White bird, p.1
White Bird,
p.1
ALSO BY R. J. PALACIO
Wonder
365 Days of Wonder
Auggie & Me: Three Wonder Stories
White Bird: A Graphic Novel
Pony
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by R. J. Palacio
Illustrations copyright © 2019 by R. J. Palacio
Afterword copyright © 2019 by Ruth Franklin
Text by Erica S. Perl, adapted from the graphic novel by R. J. Palacio
Inking by Kevin Czap
Cover and Insert: Motion Picture Artwork © 2022 Lions Gate Entertainment Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Photo Credit: Larry Horricks
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. This novelization is based on the graphic novel White Bird: A Wonder Story, text and illustrations copyright © 2019 by R. J. Palacio. Published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2019.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Glossary image credits are located on this page.
“Fourth Elegy: The Refugees,” from The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser. Copyright © 2005 by Muriel Rukeyser. Reprinted by permission of ICM Partners.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9780593566930 (trade) — ISBN 9780593566947 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9780593566954
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Contents
Cover
Also by R. J. Palacio
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Present Day
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Photo Insert
Part Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Epilogue
Afterword
Author’s Note
A Note About the Dedication
Glossary
Suggested Reading List
Organizations and Resources
Bibliography
Glossary Image Credits
White Bird Discussion Guide
Acknowledgments
A Note from Erica S. Perl
About the Authors
For Mollie, her ancestors,
and her descendants
—R.J.P.
For all those who spread their wings, shelter others, and soar toward peace
—E.S.P.
They are the children. They have their games.
They made a circle on a map of time, skipping they entered it, laughing lifted the agate.
I will get you an orange cat, and a pig called Tangerine.
The gladness-bird beats wings against an opaque glass.
There is a white bird in the top of the tree.
They leave their games, and pass.
—Muriel Rukeyser, “Fourth Elegy: The Refugees”
PROLOGUE
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
—George Santayana
PRESENT DAY
“Julian, no more video games. Do your homework.”
Julian’s eyes stayed fixed on the screen of his phone. “This is homework,” he replied. “I’m FaceTiming Grandmère for my humanities project.”
Julian’s mother raised an eyebrow. Her son rarely called his grandmother for any reason, and this was the first she was hearing of a school project. She was tempted to see if Julian was pulling a fast one on her. But then she heard the sound of the call ringing on the other end, so she left the room and closed the door. The phone continued to ring, and Julian was about to hang up and start another video game when he heard a familiar voice answer.
“Allô? Allô?”
A face swam into view. It was Grandmère, all right. Julian’s grandmother showed few signs of slowing down as she got older. For her, it was a point of pride. Bright lipstick and chic clothing told the world that she remained a force to be reckoned with. So did her tendency to speak her mind. She was a woman of strong opinions.
“Hey, Grandmère!” replied Julian.
“Allô?” came back in response. “Allô? Julian, is that you?”
Of course, she knew it had to be Julian—no one else called her Grandmère. To the rest of the world, she was Madame Albans or Sara. She poked at the screen in frustration, able to hear but not see her grandson. Despite her best efforts, technology seemed to look for ways to betray her. Sometimes the inadvertent push of a wrong button would end the call completely. Other times, the caller would sound like he was at the bottom of a well. This was not entirely unexpected when the caller lived in New York City, as Julian did. After all, an ocean separated his home from her apartment in Paris.
“Grandmère, you have to look into the phone!” Julian instructed her. “And put your glasses on!” he added.
Dutifully, she did, and was rewarded by the sight of her grandson’s sweet brown eyes. At least, one of them. The boy needed his hair cut, she noticed. Julian’s bangs hung over his eyebrows, obscuring his handsome young face. Had they been in the same room, she might have reached over and brushed them out of the way with her hand. She might even have taken him to her hairdresser, Marcel, for a quick trim. But with all the miles separating them, she chose to ignore his mop top and focus instead on the fact that her grandson was calling her—a rare treat.
“Oh! There you are!” she said brightly. “I see you now. Allô, mon cher! How are you? How is the new school?”
