Free My Canary Yellow Star by Eva Wiseman Page B

doors. A plump, white-haired maître d’ in a black tuxedo greeted us solemnly.
    “The young lady and gentleman require a table?” he asked. Peter and I stood up a little straighter, and I moved closer to Peter.
    “Two for espresso,” Peter said, taking hold of my hand. “We’d like to be seated in the garden.”
    “The garden is full,” the man replied frostily.
    “Are you sure?” Peter asked. We could see through the double doors that only half the tables were occupied. Peterreached into his pocket, pulled out a few folded bills, and slipped one into the maître d’s hand. “Could you check your book again, please? Just to be sure.”
    The older man put the money into his pocket. His smile became much friendlier. Puffing up with self-importance, he leaned over his reservation book again. “Ah yes! Let’s see if we can do better,” he said. “Yes, I believe we can! Table 4 seems to be available.”
    “I thought it might be,” Peter said, winking at me.
    The maître d’ turned to me. “May I hang up the young lady’s sweater? It’s a warm evening.”
    “No!” I said much too loudly. I crossed my arms across my chest protectively.
    Peter put his arms around my shoulders and squeezed. “She’s always cold, even on the warmest day,” he said, laughing.
    The maître d’ nodded and held up a finger. As if by magic, a young waiter appeared beside him. “Sanyi, my boy, take the lady and the gentleman to table 4,” he commanded.
    We followed the waiter into the beautiful dining room with its parquet dance floor. Huge marble columns entwined by ivy stood in a row across the center of the room. Several of the tables set out between the columns were empty. Most people preferred to be outside on such a warm evening. Peter and I crossed the long dance floor to our table. It was in a perfect spot, just a few feet from the band. The eveningprogram had not yet begun. I felt very grown up when the waiter pulled out my chair. Peter sat next to me.
    “Quite a place, isn’t it?” he whispered with a smile.
    “Just beautiful!”
    “Do you require menus?” the waiter asked, his tone only slightly less supercilious than that of the maître d’.
    “No, thank you. Well each have an espresso, please.” I was certain that even a cup of coffee would be expensive in this place.
    “Well also have chestnut pudding with whipped cream,” Peter said to the waiter, ignoring my kick to his ankle.
    “Are you crazy? It’ll cost a fortune,” I said as soon as the waiter was gone.
    “Don’t you like chestnut pudding?” Peter asked.
    “Of course I do! But it’s too expensive.”
    “Let’s not worry about expenses tonight,” Peter said. “Let’s forget about the war for a while.”
    Most of the men dining around us were in uniform. A group of Arrow Cross officers at the next table smiled at us, and we smiled back. I could not help thinking how a small hidden star on my blouse would erase those smiles.
    The band appeared on the stage. After a few minutes of screeching, mooing, and tuning their instruments, they were joined by a singer. She was wrapped in a sparkling blue cloud from head to toe and her white teeth were gleaming against her flawless, tawny skin. She was the firstNegro I had ever seen. She seemed so alive that I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
    “She is from America,” Peter whispered.
    The singer snapped her fingers once or twice and broke into a spirited rendition of my favorite Ella Fitzgerald song, “A Tisket, a Tasket.” I couldn’t understand the English lyrics, but I recognized the tune immediately. The hot jazz beat was so infectious that I tapped my feet to the rhythm.
    Peter grabbed my hand. “Let’s dance,” he said.
    Our jerky, rhythmic steps were a perfect match.
    “Where did you learn to swing like this?” Peter asked.
    “Oh, here and there,” I said mysteriously. I wasn’t about to tell him I had been practicing with Judit every afternoon. It helped to pass time during the