Black Radishes by Susan Lynn Meyer

into it, then quickly swallowing water. Jean-Paul had sliced one as thick as his thumb. He held the radish piece in front of his mouth for a moment, grinning at Gustave and Marcel, before taking a huge bite. The other boys had watched, fascinated, as Jean-Paul’s face slowly flushed a deep scarlet.
    “Ah!” he screamed, running for the bathroom to spit it out.
    “Boys, please don’t waste food,” Maman had said pleasantly as Jean-Paul gulped down almost the whole pitcher of water to cool his tongue. She wouldn’t say that so calmly now, Gustave thought. The chunk of radish Jean-Paul had spat out that day last fall would have been enough to flavor his bread and Maman’s and Papa’s for several meals.
    “Some of the farmers must have hidden food away from the Germans,” Papa said, gripping the table so vigorously that Gustave’s spoon fell out of his soup. “And I have all that leftover stock from the store. It’s time to start making use of it. People need shoes and cloth as much now as ever, and there’s nothing in the stores.”
    “Oh, Berthold, be careful,” Maman whispered.
    Papa lowered his voice. “Wait and see. Tomorrow maybe I’ll be able to find a farmer who will trade a nice, plump chicken for a pair of good leather shoes.”
    Maman anxiously twisted her napkin between her fingers. “That’s the black market, Berthold,” she whispered again. “You know that the government has declared that sort of trading illegal.”
    “As a Jew, I can’t run my business now,” Papa said fiercely. “And I’m certainly not going to let good leather shoes rot while we starve.”
    Dinner the next night was much more filling. Papa came home with a whole sack of potatoes and three eggs that a farmer had given him in exchange for two pairs of children’s shoes. Maman made hot, crispy potato pancakes. A week later, Papa came home with something even better.
    “Look what I have today!” he said to Maman, kissing her on the cheek. “A whole kilo of butter and a bag of apples! I traded the farmer for a pair of slippers.”
    Maman made a rich, buttery apple tart that night, and for the next several weeks, the food was better. But after the first frost, Papa came home with less and less.
    Then one day, Gustave was sitting on the living room floor, working on a jigsaw puzzle picturing the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, when Papa bounded in, beaming.
    “Voilà!” he said. “Look what I have for us tonight!” He pulled a plucked chicken out of his sack.
    “Chicken!” Gustave’s stomach rumbled. They hadn’t eaten meat in months. “Where did you get it?” he asked joyfully, jumping up from the floor to get a better look. “I can’t believe it, Papa!”
    But Maman was frowning in the doorway. “Where did you get it, Berthold?” she asked, with an edge to her voice.
    Gustave glanced from one of his parents to the other. Why was Maman upset? He ducked back down to the floor and flipped over puzzle pieces, looking for a corner. He only needed to find the fourth corner piece to complete the frame.
    “It comes from just over the river,” Papa replied calmly. “The farmers on our side of the Cher mostly cultivate grapes for wine. But what we need is food. There’s more at the farms on the other side of the demarcation line.”
    “You crossed over the line into the occupied zone?” Maman’s voice was high and thin. “What if the Nazis had given you trouble?”
    “I’m not going to let the Germans stop me from crossing a French river,” said Papa evenly. “I used my Swiss identity papers. I tell you, the farmers and the men I meet at the cafés envy me for having Swiss papers and being able to cross the line.”
    Maman sighed. “I don’t like it. It isn’t safe.”
    “We have to eat, Lili,” said Papa, throwing himself into one of the armchairs. Maman sighed again and went into the kitchen.
    When she was out of the room, Gustave fit another piece into his puzzle and looked up at his father. “Why is