Skating with the Statue of Liberty Read Online Free Page A

He ripped open the lining of the man’s coat, pulled something out, shouted, and pushed the man forward. Gustave’s pulse pounded in his temples. What if Maman’s corset with the hidden money crackled? Or what if they felt around carefully and noticed that the stays of the corset were bulkier than they should be?
    Across the aisle Maman sat still, as if frozen, her eyes on the floor. Giselle was still sleeping against Gustave. His thoughts raced. They wouldn’t disturb a woman and a sleeping baby, would they? He slid his hands underneath his baby cousin. Keep sleeping, Giselle! he thought, as if he could will her to stay asleep if he thought it forcefully enough. Don’t wake up!
    Maman lifted her head, and a look flashed betweenher and Gustave as she opened her arms to hold the little girl. Amazingly, Giselle remained asleep as Maman took her onto her lap and pressed her against her waist where the money was hidden. Giselle’s feet, in tiny, scuffed buckle shoes, dangled in the aisle.
    The FBI agents were opening bags, rifling through them, and patting down people two rows ahead. The big-bellied one looked at Gustave and Jean-Paul.
    “Stand up, boys!” he said wearily, as if he were getting bored. Then he looked at Maman and Aunt Geraldine and gestured. “Stand!”
    Maman looked up and smiled, dimpling. She pointed helplessly at Giselle on her lap.
“Le bébé,”
she murmured, closing her eyes and tilting her head to act out sleeping.
    The agent began to pat down Jean-Paul and then Gustave. Gustave felt big, sweaty hands, too close, too personal, on his chest, his legs. Then the agent stood up, sighing, his knees creaking.
    “Oh, fine,” he said to Maman and Aunt Geraldine, nodding. “You ladies stay seated.”
    There were no more passengers from the
Carvalho Araujo
in the seats behind them, only Americans with suspicious eyes, silently staring.
    The big-bellied man made his way back to the front of the train car. He and the other FBI agent took Monsieur Benoit and the second Frenchman by the elbows and steered them, wrists shackled, toward the door of the train. Monsieur Benoit’s hat slipped as he stumbled through the door, and the agent shoved it back onto his gray head, perching it at an odd angle. Gustave clenchedhis fists until his fingernails bit into his palms. He watched through the window as the FBI agents led the two men across the platform to an automobile waiting in the shadows.
    Nobody spoke until the train started forward again and American voices—loud, startled, curious—rose around them, creating a screen of noise.
    “Papa!” Gustave whispered, leaning forward. “Where are they taking him?”
    “To jail, I think, then back to France,” Papa murmured. “For breaking the law by bringing in the gold.”
    “Back to the Nazis?” Jean-Paul’s voice cracked.
    “They must have found something on the other man too,” Aunt Geraldine whispered.
    “Someone must have informed on him,” Gustave said.
    “I bet it was Monsieur Lambert, from our cabin,” Jean-Paul said indignantly. “No one else would be mean enough to do that.”
    Maman looked at Gustave. “That was quick thinking,” she whispered, glancing down at Giselle on her lap.
    Gustave felt a momentary throb of relief. But what if the FBI searched them when they got off the train in New York?
    “Monsieur Benoit was planning to stay with his nephew in Philadelphia, who’s a lawyer,” Papa said. “He gave me the phone number so we could stay in touch. I’ll call his nephew when we get to New York and let him know what happened. Maybe he can help.”
    Gustave’s family fell silent. Around them, the Americans were still talking loudly.
    “Refugees,” Gustave heard a man say. Then from behind him, he heard a woman utter a one-syllable word. It was the first time he had heard the word in English, yet somehow he knew what it meant. He knew that tone of voice. It was the same tone of voice in which he had heard certain people in