Her question was weighted with meaning. Julian had recently transferred schools, and not for the best of reasons. The idea was to give him a chance at a fresh start. Whether that would actually happen was mostly in Julian’s hands, and they both knew it.
“It’s okay. I like it,” he said. “I mean, I miss Beecher Prep and all. But I still feel really bad about…well, you know…” He looked away for a moment, as if trying to find the words. Or perhaps lost in a memory.
“…some of the stuff I did,” he finally said.
His grandmother’s heart went out to him. She had learned some of the details of his disastrous fifth-grade year from her son and his wife, who had been quick to blame others. They claimed that there had been incidents—misunderstandings, really, to hear them tell it—and that the school had let several children off the hook, but not Julian. It was not until a family trip to Paris that the full details came out. Julian told his grandmother a different story from the one his parents had shared—one in which Julian was less of a victim and more of an active participant in all that had transpired. His sense of remorse impressed his grandmother. It also gave her hope that her grandson might be ready to take full advantage of the fresh start he had been offered.
Julian propped his elbow on the table, leaned into his hand, and sighed. “Sometimes I wish I could go back in time. Or have a do-over, you know?”
Grandmère nodded. She wanted to reach through the phone and hug him. For, of course, she knew only too well.
“Oh yes, mon cher,” she told him. “We all have those kinds of regrets. Just remember: we are not defined by our mistakes, but by what we do after we’ve learned from them. D’accord?”
Julian shook his hair out of his eyes, and his grandmother noticed a wave of relief pass across his face.
“Okay, Grandmère. Thanks,” he said. “I’m actually calling you today because of school. I have a
“Me? I’m so flattered!” replied Grandmère. She found it humorous that young people often assumed their elders to be out of step, out of touch, and out of fashion. “When, in fact,” she had said to Julian on more than one occasion, “we have lived long enough to see that everything your generation thinks of as new is simply a recycled version of something we’ve seen many times before.”
But then her grandson said something even more surprising.
“I want to share your story, from when you were a little girl, during the war.”
“Hmm, I see,” Grandmère said quietly.
Julian began talking quickly, sensing her reluctance. “I want to write about you and Tourteau, Grandmère,” he said. “I know you told me the story already, the last time I visited you. But this time I’d like to record you. And I was thinking, maybe you could give me more details.”
“Hmm…,” Grandmère said again. She was trying to make up her mind. Julian was right, of course. She had long wanted to tell him the whole story of her past, once he was old enough to hear it. On his most recent visit to Paris, the right moment had finally come. And yet, as important as it felt to share her past with her grandson, she had stopped short of telling him everything. She’d held back some of the pieces, just for herself.
Is he ready for me to share all of it? she wondered. And am I?
“Oh, Julian,” she said, trying to figure out how to explain her complicated feelings. It felt strange to be at a loss for words. “This is a lovely idea,” she finally said, “but…it’s hard for me to talk about these things.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Julian, worry flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he added. “It’s okay. We don’t have to—”
And in that moment, Grandmère decided. It wasn’t that she was moved by his wanting to spare her the pain of reliving the memories. It was actually the opposite—his willingness to say forget it and shift the conversation to more pleasant topics gave her the nudge she needed.
“No,” she said firmly. “We should talk about it, mon cher. Even if it is hard. In fact, because it is hard. Because your generation needs to know these things.”
She paused, took off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. Fine, she told herself. I’ll do this. But—how?
“All right,” she continued, replacing her spectacles and trying to shake off the sensation of walking through fog. There was a path here, somewhere, but could she find it without a road map? “I will tell you the story, Julian. The whole story, even the parts I have never told anyone before.”
“Are you sure, Grandmère?” asked Julian.
“Yes, mon cher. I am,” she told him, trying to project a confidence she didn’t quite feel. “Julian, those were dark times, absolutely. Yet what has stayed with me the most for all these years is not the darkness but the light. That is the story I want to share with you.”
She took a deep breath.
“ ‘Once upon a time’ is how most fairy tales begin,” Grandmère explained to Julian. “That is how I will start my story, too, because my life truly began as a fairy tale. I wasn’t a princess, and I didn’t live in a palace or have a closet full of silk ball gowns, mind you. But, looking back, I had everything that mattered and more. Much more.”
