by Cathy Gohlke
Claire groaned.
“Emily.” Peter looked at the carpet, his face as miserable as a boy’s could look. “It was Emily.”
“My Emily?” Firthman sputtered. “You nasty cur, sneakin’ out to lure my innocent girl—”
“She didn’t meet me.” Peter looked up, his flashing eyes angry, hurt. “I wouldn’t have left the note if she’d met me, would I?”
“It was a valentine,” Josef spoke out. “He only wanted to give her a valentine.”
Peter jabbed him again, softly this time.
“You must tell them. It’s better than him thinking you a traitor.” Josef stepped forward. “We’d never help the Nazis. Don’t you know that? We’re Jews!”
Now Douglas Firthman’s color deepened.
“The lad’s got a point, Firthman.” The doctor scratched behind his ear. “They’ve escaped Hitler and his SS by the skins of their teeth. What would any of them have to gain in aiding the enemy?”
“That’s enough for me,” Foley said. “No more signals, young man, or I’ll be running you before the magistrate and fining her ladyship what houses you from her charity. And I’d advise you youngsters to leave off pushing notes in the stone walls. This is not the first worry by villagers that you’re sendin’ notes to enemy conspirators, and I’d rather not be runnin’ down every schoolgirl rosy-posy. Understood?”
But Mrs. Newsome objected. “Sergeant Foley, schoolchildren have left notes for one another in the stone walls for generations. How can you ask them to stop?”
“For their own good, mum, and for mine.”
“Will you ask the same of the village children?” Lady Langford lifted her chin.
“No, I will not, madam, for the simple reason that they’re not Germans. Folks here have had all they want of Germans, and rubbin’ their noses in it by joinin’ in the common culture won’t help. Keep out of local affairs. I’m sayin’ it for their own well-being.”
“And stay away from my Emily!” Firthman jabbed a fierce finger toward Peter. “I’m warnin’ you for the last time.”
Peter lifted his head and spoke clearly. “Because I am German, yes? Or because I am Jewish?”
“I want neither sniffin’ round my girl!”
“Get out.” Lady Langford’s voice trembled but commanded. “Get out of my house, Mr. Firthman, and do not return.”
Firthman crimsoned once more but narrowed his eyes at Lady Langford, enough to make Mrs. Newsome swallow. He slapped his cap against his knee and turned on his heel, storming out the open door. Sergeant Foley touched his fingers to the brim of his cap and left quietly. David closed the door behind him.
“I know you meant no harm, Peter,” Dr. MacDonald spoke low but firmly. “I know you did it for love of a maiden, and despite my venerable age and silver-hued hair, I understand that.” He almost smiled. “But I speak to all of you now. Give the locals no reason to fear or doubt or mistrust ye, insofar as you are able. It will go better for you and for Lady Langford. It could be a long war, and you do not want to make enemies of your hosts. Do I make myself clear?”
Crystal clear, Mrs. Newsome thought. Though by the look in the eyes of the children it was unfair persecution, another singling out, an ostracizing with which they were all too familiar.
Once the crisis and shouting were past, and Dr. MacDonald had fussed aloud over her ladyship needing to go back to bed and taken her by the hand, Claire herded the children to breakfast.
In the quiet, as she walked down the stairs, Mrs. Newsome caught the sound of a soft whimpering. It took but a moment to find the little form huddled behind the covered table nearest the door. “Aimee! What in the world are you doin’ here? Ach, child, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Newsome bent down and took the little girl in her arms. But the child couldn’t stop her sobbing.
“Did all that shouting frighten you, love? Is that it?”
Aimee nodded.
“Well, never you mind, lamb. It’s over now. They’ve gone. That Douglas Firthman is nothing but hot air, and Dr. MacDonald meant well by Peter. He stood up for him as best he knew. And don’t you worry about our ladyship; the doctor will take good care of her. He loves her with all his heart, and he’s just that worried for her; that’s all.” Mrs. Newsome was worried too.
Chapter Seventeen
DR. MACDONALD pronounced Aunt Miranda a new victim of the influenza—“a veritable bad case, and here I’d hoped it had passed her by”—and took to spending wakeful nights on a cot in the hallway outside his Maggie’s room for the remainder of February. Claire didn’t believe he’d have removed himself an inch through the trauma if he hadn’t been urgently called away for births and mumps or injuries accompanied by significant blood loss.
In sharp contrast to bleak February, March brought brilliant branches of forsythia into bloom, reaching sunshine arms to the sky.
