We speak French, but we aren't French.

We live in France, but we're really Polish.

All our relatives are Jews, so we are Jews.

And even though we like celebrations, we won't have Christmas in our home.

Not ever.

War Comes.

One warm September day, Mama comes to get me early from school.

"We're going to meet Papa," she says.

I am so excited to leave, I don't ask why.

Mama and I go to the square in front of our apartment, the one with the green fountain.

Papa is there with his newspaper, reading.

He kisses us both.

His brown eyes, often shining, are serious today.

Mama sits down next to him on a bench.

"Go and play, Odette," Papa says.

Mama gives me some stale bread to feed the pigeons.

She and Papa talk in low, worried voices, but I hear two words, "war" and "Poland."

The pigeons pick and peck in the dappled light around the splashing fountain.

I scatter crumbs for them.

Then I pass by the gypsies who are always there and look at the statue of a man.

He leans forward on his knee with his chin propped up on his hand.

Papa once told me he's called The Thinker.

What are his thoughts?

Is he worried about war and Poland?

Or does he wonder what I wonder ...

why doesn't he have any clothes on?

That night, I lie in bed under my yellow blanket.

I rub the holy medals of saints stitched around it.

Strong Saint Christopher and brave Saint Michael will keep me safe, Madame Marie told me when she gave it to me.

Mama doesn't think this is true, but she lets me keep the medals anyway.

"Your godmother made that blanket for you out of love,"

Mama says.

I listen to my parents' murmurs in the next room.

Here's what they are talking about: war, again.

I think the soldiers we saw on the cinema's screen are marching closer now.

Are they coming to get us?

The Dark.

I tell Madame Marie about those soldiers and how afraid I am of them.

"I was afraid of things too, when I was a little girl," she says.

"What were you afraid of?" I ask her.

She closes her eyes and sits for a while in thought, her sewing in her lap.

Then she opens them again and licks her thread to sharpen it for her needle.

"The dark," she says, "and big dogs."

"Oh, I am afraid of the dark and big dogs too," I say, "but I am more afraid of the soldiers!"

Madame Marie's eyes meet mine.

Slowly she nods her head.

She understands everything.

Papa Goes Away.

Hitler and his soldiers are called Nazis.

Papa can't wait to fight them!

As soon as the war begins, he and Uncle Hirsch and Uncle Motl all try to join the French army.

Uncle Motl has five children, so the army sends him home.

But Papa and Uncle Hirsch have only one child each, me and my cousin Sophie.

Before long, they are allowed to join.

I help Papa pack his things.

I put his gray socks and striped underwear and razor in the bottom of the brown canvas bag Madame Marie made for him.

Papa puts his favorite book, his blue dictionary, on top.

"When I come back," he tells me, "I will know every single word in this book!"

I try to smile, but I don't care about Papa's dictionary as much as he does.

What I wonder is, who will read to me now from his Encyclopedia of Learning?

Who will show me the teepees of the American Indians, the huge scary dinosaurs that lived so long ago, and the twins and fish that hide in the starry skies?

Mama is always busy.

I already know who will read the Encyclopedia to me.

Nobody.

No Eggs or Milk, No Jews or Dogs.

Aunt Georgette and my cousin Sophie come to live with us.

I like Sophie.

She shares all her outgrown clothes and toys with me.

Sophie and I listen under the table while our mothers talk.

Fear is in their voices.

They always talk about the same things: their husbands are far away, and food is getting harder and harder to find.

We dream of eggs, milk, and butter, but most of all real bread ...

the kind we eat now tastes like sawdust.

Some people say it is made of sawdust!

"French bread," says Mama, with a groan.

"Only the name is the same as it was before!"

"Mama?" I say.

I know I shouldn't interrupt, but I'm hungry.

"What now, Odette?" she asks.

"Can't you be quiet for even one minute?"

Then she looks at my face and she's sorry.

She gives my cousin and me each a cookie.

After that, she and Aunt Georgette talk in their old language, Yiddish.

Sophie and I can't understand the words, but we understand fear.

It's still there, in their voices.

Later, Sophie and I walk to the park.

A sign at the gate says, NO DOGS OR JEWS ALLOWED.

Plenty of children are playing inside.