Tell No One Who You Are by Walter Buchignani Page A

objected.
    “She didn’t even answer when her name was called at the bus stop! She doesn’t know her own name!”
    “Maybe she didn’t hear it,” Madame Carpentier said.
    “Well, she can hear us now,” Jean said. “So why is she just sitting there?”
    Why does he hate me so much? Régine wondered. She felt scared, embarrassed and angry: scared that they would find out her secret, embarrassed about having to pretend to be stupid, and angry at Nicole for getting her into this mess.
    It was not her fault that she could not answer their questions. Nicole had told her nothing about Augusta Dubois. Régine did not even know whether such a person existed. Was her new name borrowed from someone else, or just invented?
    She looked up from her chair and saw that everyone was watching her, waiting for her to say something. She braced herself for more questions. Jean leaned forward, ready to pounce.
    Madame Carpentier sighed, as if she were disappointed. Then she said, “Take Augusta upstairs, Marie, and show her your dolls and books.”
    Régine breathed a sigh of relief. She hopped off the chair and followed the girl upstairs.
    Régine could not sleep that night as the events of the day played over in her mind. She lay on her back and stared into the darkness while Marie slept soundly in the bed next to hers. She thought about Nicole and ground her teeth in silent rage.
    It was not enough to say “I am Augusta Dubois and I come from Marche.” If other people were to believe her, she needed more than that. She needed a ready lie for every question they might ask. Since she couldn’t fall asleep, she turned over on her stomach and began to make up a story about Augusta Dubois.
    It was necessary to think things over very carefully.
    Problem Number One: She knew nothing about Marche. So the best solution was to say she no longer lived there. She could say that she had moved away after the German invasion of Belgium. That was in May 1940, three and a half years ago, so it made sense that she did not remember much about her home town of Marche.
    Problem Number Two: Where had she been living all this time? Régine closed her eyes and imagined the house in Boitsfort. She had lived there with Madame André for a whole year and knew the names of some of the streets. Also, Boitsfort was close to Brussels, which explained why she no longer spoke like the people of Marche.
    There were just a few more questions to anticipate. Why had she been living in Boitsfort? Who was she living with? Where were her parents? The answers came to her in a flash. Her father had been taken away by the Germans as a prisoner of war. Régine had heard the term
prisonnier de guerre
and knew that it applied to soldiers. She could pretend that her father was a soldier. As for her mother, she could say that she too had been taken away, although this would be harder to explain because only men were really taken prisoners of war. Régine would have to think of something else to explain the absence of her mother and why her grandmother in Boitsfort was now taking care of her. But this wouldn’t be too difficult. If anyone asked, Régine could even provide an address in Boitsfort.
    She remembered the game she had played on the parquet floor in the house of Madame André. Now, in the darkness of Marie’s bedroom, she invented a new game. This one had nothing to do with jumping squares. To win the game, she had to convince other people that she really was Augusta Dubois. And if I win, Régine told herself, Papa will come back.

Chapter Twenty-four
    B UT NO ONE in the Carpentier house seemed to believe the story about her grandmother in Boitsfort, least of all Jean. He came to his own conclusion about Régine’s odd behavior. In his mind, there was only one reason why she would act so mysteriously.
    “You have big crooked fingers,” he told Régine at breakfast one day. “Big fingers like dirty Jews.”
    Régine looked at her fingers. Were they dirty? Was she