ten
Nicole sat cross-legged on her bed, the journals Mme. Bernhardt had brought her that afternoon spread atop the bedspread. It was torture without a computer, because she really wanted to write. On her desk, along with her school-books, was an old-fashioned fountain pen and an inkwell. Well, it wasn’t like she had a choice. She figured out how to fill the strange pen with ink, opened the 1942 journal to a blank page, and sat down to write.
June 15, 1942
Frightening Thought du Jour: Sometimes when you’re dreaming, it feels real. But if you’re trapped in a dream—really trapped—how do you know if you’re really dreaming at all?
Welcome to My Nightmare:
a. My name is supposedly Nicole Bernhardt.
b. It is no longer now It’s 1942.
c. I was born and raised in Paris. My family is French on both sides for many generations. We live in the sixteenth district at 8, avenue de Camoëns.
d. I’m Jewish.
The Good, the Bad, the Ugly:
a. The Good: M is here. So is J, the boy I love who barely knows I exist. Only here he loves me and he kissed me. Let’s go to the videotape. Oh, yeah. HE KISSED ME.
b. The Bad: The Nazis are here. They hate Jews so much that they don’t even consider them people; also, they want to take over the entire world. Even in a dream, it’s very scary.
c. The Ugly: My so-called father looks like my principal, Urkin. He’s one of the few Jews still allowed to practice medicine and is a doctor at the Rothschild Hospital. He also has an office upstairs from our apartment, where he writes. And my so-called mother looks like my English teacher, Zooms.
Nicole took one last look in the mirror over her mahogany dresser. She’d brushed her hair with the silver-handled hair-brush and selected an outfit from the closet. She knew vintage stores that would pay a mint for all that retro chic. The gray sweater she found was cashmere, with delicate pearl buttons. She loved it. But all the skirts were calf-length, and the ugly shoes with white socks? Excruciating.
At breakfast that morning, a friend of her father‘s, Dr. Windisch—a brain specialist no longer permitted to practice medicine—had come by to examine her. Dr. Windisch had declared her to be fine in the physical sense, which Nicole was happy to hear. But he’d frowned when she’d told him that she was a twenty-first century American. And definitely not Jewish.
“It’s a curious case,” Dr. Windisch had mused. “The best thing is to send her back into her normal routine and wait for her memories to return. They inevitably do.”
Nicole gave her hair one last swipe with the brush, grabbed her books, and headed for the living room. “At least you look exactly like my daughter,” Ms. Zooms teased when she walked into the living room. No, not Ms. Zooms. Mme. Bernhardt. Maman. She’d promised Jacques.
They walked downstairs and out into the sunshine to wait for Jacques and Mimi. So what if she was still stuck in the dream? It was a glorious morning. The boy she loved was on his way over to meet her. How bad could things be, really?
“Now, Nicole, remember. I have written your name and address on a scrap of paper and put it in your left shoe,” Mme. Bernhardt said. “If you forget where you live—”
“I won‘t,” Nicole interrupted gently, touched by the obvious depth of concern for her welfare. “I remember yesterday and the day before just fine. It’s only before that...”
Mme. Bernhardt sighed. “Yes. Before that.”
“Nicolel”
David Berg, clad in truly geeky knickers, was coming toward her. He had the same handsome face she remembered, and the same serious look in his eyes.
“David Berg!” she said happily. “Or is your name different here like everyone else’s?”
“David Ginsburg,” he corrected, removing his cap. “You know that.”
“Hello, David,” Mme. Bernhardt said. “Are you well?”
David nodded respectfully. “I heard you hit your head, Nicole.”
Nicole shrugged. “So they tell me.”
“Are you all right now?”
“Sure,” Nicole said breezily.
David turned to Mme. Bernhardt. “May I talk to Nicole for a moment? Privately?”
“Of course. I will be just inside until you are finished.” She went into the front hall of the building.
David edged toward the stone staircase a few feet away and motioned for Nicole to follow. She did. He looked very nervous. “I have to talk to you, Nicole.”
“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”
He gave her a sharp look. “How can you even ask me that? I came to say good-bye.”
“But Mimi and Jacques are on their way over. You can walk to school with us.”
“I’m not going to school, Nicole.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“I have word that soon—I don’t know when, exactly—there is going to be a big roundup of foreign-born Jews.”
He looked so sad. “Don’t worry. None of this is real, David,” she assured him. “I’m dreaming it all up.”
“The whole world is in on it, then. And the whole world has gone insane.” The intensity with which he spoke raised the hairs on her arms. “My family is going into hiding.”
“Amazing. Like Anne Frank.”
“Who is Anne Frank?”
“She lived in Amsterdam during—it’s not important. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
He looked down at his worn shoes. “At first I told myself not to come tell you ... what I’m about to tell you, because I would look so stupid. But then I thought, What difference could it possibly make anymore?”
“To tell me what?”
He wouldn’t look at her. “Jacques always says that he has loved you since the third grade. And I ... share his feelings.”
She was touched. “You do?”
“I only want to say this to you, Nicole.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Wherever I go, whatever happens to me ... when I close my eyes, I will still see your face.” He reached up and ripped the yellow star from his vest, stuffed it into Nicole’s hand, and bolted down the stone staircase.