Skating with the Statue of Liberty (16 page)

21

“
I
just don't know who to do this stupid history report on,” Gustave said as he carried the soup to the table.

“Does it have to be someone American?” Maman asked, ladling the soup into three bowls.

“No. Anyone in the world. Any historical figure you admire. A lot of kids are doing athletes and stuff.”

“That's a funny kind of historical figure! You should do someone more significant. How about Napoleon?” Papa took his bowl of lentil and potato soup from Maman. “You used to have a book about him, I remember.”

“Yeah, when we lived in Paris. Maybe I could do it on him. I'd have to find some new books.”

“Or what about Joan of Arc?” Maman asked. “You could teach those American kids about the important Frenchwoman their school is named after.”

“I don't know. They might think I was showing off about France or something.” Gustave blew on his soup
too hard to cool it, and some spilled out the other side of the bowl.

“Careful!” Maman said, mopping it up. “Well, I think you should do it on someone from France so you already know something about the topic, don't you? That will make reading the books in English easier.”

Papa broke off a piece of bread and handed the loaf to Maman. “What about the man who designed the Statue of Liberty? Do these American kids know she was a gift from France? What was his name, Lili?”

“Bartholdi. Or what about Gustave Eiffel, who designed the Eiffel Tower?”

“I just don't want to give a speech in English, with everybody listening and looking at me.” And wearing weird French pants, Gustave thought. So far he had been able to save sixty cents from his earnings and tips, but that was a long way from the two dollars the pants cost at Mr. Quong's. He stirred his soup vigorously.

“I know you can do a good job, Gustave,” Papa said. “Just memorize the speech ahead of time and then deliver it.”

“We're amazed when we hear you speaking English now,” Maman said. “And you understand the radio broadcasts so well. I was telling our night-school teacher, Mrs. Szabo, about it, and she says to be patient, because grown-ups learn so much more slowly.”

“Ah, to be young!” Papa said, ruffling his hair.

“Huh. That's what
you
think,” Gustave said. “If you were young,
you'd
have to do an oral report.”

Maman giggled as she cleared away the soup bowls.
“Ai-yai-yai, what a disaster that would be! Who's ready for some dessert?”

Gustave peered at the bowl of fruit salad Maman handed to him. These days Maman had a new trick: she'd buy cheap pieces of old fruit that they were going to throw out in the markets, and she'd use the good bits to make fruit salad. Too often he had spooned up mealy apple or orange pieces going sour. Today it looked all right. He took a bite.

“I need to talk to you about something else,” he said.

“That sounds serious!” said Papa.

“It is. One day when I came home, I saw that your
New American
book was open to the citizenship questions. Were you studying them? Are we going to stay in America forever?”

“We don't know,
chéri
,” Maman said slowly, setting her teacup down. “So much depends on what happens with the war. Lately we've been thinking that even if the Allies win, we might stay.”

“We've been talking with people at night school,” Papa said, taking a sip of tea. “There may be a better future for you here.”

“In any case, it takes five years to become a citizen,” Maman said. “Nothing is happening right now. But what do you think? Can you see us becoming Americans, all of us, together?”

“Maybe.” Gustave bit into a sour piece of fruit, grimaced, and pushed his bowl away. France was home. But France was also the place where he had seen that vicious graffiti: “Jews out of France.” It was where Philippe, a
cruel boy at school, had left a note on his desk saying “Hitler was right. Death to the Jews.” And where the police had raided their house, destroyed their things, and threatened his parents. Only some French people were like that, of course. Other people, like Nicole and her father, risked their lives to help Jews. And being French was who Gustave was.

Right now, he couldn't imagine living in France. But he also couldn't imagine never living there again.

“Of course, when you're grown up you can make up your own mind. You may want to go back one day,” Papa said.

He might. If the Allies won the war. If there was still a France.

The next Boy Scouts meeting was closer, at Father René's church on West 23rd Street, so Gustave only needed a nickel each way for fare. As he pulled open the heavy door of the Church of St. Vincent de Paul and walked into the velvety hush inside, he realized that he had never been inside a church before. He had to walk past a crucifix hanging on the wall to get to the stairs that went down to the basement, where the Boy Scouts met. The eerie, tormented figure on the cross made Gustave shudder. He was glad when he'd found his way to the big, plain room in the basement. He was a few minutes late, and all the other scouts were there, sitting at a long table, talking in French. Some of them were eating sandwiches and some were practicing knots. There were several boys he didn't
know, ones who hadn't been on the earlier scout hike. “Come join us, Serious Camel!” André called. “How's your figure-eight knot?”

