"Oh, no!" Lisette said.
Maurice's goat had been single-mindedly trying to determine what a porch tasted like. It had nibbled on a chair pillow that was now bleeding fluff all over the chair and the floor. The blackout curtains had two corners chewed out of them, as though the goat had wanted to make sure that both sides tasted alike. An end table was lying on its side, a broken vase beneath it held headless stems. At the moment the stupid goat was working on eating a philodendron plant, formerly almost two meters tall and currently lying on its side, at least half its potting soil dumped out onto the floor and trampled in with the pillow stuffing.
"Oh, this is all my fault," Lisette said, thinking, Those stupid children. "Our neighbor just brought this goat over, and I was afraid it would run away while I was picking flowers, so I brought it in here." It sounded like a seven-year-old's reasoning to her, but she didn't think Madame Dumont thought very highly of her intelligence anyway. "It must have been hungrier than I realized."
The goat left the philodendron and tried to munch on the edge of Madame Dumont's jacket. "My dear," Madame Dumont said, pushing the goat away, "goats don't eat because they're hungry. They eat to annoy humans."
Just then there was a thud from inside the house.
What more could possibly happen? Lisette wondered, but a moment later she heard Aunt Josephine call out from the front door, "Lisette?"
"In the porch," Lisette said.
Aunt Josephine must have seen the bicycle outside, for she looked worried. But as soon as she saw Madame Dumont, she smiled. "Eugenie!"
"Josephine!"
The two women hugged.
"And Lisette," Aunt Josephine said, sounding concerned, Lisette thought, and trying to hide it. No doubt she was wondering about the children. Both her voice and her smile were strained. "And ... a goat. How ... interesting. Lisette?"
Cecile appeared in the doorway. "A goat!" she squealed. "Where did it come from?"
"Monsieur Maurice brought it for us to milk," Lisette explained.
"What does goat milk taste like?" Cecile asked.
Lisette, Aunt Josephine, and Madame Dumont all shrugged.
"Well, Lisette," Aunt Josephine said, talking slowly and enunciating carefully, "maybe you should put the goat in the barn until we decide what to do with him."
"Her," Lisette and Madame Dumont corrected. Madame Dumont winked at Lisette.
"In fact," Aunt Josephine said with strained brightness, "Cecile, sweetie, why don't you get that bucket that we normally use to bring home the ice and you and Lisette can try to milk the goat?"
She was trying to get rid of them. Cecile was too interested in the goat to notice, but Lisette was sure of it. Aunt Josephine wanted to talk to her friend alone. This was getting more and more interesting.
16.
Wednesday, September 4, 1940
At first Cecile was so eager to milk the goat that she could hardly stand still long enough for Lisette to show her the way Maurice had shown her.
"What's the goat's name?" Cecile asked.
"Umm, I can't remember. I told the others, but I've forgotten now."
Cecile looked at her as though she were the stupidest person she'd ever met, but at least she didn't accuse Lisette of lying.
To divert her attention, Lisette asked, "What's the stray cat's name?"
"Mimi," Cecile said. "I named her after your cat."
Lisette didn't even answer.
After about five minutes of milking, Cecile got tired, which was a good thing since Maurice had said the goat should be milked in the morning and in the evening.
"I'm going back in," Cecile announced. "This is boring."
"I think your mother wants to talk with her friend alone," Lisette said.
Cecile was heading for the barn door. "She wouldn't mind me being there."
"Cecile," Lisette said, "stay here."
"You're so bossy. No wonder your parents couldn't stand you and sent you away."
Lisette gritted her teeth. "Do you want to play out here for a while, Cecile?" She tried to think of some game that would involve tying and gagging Cecile.
Before she could come up with anything, Cecile said, "Let's play family."
"No," Lisette said. "We did that this morning before breakfast, and last night, and yesterday morning, and—"
"I'll be the mother."
"No, you're always the mother, and I'm always the—"
"And you'll be the father."
"I don't want to be the father," Lisette protested. It didn't do any good. It never did.
"And the goat can be the baby. I'll sit down, and you put the goat in my lap."
