lips. The children clutched her coat. I shut the door on them, locked it. I locked them back into darkness.
My mother called: hurry up!
I clattered back across the yard. I felt I needed to make a lot of noise, for some reason. Upstairs in the kitchen I scrubbed the potatoes, working the bristles hard. The muddy skin paled. I gouged out rotten bits of potato while my thoughts jumped about. Madame Fauchon and her two younger children were trying to steal our food. Theyâd crept into our house and stolen the key to the shed. Then returned it. Why? Theyâd brought suitcases to fill with our potatoes. Why had they bleached their hair with peroxide? Robbers needed a disguise? Surely she had four children? Where were the older two? Presumably it was harder to go thieving with four children in tow. Where was her husband? I chopped the potatoes into greenish-white slices, slimy with starch. The cold water in the tin basin rose up my wrists and made them itch. I put the potatoes on to boil. The water leaped up and down. My mind sloshed with uncertainty. I couldnât tell my parents, summon the gendarmes. We didnât want police poking around our shed, finding our secret supplies. Iâd ask Maurice what to do. Heâd know. Until then, Madame Fauchon and her two little ones were my captives and deserved reasonable treatment.
I said to my mother: next time I go to the shed Iâm going to take a candle. Itâs so dark in there you canât see a thing, even in the middle of the day. She answered: donât waste good candles. Take an old stub if you must.
I made a large saucepan of potato soup, thinning it out with extra water. While my mother went next door into the living room to check on my brother, who was supposed to be getting on with his homework, I scanned the top shelf, on which my mother kept moulds and crocks she didnât use every day, and took down, from the back, a little tin flask. I ladled some soup into it, screwed the lid on, went downstairs and out to the shed. I didnât speak to Madame Fauchon. I couldnât say her name. I needed her to remain at a distance and not come too close. I didnât want her to talk to me, and so I pretended not to recognise her under her disguise. Her eyes spoke to me. Her eyes told me that Maurice had hidden her and her children in our shed. Her eyes wanted to tell me more. I turned my eyes away and concentrated on putting down the flask on a wooden box.
I did my best for those Jews: I gave them soup, a candle-end, matches. I shoved in a bucket, too, so that they could do the necessary. I went back into the house and got back upstairs without anyone realising where Iâd been. We didnât have a telephone. If we had had one I would have telephoned Maurice and said get rid of them, youâve got to get rid of them as fast as possible.
I worried that my mother might notice some disturbance in the orderliness of her kitchen. She knew exactly how many plates, cups, pots, dishes she owned. She had too few things to lose any of them. Sheâd spot the gap where the tin flask had stood.
I needed to keep her out of the kitchen. I went back next door, into the living room. She was sitting by the stove, ticking off entries in an account book. My brother, perched at the table where we ate, was shifting to and fro on the straw seat of his chair. His shorts hardly reached to mid-thigh. Heâd outgrown all his clothes, as I had. Dreamily he turned the pages of his stamp album.
He scratched the back of his bare leg. He said: perhaps if I make friends with a German soldier heâll give me some German stamps. My mother glanced across at him. Her brows constricted. She said: how can we lay the table for supper if you sit dawdling there? If you donât get on with your homework and learn that poem, you little brat, Iâll tell the Germans to come and take you away!
I spoke in a low, soothing voice: Maman, Iâll finish getting the
My mother called: hurry up!
I clattered back across the yard. I felt I needed to make a lot of noise, for some reason. Upstairs in the kitchen I scrubbed the potatoes, working the bristles hard. The muddy skin paled. I gouged out rotten bits of potato while my thoughts jumped about. Madame Fauchon and her two younger children were trying to steal our food. Theyâd crept into our house and stolen the key to the shed. Then returned it. Why? Theyâd brought suitcases to fill with our potatoes. Why had they bleached their hair with peroxide? Robbers needed a disguise? Surely she had four children? Where were the older two? Presumably it was harder to go thieving with four children in tow. Where was her husband? I chopped the potatoes into greenish-white slices, slimy with starch. The cold water in the tin basin rose up my wrists and made them itch. I put the potatoes on to boil. The water leaped up and down. My mind sloshed with uncertainty. I couldnât tell my parents, summon the gendarmes. We didnât want police poking around our shed, finding our secret supplies. Iâd ask Maurice what to do. Heâd know. Until then, Madame Fauchon and her two little ones were my captives and deserved reasonable treatment.
I said to my mother: next time I go to the shed Iâm going to take a candle. Itâs so dark in there you canât see a thing, even in the middle of the day. She answered: donât waste good candles. Take an old stub if you must.
I made a large saucepan of potato soup, thinning it out with extra water. While my mother went next door into the living room to check on my brother, who was supposed to be getting on with his homework, I scanned the top shelf, on which my mother kept moulds and crocks she didnât use every day, and took down, from the back, a little tin flask. I ladled some soup into it, screwed the lid on, went downstairs and out to the shed. I didnât speak to Madame Fauchon. I couldnât say her name. I needed her to remain at a distance and not come too close. I didnât want her to talk to me, and so I pretended not to recognise her under her disguise. Her eyes spoke to me. Her eyes told me that Maurice had hidden her and her children in our shed. Her eyes wanted to tell me more. I turned my eyes away and concentrated on putting down the flask on a wooden box.
I did my best for those Jews: I gave them soup, a candle-end, matches. I shoved in a bucket, too, so that they could do the necessary. I went back into the house and got back upstairs without anyone realising where Iâd been. We didnât have a telephone. If we had had one I would have telephoned Maurice and said get rid of them, youâve got to get rid of them as fast as possible.
I worried that my mother might notice some disturbance in the orderliness of her kitchen. She knew exactly how many plates, cups, pots, dishes she owned. She had too few things to lose any of them. Sheâd spot the gap where the tin flask had stood.
I needed to keep her out of the kitchen. I went back next door, into the living room. She was sitting by the stove, ticking off entries in an account book. My brother, perched at the table where we ate, was shifting to and fro on the straw seat of his chair. His shorts hardly reached to mid-thigh. Heâd outgrown all his clothes, as I had. Dreamily he turned the pages of his stamp album.
He scratched the back of his bare leg. He said: perhaps if I make friends with a German soldier heâll give me some German stamps. My mother glanced across at him. Her brows constricted. She said: how can we lay the table for supper if you sit dawdling there? If you donât get on with your homework and learn that poem, you little brat, Iâll tell the Germans to come and take you away!
I spoke in a low, soothing voice: Maman, Iâll finish getting the
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