Father René smiled a welcome. “It's just me again today. The rabbi's mother has been ill,” Father René explained to Gustave. “He's usually more involved.”

Father René was a whiz at knot tying. By the end of the meeting, Gustave could do a good half hitch, a half-knot, a square knot, and a figure-eight knot. The figure eight, with its intricate symmetry, was his favorite.

“Two weekends from now, your schools have Thursday and Friday off,” Father René said at the end of the scout meeting, “so we'll be going on our annual March camping trip. We'll assemble early Thursday morning and drive up to Osprey Lake.” The boys whooped in excitement. Father René turned to Gustave and Jean-Paul. “We go every year. There's a grand estate up there with an abandoned mansion on it. The man who owns it was a Boy Scout himself when he was young, and for years he has been letting scouts go and camp there—on the grounds in summer and inside the old building when it's cold.”

“It's fantastic!” Bernard said. “We make a fire in this huge old fireplace in this gigantic empty room. We cook over it and sleep next to the embers, because it's really cold up there in the mountains. Sometimes it snows and we get to play in it in the morning. I can't wait!”

“I have some spare sleeping bags for anyone who needs one,” said Father René. “But bring your warmest clothes, and everyone bring a warm blanket too. Do you each
have an old blanket to bring?” he asked Jean-Paul and Gustave.

“Sure,” said Jean-Paul. Gustave nodded. The one he slept under was definitely old.

“Good. So we'll see each other then.”

“I'll bring the potatoes again, Father René,” André said. “They are so good roasted when it's cold out.”

“Sure. Anyone who wants to can bring something for our feasts. Rabbi Blum and I will make sure there's enough food for us all.”

“Can you bring marshmallows again?” Maurice asked Guy.

“Definitely!”

“Ooh, yeah! Bring lots!” said Xavier.

“Just don't eat the whole bag yourself this year, Tenacious Sponge!” said André.

“Then you better try a little harder to keep up with me, Talkative Chipmunk!”

When Gustave got home after Scouts, Papa was alone in the apartment, sitting on the sofa drinking a cup of tea and reading a French newspaper. Classical music was playing on the radio. “Ah, Gustave,” he said. “Good to see you. There's a letter here for you, from France. With no return address.”

“From Nicole?” Gustave threw his coat toward the hook on the wall, not bothering to pick it up when it missed and fell to the floor. He ran to the table. It was
Nicole's handwriting! Trying to ignore the tape on the ends showing that the censors had already read it, Gustave slit open the light blue envelope. As he did so, he looked in distaste at the stamp. It was a new one, but it wasn't one he wanted to save for his stamp collection. It had a picture of Maréchal Pétain, the new leader of France, the one installed by the Nazis. Pétain was French, but he did everything the Nazis wanted him to do. Awful things like passing laws making life hard for the Jews. Gustave looked more closely at the stamp and grinned. Ever so lightly, someone had drawn a line across Pétain's face, crossing him out. Yes, this letter was definitely from Nicole. He drew the fragile paper out carefully.

10 February, 1942

Cher Gustave
,

I haven't heard from you since my last letter. Write to me! Tell me about your glamorous life in America! I'm sure pretty soon you'll see a movie star in a fur coat. Do people ride around everywhere in shiny cars? Do you have steak and chocolate cake at every meal? There's no important news for you, but I will try to make this a
colorful
letter anyway. We're short of food and fuel in our village, but everyone is getting by, just barely. My fingers are
blue
as I write this, because we have had no charcoal for the last week. We are burning wood to keep warm, but we don't have much left, so Papa is rationing it. We only use a tiny amount each day, which means I'll be lucky if my ink doesn't freeze. And I need the ink to stay thawed
because after I finish this letter, I have to do my homework for our oh-so-wonderful new teacher, Monsieur Faible
.

Speaking of Monsieur Faible, he talked to our class indignantly last week about something that happened in the cinema in
There had been rumors about a
No one knows where they were taken
.

Later, there was an unfortunate occurrence at the cinema in the city of
The German-made newsreels that play before films now, as you can imagine, are very informational in telling us about the fine contributions the Germans are making to France these days. This newsreel showed Hitler giving a speech. The audience was very eager to hear Hitler's inspirational words translated into French for their benefit. Unfortunately, however, it seemed many people in the theater had bad colds or maybe even bronchitis or pneumonia, because there was so much sneezing and coughing throughout the newsreel that it completely drowned out the words and it was impossible to understand what was being said. What a shame!

Monsieur Faible went
white
and then bright
red
as he was telling us about it
.

In other news, I have been riding my bicycle often, sometimes with Claude. You remember him, I'm sure. He's nice
.