Odette's Secrets.

MARYANN MACDONALD.

For George.

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai.

Odette Meyers and her mother, 1942.

Rain in Paris.

My name is Odette.

I live in Paris, on a cobblestone square with a splashing fountain and a silent statue.

My hair is curly.

Mama ties ribbons in it.

Papa reads to me and buys me toys.

I have everything I could wish for, except a cat.

Every day I push open the shutters of our bedroom window, lean on the windowsill, and watch the world below.

Today, rain drizzles down on Paris.

Nuns in white-winged bonnets hurry across the square.

Gypsies huddle in doorways.

Ironworkers sip bitter coffee and read newspapers at the cafe.

Life looks the same as always, but it is about to change.

It's Saturday, so Mama and Papa take me to the cinema.

On the huge screen, soldiers march, their legs and arms straight as sticks.

A funny-looking man with a mustache shouts a speech.

His name is Hitler.

Who are these soldiers?

Why do they move like machines?

Some people in the cinema cheer and clap.

Mama and Papa whisper together.

Papa shakes his head.

Then he jumps up.

He stalks out of the cinema.

Mama and I run after him.

"I couldn't breathe in there,"

Papa says outside.

"The air ... it was like poison gas."

Mama rubs Papa's arm.

I hope we'll go back to the film, but we don't.

Instead, Papa buys us warm crepes, sprinkled with snowy sugar.

We walk home side by side, in the chill rain, just the three of us.

Cracked Glass.

Sunday comes.

Mama and I go to the public baths.

We rent a room with a tub and a shower for fifteen minutes.

I play mermaid in the tub.

Mama scrubs in the shower.

Then I rinse off while Mama soaks.

When we're done, we rub our clean bodies all over with scratchy white towels.

Mama kisses my nose.

Then she splashes cologne all over us.

Smelling like violets, we walk home together, swinging hands.

On our way, we pass a furniture store.

Its windows are broken.

We stand on slivers of cracked glass to peer inside.

Someone has smashed a mirror and slashed a sofa.

"Who did this?" I ask Mama.

"People who hate Jews," Mama says.

"The owner of the store is Jewish."

This makes no sense to me.

Are Jews different from other people? I wonder.

How?

I look up at Mama and wait for her to explain, but she just shakes her head.

Her Sunday smile has faded away.

She still holds my hand, but she doesn't swing it.

Her shoulders sag all the way back to the rue d'Angouleme.

Madame Marie at her sewing machine.

My Godmother.

Madame Marie's face is as round as the moon.

She's the caretaker in our building.

She lives in a tiny apartment under the stairs with her beloved Monsieur Henri.

Every day she sweeps the hallways, polishes the banister of our spiral staircase, and takes in everyone's letters.

Mama and Madame Marie have been friends since I was a baby.

They both love to knit.

They both make the best meals from the cheapest ingredients.

When Mama went back to work in the factory, Madame Marie began looking after me.

She doesn't have any children of her own, so she decided to become my godmother.

Now, when I'm not at school, I help my godmother.

We sweep and polish.

Madame Marie also makes clothes for me and for other people in our neighborhood on her Singer sewing machine.

I sit at her feet and sort scraps of cloth for doll dresses, match up buttons that look alike, and gather stray pins with a magnet.

Monsieur Henri smokes his pipe, and the old round clock chimes on the wall behind us.

When customers come for fittings, they say, "Oh, your little helper is here today!"

My heart glows with pride.

I'm always happy in my godmother's apartment.

It's so cozy and nice there.

"The heart is like an apartment," Madame Marie tells me.

"Every day you must clean it and make it cheerful.

You must have flowers on your table and something special to offer guests.

If you make your apartment extra nice, God will come to visit you too."

My godmother is like the perfect moon.

Always round.

Always full.

Always there.