Black Radishes by Susan Lynn Meyer Read Free Book Online Page B

Madame Foncine walked away. Then Maman leaned against Papa and sighed.
    “Oh, why won’t Geraldine see that she should leave Paris?” she moaned into Papa’s chest.
    “Well, at least the waiting is over,” Papa said, stroking her hair. “Now the French army can start pushing the Germans back.”
    But that wasn’t what happened. On Monday evening, Papa turned on the radio after dinner. It crackled, making Gustave jump. A somber voice spoke into the room.
    “German tanks have crossed the Meuse River from Belgium and penetrated France,” boomed the announcer. “There is fierce fighting in the French region of Sedan.”
    Gustave felt hollowed out inside. The Nazis were in France. Was it possible? For a moment, he could hardly breathe. The room swirled around him, and a roaring sound filled his ears. When his head quieted, Maman and Papa were talking.
    “ When will we hear about those visas?” Maman cried, hugging herself with both arms and rocking back and forth on the sofa.
    Papa paced, limping up and down the room. “Maybe we should leave for Switzerland instead of waiting to hear about emigrating to America,” he said.
    “But Geraldine and her family will never be able to cross the Swiss border to meet us there,” Maman wailed. “And what if Germany decides to invade Switzerland? What should we do? Oh, what should we do?”
    “Be calm, Lili chérie , be calm,” Papa said. “The Germans are only slightly over our border. General Weygand has established a second front. The second front is holding.”
    But day after day, the names of the countries collapsing in front of the German army came on the news bulletins, solemn and funereal, like a church bell tolling. “Luxembourg offers no resistance.” “Holland surrenders.” When would the Nazis stop? Gustave wondered as he painted in the fallen countries on his map.
    He was washing paint over Luxembourg when his hand jerked, and a smear of red slid onto the blue of France. Gustave wiped at it furiously with his handkerchief until it was clean, then clenched the brush tightly so that he wouldn’t slip and get any more red where it didn’t belong. After all, the Nazis hadn’t taken over the whole world.
    France was still free.
    Days passed, and the fields turned a darker shade of green. Flowers budded and opened, and, even at night, the air was soft and warm, like the fuzzy skin of a peach. One night after the news broadcast, Gustave could smell spring in the air as he walked upstairs with heavy feet. But the weather felt all wrong. How could spring come the same way it always did? Under his open bedroom window, the garden was full of flowers, and birds were singing as the sun set. But Gustave felt separated from the warm night, as if it were all happening on the other side of a wall of glass. He flipped open the metal watercolor box and looked down at his paints. He had plenty of all the other colors, but in the center of the well of red paint, he could see the metal at the bottom. And again, tonight, red was the color he needed. Belgium had surrendered to the Nazis.
    Gustave swirled the wet brush around in the paint and slowly washed red over Belgium. When he was finished, he studied the map in bewilderment. Red was spreading like blood all over Europe, even along much of the French border.
    And, still, the strange spring kept on coming. One hot June morning, Gustave woke up late, tangled in sticky sheets. Voices were coming from outside. He stumbled downstairs, but neither of his parents was in the house, and the front door stood open.
    “Papa?” he called out. “Maman?”
    Still half-asleep, he walked out into the yard. The paving stones under his bare feet were already warm, almost hot, from the sunshine. Out in the road, five or six adults he didn’t know and a few small children stood huddled in a tight group. A woman ran down the street toward them, her hair disheveled, her dress flapping around her legs, screaming. Gustave watched her lips