She took a sip of water. And then she poured herself a small glass of red wine. “I grew up in a town called Aubervilliers-aux-Bois in the French countryside, near the Margeride mountains.” She picked up a framed photograph on her desk and toyed with it. The quaint village square depicted on it reminded her of those days. “It was, at the time, a very happy life. I had wonderful parents. A beautiful home. Many friends. Nice clothing. Toys. I even had an upright piano to play, which felt very fancy indeed. To be truthful, I suppose you could say that, well, maybe I was a little spoiled.”
“Maybe a little?” teased Julian.
“Maybe a lot,” Grandmère admitted. “Yes, yes…maybe a lot, mon cher.”
Her voice, Julian couldn’t help but notice, had taken on a kind of distant air, like she was speaking from somewhere far away. This was true, of course, since Grandmère was quite literally far away. But as she spoke of her past, it felt like she was drifting even farther.
“My father was a surgeon,” she continued, so quietly that Julian had to get closer to his phone to hear her. “Dr. Max Blum. He was famous. People came from all over to see him. And my mother was a teacher. She taught math at the university level, which was unheard of in those days—that a woman would teach in a university. But she did….”
She paused, and closed her eyes.
“They were so loving, Julian,” she whispered. “They were so, so loving. And in the beginning, their warm embrace kept me from realizing that all around us, things were starting to change.”
PART ONE
The birds know mountains that we have not dreamed….
—Muriel Rukeyser, “Fifth Elegy: A Turning Wind”
CHAPTER ONE
1930s, France
“Sara? Sara, are you ready to go?”
I spun around in an exasperated circle, watching the skirt of my new dress flare out. “Papa, how can you ask that? I’ve been ready for hours,” I told him.
“Hours?” He raised a dubious eyebrow.
I nodded. “Yes, hours. Can we go now?”
“In a moment, when your mother is ready. Where’s your coat and hat?” asked Papa.
I groaned dramatically. “It’s spring, Papa. I don’t need my coat and hat.”
Papa put on his own coat and hat, then folded his arms across his chest. “My dear girl, I am a man of science. The calendar may say it is spring, but look outside and you’ll see that the trees are telling a different story.”
“The trees say I’m fine without my coat and hat,” I informed him.
“Your mother says otherwise, and that’s final,” said Maman, joining us in the front hall. She looked so chic in her red wool coat and matching hat that I abandoned my protest and put mine on, too.
“Fine. Can we go now?” I asked, twirling again for her to admire me. She kissed me on the head, and we set off for the market, the three of us, arm in arm.
This was our family tradition on weekend mornings. We would go for a brisk walk together and do our grocery shopping. I always insisted on walking in the middle. I felt safe and snug between the two of them. I also liked imagining the three of us as a sandwich: my tall, elegant papa and my pretty, sophisticated maman were the two sides of une baguette, and I was un petit morceau de fromage nestled between them.
“Bonjour, Dr. Blum! Bonjour, Madame Blum!” our friends and neighbors would call out as we passed them in the streets. I liked noticing the way the people in our town looked at us. That’s Dr. Blum, I would imagine them telling visitors. He’s an extremely talented surgeon. And his wife is brilliant as well. She teaches at the university! And she was one of the first women in our village to graduate with an advanced degree in mathematics. Aren’t they a handsome couple? That’s their daughter, Sara. A lovely child. She plays piano and has many friends and—
“Sara?”
“Hmm?” I looked up, flustered.
Maman gave me a bemused smile and wagged her finger. “Were you daydreaming again?”
“No! I— Well, maybe,” I admitted.
“It’s not a crime,” Papa assured me. “If anything, it is a sign of intellect. You have a curious mind, Sara. Just like your mother.”
“I think the daydreaming part comes from your father,” said Maman.
We continued on our way. As we did, Papa quietly took my right hand. Soon, Maman slipped her hand into my left. I watched hopefully for a knowing glance to pass across my parents’ faces. Sure enough…
