CHARLOTTE
I sighed as I watched our maid, Clothilde, grating a large lump of Swedish turnip on the kitchen table.
“Don’t sigh like that, Charlotte.” Maman bent down, looking under the kitchen sink and pulling out a bundle covered in newspaper. “We’ve got pigeon tonight. Pierre killed two this afternoon and I swapped one for that last bit of sugar.” She paused, staring at me. “Pigeon is just what you need. Look at you. You’re even paler than usual.”
I took the newspaper bundle from her and peeped inside. Sure enough, a pigeon lay dead, complete with head and feet. I folded the paper back up, putting the package on the kitchen table, in front of Clothilde. The sight had made me feel sick. I must have sighed again.
“What’s the matter, Charlotte?” Maman frowned at me.
“Nothing.”
“Yes there is. You’ve been very distracted all week.”
“It’s this war. I’ve had enough of it.”
“Don’t you think we all have? But you know it can’t go on forever.”
“But what about all the people who’ve disappeared? Will they come back? The Jews they’ve rounded up?”
Clothilde looked up from her grating, giving me a hard stare. Maman’s frown grew deeper. “I hope so.”
“Hope so? That doesn’t sound like you think they will.”
“There’s not much we can do about it, Charlotte.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s out of our hands. It’s best not to dwell on it.”
“But it’s hard not to dwell on it!”
“When you’re older, Charlotte, you’ll understand that there are some things you cannot change, so you’d better just get on with it and accept them.”
“But what if they’re wrong?”
“It doesn’t make any difference if you can’t change them.”
“Do you know then? Do you know what they’re doing with the Jews?”
“No, I don’t! Just be grateful you aren’t Jewish.”
“What about the Levi family we used to know? Don’t you want to know what’s happened to them? Will we ever see them again? You were friends with Madame Levi.”
“Yes, we were friends, and it makes me sad to know that they have gone, maybe far from here.”
“But where, Maman? Where have they gone?”
“Charlotte! Stop it, will you? I don’t know where they’ve gone!”
Clothilde continued to stare at me. I had the feeling she wanted to say something but didn’t think it was her place.
That evening, we ate our pigeon soup in silence; only the sound of chewing and swallowing filled the small room. My parents wiped their bowls clean with their fingers, there being no bread left. I looked down at my own bowl of gray broth, tiny bones floating to the surface, and pushed it away.
Papa rolled his eyes at me, slid my bowl over, lifted it to his mouth, and slurped.
Before I went to bed that evening, I looked up the word “collaboration” in my old school dictionary. It said: “to cooperate with an enemy invader, or to work together on a joint project.” That meant the French police were collaborating, but I knew that already. So where did it stop? As far as I could see, everyone was cooperating with the enemy—maybe not willingly, but doing so anyway: serving the Boches meat in the restaurants while going hungry themselves, giving them directions, stepping off the pavement to let them by.
Sometimes people were only too happy to collaborate, like the ones who nodded hello on their way to denounce you, though most denunciations were made by letter. Letters were much safer. Rumors often circulated about who had denounced whom, and what favors they had received in return.
One afternoon, I’d been with a friend when we saw a neighbor whom we vaguely knew shot in the back as he ran away from an identification control. Everyone buried their chins in their collars and hurried home. Wasn’t that collaboration? Pretending that nothing had happened?
Then there were the women—but I’d bet they weren’t giving away state secrets or even denouncing anyone. They were probably just trying to get extra rations for their families; maybe some of them actually fell in love. I wouldn’t dare say it aloud to anyone, not even to my friends, but I thought some of the soldiers looked quite nice and normal. One had smiled at me once and my heart beat quickly as I’d hurried away. I wasn’t quite sure if it was fear, or the thrill of a handsome man smiling at me.
Anyway, we’d been ordered by our government to collaborate. They’d told us to cooperate with the Germans, so that together we could build a stronger, more unified Europe.
When the German soldiers had marched down the Champs-Élysées, Papa took me to watch. “It’s a historic moment,” he’d said, “and we need to see it with our own eyes.” Some people were waving flags, welcoming the tall soldiers dressed in their smart dark uniforms; others stood by silently, their lips pursed. Papa didn’t have a flag and his face was clouded over. “We’re going to have to be very careful,” he’d whispered in my ear.
I’d stared at the tanks, trucks, and men, wondering how I was supposed to feel, and what exactly I needed to be careful about. But that was four years ago now; I’d only been fourteen. A lot had happened since then.