Anne Frank and Me

“I’m sleeping, Liz-Bette. Leave me alone.” Nicole was in a terrible mood. So what if the Allies had invaded France? They were nowhere near Paris. Her own situation hadn’t altered at all.

Liz-Bette raised herself up on one bony elbow, blinking rapidly. “How can I leave you alone, Nicole? There is no other place to go.”

“You are such a pest.” Nicole turned over. “Well? What is your burning question about Scarlett O‘Hara?”

Nicole instantly regretted having taken out her frustration on her little sister. Things were not easy for her, either. She brushed some hair from Liz-Bette’s cheek. “She danced better than me. Scarlett was the most wonderful dancer in all of the state of Georgia.”

“Scar-lett,” Liz-Bette said dreamily. “Such a beautiful name. After liberation I shall change my name to Scar-lett. I hate the name Liz-Bette. It sounds terribly childish.”

“All right, Scar-lett,” Nicole declared. “If you want to be known as Scar-lett, Scar-lett you will be.”

Liz-Bette grinned. “I will have beautiful ball gowns like Scar-lett had before the War Between the States.”

“A different one for every dance,” Nicole embellished. “Because a magnificent beauty like Scar-lett Bernhardt cannot possibly be seen in the same gown twice.”

“The first one will be blue, to match my eyes,” Liz-Bette decided, as she cuddled up next to Nicole. “Boys like you if you can dance, right?”

“I want to learn how to jitterbug, where the boy flips you and your skirt flies into the air.”

Nicole laughed. “Scarlett O‘Hara did not jitterbug. You want your skirt to fly into the air?”

“I will wear very beautiful silk lingerie underneath,” Liz-Bette explained. “Why wear beautiful lingerie if no one but you sees it?”

Nicole took in her sister’s tiny frame. The idea that the Boche would have any use for a girl with no strength to work was incomprehensible. “I promise,” she whispered. “Now sleep.”

There was soft knocking on the attic door—three fast raps, silence, then two more. Mme. Bernhardt awoke with a start. “It’s okay, Maman,” Nicole assured her, as she scrambled to her feet. “It’s Jacques, I’m sure.” She pulled the door open. Jacques entered. He and Nicole clung to each other.

“I brought food,” he said quietly. “I am sorry. It is only potatoes and apples.”

“It is food, thank you.” Mme. Bernhardt took the mesh bag from Jacques. “Liz-Bette, come over here, please, and give them some privacy.”

Liz-Bette sighed dramatically as she went to her mother. “I can still hear every word they say, you know.”

“Well, pretend you cannot,” Mme. Bernhardt said. “It is called discretion, and it is very French.”

Nicole and Jacques moved into Nicole’s nook and sat facing the wall. “I missed you so much,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Shhh.” She put her finger to his lips. “No talk of food. It only makes me hungry.” She replaced her finger with her lips, kissing him softly.

His mind was clearly elsewhere. “It’s just that it is so dangerous, Nicole. Do you want to hear some shocking news? Ten days ago some resistants exploded a railway bridge near Limoges.”

“Good?” Jacques was incredulous. “You will not say that when you hear what the Boche did in reprisal.”

“They picked out a small village nearby, completely unconnected to the Resistance, a place with hardly any Jews. They waited for the day the cigarette ration would be distributed, because hundreds of people would be coming from the countryside. They surrounded this village. They shot the men, put the women and children in the church and burned them alive. Then they burned down the entire town. Now there is no more Oradour-sur-Glane.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cold fury welled up in Nicole—at Claire’s death, at the Boche, at day after day of being afraid, filthy, and hungry, hidden away in an attic. And there was Jacques. Clean. And free. No. He could never understand.

“How dare you condemn the Resistance?” she hissed at him, wanting—needing—someone to blame. “They did not burn Oradour. They are risking their lives fighting Hitler.”

They stared at each other, hearts racing, across some nameless abyss that neither could cross, faces barely visible in the dim attic light. Nicole wished she could take her stupid, prideful words and stuff them back into her mouth.

Jacques exhaled slowly. “Be as obstinate as you want, Nicole. I will still come.” He took her hand. “Because I say yes to hiding people I love. But to attack well-armed Nazis with homemade bottle bombs? This is not resistance. This is insanity.”

“No.” She wrenched her hand from his. “You are wrong. People must rise up and fight until France is free—”

“Stop it!” He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Don’t you understand? France will be free, but you’ll all be dead!”

“Nicole, please,” he whispered, his voice tortured, “I would give my life for you.” His hand found hers again in the dim light. “I will find a way to get you more food. But please, please tell your father not to leave your hiding place. If he’s caught, they will think he’s a resistant. They won’t just deport him, Nicole. They’ll kill him.”

Hours later, Nicole snapped awake at the creak of the attic door. She fumbled for the matches, lighting one. Her father stood in the doorway. He looked exhausted.

“Good.” He sat heavily and removed his shoes. Nicole glanced at her mother and sister. They were snoring together on Maman’s blanket.

Nicole didn’t know what to say, so she rested her head on her father’s lap. “Do you think the Allies will reach Paris very soon, Papa?”.

“Can’t you just wait, then? We are all still together. If you would only stop now we will still be together and alive when the Americans come. And then—”

“How can you possibly understand?” Dr. Bernhardt struggled to find the right words. “Once I put my trust in other men, Nicole. To protect me, my family, our people. God, I was such a fool.”

“I was a fool,” he repeated. “And a coward. I did not want to believe that such terrible things could happen. Now I will never trust someone else to fight my fight again. Not France, not the Allies, not anyone.”

“Does it? This is an enemy who rounds us up instead of committing every man to the fight. That is how deeply they hate, Nicole. It does not stop just because the Allies are on French soil.”

“So you throw bottle bombs on a public street? What good does it do?” she cried in frustration. “Do something that matters. Go free the Jews in Drancyl”

“And where would we get the gasoline to get to Drancy? We have no fuel, no food, no money. We are invisible soldiers of the night, and we do what we can.”

“If they catch you, Papa, they’ll kill you.” Her eyes searched his. “I know it is a war. And I know how selfish I am. But I would rather we go to a work camp than die.”

Her father didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the window, peering through the sliver of cracked glass under the newspaper at the bottom. “It is amazing, isn’t it?” he said softly. “The same stars and the same moon just keep shining. Terrible things happen, things too awful to even believe. But the stars keep shining just the same.”

With infinite tenderness he enveloped Nicole in his arms. “Go to sleep, little one,” he said. “Dream about the stars.”