We stood there for long moments, Louis at my feet, the cat looking up at me from under the table. I shrugged out of my snowy coat to let it drop on the floor.
Mémé didn’t even sigh. I looked into the hallway at the picture of my father. “I’m here,” I whispered.
1944
thirty-four
It was December again. The sixth Christmas I’d been here. Another long year was behind us. Early in the morning, I went out to the woods, clumping through the thick snow, and cut down a small tree.
Inside, I hung the carved figures on the tree, with the kitchen full of the scent of pine. Mémé watched, so frail now that she spent most of her days knitting on the bench next to the hearth.
I wasn’t the same girl who’d turned back from the train station so long ago. I had no time to lose things, to drop books on the counter, socks on the floor. I was up early, to bed late, or sometimes not to bed all night. Besides school and managing to make meals from almost nothing, I worked for Philippe.
I knew now why Rémy loved farming. To work in the field, the soil under my fingers, watching the seedlings that Mémé and I had nurtured grow, was a wonderful feeling. Still, our harvest had been sparse, without potato eyes to plant and only a few seeds for carrots and beans.
I’d learned to be careful of Mémé; I’d slide an extra spoonful of broth into her bowl; I thought she did the same for me.
But we had the radio too!
In June, we’d heard what I’d been waiting for, praying for! The Americans had landed in Normandy.
“Oh, Mémé,” I’d said, almost forgetting to whisper. And then I realized. “What will the Germans do to me? I’m American, after all.”
She’d put her hand over my mouth gently. “You have a French passport. You chose Alsace. It’s not a worry.”
I had to believe her. But it would take time before the Americans fought their way toward us, liberating towns as they went, freeing Paris, and then on to Alsace. A long time before I heard those beloved American voices!
Someday, I told myself as I entered Philippe’s shop on Christmas Eve.
“I have books for you today,” he said, speaking in German as soldiers lounged around his counter.
“I love to read,” I told him. “You know that.”
“That’s why there are two! Good German books.”
It would be another night without sleep! Two more people in hiding would spend at least one night in our attic space, before I led them to André in the woods!
“What about Rémy?” I always asked when we were alone, and Philippe would shrug. “He’s not in Switzerland. He’s in the heart of France working for the Maquis. The Resistance.”
Ah, Rémy, stay alive.
But there was one thing I did that year, one thing, maybe for Gérard, maybe for myself. I crouched in that freezing space upstairs, empty that night, running my hands over his initials, and carved my own initials, G.M., under his, as I talked to him. “I’ll never call you Gérard again; I’ll never think my father. You are mon père. You are Papa. I belong to you and you belong to me!”
SOMEDAY
thirty-five
That winter was the coldest I could remember, with fierce ice storms and drifting snow. We had no coal left. Mémé and I wore sweaters over sweaters, coats over coats. But the news was exciting. Everywhere people were whispering: The Americans are coming. They’ve reached Colmar. The Germans are putting up a fight, but they’re retreating, inch by inch.
And then Fürst was gone, this time forever! And even though our heads were covered with scarves, we heard the guns, the artillery fire.
And one terrible day, we spent in the cellar. But at last there was silence. My war was over. All of it! Mémé and I hugged. Philippe and I hugged. Over!
The animals seemed to sense our joy. Tiger spent time in my lap, and Louis, old now, sat next to Mémé, tail thumping, as she rubbed his ears.
Days later, I went down the path with Katrin, walking slowly, remembering we were eighteen now. Katrin held a sheaf of papers in her hand. “It’s time for me to write.”
“All about the war,” I said as American soldiers came along the road.
“Hey, beautiful,” one of them called, and stopped.
“I’m a New Yorker!” I said back, the American words lovely on my tongue.
He looked surprised. I wondered if he believed me.
“Springfield Gardens, Long Island Rail Road, Empire State Building, Jones Beach,” I said.
He had to keep going, but he smiled over his shoulder!
I waited for André. I waited for Rémy.
Albert was back, with books under his arm. And even though we waited, hoping, the woodcutter and Rémy’s father didn’t return; they would never return.
When travel began again, I knew Aunt Marie would come for a long visit. But my place was here with Mémé, to hang her painting in her bedroom, to farm and harvest. And sometime later, I’d go to New York, to visit my beloved Springfield Gardens.
But there was the sound of the horse and cart coming up the gravel path. André was coming home, bringing Sister back where she belonged!
I ran to meet them, with Louis at my feet, and André held out a red parasol. “For you, Gen!”
How long ago it was that he’d promised me that parasol!
I helped Mémé to the cart, and we smiled as we drove around the village square and the old men in their berets waved.
I thought of Aunt Marie, as I had so many times. Sometimes people surprise you: Philippe, and Albert, and Madame Jacques, who had disappeared somewhere . . .
And Mémé.
I couldn’t be sorry I’d come to Alsace. I’d never have loved her, never have known Papa.
Philippe was outside now, his hand raised. “Well done, Americans,” he called after us.
Later I’d go back to the bookshop for my books. But then André stopped the cart.
Coming down the road . . .
Yes, walking toward us, arms out . . .
I was out of the cart, and we held each other, Rémy twirling me in his arms. “I’ve been waiting for you,” I said.
“It’s someday,” he said as we walked back to the cart together.
I thought of all the things I wanted to tell him. Most of all that I was staying there, that we’d farm together.
Someday!
But he knew that, of course he did.
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to Kathy Bohlman and Joan Jansen for their research, to Debbie St. Thomas for suggesting I speak with Marie Kozak, and to Marie for her memories of Alsace.
The Trumbull Connecticut Public Library is home to me; the librarians are warm and knowledgeable. I’m more than grateful to Walter Dembowski, who found two books written in 1915 that were immeasurably helpful in studying the history of Alsace and that even gave me the klapperstein!
It would take pages to thank my editor, Mary Cash! Her thoughts and advice are always tremendously helpful. I thank Terry Borzumato for her support over the years, and Barbara Perris for her careful copyediting. Special thanks to Becca Standlander for the beautiful artwork and to Kerry Martin for the wonderful art direction and design.
When I was young, I longed for a big family, and now I have it. I especially want to mention our newest member, Haylee Elizabeth, who calls me Mimi.
Nothing would be possible without my husband, Jim, my best friend. I think of my son Jimmy with every word I write, his love for books, for family, the joy he gave me and others.
George Nicholson bought my first book at Viking and became my agent. He was a source of advice and encouragement for my writing life. I miss him every day.
Patricia Reilly Giff, Genevieve's War
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