our money.
Iâll take some, just a little,
and Iâll buy her a Motherâs Day present.
Itâll be a surprise!
After all, I earned some of it myself during harvest, didnât I?
Mama is outside at work in the garden.
I pry back the loose floorboard under the kitchen table.
I lift out the money jar.
I take out two silver coins, only two.
Then I put the jar and the board back.
I go to the shop to buy the pin.
The shopkeeper wraps it for me in pretty paper.
I make a Motherâs Day card to go with it.
I spend a long time drawing violets on it, one by one.
Then I hide my card and present.
Will the violets remind Mama of the cologne she used in Paris?
I hope so ⦠I canât wait for Sunday.
But on Saturday morning Mama counts our money.
âOdette,â she says, âsome money is missing.â
I tell her I donât know anything about it.
âI think you do,â says Mama.
âYou are the only one who knows where I keep our money.â
So I tell her itâs true.
But I wonât tell her what I did with it.
Itâs a secret.
Mamaâs eyes flash.
âI didnât raise you to be a liar,â she says, âor a thief!â
A liar? A thief?
But all Iâm doing is keeping a secret â¦
and Mama is the one who
taught
me to keep secrets.
Mama slaps my face, hard.
Bijou is shocked, and so am I.
The shape of Mamaâs hand stings my cheek.
It feels like fire.
But I donât say anything.
I just climb into my bed with Bijou.
I cuddle her,
and she licks and comforts me.
We both calm down.
The next morning, I bring Mama my Motherâs Day present.
âNow I know where the money went,â Mama says.
She tries to smile, but tears well up in her eyes.
Mama, who is so strong, who
never
cries, is sobbing.
I put my arms around her.
I donât tell her not to cry.
I know now crying can help you feel better.
Beautiful Bluma
Mama gets a letter that makes her hum with happiness.
Her old friend Bluma is coming for a visit.
She and Mama grew up in Poland together.
Blumaâs husband is a French Christian,
and she speaks French with no accent.
Even so, her family is afraid â¦
someone might find out she is a Polish Jew.
Maybe, if she likes it in the country,
she will come and live with us.
Then Mama wonât be so lonely.
Beautiful Bluma arrives,
in a silky blouse
and soft shoes.
Her eyelashes are the longest Iâve ever seen.
She has no children of her own
and makes me feel like her favorite niece.
Bluma has an expensive camera in a leather case.
She takes photographs of Mama and me,
of curving country lanes,
and of windmills and waterfalls.
At night, in the firelight,
we eat all the delicious dishes Mama has made for us.
Bluma has brought us chocolate too.
Itâs been so long since I tasted it,
I almost forgot its sweet bitterness,
and how it melts on my tongue.
Mama begs her friend to stay.
Blumaâs face is pale in the dim light.
She
is
afraid, she tells us,
but she just canât leave the home she loves
and the husband she loves even more.
No, she will go back to Paris.
After only a few days,
we walk Bluma back to Saint-Fulgent.
The bus comes,
and she climbs on board.
She waves her handkerchief at us from the window
until we canât see her anymore.
A week later Mama gets a letter from Blumaâs husband.
Bluma has been taken away,
like so many other Jews.
He asks if we can send her some food
at the camp where he thinks she is.
âWhy didnât Bluma stay with us?â I ask.
âShe would have been
safe
here!â
Mama sighs.
For a while she doesnât speak.
Then she says,
âBluma was used to an easy life.
She couldnât give it up, not even for her own safety.â
Then Mama puts down her letter and gazes out the window
at pigs, rooting in the dirt.
âLife in the country was just too hard for her,â she says.
The War Creeps