it good to have Swiss papers?” he asked quietly.
“You know how the Germans are letting some French people cross the line now?” Papa answered. “You can apply to them for a pass to cross the line, but I hear it is a big runaround to get one. But with Swiss papers, I don’t need a pass. I can cross anytime, since Switzerland is a neutral country, not fighting in the war.”
Gustave ran his finger over the edge of a puzzle piece. “But then why can’t Jean-Paul’s family and Marcel’s just get passes and leave the occupied zone?” he asked.
Papa leaned back, and the armchair creaked. “The Nazi officials give those passes to a few of the French people who apply for them,” he said. “But not to Jews. They won’t do any favors for Jews.”
Soon the house was filled with the delicious smell of roasting chicken. But everyone was quiet at dinner. Gustave chewed the rich, tender meat, watching his parents. Finally, Maman said, “You’re right that we need to eat, Berthold. But please be careful. And next time, I’ll write a letter to Geraldine, and you can mail it from the other side of the line. Even though that’s illegal too. But that way, there’s more of a chance she’ll get our letter, even if we can’t hear back from her.”
Papa smiled, rubbing her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The Germans want to stay on the good side of the Swiss government. The guards at the line won’t bother me. I’ll only go if we really need the food.”
So every now and then, Papa bounded into the house with something special—a full dozen eggs, a bunch of carrots, or a wheel of cheese. One night, Maman slit open the seam of a cloth bag, tucked in a letter to Aunt Geraldine, and sewed it neatly closed. Papa took the letter across to mail it. On the days when he came back from his bartering trips with something particularly good, he acted the way he used to in Paris when he had had an especially good day at the store: he kissed Maman and whistled around the house, and sometimes he played with Gustave after dinner. One cool fall evening, Papa even pulled himself up the ladder in the garage to admire Gustave’s fort.
The road in front of the school was full of exuberant children on the last Thursday in October, the day before La Toussaint. As Gustave made his way around a group of girls with their arms linked, who were singing at the top of their lungs, Claude ran toward him.
“Think fast!” He threw a pinecone at Gustave’s head.
“Hey!” Gustave picked it up and threw it back.
Nicole and a girl named Celeste, who was always playing hopscotch at recess, broke away from the group of singing girls and joined him and Claude. The four of them started toward home.
“No homework for a week!” Celeste said gleefully, tossing her blond head and glancing at Gustave with vivid blue eyes.
“Do your families have food for the All Souls’ supper?” Claude asked the others. “Are you having bacon? We don’t have any left, so we’re just having pancakes, cider, and pears. But bacon is the best part!”
“We have some,” Celeste said. “My mother’s been saving it. But we have eight people coming, so there won’t be much for each. Do you have any? Or any rillettes ?” She looked straight at Gustave.
Gustave’s throat tightened with disgust at the thought. Bacon or rillettes ? Of course not. Both were made from pork, and Jews didn’t eat pork. La Toussaint was a Catholic holiday, and none of the kids from his neighborhood in Paris celebrated it. He didn’t even really know what Catholics did on La Toussaint, just that for everybody, it was the beginning of a week off from school. But he couldn’t say that. Nervously, he shoved his hands into his pockets, frantically trying to think of something to say.
“Wake up, Gustave!” Claude knocked on his head. “Anybody in there? Celeste asked if your family has bacon for the All Souls’ supper.”
“We don’t!” Nicole jumped in. “I’m just
“You know how the Germans are letting some French people cross the line now?” Papa answered. “You can apply to them for a pass to cross the line, but I hear it is a big runaround to get one. But with Swiss papers, I don’t need a pass. I can cross anytime, since Switzerland is a neutral country, not fighting in the war.”
Gustave ran his finger over the edge of a puzzle piece. “But then why can’t Jean-Paul’s family and Marcel’s just get passes and leave the occupied zone?” he asked.
Papa leaned back, and the armchair creaked. “The Nazi officials give those passes to a few of the French people who apply for them,” he said. “But not to Jews. They won’t do any favors for Jews.”
Soon the house was filled with the delicious smell of roasting chicken. But everyone was quiet at dinner. Gustave chewed the rich, tender meat, watching his parents. Finally, Maman said, “You’re right that we need to eat, Berthold. But please be careful. And next time, I’ll write a letter to Geraldine, and you can mail it from the other side of the line. Even though that’s illegal too. But that way, there’s more of a chance she’ll get our letter, even if we can’t hear back from her.”
Papa smiled, rubbing her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The Germans want to stay on the good side of the Swiss government. The guards at the line won’t bother me. I’ll only go if we really need the food.”
So every now and then, Papa bounded into the house with something special—a full dozen eggs, a bunch of carrots, or a wheel of cheese. One night, Maman slit open the seam of a cloth bag, tucked in a letter to Aunt Geraldine, and sewed it neatly closed. Papa took the letter across to mail it. On the days when he came back from his bartering trips with something particularly good, he acted the way he used to in Paris when he had had an especially good day at the store: he kissed Maman and whistled around the house, and sometimes he played with Gustave after dinner. One cool fall evening, Papa even pulled himself up the ladder in the garage to admire Gustave’s fort.
The road in front of the school was full of exuberant children on the last Thursday in October, the day before La Toussaint. As Gustave made his way around a group of girls with their arms linked, who were singing at the top of their lungs, Claude ran toward him.
“Think fast!” He threw a pinecone at Gustave’s head.
“Hey!” Gustave picked it up and threw it back.
Nicole and a girl named Celeste, who was always playing hopscotch at recess, broke away from the group of singing girls and joined him and Claude. The four of them started toward home.
“No homework for a week!” Celeste said gleefully, tossing her blond head and glancing at Gustave with vivid blue eyes.
“Do your families have food for the All Souls’ supper?” Claude asked the others. “Are you having bacon? We don’t have any left, so we’re just having pancakes, cider, and pears. But bacon is the best part!”
“We have some,” Celeste said. “My mother’s been saving it. But we have eight people coming, so there won’t be much for each. Do you have any? Or any rillettes ?” She looked straight at Gustave.
Gustave’s throat tightened with disgust at the thought. Bacon or rillettes ? Of course not. Both were made from pork, and Jews didn’t eat pork. La Toussaint was a Catholic holiday, and none of the kids from his neighborhood in Paris celebrated it. He didn’t even really know what Catholics did on La Toussaint, just that for everybody, it was the beginning of a week off from school. But he couldn’t say that. Nervously, he shoved his hands into his pockets, frantically trying to think of something to say.
“Wake up, Gustave!” Claude knocked on his head. “Anybody in there? Celeste asked if your family has bacon for the All Souls’ supper.”
“We don’t!” Nicole jumped in. “I’m just
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