This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

“What happened?” Alex says when he catches up to Frank.

Frank turns to him. The drained look on his face—it stops Alex cold in his tracks.

“I told you to stay home,” he says, his voice lifeless.

“Frank? What happened? Did you get hurt? Is it your bum ankle again?”

He doesn’t answer. Starts turning back around.

“Frank?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why—”

“Someone on the other team. Or maybe one of their fans.” His voice low, a groan. He looks away. “Somebody called the cops. Said there’s a Jap breaking curfew.”

Alex blinks. “But you’re the quarterback—”

Frank snorts. “At least the cops didn’t take me in. They said it was total baloney but they couldn’t ignore the call. So they drove me home.”

Alex dismounts the bike. “What about Coach Swenson? He just let this happen? He didn’t put up a fight for you?”

Frank shakes his head.

“And your teammates, they—”

“What the hell could they have done?” he snaps.

“They could’ve protested! Could have threatened to walk out!”

His face hardens. “You’re so stupid, Alex.” He starts striding home.

Alex reels backward, stunned. “But Frank—”

“Shut up, Alex!” He stops, spins around. “And don’t bring this up again. Ever again. You get me?”

“Frank—”

“I said shut the hell up!” Spittle flies out of his mouth.

Alex flinches. The football pads on Frank make his already broad shoulders even more imposing. But his face is crumbling, like scaffolding collapsing. Alex has never seen Frank look this way. On the bus three days ago, when Frank first found out about the evacuation, he’d looked like he’d been slapped in the face, kicked in the gut.

But now he looks knifed in the heart.

“Mother doesn’t need to know,” Frank says after a moment, his voice surprisingly quiet. He gazes down the road, to the dark outline of their home. Inside, Mother sleeping and probably dreaming, as she always says she does, of lazy summer afternoons on the tatami mat slurping on zaru soba, the sound of cicadas chirping outside. “She’d worry if she found out. And she’s got enough on her mind.”

Alex nods. He knows now why the police stopped so far from their house. Frank had asked them to. The car’s arrival on the gravel road would have awakened Mother, and seeing her son in a police cruiser would have upset her.

“Okay,” Alex says softly.

The boys head home in silence. Hero walks between the boys, whimpering once or twice. Sensing something is not right.

13

* * *

28 March 1942

Dear Alex,

Something exciting happened!

All day I was in a bad mood. I was thinking I am like that frog in boiling water. I have done nothing but foolishly believe if we give up our radios, obey curfew, stop going to cafés and theaters and parks and swimming pools, stop gathering outside on the streets after synagogue service, if we did all these things, then all this will pass and everything will return to normal.

I got so angry at myself.

And then you know what? I said enough! And I decided at that moment to do something. To resist.

And so I did. I resisted.

It was only a small act. But it felt much bigger. Does this make sense?

I went to the cinema. It was packed. I was lucky to find an empty seat in the very middle. I sat down in the velvet seat. German soldiers were in the very best seats near the front, a whole row of them Boches. Laughing and shouting like they owned the place, like this was their country and we were the visitors. I hated their smart uniforms, their big smiles, their confidence.

But I didn’t do anything. Not then. I waited for the right moment.

The theater lights dimmed. The audience hushed. My heart began to thump so loudly. How could no one else hear it?

The newsreel began. The usual Nazi propaganda nonsense: a loud German voice narrating about German soldiers marching through yet another foreign town; Göring at some stupid ceremony; Hitler visiting the wounded at a hospital. Blaring trumpets proclaiming victory for the Third Reich. On and on.

Two minutes in. Now. Now was the time to stop being a sitting frog. And instead become a frog that leaps out of boiling water.

I clutched the armrests, my fingers turning white. Then I pinched my lips together and … whistled.

It was scary. It was thrilling. It felt r

ighteous.

No one noticed at first. I whistled again, louder this time. A few people near me sat up straighter in their seats, tensing. Heads half turned toward me. But that didn’t stop me. I whistled again. And again. More bodies turned my way.

And then from somewhere else in the dark theater, a wonderful sound: another person whistling. And then a hiss, from the other side of the theater. And before I knew it, there must have been a dozen other people whistling and hissing. An amazing sound.

I sat, covered in cold sweat, with my heart beating hot blood through me. Alex, for the first time in so long, I did not feel powerless. I did not feel invisible. I had substance.

The Nazi officers were furious. They stood up, barked at the audience in German. How dare we do this during the newsreel? But there was little they could do in the darkness. One of them stormed out. When the lights came on a minute later, everyone blinked under the harsh glare. The Germans demanded to know who hissed and whistled. But nobody in the audience spoke up. No one pointed at me, not even the two men sitting on my sides who must have known.

Even now, hours later, my heart is still pounding. All of Paris is asleep but I feel alive for the first time in so long. And now I want to do more. I have heard about a resistance group made up of Jewish teenagers: Éclaireurs Israélites de France. I will do everything I can to find and join them. Because when I am old and look back on this time, I want no regrets. I want to know that in this brief moment of darkness and fear, I was not just a spoilt rich Parisian girl who did nothing. I want to look back and know that I lived courageously, I stood up to evil and made a difference. That I was a leaping frog.

Wonder Woman is gazing down at me now with a look of approval: “Well done, young lady,” she seems to be saying. “You will go far in this world.”

Hazak v’ematz!

Charlie

* * *

(Date illegible)

Dear Charlie,

I wish I could be more like you. I wish I could have the courage to fight back. To be a leaping frog. It’s too late for me now. I sat at the bottom of this pot for too long, naively hoping things would improve on their own. But I know you won’t make the same mistake. You’re a fighter, with spunk. You’re a leaping frog.