Anne Frank and Me by Cherie Bennett Page A

door.
    â€œTake your identity card,” Mme. Bernhardt called.
    â€œI’m only going—”
    â€œNicole ...” Her mother’s voice held an unspoken three-part warning, one that Nicole had heard voiced many times before.
    It’s always dangerous.
    You must always carry your identity card.
    You must always be careful because you are a Jewish girl.
    Irritated, Nicole got her book bag. It contained the identity card that said that she was a French citizen and had the word Jew stamped on it in disgusting red letters. Then she ran down the two flights to the Einhorns’ flat. At least going to Claire’s meant going somewhere, which Nicole figured was better than staying locked up in her own flat like some kind of caged animal.
    According to Mme. Bernhardt, she and Claire had once been good friends, but had drifted apart when Claire’s parents sent her to a Jewish academy several years before. Nicole found Claire immature and unsophisticated, compared with her “real” friends. But at least Claire understood what it felt like to be singled out as a Jew.
    Nicole knocked. Mme. Einhorn opened the door. Her thin face broke into a smile. The Einhorns’ dog, an annoying toy poodle named Bon-Bon, began barking, jumping up and down with excitement.
    â€œDown, Bon-Bon. Bad dog!” Mme. Einhorn scolded the dog, then kissed Nicole on each cheek. “You are a mind reader, my dear. Claire is in her bedroom feeling quite tragic. Even her bubbe can’t joke her out of it. Go cheer her up. But say hello to Claire’s bubbe first. You know how she loves you. She’s in her room.”
    Claire’s tiny Polish bubbe, which was Yiddish for grand-mother, was so fond of Nicole that she had asked Nicole to call her Bubbe Einhorn. Since Bubbe Einhorn spoke only Polish and Yiddish, Claire had translated this request into French.
    Nicole couldn’t figure out why Bubbe Einhorn liked her, since they could barely communicate. Still, she dutifully stuck her head into Bubbe Einhorn’s room. The old woman was sitting in a chair, knitting a sweater.
    â€œHello, Bubbe Einhorn.”
    â€œHello, Nicoleh,” Bubbe Einhorn responded fondly, smiling at Nicole. “Ze gut tsu zen a shayn maideleh.”
    Nicole smiled and nodded. The only words she recognized were shayn maideleh, which meant pretty girl in Yiddish. Still, she nodded again politely, excused herself, and walked down to Claire’s room, where she tapped on the door.
    â€œClaire? It’s Nico.”
    â€œCome in.” Claire was lying on her bed, her thick red braids spilling onto her freckled arms.
    â€œYour mother said you were feeling tragic.” Nicole sat on the wooden chair at Claire’s desk. “Me, too.”
    â€œI can’t stand my mother.” Claire scowled. “She’s such a hypocrite. The world is falling apart but in front of me she pretends it isn‘t, as if I am a stupid child who must be protected from reality.”
    â€œMy mother treats me like a child, too.”
    â€œWell, all I have to say is that when I am a mother I will respect my daughter’s intelligence,” Claire said. “Once she turns thirteen, I will allow her to make decisions for herself. Of course, I’ll probably never get married because no boys even like me.”
    Usually Nicole tried to talk Claire out of her negativity, but today she didn’t feel like it. She got up and wandered aimlessly around Claire’s room. Her eyes lit on a magazine photo taped to the wall, of the American movie stars Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Fred was dipping Ginger—her wavy blond hair almost brushed the floor.
    Nicole touched the picture. “I wish I could go dancing.”
    â€œBy the time they let us Jews go dancing again, we’ll be too old to want to,” Claire predicted.
    Irritation crept up the back of Nicole’s neck. “You always look at the dark side,