"Papa will love this," I say at last.

Mama's face shines.

I see Papa's face too, still wearing his army hat but smiling at me.

Distance has disappeared.

My mother, my father, and I are together again.

Poetry is stronger than the Nazis, stronger than the war.

These words are so beautiful they make me want to speak again.

The next day, I don't go to the forest.

I spend it reading poetry at home.

Sometimes I read aloud.

Day by day, I dare to say more.

After a while, Mama even talks me into going back to school.

I leave early and come home late so that I won't have to walk with the village children.

But when I chant the litany with the other girls in class, I feel like I'm reciting poetry.

That soaring inside me, that's what it's like to be happy again.

My Guardian Angel.

One morning when I push back the potato sack that hangs over our front door in summer, I find Simone waiting for me.

"Come and play with us, Odette," she says.

So I do.

But when we throw pickup sticks, jump rope, or play ball, I'm careful about what I do.

I'm still afraid of the village children.

What if a fight breaks out?

Will they make things my fault?

Pere Rene is my new guardian angel.

He's always there.

He sharpens his scythe outside his cottage, smokes his pipe with his dog at his feet, and watches us, ready at once to settle a fight.

I think I know why.

My six-fingered friend knows what it's like to be different.

Heart and Soul.

Soon it will be harvest time, my favorite time of the year.

Men, women, and children sing together while they load baskets with sweet grapes.

My favorite job is to follow the wheat harvester and gather the shimmering stalks left in the grass.

In school, we learn about the five senses.

Our teacher asks us to write about our pays, the place where we live.

We must write a poem about our pays in five parts, one for each of the senses.

We can name all the sounds we like.

We can tell what smells, tastes, looks, or feels good to us.

I think about this on my way home from school.

I look at everything I pass on the road.

When I get to our village, I look at all the houses, the winepress, even the black pond.

I take a walk through the forest to my favorite reading tree.

I stare.

I listen.

I touch.

I taste.

I smell.

Then I begin.

"I love my pays.

I love the sounds of the barnyard, the church bells, and accordion music.

I love the smells of the flowers and the incense in church, and the newly cut hay.

I love the taste of warm cow's milk and cool cider, of blackberries and roasted chestnuts and stew on winter nights.

I love the sight of lightning tearing up the sky, of the golden flypaper shining in the sunlight.

I love the feel of the brook's fresh water between my toes, and the weight of a ladybug on the back of my hand."

As I walk home, I remember I have heard about a sixth sense.

When I ask Mama about it, she says that perhaps it is fear.

Fear is still with me.

I might be beaten again.

I might be drowned or my cat might be drowned.

Worst of all, Mama and I could be chased out of our village.

We could be sent on a long train journey, far away from France.

Reading helps me forget about fear.

I read everything from the Farmer's Almanac to fairy tales.

Poetry is still what I love best.

It doesn't matter if I don't understand it.

I can just listen to its music, or even read it to a cat or a cow.

I find a book by the Spanish saint Teresa of Avila.

It's almost like poetry.

On the first page, Saint Teresa says, "We can think of our soul as a castle made entirely of diamond or very clear crystal, in which there are many rooms, just as in heaven there are many dwelling places."

This is much grander than, "The heart is like an apartment."

But Madame Marie lives in a tiny apartment.

Saint Teresa lived in a large convent.

So to her, the soul was like a castle.

Is the soul greater than the heart, or is it just the same?

I'm not sure ...

but I suspect it's the same.

People sometimes say they love with all their heart and soul.

So the heart and soul must be like twins, helping people love all that's good and true, no matter where they find it.

Mother's Day.

Mama's sad and lonely.

No letters have come from Papa in a long time, and she never hears from her family anymore.

One day, I see a pin in the shop window in Saint-Fulgent.

It glitters in sunset colors, pink and gold.

Mama would love it, I just know she would.

And I know where Mama keeps our money.

I'll take some, just a little, and I'll buy her a Mother's Day present.

It'll be a surprise!

After all, I earned some of it myself during harvest, didn't 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.