Next, tiny emerald blades pushed from beneath the soil and, by April, sprouted buds. At last daffodils lifted golden trumpets while crimson goblets bowed in the wind. Claire tried to get away to her secret, special haunt each day, just to see what new thing had emerged.
But change came not only to the garden. Springtime swept the woods and fells. Sapphire bluebells carpeted the forest floors while rhododendron rioted in every color. Gorse and broom bloomed in golden patches amid tender grass, rich and green thanks to the winter’s snows. Lambs barely a month old dotted the hillsides, rolling and frolicking one minute, then butting their mothers’ sides the next, demanding they let down their milk.
The influenza that had crept through the Lakeland village all winter was finally gone, as if the sudden sun scorched it and the fierce spring wind whisked it away. Even so, Aunt Miranda did not rebound with the strength of the others.
Unable to remain indoors or demand that the children should, Claire led her unruly troops on daily outings, trudging through the woods, into the orchards, and over the fells, encouraging each one to create a nature diary and mark the changing features of the season in words and drawings.
It was a practice that Aunt Miranda had said was popular, even expected, in Victorian and Edwardian days, but no less inspirational now—one that would get them all out of doors.
Just as valuable to Claire, the exercise thwarted the children’s irritability and long-winter cabin fever, bringing roses to all their cheeks.
Claire was astonished to discover the scientific bent, but even more, the serious enthusiasm of the older children for growing things and the laws of nature. It was as if someone had drawn aside a curtain. For the first time they seemed truly eager in their studies, as if entering a new world of their own outside of school or the house.
Ten-year-old Ingrid demonstrated particular gifts in drawing and painting, in addition to her fluid calligraphy. Her joy in collecting flowers, leaves, and bird feathers—in sitting for hours to draw and paint them with just the right hue in the changing light—fascinated Claire.
But it was Aimee who surprised her most. All winter the child had waned, pale and sober, especially since that frightening Hanukkah night. Claire knew Aimee blamed her for the bad men coming, like soldiers, to snuff their candles and march the children from the tower.
Dr. MacDonald had surmised there must have been something in Aimee’s experience or memory, perhaps something she’d seen before leaving France or overheard about the fearful workings of Germany’s Gestapo or brownshirts that had fueled her mind and fears when the officious Home Guard had pretended to arrest the children. He had no other explanation for the change in Aimee.
Aunt Miranda had tried to love and cuddle the child, but she’d not responded and continually squirmed from her arms. Now Aimee was beyond delight over the newborn lambs. She romped and played alone, petting the lambs whenever able to get near, as the other children collected specimens and drew. She picked wildflowers and arranged them in pretty bouquets, often whispering secrets to herself or nearby birds. It was as if she wore two faces, one for humans and one for wildlife.
O
nce, Claire glimpsed a rare and tentative joy in Aimee’s face as she approached. The child headed directly for her with a lovely bouquet, but Claire in that moment turned, needing to stop a fist cuffing between Gaston and Josef. When she’d turned again to Aimee, the child was gone, her pretty bouquet strewn across the ground.
Claire, remembering her faux pas with Aimee and the valentine, which Mrs. Newsome had brought to her attention in no uncertain terms, tried to approach Aimee later that afternoon. But the little girl remained sullen and intent on drawing newborn lambs under Mrs. Newsome’s care. She would not even look at Claire. “They are for Mrs. Heelis. She will want them,” Aimee insisted to Mrs. Newsome, covering her picture so Claire could not see.
Claire sighed. She couldn’t help but feel she’d failed the child again.
“I’ve no idea how to connect with her,” Claire complained that evening to Aunt Miranda over tea in the library. “I can’t seem to do the right thing by her, and I don’t even know what that thing is.”
“Nor do I.” Aunt Miranda pushed an auburn tendril streaked with silver from her creased forehead.
Claire hadn’t noticed when her aunt’s hair had begun to gray.
“Raibeart and David were right. I think the rabbi’s visits and the regular Shabbat meals are a help to the older children—they seem more content and purposeful. Bertram seems so pleased and committed to his bar mitzvah preparations. But I worry for Aimee. Mrs. Newsome said she found her behind the sofa yesterday, crying for her maman, and that she’s taken to hoarding food in her pockets from mealtimes. She’s not eating enough.”
“She needs her mother.” Claire had known this from the first, known because Aimee had said so often and because that’s how she’d felt at Aimee’s age. She could still remember desperately needing attention and affection from a mother who, though just in the next room, remained preoccupied with her own concerns, particularly as they related to the amber-colored liquid in crystal decanters.
