Mary stretches out her arms to me, loving as always.

"Our Lady of Mercy,"

I pray, "I'm scared.

You know I didn't kill your son, or Marcel.

Why did even Simone turn against me?

Forgive me for my lies.

My mother made me promise never to say that we are Jews.

Please watch over us."

I am so tired, and the barn is warm.

I feel faint.

But I hear a noise behind me ...

is someone else in the barn?

Not Paul, I hope!

No, but I do see the hunched figure of an old man leaning on a carved stick.

He holds a lit candle in his right hand, a hand with one too many fingers.

Pere Rene, the kitten drowner, watches me.

His face looks as pale as a turnip in the candlelight.

How long has he been here?

Did his huge ears hear my prayer?

Pere Rene takes his time, then speaks.

"You are a sight, Odette ...

oh, those children!

Always in fights over nothing.

Come now, child.

Make yourself useful.

Help me light the rest of the candles for Our Lady.

Then you'd better go on home.

Your mother's been looking for you everywhere.

If you hurry, I'll give you some warm milk fresh from the cows.

That will get you on your way."

I find Mama sitting on her suitcase outside our cottage.

"We have nowhere to live," she says.

"Our landlord has taken away our cottage.

He accused me of being a Jew because his son died.

I was so worried about you.

I didn't want you to come home and find the house empty."

I tell Mama what has happened to me, how the children accused me of being a Jew too, and beat me up.

"Even Simone," I tell Mama, "even my best friend."

Mama makes room for me on the suitcase beside her.

I sit down and put my arms around her.

She puts her coat around my shoulders.

Together, we look up at the moon.

The moon gazes sadly back at us.

All we have is each other.

But Mama is a woman of action.

Even though it's late, she decides she must go, right this minute, to see the mayor in Saint-Fulgent.

She knows that he, like her, is a secret freedom fighter.

Mama tells me to hide in the cottage.

Soon she is back with the mayor.

"These people are not Jews,"

the mayor tells our neighbors.

"I know their family in Paris."

Because he is the mayor, the villagers pretend to believe him.

And Mama and I pretend to forget what the villagers have done to us, throwing us out of our home, beating me up.

We move back into our cottage.

Mama gives a party to show the villagers that we are still ready to be friends.

She bakes a cake and invites all the children, even Paul and Simone.

Everyone comes.

I pretend to have a good time.

I keep all my sadness and anger buried inside, like all my other secrets.

It's safer that way.

I can't stop being scared, though.

So scared that one day I stop going to school.

So scared that I even stop talking.

Mute.

Some new city people have moved to our village.

They brought their son's books.

He's a student who's now in the army.

The family lets Mama borrow as many books as she likes.

Every morning I take one.

I put some bread and apples in my backpack.

Then I go to the forest.

I climb a tree to get away from everything.

There, alone with the bats and owls, I read all day long.

I am free from people who can't be trusted.

Only my mother is sad about this.

Sometimes I want to say something to comfort her, but no words will come out.

Weeks of silence go by.

My mother tries to talk to me.

She asks me questions.

Sometimes I even think I have answered her.

She says I haven't.

It seems I can't say a word.

One day my mother tells me another secret.

She's reading some poetry, she says.

She thinks it's beautiful, but she's not sure.

She can't tell.

The poetry is written in French.

French does not "sing" to her like her own language, Yiddish.

Maybe if I read it out loud she'll be able to tell.

She sits on our doorstep in the sunshine.

I sit next to her.

I begin to read in silence.

Then the beauty of the words overtakes me.

And life, pounding our breasts like a drum, I read aloud, threatened to gush and overflow our souls....

I read on and on.

The words roll off my tongue.