had nearly used up the pile of paper when finally their names were called and they filed down the gangplank of the ship and into a building where they waited again, in a windowless, low-ceilinged room. Customs inspectors rummaged through each of their bags. Then a stern-looking man examined the forms and asked the adults even more questions, which were translated into strange-sounding French by the bored-looking man next to him. Gustave’s attention wandered but snapped back when he heard, “Your family may now enter the country.”
Papa kissed Maman joyfully. Aunt Geraldine liftedGiselle high into the air. “We made it!” Gustave said, grinning at Jean-Paul. “We’re in America!”
Outside, the sky had clouded over, and an early dusk was falling, but the clash of metal and the shouts of dock-workers still rang out. Papa tapped Gustave on the shoulder. “Get ready—you tell the cabdriver where to take us.”
“Me?”
“Sure. Your English is the best.”
When a yellow taxi pulled up, the driver leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Where to?” he shouted.
“We go to…to trrren stah-syohn,” Gustave said shakily in English, climbing in.
The driver scowled at Gustave in the rearview mirror. “Which train station?”
Gustave looked at him blankly.
The cabdriver barked something else that Gustave didn’t understand. Then he looked at Papa and repeated the question, sounding irritated. Papa nodded at Gustave.
“Trrren stah-syohn…” Gustave hesitated. “New York?” The driver sighed breathily and pulled into the street, honking at a truck in front of them and muttering to himself. Gustave caught the word “stupid,” but he still felt a rush of pride. He had spoken English in America to a complete stranger—and it had worked!
He watched the streets of Baltimore blur by the windows of the cab. White marble steps gleamed through the dusk.
After a few miles, the driver pulled into a taxi line in front of an imposing white building. An illuminatedclock on the front of the station spilled golden light out onto the street. In front of the building, an American flag waved proudly against the darkening blue of the sky. At the bottom of the flagpole, two men were working the pulley to bring it down for the night.
As soon as the taxi came to a stop, Jean-Paul and Gustave jumped out and started unloading bags, and Papa paid the taxi driver. A freezing drizzle was starting to come down. Behind them, another cab pulled up, and Gustave saw that Monsieur Benoit and some of the other French refugees his family had met on the ship had squeezed in together. Gustave tapped Papa and whispered urgently, “I need to find the toilets.”
“Run on ahead,” Papa said. “We can manage with the bags.”
Shielding his face from the rapidly intensifying rain, Gustave ran toward the station doors. On the side of the building, he saw a sign with some words he didn’t know, but also an arrow and the English word RESTROOMS . He ran down the cement stairs and through a door marked MEN .
He was hit by a smell so strong that it made his eyes sting. The room was cold and lit by a single bare lightbulb. An overflowing trash can stood in the corner next to a chipped sink with an empty soap dish. As Gustave washed his hands with water afterward, he noticed that two men, both of them
africains
, had come in. He had only ever seen Africans in France once—a group with instrument cases in front of a theater in Paris. Gustaveglanced curiously at their dark skin for a moment, until he noticed that they were both looking at him strangely. He rubbed his hands dry on his shirt and hurried out, glad to be breathing the fresh air.
At the top of the cement stairs, two women with elegantly coiffed blond hair were stepping out of a cab, holding umbrellas in their white-gloved hands. Both of them stared at Gustave. The taller one murmured something inaudible to her companion, then shot Gustave an unmistakable look of disgust. Gustave
Papa kissed Maman joyfully. Aunt Geraldine liftedGiselle high into the air. “We made it!” Gustave said, grinning at Jean-Paul. “We’re in America!”
Outside, the sky had clouded over, and an early dusk was falling, but the clash of metal and the shouts of dock-workers still rang out. Papa tapped Gustave on the shoulder. “Get ready—you tell the cabdriver where to take us.”
“Me?”
“Sure. Your English is the best.”
When a yellow taxi pulled up, the driver leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Where to?” he shouted.
“We go to…to trrren stah-syohn,” Gustave said shakily in English, climbing in.
The driver scowled at Gustave in the rearview mirror. “Which train station?”
Gustave looked at him blankly.
The cabdriver barked something else that Gustave didn’t understand. Then he looked at Papa and repeated the question, sounding irritated. Papa nodded at Gustave.
“Trrren stah-syohn…” Gustave hesitated. “New York?” The driver sighed breathily and pulled into the street, honking at a truck in front of them and muttering to himself. Gustave caught the word “stupid,” but he still felt a rush of pride. He had spoken English in America to a complete stranger—and it had worked!
He watched the streets of Baltimore blur by the windows of the cab. White marble steps gleamed through the dusk.
After a few miles, the driver pulled into a taxi line in front of an imposing white building. An illuminatedclock on the front of the station spilled golden light out onto the street. In front of the building, an American flag waved proudly against the darkening blue of the sky. At the bottom of the flagpole, two men were working the pulley to bring it down for the night.
As soon as the taxi came to a stop, Jean-Paul and Gustave jumped out and started unloading bags, and Papa paid the taxi driver. A freezing drizzle was starting to come down. Behind them, another cab pulled up, and Gustave saw that Monsieur Benoit and some of the other French refugees his family had met on the ship had squeezed in together. Gustave tapped Papa and whispered urgently, “I need to find the toilets.”
“Run on ahead,” Papa said. “We can manage with the bags.”
Shielding his face from the rapidly intensifying rain, Gustave ran toward the station doors. On the side of the building, he saw a sign with some words he didn’t know, but also an arrow and the English word RESTROOMS . He ran down the cement stairs and through a door marked MEN .
He was hit by a smell so strong that it made his eyes sting. The room was cold and lit by a single bare lightbulb. An overflowing trash can stood in the corner next to a chipped sink with an empty soap dish. As Gustave washed his hands with water afterward, he noticed that two men, both of them
africains
, had come in. He had only ever seen Africans in France once—a group with instrument cases in front of a theater in Paris. Gustaveglanced curiously at their dark skin for a moment, until he noticed that they were both looking at him strangely. He rubbed his hands dry on his shirt and hurried out, glad to be breathing the fresh air.
At the top of the cement stairs, two women with elegantly coiffed blond hair were stepping out of a cab, holding umbrellas in their white-gloved hands. Both of them stared at Gustave. The taller one murmured something inaudible to her companion, then shot Gustave an unmistakable look of disgust. Gustave
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