This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

Frank stares at the car disappearing into the distance. His shoulders taut, his fists still balled, his body trembling. Quaking, like a volcano about to erupt.

8

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January 19, 1942

Dear Charlie,

I just wrote a letter to my father. It was full of lies. I painted a too-rosy picture of home, told him Mother is doing great even though she’s not. She’s exhausted. At night she screams out in her sleep. It’s scary.

And I told him I’m doing great. That I’m doing well at school (not a lie), and that yes, as he’d asked, I’ll happily consider dentistry as a career (A COMPLETE LIE!). Truth is, I don’t want to be a dentist, I’m not cut out to be one. Teeth, lips, gums, all that saliva, blood, bad breath. So gross. Last month in Biology we had to dissect a frog and I almost passed out. Over a stupid frog. How am I supposed to pry out black diseased human teeth from rotting gums that stink of halitosis?

Of course, I didn’t tell Father what I really want to do with my life. That would crush him. Because he didn’t immigrate all the way from Japan to raise a … cartoonist.

Maybe I’ll just, I don’t know. Force myself to love dentistry over comics? Is that even possible? I don’t know. What I do know is I can’t let him worry over us, not while he’s in prison.

Wow. What a gloomy letter. Okay, enough with the self-pity. Let me tell you about some new comics I’ve been reading. These days, that’s the only way I can forget all the crazy stuff happening around me.

So yesterday I was at the five-and-dime store and I came across this new comic called Sensation Comics. Splashed across the front cover was a brand new superhero who is—you’ll never guess—a woman! Yes, a woman! She’s wearing these cool red boots with high heels, and dressed in what looks like the American flag. Must’ve been a small flag because her outfit is a bit … revealing? Like a sexy bathing suit, to tell you the truth. The cover announces her name: The Sensational New Adventure Strip Character: Wonder Woman!

Wonder Woman! What a name! I cracked open the magazine but that’s when Mr. Thompson threatened to kick me out unless I shelled out a dime. Best dime I ever spent. This Wonder Woman, she’s pretty cool. Way better than Namor the Sub-Mariner or Bozo the Iron Man. She’s got these awesome wrist cuffs that deflect bullets. She can’t fly like Superman but get this: she flies in an invisible plane.

And best of all: she kills Nazis. Do I have your attention now?

Wonder Woman reminds me of you. I mean, I don’t know what you look like (because, ahem, someone still hasn’t sent me a picture of herself!). But look at that strip where she’s knocking out the Nazi soldier with a righteous haymaker. With that feisty spirit, she could be you! Anyway, I ripped out a few pages and enclosed it (along with a few sketches I drew yesterday). Enjoy!

Alex

* * *

14 February 1942

Dear Alex,

Thank you for Wonder Woman! What a wonderful gift! You will be happy to know I taped Wonder Woman on my bedroom wall right next to Charlotte Brontë.

You seem quite fascinated by Wonder Woman. And by her clothes. Or the lack of it. Me, I am not so impressed. Because invisible plane? Pssh! Because even if the plane is invisible you can still see her sitting in it, no? Especially if she’s in a bathing suit—all the men’s eyes will snap up to her like helpless magnets.

But this is what I do like about her: she has dark hair! And brown eyes! Like me! I like that her hair is not blond and her eyes are not blue. Nothing wrong with this, of course, I have lots of friends with blue eyes and blond hair. But all around me on posters, in movies, is the “pretty woman”—and she always has blond hair and blue eyes. So it is nice to see a superhero who looks like me.

Oh, in case you are wondering, that is where our similarity ends! Because if you put me in a bathing suit, I look nothing like Wonder Woman! She has much longer legs (like a space alien!) and a chest that is much bigger … Oh! this is embarrassing! How did we end up talking about my body? I am laughing!

Actually, I am more like Jane Eyre: “obscure, plain, and little.” Because no one looks at me. Not anymore. Or if they do, it is with scorn. As if I am ugly. Because now they only see a Jewish girl. And all Jews are ugly. That is what they are told. That is what they see in stupid films like Le Juif Süss, and in stupid exhibitions like Le Juif et la France at the Palais Berlitz. There were many images of le Juif at that horrible exhibition. We have dirty hair and big, bent noses. We are ugly. We are scary. We are big hairy spiders drinking the blood of France. We are sewage polluting this land.

And now the French boys believe all these lies. I used to be Charlie the fiery girl, Charlie the funny girl, Charlie the girl full of joie de vivre, Charlie the girl with fire in her eyes. Now I am just Charlie, le Juif girl. Now I am just an ugly hairy spider.

Of course I know these are all lies. But sometimes you hear a lie so often, you come to believe it. You get treated ugly for too long, and one day suddenly you are ugly.

Oh, this is so depressing. Especially on la fête de Saint-Valentin (you Americans call it Valentine’s Day).

Back to a brighter topic. Your sketches! They are so wonderful. Promise me one thing, okay, Alex? Promise you’ll never give up this special talent. Promise you’ll never become just another dentist. Because there’ll always be enough dentists in the world. But there’ll never be enough true artists. And it is Art that touches souls and moves hearts, that makes the world a deeper, warmer place. I wish I could say more but Maman is banging on my door, saying we must depart for synagogue. Bye!

Your friend,

Charlie

P.S. Happy la fête de Saint-Valentin!!

* * *

15 February 1942

Dear Alex,

Synagogue yesterday was even emptier than last week. Papa and Maman argued all the way home. Maman says we must leave Paris. She says it is too dangerous here, and that we must flee like our friends. She says, we have money, we have Monsieur Schäfer, we have opportunity. But Papa does not want to leave. He says Maman and I should go to Nice, but he must stay behind to look after the factory and apartment. Maman says she will not leave without him. But he says he will never leave. Maman calls him a fool. Papa calls her stubborn. And then she says he’s the stubborn one.

And back and forth they go.

I agree with Papa. Because this is my city and I love it like it is my family. I love the obvious things like the Eiffel Tower, the Grands Travaux of Mitterrand, the beautiful walls of the Sacré-Coeur at sunset, eating foie gras at the Café de la Paix. But also smaller thing, too: reading books at Gibert Jeune, looking into a bakery in Marais at the macarons on display, haggling with the bouquinistes at the Seine bookstalls. Worship service at my synagogue, the smell of wet cobblestones after a hot summer rain. I do not ever want to leave Paris.

But this afternoon as I walked around, I realized something. Paris feels different. Not only because of so many swastika flags flying everywhere, or the German bottes doing their stupid exercises on the Champ-de-Mars parade ground. But as I walked in the cold rain I realized that Paris has changed in a deeper way: she’s lost her vitalité. She’s somehow become a stranger to me. She was once the Ville des Lumières but now she’s only the Ville Éteinte.

Last night I heard a song on the BBC radio (shh! don’t tell anyone). Oscar Hammerstein’s “The Last Time I Saw Paris.” This line, Alex: “Her streets are where they were, but there’s no sign of her.”

I do not cry often. I think it is a weakness. In my Jane Eyre book I have underlined a sentence maybe a hundred times: “Even for me, life has its gleams of sunshine.”

I like this sentence. It reminds me to always find beauty even in ugly places. To not cry sad tears but to smile with brave, happy lips. And the truth is there are many gleams of sunshine in my life: my big apartment, my records, Walter de la Mare’s poetry; soap and coal to avoid the chilblains; meat we can still buy in the black market at Aubergenville, milk, even if it is tinn

ed, lemonade and orangeade at the Luxembourg Gardens.

But last night after the song my eyes became very wet. Paris is gone. Everything has changed, everything has gone dark.

Maybe we should leave.

Alone,

Charlie