9

A TALL, NARROW HOUSE

Monsieur Taubert lived in a tall, narrow house in a cobblestoned alleyway. It was a dark, old man’s house, with lumpy furniture and stacks of newspapers in the corners. Three other people lived there, Jews like ourselves. Redheaded Simone, her uncle Leo, and Bernard, a little boy. They looked us over coldly.

Monsieur Taubert said we were hungry. Simone brought a pot from the stove and set it down on the table. She put out three spoons, three bowls. The soup was good. There was bread, too. I asked for a second bowl of soup and got it. Then suddenly, I wanted to sleep more than anything in the world.

For the first time in weeks, I was inside, in a house, in a room, safe. And there was a bed against the wall. I lay down. I heard Maman say something. I heard Simone answer, “No, Uncle Leo and I are from—” And then I fell asleep.

Later I found out they were from Rouen. Simone and her uncle Leo were all that remained of their family. They had escaped a transport. The boy, Bernard, had lost his parents and sisters, and found Simone and attached himself to her. He was a funny little boy. He hardly said anything. When he did speak, his voice was high and squeaky.

Monsieur Taubert had taken them all in off the street.

“He’s a saint,” Simone said.

Maman agreed. “A genuine human being.”

I was suspicious and uneasy, but they were right. Just as Maman said, Monsieur Taubert was a good man. It was as simple as that.

Maman tried to keep us to our routine, but she wasn’t well. Almost from the day we began living in Monsieur’s house, she grew weak. It was as if she had held herself together until we were safe and then let go.

When she could, she taught us—including Bernard—our lessons. Sometimes Marc was there, sometimes not. He had begun to leave the house, to go off on his own. He wouldn’t say where. “Here and there” was the way he put it. “Only God knows” was the way Maman put it.

Marc said he looked for work around the market, carrying bundles or unloading wagons. Sometimes he brought back money or food. Once he brought us three oranges, which we divided among us all. We each had almost half an orange. They were marvelous. We couldn’t stop talking about them.

Marc’s voice was changing. Before he went out, he would say in his new deep voice, “Maman, be easy. I’m careful.” As if saying that would stop her from worrying. He knew better, but it wasn’t only his voice that was changing: He’d become a little bit selfish. He did what he wanted. He was often gone for hours.

“Let me go with him, Maman,” I said. I wanted to go out, too. When I thought of the weeks we’d traveled, I forgot about being hungry and scared and only remembered how free I’d been. “I’ll stay with him, Maman,” I said. “I’ll watch him and keep him safe.”

“No,” Maman said. “I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. You think you’re missing something, darling?” A coughing spasm shook her. It was the damp in the house, she said, that made her cough and feel tired all the time.

“You think it’s safe out there?” she said. “It’s not.”

She was right about that, too.

Monsieur had two radios. One was large, prominently placed in the living room. The other, a shortwave in a small mahogany box, was hidden in the cellar. At night, Monsieur brought it out and we listened to the BBC from London for news of the war. That was how we heard that Italy had surrendered.

At first, we rejoiced. Italy had been Germany’s main ally. We thought this meant the end of the war. But it meant instead that the Italian soldiers left Valence and the Germans moved in. Within days, they began conducting house-to-house searches for Jews.