Free Tell No One Who You Are by Walter Buchignani Page A

you’ll have to listen carefully.”
    She opened the envelope and pulled out a booklet of ration cards. This certainly could not be the important news. Régine had known about ration cards ever since the beginning of the war. The stamps inside were used for buying vegetables, eggs and milk and other foods that were rationed and hard to get. The booklet also served as identification. It showed the name, age and residence of the carrier. Nicole handed the booklet to Régine.
    “This is yours,” Nicole said.
    Régine read the name printed on the booklet. It said Augusta Dubois.
    “Who’s that?” she asked.
    “You,” Nicole said.
    “Me?”
    “This is what I had to tell you,” Nicole said. “From now on you are Augusta Dubois.”
    “But I’m Régine Miller.”
    “I know that,” said Nicole. “But from now on no one else must know your real name. What I’m saying is:
Tell no one who you are
. Do you understand? This is very, very important.”
    Régine nodded, sensing the urgency in Nicole’s voice again. “I understand.”
    “Good. You won’t forget? You are Augusta Dubois, not Régine Miller.”
    “I won’t forget. I’m Augusta Dubois.”
    “And you come from Marche, not Brussels.”
    “From Marche?” Régine knew that Marche was even farther south than Liège.
    “Yes,” Nicole said. “Your name is Augusta Dubois and you come from Marche. That’s all you have to remember, but it’s very important.” She paused. “City children are being sent to live on farms. It’s part of a program called
l’Aide paysanne aux enfants des villes
. Farm families care for children from the city for three months. Understand?”
    Régine nodded. She understood very well. It was dangerous to be Jewish under the German occupation, and the name Augusta Dubois did not sound at all Jewish. Dubois was a safer name than Miller, just like Nicole was a safer name than Fela and blond hair was safer than dark.
    “Is that why I can go to school?” Régine tried to look forward to the change.
    “Yes. You will attend the same school as Marie, the daughter. They will make all the arrangements,” Nicole said.
    “How old is Marie?” asked Régine.
    “She’s nine, two years younger than you. She has an older brother, Jean, who is nineteen.”
    Nicole looked out the window. “There’s the station,” she said. “We’re here.”
    Régine saw rows of buses, surrounded by a crowd of children and grownups. She slipped the ration book into her duffel bag and felt confused. How would she handle her new, secret identity? What awaited her in Andoumont? She stood up slowly and followed Nicole to the front of the tram.
    “Hello,” she said to herself, too softly for anyone else to hear. “I’m Augusta Dubois, and,” she hesitated for a moment,“and — I come from Marche.”
    Nicole held Régine’s hand and guided her through the crowd. The children were noisy and excited as they hugged their parents. They seemed to be happy to be going to the country, as if it were an adventure. Régine wished she felt the same.
    At the end of a long row of buses Régine and Nicole reached one marked “Liège.” The bus was almost full. At the door was a man wearing a ribbon marked
Aide paysanne
and Nicole introduced Augusta Dubois. The man looked at the sheet of paper and nodded: “You are going to Andoumont. Go ahead and get on. I will call your name when we get to your stop.”
    Nicole bent down and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Everything will be all right,” she said. “Just don’t forget what I’ve told you.”
    Régine dropped her duffel bag and hugged Nicole with all her might. Then she bent down and rummaged through her bag. She pulled out the jar of gooseberry jam that Madame Charles had given her a month before and presented it to Nicole just as the man called out: “Let’s go!”
    She picked up her duffel bag, gave Nicole a weak smile and climbed onto the bus.
    “Don’t forget!” called Nicole.
    Régine