Tell No One Who You Are (11 page)

A
T THE VILLAGE TERMINAL
they caught the bus back to Brussels. Neither of them spoke during the entire ride. The man seemed anxious for it to end, and was constantly looking out the window and then at his watch. Régine was too afraid to speak. What would happen when they got to Madame Andrés?

She had visions of the man calling her Augusta in front of the old woman.

“But no, Monsieur,” Madame André would say. “Her name is Régine Miller. She is not my granddaughter. She is from Brussels.”

What would happen if the man discovered she was Jewish? Would he tell the Germans? Régine shuddered at the thought of what would happen next. She closed her eyes and saw the German soldiers running toward her, surrounding her, shouting at her, taking her away.

The bus pulled into the city terminal. Somehow the trip back had seemed much shorter than the ride out to the countryside. From the station, they took the trams to Boitsfort, got off and made their way to Madame Andrés house. Régine’s fear grew as they approached the familiar house. The drapes were drawn at the front window, the same window where she had spent so many hours waiting for her father to take her home.

The man pushed open the gate, walked to the front door and knocked loudly.

Régine heard the sound of footsteps beyond the door, and then the familiar voice of Madame André.

“Who’s there?”

“
Aide paysanne
!” the man called out.

“Who?”

“
Aide paysanne
!” he said. “I have Augusta with me!”

“Who?” said Madame André.

The man shook his head. “Is she deaf?”

“She’s very old,” Régine said nervously.

“Open the door!” he called out.

Don’t open the door, Régine said to herself. Please don’t open the door.

She did not know how it would help her, but she did not want the door to open. She did not want Madame André to speak to the man and risk giving away her secret. She would rather wait outside all day if she had to.

“Who’s there?” Madame André asked again.

“Aide paysanne,”
repeated the man. “Augusta is here.”

“You have the wrong house,” Madame André said.

The man threw up his hands.

“She’s very old,” Régine repeated.

The man tried again and the door opened.

Madame André stood staring at Régine.
“C’est toi? Qu’estce que tu fais ici?” —
It’s you? What are you doing here?

Régine watched with relief as the man turned and walked out the gate. As far as he was concerned, he had taken Augusta Dubois to her grandmother’s house. His job was done. He had no intention of spending the rest of the day arguing with a deaf old woman.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Régine said quietly to Madame André.

“Well, you’re not staying here! I’m going to call someone right away! You shouldn’t have come!”

Madame André grabbed Régine by the elbow and dragged her into the house. She shut the door and marched into the kitchen. Régine followed behind, rubbing her elbow.

Madame André opened a drawer, rummaged through it and pulled out a slip of paper. She picked up the phone and dialed. “I have a message for Nicole,” she said.

Régine sat down, relieved to hear that name again.

“Yes, right away,” Madame André said into the phone. “I want her out of my house.”

She put down the receiver and turned to Régine: “It’s done. They’re coming to get you. Go wait in the other room. I’ve got work to do.” Then, as an afterthought, she added: “What happened to your hair?”

“They cut it off,” Régine answered, embarrassed.

Madame André did not ask why. Perhaps she knew. Or she didn’t care.

Régine carried her bag out of the kitchen. She went into the study and sat in the chair in front of the window. She looked over at the house next door and saw that it was dark. Where was Madame Charles? Had she gone away somewhere? She wanted to ask Madame André but did not want to cause any more trouble. She sat quietly for hours it seemed and looked out at the empty road. Memories of all the hours she had waited at the window flooded back. When at last she saw a lone figure approaching from far away, she imagined a man in a gray overcoat and fedora coming to the gate. Now he was pushing it open …

She jumped awake at the sound of the knock on the door.

“Hold on,” Madame André said, emerging from the kitchen. “Go sit down. I’ll get it.”

But Régine did not sit down. She stood behind Madame
André as the old woman opened the door. She was too excited about seeing Nicole again. The door opened. It was not Nicole.

The visitor was a man Régine had never seen before.

“I’ve come for the girl,” he said.

The man spoke quickly as if he did not want to waste time. He did not say “Bonjour,” announce who he was or where he was from. Madame André did not speak either. She motioned to Régine to get her bag and go.

T
HEY WENT BACK
to the bus station in Brussels before the man finally spoke to her.

“You are going back to Liège,” he said. “Another family has been found for you. In Lagrange.”

On the bus, he told her a little more. “You will stay with Monsieur and Madame Wathieu. They live on a farm and have no children. They look forward to having an extra hand around the house.”

Régine wanted to ask about Nicole but thought better of it. She did not know who this man was, whether he was from
Aide paysanne
or the Jewish resistance.

Would this new family be any nicer than the last two? Why had Nicole not come to get her? Had something happened to her?

It was a bitterly cold night as they got off the bus in Lagrange. The man took a paper out of his pocket and studied the directions. As they walked toward the home of Monsieur and Madame Wathieu, Régine buried one hand in the pocket of her coat to keep it warm, while she carried her duffel bag with the other. She could see a few small lights in the darkness. All was silent except for the crunch of snow under their feet.

At last they arrived at what looked like a very large farmhouse and went up the path. Before the man had a chance to knock, the door swung open. A man, a woman and a small black dog stood there as if they had been waiting and watching.

Madame Wathieu greeted them with a smile. “Come in. It’s cold,” she said. “There’s a fire in the kitchen to help you warm up. Are you hungry? You must be tired.”

The man shook his head. “I must be going. I have to take the bus back tonight.”

“Are you sure?” asked Monsieur Wathieu. “We can offer you something to eat.”

“There’s no time,” said the man, adding: “This is Augusta, the little girl you will be looking after.”

Régine gave a nod and said, “Good evening, madame.”

Madame Wathieu smiled and bent down to look into Régine’s face. “Hello, Augusta. Welcome. We’re happy you’re here.”

Monsieur Wathieu held out his hand. “Hello, Augusta,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you, monsieur,” Régine answered.

“The bus ride wasn’t too long, I hope?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Cold out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“There’s a fire in the kitchen. Why don’t you take your coat off and go warm up?”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“But there’s just one thing you must stop doing. You must stop calling me monsieur. My name is Pierre.”

His wife laughed. “And I’m Sylvie. No more monsieur and madame. We’re going to be friends for the next three months. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Régine said shyly.