"The goat is not going to want to sit in your lap, and I don't want to be the father."
"Alphonse, dear," Cecile said to Lisette in her version of a sophisticated lady's voice, "kindly fetch our baby, Lulu. I don't know what has become of our servants. They '/answer the bell. We'll have to dismiss them all and hire new ones."
Lisette stood there tapping her foot while Cecile batted her eyelashes at her.
"Alphonse," Cecile commanded. "I'm waiting."
All right, Lisette thought. "I'm sorry, dear—" she started.
"Magdalene," Cecile told her.
"I'm sorry, Magdalene, but the army has drafted me. I'm off to fight in the war."
Cecile jumped up and stamped her foot. "Alphonse, you have not been drafted."
"I'm sorry," Lisette said, picking up the pail of milk, "but I must go. And if I'm lucky,"—this wasn't worth it: if Aunt Josephine wanted Cecile out of the house, let Aunt Josephine tell Cecile to get out—"if I'm very lucky, I may not come back."
"What a hateful thing to say!" Cecile was so angry, she looked ready to spit. "You beast! I'm telling Maman."
"What?" Cecile's reaction was beyond reason.
She pushed past Lisette and ran into the house, howling all the way.
With a sigh, Lisette followed.
Aunt Josephine and Madame Dumont were in the kitchen, Aunt Josephine looking as though she'd just hastily risen from her chair. Cecile had her face buried in her mother's skirt and she was wailing, "Maman, Maman, Lisette said Papa is never coming back from the war."
"I didn't—"
"Lisette!" Aunt Josephine was obviously shocked. "How could you say such a thing?"
"But I—"
"There, there, sweetie, Papa is safe, Papa will be coming back. Lisette, I can't believe you'd say such a cruel thing." But obviously she did believe it.
"I never said—"
"Hush, darling. Lisette didn't mean it. Lisette, tell her you didn't mean it."
It was, after all, the simplest way. "I didn't mean it," Lisette said.
"There, there, all over now," Aunt Josephine assured Cecile. "As a matter of fact, Madame Dumont has just brought us some good news about Papa."
"He's coming home, he's coming home," Cecile chanted.
"Well, yes and no," Aunt Josephine said. "He's not coming home, but Madame Dumont has some friends who know exactly where he is."
"Near here?" Cecile asked Madame Dumont.
Madame Dumont nodded.
"Papa's coming home! Papa's coming home!"
"Cecile," Aunt Josephine said sharply.
"What?" Cecile must have recognized by her mother's tone that whatever was coming next was not going to be entirely good news.
"I am going to visit Papa. You will have to stay here with Lisette—"
"Why can't I come?"
"I'm sorry, you cannot. Papa will be arriving at night and he will only be there for a very short while and—"
"Is he coming by parachute?" Cecile looked eagerly from her mother to Madame Dumont. "He is," she said; it was the same conclusion to which Lisette had come. "I want to see Papa jump out of a plane with a parachute. Has he come to blow up some bridges?"
"Cecile, it would be very dangerous for Papa if anybody found out."
"I can keep secrets," Cecile said.
"Madame Dumont and I
will be leaving after lunch," Aunt Josephine said. "I know it's a nasty shock to hear that Papa's going to be visiting so close to home and that you can't see him."
"Is Madame Dumont staying for lunch?" Cecile asked, having made—Lisette thought—a miraculous recovery from her nasty shock. "I can do a cartwheel, Madame Dumont. Would you like to see?"
Aunt Josephine said, "Madame Dumont is staying for lunch, so perhaps you can show her your cartwheels later. Lisette, would you please set out four places?"
So Madame Dumont was friend enough to be given lunch, but not to be entrusted with the knowledge of the presence of the children. Poor children, Lisette thought, stuck in the basement, not knowing what's going on, while we eat lunch.
Lisette kept watching Aunt Josephine, expecting some sort of signal regarding the children. But Aunt Josephine merely started cooking some pasta and breaking up a lettuce for salad.
