On my bed that night, I find the blanket made by Madame Marie.

It feels like an old friend.

But wait ... something's wrong!

The holy medals are all gone.

Someone has cut them off.

My childhood protectors, St. Christopher and St. Michael, what happened to them?

But I am too tired to think about this for long.

Instead, I wrap my old friend around me and drift into deep, delicious dreams.

In the morning, I push open the shutters once again.

I lean out and look at the square.

The nuns in white-winged bonnets still sail across it.

The Thinker sits in his same place too.

Does he ever wonder about Papa, like I do?

I see that stores once having Jewish names now have French ones.

Only a few gypsies are left.

The dark-eyed children peek out from behind their mothers' long skirts.

I know what's missing!

Our neighborhood looks like a black-and-white photograph.

Color hasn't come back yet to Paris.

Growing Up.

Of the two rooms that make up our apartment, my favorite was once the living room.

Before we went away, I sat under the round table there and played with my toys.

But now I spend almost all my time in the bedroom.

The tall bookcase there goes from the floor up to the ceiling.

My favorite books are four fat ones, The Encyclopedia of Learning.

Long ago, my father read to me and showed me the pictures in these books.

Now I read them myself.

The Encyclopedia is different from the books I read in the Vendee.

No poetry or fiction is found in an encyclopedia.

It's all about facts- science, history, and geography.

I study the photographs, the maps, and the charts.

I can see why my father loved his Encyclopedia so much!

Now that I'm older, I'm going to read as much of it as I can.

I'm hungry to learn everything, just like my father did.

We keep our clothes in the curvy old armoire.

Inside is a silvery mirror.

I spend hours looking at myself in that mirror.

I try out my mother's scarves, and if she isn't home, I put on her face powder and lipstick.

I experiment with glamorous hairstyles too.

I study my face from different angles.

Everyone says I'm growing up, becoming a woman.

What kind of woman will I be?

Will I be beautiful, like Bluma?

Will I be brave, like Mama?

Will I be strong, like Madame Marie?

Will I be kind, like Madame Raffin?

I want to be all these things.

New Friends.

School in Paris smells the same ...

waxed floors, glue, new books.

Some of the same children are there too.

Others have disappeared.

No one calls me names anymore, though, and no one dares to beat me up.

Coming home one day, I open the door and turn on the light.

Something leaps under the table ... a yellow kitten!

No one knows where he came from.

Mama and I both miss Bijou, so we fuss over the yellow kitten.

We offer him fresh milk, bits of buttered bread, a piece of ham.

The kitten purrs and falls asleep in my arms.

What shall we name him?

Mama likes Zola, after a famous French writer.

I like Minou, slang for "pussycat."

But one day when I get home from school, before we have a chance to decide, he's gone.

I run down and ask Madame Marie if she's seen my kitten.

She asks if our window is open ... uh-oh.

It is.

"Go look in the square," she says.

"Maybe he climbed a tree and can't get down."

She's right, my yellow kitten's in the square.

He's climbing the statue of The Thinker.

I lift him down gently and take him home.

We decide to name him Tarzan, after the movie hero.

I adore him, but he's a troublemaker.

First of all, he's always disappearing.

He finds his way back home, but then Mama complains that he's a fussy eater.

He only likes bread with butter or pate.

Mama says we can barely feed ourselves.

Tarzan has to change his ways or find another place to live.

Pretty soon, he does.

I comb the neighborhood but can't find him.

My heart is broken.

Mama says Tarzan's probably exploring a park or playing games with other cats.

But what if he's lying hurt in the street somewhere?

All I want to do is hold and pet him again.

"Having Tarzan was fun for a while," Mama says, "but he's gone now, Odette.

You have to forget about him."

I try.

I keep going to school, and before long, I make a new friend.

Esther's been hiding in the country, just like I was.

We both love to window shop, eat ice cream cones, and explore the streets in our neighborhood.

I never knew there were so many things to see ...

street entertainers, chalk artists, and pushcart vendors.

It's like a circus!

I've almost forgotten about Tarzan when, months later, I pass an elegant apartment building.