Black Radishes by Susan Lynn Meyer

took his slingshot out of his back pocket and flicked a pebble ahead of him, watching it skitter up the road and stop at the top of the hill. He ran to pick it up. Just over the crest of another hill, three boys were kicking a soccer ball around the road. Two of them were about Gustave’s age, and one was several years older. Gustave tucked his slingshot back into his pocket, studied their faces, then walked slowly forward. As he got closer, he heard the word “Boche.” Everyone was talking about the Germans today.
    “They won’t get us,” the tallest boy was saying, exultantly. “We’re on the free side of the line.”
    The ball rolled toward Gustave, and he kicked it back to the boy nearest him, who had a friendly face.
    “Are you new around here?” asked the boy.
    “Yes,” answered Gustave warily.
    But the boy smiled and stretched out his hand. “I’m Henri. That’s Julien”—he indicated the older boy—“and his brother, Luc.”
    Gustave and Henri shook hands. Julien stopped the ball under his right foot and looked at him.
    “Have you seen the line?” Gustave asked them. “Is it on the ground?”
    “Oh, it isn’t a line on the ground,” Henri said, but not as if Gustave were stupid for asking. “My uncle said that in some places, the Boches are putting up barbed wire. In other places, they march along and patrol it. Here, they use the river Cher for the line.”
    “They’re putting up barriers at all the bridges,” Julien explained. “Yesterday, we saw them building one near Saint-Georges. You want to go see?”
    “Sure,” said Gustave.
    They kicked the ball back and forth all the way to the river.
    “Do you go to school in Saint-Georges?” Gustave asked Henri on the way, feeling hopeful. It would be good to know someone friendly who might be in his class in the fall.
    But Henri shook his head. “No, Luc and I both go to boarding school in Lyon. Look, there’s the river.” He picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm. Gathering into a tight group, the boys walked slowly forward.
    At the bridge between Saint-Georges and Chissay, the village across the river, some German soldiers were installing a moving barrier on a post by the side of the road. One of them was painting a recently built shelter. When he smelled the wet paint, Gustave’s feet moved more slowly. Would the Germans be able to tell that he was Jewish? If they could, what would they do? Maybe he should go back to the house. But he wanted to be with the other boys and see what was happening.
    One of the soldiers looked up at the four boys and said something to the man next to him. They went on working. “Cowards,” muttered Julien furiously. Gustave glanced up at Julien’s scowling face. He had the dark shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. Henri murmured in agreement.
    “Be quiet, Julien—they might hear you,” said his younger brother nervously.
    “I just can’t stand them. Those filthy Boches!” said Julien, this time speaking loudly.
    At that, the same soldier lifted his head again. He stood up, picked up his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and strolled toward the boys, smiling slightly. As he got closer, Gustave could see that he was young, although his head was already nearly bald. He was short and slight, but he strutted as he walked, thrusting his chest out each time he took a step forward, like the rooster that lived behind Gustave’s next-door neighbor’s house.
    “Do you have something to say to us, boys?” the German soldier asked. His French sounded foreign, harsh. Gustave wished he could run away, but his knees felt watery. No one said anything.
    “Who said that word, ‘Boche’?” The soldier wasn’t smiling now. His eyes were cold and blue.
    “I did,” said Julien, stepping forward. He held his head high. He was taller than the German soldier.
    “It is against the law to use that word now,” said the soldier. “You know what we do to French people who say it?”
    Julien didn’t