Suddenly, two huge soldiers loom on the sidewalk in front of me.

Without thinking, I cover my star with my schoolbag.

One soldier sees me.

He grabs my schoolbag, tears it away, and throws it on the pavement.

Will he beat me?

Kick me?

Take me away from Paris and my mother?

Things like this happen to Jews every day now in Paris.

"No!" I say. I put up my hands.

"No, please...."

But this time the soldier and his friend just laugh.

Together they stagger away.

I can't move.

I just stand and stare after them.

When they lurch around the corner into the next street, I slump down on the curb.

I sit there until my heart stops pounding.

When I can breathe again, I stand up and walk to school.

But even at school it's not safe.

On the playground, children attack me.

They try to shove my face in the playground toilet.

A teacher comes to help.

After that, I stay close to her.

But still these children hiss at me: "Coward! Teacher's pet! Jew!"

I hide inside during recess.

On the walls are pictures of country children in costume.

The ones I like best show children from Alsace and Brittany.

They have kind, soft faces.

Why can't I live there?

Those country children wouldn't beat me up, would they?

What about the other Jewish children at school?

Are bad things happening to them?

I don't know because I don't dare ask.

I'm afraid to tell Mama about what's happening at school too.

She has enough worries.

So I tell Charlotte, but I tell her to keep it a secret.

Charlotte is good at that, and so am I.

My Cousins.

On Thursdays in Paris, children don't have to go to school.

That is the day I visit my cousins, the ones who live near the Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

Mama never says so, but I know these cousins are poor.

They don't have a toilet in their apartment like we do.

All they have is a stinky room with a hole in the ground, way down the hall from their apartment.

They have to share it with other families too.

One Thursday, I try to sneak down the narrow back streets that lead to my cousins' apartment.

I stay away from the soldiers who strut along the avenues.

But I do have to cross one big street.

I hold my breath when I pass in front of the motorcycles, cars, and trucks.

On the other side, a soldier darts out of the bakery right in front of me, eating an eclair.

I almost bump into him!

Startled, I jerk back for an instant, then recover.

I try to look calm as I walk toward the Passage des Amandiers.

But inside, my heart still pounds.

Past the bakery, I enter that dim alley.

It smells like cooked cabbage and urine.

Babies scream, workers hammer, women yell.

No soldiers can be seen, but I'm still afraid.

Anything can happen in a neighborhood like this....

but above the din, I hear the sweet sound of my cousin Serge's violin.

I follow it to safety.

I'm always hungry to hear Serge's music!

We never listen to music at home.

Jews had to hand over their radios to the police, but Mama hid ours in the closet.

We listen to it only for the BBC news.

Serge sees me across the courtyard, but he keeps on playing.

I don't want him to stop.

When I'm close enough, I sit down cross-legged at his feet.

I feel like a small frog before a secret prince.

I look up at Serge's deep-set eyes, his delicate fingers holding his violin and bow.

The music makes everything else- the dirty alley, the shouts and screams- fade slowly away.

When Serge is done, he lifts the violin from his shoulder.

Seeing his bright yellow star jolts me back to here and now.

I touch my star to make sure it's where it's supposed to be.

Serge places his violin in its case, closes the cover, and clicks the latch shut.

I follow Serge into the two rooms where his whole family lives and works.

The first room is the only one with a window.

That's where Uncle Motl and my big cousin Maurice work on their noisy knitting machine.

Above it is a loft, where the younger children sleep.

The second room is where everyone eats, washes, cooks, plays, reads, and gossips.

A long table fills the center, with chairs around it and beds on the side.

At least one lamp glows there all the time.

Aunt Miriam's sweet-smelling onion soup simmers on the stove.

Maurice lifts me up to see their calendar.

It has a joke printed on it for every day of the year.

"The waiter puts coffee on the man's table," Maurice reads.

'It looks like rain,' he says to his customer.

'Tastes like it too,' says the man."

Everyone laughs.

Fake wartime coffee is terrible.

My younger cousins beg to see tomorrow's joke.

"No," says Maurice. "Let's save it."

So Uncle Motl shares a joke with us.

"Did you know Hitler's dog has no nose?" he asks.

"No?" says Charles. "How does it smell?"

"Terrible," says Uncle Motl.

Maurice pinches his nose.

He pretends to march like a stick soldier.

Sarah, Charles, Serge, and I all fall in line behind him.