was trying to follow Mrs. McVittie’s instruction about observing, and she told herself to remember this.
They decided it would be quicker to be big again, since Louisa’s room was near the other end of the corridor. Jack took the metal square out of his pocket.
He held out his hand, the square in his palm. Luckily, this time the process seemed faster, with no stopping or slowing in the middle. Perhaps the thing was just getting warmed up.
At E27, Ruthie reached into her bag, lifted out the string ladder, and hung it from the ledge. “I’ve got the clothes in here too.” She pulled out the tightly folded dress for her and the shirt and pants for Jack. They turned their backs to change, not facing each other until they both said, “Ready.”
Ruthie looked at Jack and was surprised at how the 1930s clothing changed him.
Jack looked at Ruthie and said, “Weird!”
“Our shoes are all wrong. I couldn’t fit the vintage ones in my messenger bag,” Ruthie said.
“We’ll just say they’re what everyone in America wears,” Jack advised. “If anyone cares. Let’s get small.”
They held hands, and Jack put the square in her free one. The breeze began, their new “old” clothes adjusted, and they shrank even more smoothly, more like with Christina’s key. The magic in the square seemed fully awakened now.
They scampered up the ladder and climbed onto the ledge. Peering around the framework, they could see the roof garden of the beautiful Parisian library. No one in the gallery was looking at that moment, so they dashed across the room and out the door to the balcony. They flew down and around the spiral staircase, barely making contact with the steps. In no time they were out on the sidewalks of Paris.
Except for their sneakers, Ruthie and Jack looked as if they belonged among the Parisians of 1937. The streets were filled with people, just as they had been the last time, only now the two barely took note, wanting to find Louisa as fast as they could. They made their way quickly to the Jardins du Trocadéro and down the broad steps, and then they took a right turn to find Louisa’s street, rue Le Tasse.
“Do you remember the address?” Jack asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was number seven. And she said it was the second from the end,” Ruthie answered.
They passed eight or nine doorways, each of beautifully carved wood. They were all quite large and most had big, round brass knobs centered right in the middle, nothing like American front doors. Every door was unique; some had fine carvings, others were rather plain. They came to number seven and saw the metal nameplate next to a door buzzer.
“There it is—‘Meyer, fourth floor,’ ” Ruthie read. Jack lifted his finger to push, but Ruthie grabbed his arm. “Wait—we haven’t even planned what we’re going to say to them.”
Jack shrugged. “Easy. We’ll say our dad is a businessman—”
“What kind of businessman?” Ruthie interrupted. “Import-export,” he said off the top of his head.
“What’s that?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like; buying and selling stuff from different countries. I’m sure it will work. Anyway, we’ll tell them our dad talks to important businesspeople all over the world. We’ll say that when we told him we met Louisa in the park the other day, he said he hoped they weren’t planning on staying in Paris, that Jewish people need to go to England or the United States as soon as they can to be safe from the Nazis. Simple.”
“What if they don’t believe us?”
“If we don’t ring this doorbell, we’ll never find out if they believe us or not.” He pushed the button.
They waited. Jack pushed the button once more. Noanswer. And then a third time. Neither one of them had considered the possibility that no one would be home.
Just then, a woman leaned out of the ground-floor window right next to where they were standing. She was a rough-looking woman, her weathered face a stark contrast to
They decided it would be quicker to be big again, since Louisa’s room was near the other end of the corridor. Jack took the metal square out of his pocket.
He held out his hand, the square in his palm. Luckily, this time the process seemed faster, with no stopping or slowing in the middle. Perhaps the thing was just getting warmed up.
At E27, Ruthie reached into her bag, lifted out the string ladder, and hung it from the ledge. “I’ve got the clothes in here too.” She pulled out the tightly folded dress for her and the shirt and pants for Jack. They turned their backs to change, not facing each other until they both said, “Ready.”
Ruthie looked at Jack and was surprised at how the 1930s clothing changed him.
Jack looked at Ruthie and said, “Weird!”
“Our shoes are all wrong. I couldn’t fit the vintage ones in my messenger bag,” Ruthie said.
“We’ll just say they’re what everyone in America wears,” Jack advised. “If anyone cares. Let’s get small.”
They held hands, and Jack put the square in her free one. The breeze began, their new “old” clothes adjusted, and they shrank even more smoothly, more like with Christina’s key. The magic in the square seemed fully awakened now.
They scampered up the ladder and climbed onto the ledge. Peering around the framework, they could see the roof garden of the beautiful Parisian library. No one in the gallery was looking at that moment, so they dashed across the room and out the door to the balcony. They flew down and around the spiral staircase, barely making contact with the steps. In no time they were out on the sidewalks of Paris.
Except for their sneakers, Ruthie and Jack looked as if they belonged among the Parisians of 1937. The streets were filled with people, just as they had been the last time, only now the two barely took note, wanting to find Louisa as fast as they could. They made their way quickly to the Jardins du Trocadéro and down the broad steps, and then they took a right turn to find Louisa’s street, rue Le Tasse.
“Do you remember the address?” Jack asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was number seven. And she said it was the second from the end,” Ruthie answered.
They passed eight or nine doorways, each of beautifully carved wood. They were all quite large and most had big, round brass knobs centered right in the middle, nothing like American front doors. Every door was unique; some had fine carvings, others were rather plain. They came to number seven and saw the metal nameplate next to a door buzzer.
“There it is—‘Meyer, fourth floor,’ ” Ruthie read. Jack lifted his finger to push, but Ruthie grabbed his arm. “Wait—we haven’t even planned what we’re going to say to them.”
Jack shrugged. “Easy. We’ll say our dad is a businessman—”
“What kind of businessman?” Ruthie interrupted. “Import-export,” he said off the top of his head.
“What’s that?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like; buying and selling stuff from different countries. I’m sure it will work. Anyway, we’ll tell them our dad talks to important businesspeople all over the world. We’ll say that when we told him we met Louisa in the park the other day, he said he hoped they weren’t planning on staying in Paris, that Jewish people need to go to England or the United States as soon as they can to be safe from the Nazis. Simple.”
“What if they don’t believe us?”
“If we don’t ring this doorbell, we’ll never find out if they believe us or not.” He pushed the button.
They waited. Jack pushed the button once more. Noanswer. And then a third time. Neither one of them had considered the possibility that no one would be home.
Just then, a woman leaned out of the ground-floor window right next to where they were standing. She was a rough-looking woman, her weathered face a stark contrast to
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