opened her eyes and gazed at the statue of the Virgin Mary — at her gentle eyes and outstretched arms. She had a sudden urge to throw herself into those mothering arms. The priest was chanting and the congregation responded, reminding Edith of the synagogue services she had attended so many years ago in Vienna.
She had not understood the rabbi’s Hebrew words any more than the priest’s Latin, but then as now she enjoyed the simple chants.