Cecile ran to her room, then back downstairs to show off her ballet shoes, and chattered about lessons she'd been taking back in Nice, and how the teacher had said she was the most talented girl in the class. "Would you like to see me dance?" she asked Madame Dumont.
"Perhaps later," Madame Dumont told her, but Cecile put her shoes on anyway and did toe stands and grande jetés all around the table.
When lunch was just about ready and still Aunt Josephine had given no indication that she remembered the other children, Lisette said, "I think I need a bigger bucket for milking the goat. I'll look in the basement."
Downstairs, she tapped quietly at the secret door, realizing she risked giving Louis Jerome a heart attack. "Long live France," she whispered, "but just open the door a crack."
The door opened just wide enough for somebody—Louis Jerome, guessing by his height—to peek out.
"A friend of my aunt came to visit," Lisette said. "Do you think she saw any of you?"
Etienne poked his nose out—or rather, the nose of his gas mask, which was covering his face.
Louis Jerome said, "We were outside, still trying to think of a name for the goat, when we heard the sound of a bicycle coming up the driveway. We knew it was too early for Madame LePage and Cecile, so we ran in the house and looked out the living room window. When I saw it wasn't them, we came down here. I don't think she saw us. Why, did she say something about us?"
"No, you're fine," Lisette assured them. "She's staying for lunch, so you can't come up yet."
Emma wriggled in front of Louis Jerome. "We put the goat in the porch so she wouldn't get lost. Did you find her?"
"Yes, we did."
Anne came up under Louis Jerome's arm. "Softy," she said.
"What?"
"We named the goat Softy," Emma explained.
"She's not that soft," Lisette pointed out.
From behind the others she could hear Etienne complain, "You're the one who let Anne choose."
Anne grinned at her.
"All right," Lisette said, "Softy it is. Now everybody keep still and I'll come get you as soon as this woman leaves."
"What if she stays for supper, too?" Louis Jerome asked. "What if she stays for the night? What if she did see us?"
"She didn't see you," Lisette said again. "And she's only staying for lunch." Now was not the time to tell them that Madame Dumont was taking Aunt Josephine with her.
"But what if she does stay longer?"
"If she does stay, which she won't, I'll bring some food down for you. Now close the door again."
She could tell he was thinking, But what if you don't come back? but he didn't ask it. He closed the door and Lisette went back upstairs.
Madame Dumont smiled at her. "Couldn't find your bucket, my dear?"
She'd forgotten all about it. "Umm, no. I'll have to take a better look after lunch."
After lunch, however, Cecile talked Madame Dumont into going upstairs to see all Cecile's pretty clothes, and Lisette took the opportunity to ask Aunt Josephine, "Is she with the Resistance?" Now that the French army had surrendered, those who still fought the Germans were called Resistance fighters.
Aunt Josephine was washing the dishes while Lisette dried. She scrubbed at the pot before saying, "Yes."
"Then why couldn't the children have lunch with us?" It wasn't that she liked the children. They were an awful nuisance, but she thought how frightened and hungry they must be in the basement, so she said, "If she's against the Germans, too—"
"Things aren't that simple, Lisette. People can be against the Germans and still hate the Jews. Just as they can be pro-German while sympathizing with the Jews. Or maybe they don't care about the Jews one way or the other."
"I suppose," Lisette said.
"It's like General de Gaulle. Some people think he's a saint who'll rescue France; others think he's only interested in himself. History books will make it all easy, deciding for us depending on the outcome. Looking back always makes things less complicated: 'The Roman Empire fell because of these four factors...' 'Napoleon didn't have a chance after Waterloo.' 'Marshal Petain was the hero of the battle of Verdun but the villain in the capture of Paris.' The thing to remember is the Romans didn't know they were falling any more than Napoleon knew he was done for."
"Josephine, what nonsense are you filling that child's head with?" Madame Dumont stood in the doorway giving her throaty laugh. She had stopped smoking long enough to eat lunch, but she had another cigarette now. She took in a deep breath of it and said, "You aren't trying to talk her into being a supporter of that doddering old fool Petain, are you?"
