Presley Daniel - A Whale in Paris

ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright 2018 by Daniel Presley and Claire Polders

Illustrations copyright 2018 by Erin McGuire

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Interior design by Brad Mead

The illustrations for this book were digitally rendered.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Presley, Daniel, author. | Polders, Claire, 1976 author. | McGuire, Erin, illustrator.

Title: A whale in Paris / Daniel Presley and Claire Polders ; illustrated by Erin McGuire.

Description: First edition. | New York : Atheneum, [2018] | Summary: During the German occupation of Paris, Chantal, twelve, spies a whale while fishing with her father in the Seine and is determined to return it to the ocean before the Nazis or starving Parisians can destroy it.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017035841 (print) | ISBN 9781534419155 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781534419179 (eBook)

Subjects: LCSH: FranceHistoryGerman occupation, 19401945Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: FranceHistoryGerman occupation, 19401945Fiction. | WhalesFiction. | Human-animal relationshipsFiction. | Single-parent familiesFiction. | World War, 19391945FranceParisFiction. | Paris (France)History19401944Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.P73 Wh 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017035841

For my parents

D. P.

For Bert Barenholz (19312012),

who survived the war as a Jewish boy

C. P.

T he year was 1944 and the Germans had been the guests of Paris for nearly four years.

Well, not guests exactly, but that was what Papa called them. Chantal Duprey knew better than to take him seriously. After all, fathers use humor to hide the truth. Or spare your feelings. Or avoid difficult questions. Or cheer you up.

At least, her father did.

The night was the third of June, two weeks after her twelfth birthday, and Chantal was sitting in the dark beside Papa on the rivers embankment, a fishing rod in her hand. Ever since the Germans became the guests of Paris, she and Papa had gone out after sunset to fish for salmon in the Seine. Winter or spring. At least three nights a week.

Papa was a fishmonger.

Before the war, fresh fish had arrived by the bucketful on trains and trucks from Normandy. The Duprey market cart was always full. Now, under the German occupation, they had to catch fish themselves.

Chantal stared at her unflinching line, the stubborn bobber floating on the surface. Go on, fish, bite! Bite, I tell you. She willed her bobber to sink, or even just to quiver. It wasnt working. No matter how much muscle she poured into her will, there was no ripple, no movement, no luck.

The night was still and stretching. As usual, Chantal and Papa didnt talk. They sat quietly side by side, wrapped up in their own minds.

In her mind was Mama, patiently teaching Chantal a new chord on the ukulele. What Papa was thinking was anyones guess, but she assumed that her mother made an appearance in his mind too.

The bells of Notre Dame chimed the hourmidnight.

Time to fill the bucket, Papa said.

But we havent caught any fish yet.

They need to know that the bucket is full, and then they will come.

Chantal made her skeptical face. Papa always did this, sending her to the rivers edge. A smart girl like you shouldnt fear the water, he often told her.

Papa didnt understand about the water and how it called to her in a sweet voice. A voice in her mind. Chantal never feared falling in. She feared that once she was in the water, she wouldnt want to leave it ever again.

It was in the water that Mama waited.

Chantal picked up the steel bucket and climbed down the sloping embankment. With the moon hiding behind a cloud, the Seine was practically black, prickling only with occasional torchlight from other anglers farther down on the opposite side of the river.

The water was low for this time of year. It hadnt rained much in April and May. Chantal wondered whether that was the reason they werent catching any fish.

Are there fewer salmon in the river when the water is low?

Are the fish less likely to bite?

Chantal tied her rope to the bucket and lowered it into the river, careful not to clang it against the stone and scare potential fish away. She also made sure not to let the bucket sink too deeply, for if it did, the current would catch it, and the bucket would be heavy and difficult for her to haul up.

The moon emerged. She could make out the shapes of the roofs on the other side of the river. The windows of the houses were all dark because of the night patrols. Before the war, Paris had been known as the City of Lights. Now, all the street lamps were off, and the windows were blocked by curtains that had once been rugs or blankets.

The bucket filled with water, and more water, until it was time to reel it in. Just as she pulled the rope, she heard a deep rumbling sound coming from the water. A low thrum smudging the silence.

Her chest chilled as if shed swallowed a chunk of ice.

This wasnt Mamas voice, the sweet voice Chantal usually heard in her mind. This voice was completely different. All of her concentrated on listening.

Grrrrrooool-th-th-th! echoed off the stone walls built high along the Seine.

The sound vibrated every nerve in her body.

Whos there? she asked.

The sound came again, louder. Grrrrrooool-th-th-th! An outlandish thrum so intense, it created a hole inside of her.

Frightened, she let the rope slip. The bucket plunged deep into the water and began traveling downstream.

Oh no!

Chantal held on to the rope and gave it a tentative tug. Nothing. She yanked and strained. The bucket wouldnt budge. Finally, she fastened her end of the rope to a metal cleat used to moor boats.

The rope went taut and shivered with tension.

Intrigued, Chantal plucked the rope. It gave off a low note, like the bass string of Mamas ukulele.

Grrrrrooool, went the low sound in the water, as though in reply.

Impossible , she thought, squinting through the dark.

She plucked the rope twice.

Grrrrrooool, grrrrrooool, went the sound, broadening and deepening between the stone embankments.