Samuel is late for school. He comes running in, panting apologies to Mademoiselle Rochard who, after a pause, waves her hand and tells him to sit down. Normally Mademoiselle Rochard is very strict about being on time: ‘Time waits for no man,’ she often says. No one really knows what it means but no one wants to find out. She says nothing to Samuel and he just takes his place at the front and pours ink into the well as Mademoiselle Rochard continues to speak. She has a big bump now, and when she talks she often rests her hands on it.
There are whispers and everyone is looking at Samuel. All I can see is the back of Samuel’s head: no mystery there – his brown hair is uncombed, his jacket a little tight across his shoulders. Aside from a few marks on it – Maman would be appalled if I allowed my jacket to become that dirty – I don’t see anything special at all.
We are going over some Geography and we have a test on the capitals of the world at the end of the week. I am quite confident about it as I know a lot of capitals, like Moscow for Russia and London for England. Mademoiselle Rochard is pointing to the map on the wall, her back to the class for long periods as she points to the various capitals we have been learning about. It is clear that only a few of us are still with her as she pauses over Rio de Janeiro, sighs and looks around.
‘Concentrate, please.’
Usually this is enough to have everyone poker-straight in their chairs, eyes following her every move. But not today. Aside from myself and Hugues Martin, a goody-goody who spends most of the time waving his arm in the air, everyone is still staring at Samuel.
He is glowing; his ears are bright red. He is squirming in his seat; he looks like Grand-père looked when he got the illness that Maman said made it uncomfortable for him to sit still. Then I see it. When his arm goes to dip his fountain pen into the well, a flash of yellow. A symbol, a sort of star, is stitched onto his clothes. It isn’t part of the school uniform and it seems an odd thing to do, to sew it onto your arm, when no one else has one.
Mademoiselle Rochard has her back to the class again and is writing on the board. What will she do when she notices?
No wonder everyone is whispering. She can’t have seen it when he arrived, although it seems so obvious now that I look at it. As it isn’t school uniform he is bound to be in trouble. You can’t just sew things onto your uniform without any kind of punishment. He’ll probably be sent to Monsieur Garande. I almost feel sorry for him.
Mademoiselle Rochard carries on the lesson but I can’t help sneaking a look over at Samuel any chance I get. I want to see the moment Mademoiselle Rochard notices.
Samuel shifts in his chair at one point and is looking out of the window of the classroom. He looks a little like the white mice I’ve seen at my friend Paul’s house in Paris – all pale face and red eyes. André gives him a smile, and a gesture with his head to the front and Mademoiselle Rochard.
Samuel seems to come out of his daze, turns back to the front.
‘Excellent answer, Samuel,’ comes the clear, sweet voice of Mademoiselle Rochard moments later. My head whips over to him once more and, sure enough, there is Mademoiselle Rochard leaning over his work, right above the symbol.
I scowl, no longer sorry for him at all. I hope Monsieur Garande is in a bad mood. Perhaps Mademoiselle Rochard is going to take it up with him at the end of lesson. Staring at the hands of the clock, it seems to take for ever – I swear, sometimes the hands go slower when I look at them. I get my South American capitals confused, earn a sigh from Mademoiselle Rochard, and add it to the list of reasons I don’t like Samuel.
The lesson ends without a word. Mademoiselle Rochard simply leaves the classroom. No one has time to say or do anything as Monsieur Pincet sweeps straight in and sets up for his lesson. He has a big box of something with him so there is silence as he sets it down on the table, everyone trying to get the first glimpse of whatever is inside. We can make out some peculiar noises coming from it, and everything else goes right out of my mind.
We have the most brilliantly disgusting Biology lesson, pinning a frog out, all open, to look at his insides. It all looks like glistening pink worms. Monsieur Pincet shows us how to pull bits out and examine them to learn more about the frog’s entrails and how they eat things. Their organs are so small, Monsieur Pincet says, that my heart is at least ten times bigger, and I have some organs in me that a frog doesn’t have at all.
In break there is no avoiding the talk about ‘the star’ and lots of the pupils whisper about it. Samuel has taken himself off to the corner of the playground alone. Even André isn’t there, kicking a football with him. Apparently, there are two other pupils with the same symbol stitched to their clothes. One, a boy from somewhere near the border of Germany, refused to wear his jacket to lessons, and one boy in the year below me thumped another boy for pointing at it in break.
‘Juden.’ I roll the word over in my mouth. I think I have heard the word before but I’m not sure what it means. If Samuel is a ‘Juden’ though, I imagine I won’t much like them anyway.
‘What’s a Juden?’ I ask.
Papa’s eyes widen and Maman calls for Eléonore to start clearing the plates. Eléonore takes her time leaving the room, slowly dragging one foot after another, looking back at us before finally exiting.
I repeat my question. ‘What’s a Juden?’
‘Tristan,’ Maman snaps.
‘What?’
Papa rests his hand over hers, smoothes his moustache as he thinks. ‘A Jew’ – Papa clears his throat, turns to look at me – ‘is a person of the Jewish faith. That is to say, they are not Christians but follow a different religion.’
‘What religion?’
‘The Jewish religion.’
‘How is that religion different from the Christian religion?’ I ask.
‘There are a lot of theological differences between the two but I suppose, in essence, they are still waiting for the Messiah.’
I look at Papa blankly, unsure what ‘theological’ means and struggling to remember exactly who the Messiah is. I think he is a bit like the Lamb of God but I might be muddling things.
‘That is to say that they don’t believe Jesus Christ was God’s only son sent to take our sins away.’
‘I see,’ I say. I don’t. ‘So, why do they wear badges?’
‘So we know who they are,’ he replies.
‘Oh.’
I sit in silence, not sure what to ask next.
‘Why do you ask?’ Papa asks.
‘There is a Juden boy at school.’
My father speaks in a low voice, ‘I know.’
‘David …’ Maman fiddles with her napkin and closes her mouth again.
I’m still not absolutely clear on what a Juden or a Jew is, but think if Samuel is one then that makes him different from us as I know we believe that Jesus Christ was God’s son because we always have to pray to him.
Maman has been looking at Papa a lot during our talk and now Papa is staring at me.
‘We know about these things Tristan, and you are not to be frightened,’ he says.
Mother turns her head sharply. ‘Darling!’
Papa waves a hand at her. ‘I don’t want him to worry. We should not have allowed it to go on this long. They must go. All of them. They are not welcome.’
I don’t understand and I don’t want to ask anything more and want to go and play now; it all seems complicated. Thanking Maman for dinner, I ask to get down from the table. She mumbles something that sounds like a yes and I hop down and out of the room, listening to their voices as I start up the stairs.
If it is all about religion, what is Samuel doing stitching stars onto his clothes? I know Grand-mère always wore a cross around her neck to show she was a Christian but I don’t really think that’s the same thing. Although maybe Samuel just wants everyone to know, although I don’t think the school will allow us to start wearing funny little symbols everywhere; it would look rather bizarre if we all turned up with little moons and planets and pictures of the sun on our arm.
Typical Samuel to show off like that.
At bedtime I’ve forgotten it all. Maman kisses me good night and reaches across to close the curtains. Before she draws them I look up. All over the sleeping village are hundreds of little stars in the sky squinting down, wishing me a restful sleep.