"No." By her tone, Aunt Josephine not only didn't find the idea reasonable, she didn't find it funny. She shook the excess water from her hands then reached for the towel. "I'm only saying that at this very moment there is probably some perfectly nice German family saying to themselves, 'Everything would be wonderful now, we'd have enough food, and our Papa would be home if only it weren't for those horrid French.'"
"My dear," Madame Dumont said, "there aren't any perfectly nice German families. If they were nice, they wouldn't be Germans."
Aunt Josephine laughed. "Where's Cecile?"
"Trying on her entire wardrobe, one dress at a time. I don't believe she's noticed I'm gone yet."
"I'll be ready to leave in just a few minutes."
Aunt Josephine went upstairs, and Madame Dumont laughed again. "Your aunt never ceases to amaze me," she told Lisette. "You must get her to tell you how we met." She took another drag on her cigarette—she always inhaled deeply as though each puff was the last one she'd ever get—then added, "Not in front of your little cousin."
And who could resist that? "How did you meet?" Lisette asked.
Madame Dumont looked at her for several seconds before saying, "It was on the road from Tours, in June, right before the armistice was signed. The Germans were bombing the city, and when the people tried to flee, the planes flew very low and strafed them. Do you know 'strafe'—to shoot with a machine gun?"
Lisette nodded.
Madame Dumont took another deep breath of cigarette smoke. "Sometimes when they were close enough, you could see the pilot's blue eyes. I lived in Tours—notice I use past tense: there's not enough left for people to live there anymore; some continue to exist, but nobody lives there. Your aunt had been visiting ... your grandmother?"
"Cecile's grandmother—Uncle Raymond's mother."
"...who was sick. She died? Before the bombing?"
Again Lisette nodded. She expected Madame Dumont to offer condolences even though Lisette wasn't related to the woman—adults usually said such things—but she only took another deep drag.
"So she had an extra reason to want to get out of Tours before the Germans flattened it or cut us off: Cecile was still in Nice and Josephine was desperate to get to her. So there were all these people, a few in cars, some in horse-drawn carts, most walking. Some pushing grandparents or luggage in wheelbarrows. And Tours had been jammed with people to begin with, refugees in from the countryside. And the French army trying to get around us?
??some heading toward the fighting, some running the other way. And the Germans. Strafing." Madame Dumont pantomimed a gunner.
Lisette had known this before, but it was hard to imagine Aunt Josephine in the middle of it.
"As we got farther, people started dropping their luggage; grandparents wandered off and got left behind. People would kill to get a ride in a car, then the car would run out of gas, be left in the middle of the road. We'd walk around it. And there would be dead bodies. We'd walk around them. Your aunt ... her I met one time when the planes were farther off, bombing. There was an abandoned farmhouse, which was probably the stupidest place to hide, a nice big target. Several of us were there, standing in doorways, where the ceilings would be less likely to fall in on us. My dear, we could feel the ground shaking. Plaster dust fell on us like snow. A Gypsy wagon was in the front yard, lying on its side—the horses dead, a Gypsy man and woman dead. But there were two Gypsy children left alive, girls, too young to know what danger they were in. We'd all passed them on our way into the house, but Josephine went back to get them. Tucked one under each arm."
Lisette gasped, realizing Madame Dumont was talking about Emma and Anne.
"You think that was a brave thing to do?" Madame Dumont asked.
Lisette nodded.
"Perhaps," Madame Dumont said. "But what would have happened to your little cousin if her mother had been killed? Would the neighbors who'd taken her in for a week still be watching her—her in Nice, and the rest of your family in Paris and Tours? And nobody would have known. I didn't know Josephine's name at that point. She'd be four months dead now, and your family still wouldn't know—not for sure."
"What happened next?" Lisette asked, uncomfortable with the direction the talk was taking.
"Some old woman was screaming, 'We're going to die, we're going to die.'" Madame Dumont's cigarette was just about gone. She started to get another one, but then they could hear Aunt Josephine coming down the stairs, followed by Cecile, sniveling and complaining. Madame Dumont crushed out the old cigarette. "We didn't, of course," she finished. "Not all of us. Ready, Josephine?"