Skating with the Statue of Liberty Read Free Page A

sidled past. Just beyond them a broad-shouldered young man with his collar turned up muttered something that sounded like a curse and spat onto the sidewalk in front of Gustave’s feet.
    A flash of memory hit Gustave. A French street and a shouting woman with a snarling face. Marcel and Jean-Paul running ahead of him through the rain. Spit dripping down his bare leg.
“Sale juif.” Dirty Jew
.
    But he couldn’t understand why that would be happening here. Feeling bewildered, he ran toward the front of the building, where his family was standing with the other French refugees, surrounded by suitcases and trunks. Monsieur Benoit watched Gustave approach. Jean-Paul, who was squatting down to talk to a sleepy Giselle, straightened up.
    “Where are the toilets?” he asked. “I need them too.”
    Gustave turned to point, but Monsieur Benoit interrupted. “Not there. Did you use those? They’re the wrong ones.”
    “No, it was the men’s room, I’m sure.”
    “Gustave, you went into the women’s room?” Maman asked, amused. “I know English is hard to understand, but it isn’t
that
hard, when you see women there!”
    “No!” exclaimed Gustave. “I didn’t!”
    “But didn’t you notice that people were looking at you in a funny way?” Monsieur Benoit asked.
    “The sign said MEN ,” Gustave insisted. “There were other men in there.” He looked down the dark side of the building. One of the African men was just coming up the steps.
    “See?” said Gustave.
    “Look at the sign again,” said Monsieur Benoit.
    Gustave peered through the dusk at the sign above the cement stairs. It
did
say MEN . But above that was a word that Gustave had ignored because he didn’t know it. In crude, block print, the sign read COLORED .

3
    “ C olored?” Gustave sounded out the English word.
    “What does that mean?”
    Monsieur Benoit cleared his throat. “The Americans have separate toilets for ‘whites’ and ‘coloreds.’ ”
    “Which are we?”
    “We’re…In America, Jews are considered ‘white.’ You should use the other toilets. ‘Colored’ is what the Americans call Africans. Or ‘Negro’—I believe that’s the more polite word.”
    “Why are there different toilets?”
    “It’s just the custom here, in the South. On one of my trips here before the war, someone told me about it,” Monsieur Benoit said. “You won’t see it farther north, when you’re in New York.”
    “But…”
    Papa flipped the timetable shut. “Gustave, we need to hurry! The train leaves in twenty minutes. Help bringthe bags in and see if you and Jean-Paul can find the right toilets.”
    The men’s room off the waiting room was heated and larger than the one outside the building. As Gustave waited for Jean-Paul, he washed his hands with soap, studying the brilliant white basins and shiny mirrors gleaming under bright lights. It was a lot cleaner than the bad-smelling room where he had been a few minutes ago.
    When the boys left the men’s room, the grand, high-ceilinged train station lobby was filled with echoing sound. It had gotten crowded and was now full of soldiers wearing khaki-colored military uniforms. He felt a surge of panic. They’re American soldiers, Gustave told himself, as he and Jean-Paul hurried across the vast room to join their parents and they all went down the stairs to the track. They’re on our side. But his breath came fast.
    The train was packed. Sweating in their winter coats, squeezing their bags between the full seats, they made their way to the back of the train. Finally, they came to a car with a few empty seats and watched as the other French passengers ahead of them stowed their bags and sat down.
    Papa and Monsieur Benoit took two seats together, and Aunt Geraldine and Maman sat in the two behind them. The seats across the aisle were empty. Gustave heaved the suitcase he was carrying onto the luggage rack.
    Jean-Paul pushed ahead. “I call the window seat!” he said. “Want to