“Yes, she needs her mother, poor child. And we’re all she has.”
“I’m not her maman. I can’t be that for her, and it wouldn’t be right.” Claire’s heart beat faster. She felt the need to justify herself before Aunt Miranda. It was one thing to care for Aimee’s needs, to be kind to her, but quite another to mother her.
One day the child would go home to her real maman, and Claire would be left alone again.
“No.” Aunt Miranda frowned, pensive. “No, I suppose not.”
Passover and Easter came and went. Claire had never attended a Passover meal, but the rabbi’s explanation of the feast’s origins and the reason for each of the foods gave her much to think about.
Later, David pointed out the biblical accounts in the Old and New Testaments for Passover and the Last Supper and showed her how one led so naturally into the other, how Jesus offered Himself as the Paschal Lamb.
No one had ever explained that to Claire before. No one had explained so many things. Now she wondered if she didn’t believe because she truly disbelieved or if it was because she lacked information. Could information equal faith? Could it establish faith?
The thing she did know was that she dreaded the completion of the factory village at Calgarth, for surely David would relocate there when the time came. And that, she was not looking forward to.
How will we manage when he leaves?
April downpours gave way to May showers and to the heavenly fragrance of cream and purple lilac bouquets that filled every open window at Bluebell Wood. Each morning Claire thought the land, the lawn, the gardens and orchards, the woods and fells could not possibly grow more lovely or more green. Each glorious afternoon proved her wrong, and she reveled in nature’s instruction.
But Claire knew that not all at Bluebell Wood was beautiful. She noticed the deepening circles under her aunt’s eyes, saw the way her aunt quickly wearied. Claire did her best to absorb more of the children’s time. But the more she took over, the more Aunt Miranda seemed to want the children near her. Claire didn’t know which way to turn.
Perhaps it was her worry for Aunt Miranda, but Claire felt her impatience with Aimee’s moping and churlishness grow. The little girl would not respond to either of the women, and with the other children needing Claire more, with Aunt Miranda depending on her more and more to keep the children busy, with bad news from France increasing and less time to steal away and write . . . Claire felt herself slipping away, as if there were not one moment of each day to call her own.
Evenings, after tucking Aimee in, brought both relief and worry as those eager to listen sat round the wireless, intent on the day’s news. It was a close-knit time, one Claire knew the children relished as much as the adults. Entertainment came in the form of concerts and comedy programs during the week, and in the form of church and cathedral broadcasts on Sundays.
But this evening they all sat in a tense circle, even the younger children forgoing their normal pinching and punching. Aunt Miranda had heard earlier in the day that there was to be a special announcement from France.
David had just come in from the factory and was loosening his tie. Bertram moved over, beckoning David to sit on the bench beside him. The voice over the wireless began:
“Today, 14 May, in Paris, over 3,700 Jewish men of foreign nationalities were rounded up and arrested in what has been termed ‘Rafle du billet vert,’ or ‘Roundup of the Green Ticket.’ Ostensibly, these men are being transported to a convocation to check their situation as foreign Jews currently residing in France. Contrary to expectations, the men have not been released, but were transported by bus to the Gare d’Austerlitz, where they boarded trains. No word as to where the trains are bound has been released.”
Aunt Miranda switched off the wireless. Not a sound was heard until Elise pressed her sister’s arm and whispered, “Does that mean they took Papa away? Papa is not French, not really. He came from Poland; Maman always teased him so.”
Jeanine had gone pale. “I do not know. How can I know?” But tears filled her eyes.
Gaston and Bertram exchanged dark glances. Claire could see in their faces that they were afraid. She understood. As much as she hated her father for not wanting her, she was relieved to know he wouldn’t be arrested . . . not now, not for his nationality, anyway.
“What about Aimee’s father? Is he French?” David asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Claire replied, “but it won’t do her any good to know about this.”
Mademoiselle Claire might not know if Aimee’s father was French, but Aimee knew. She knew that her father and even her mother were born in Belgium—a thing her parents made certain she was proud of and would never forget.
Now, as she hid behind the library door to listen to the wireless and the grown-ups talk, she wondered. Does being Belgian mean the bad men have come and taken Papa away? If they have taken Papa, how long before they will come and take Maman?
Aimee knew there were many things she didn’t understand about the war, but she knew about people disappearing and never being heard from again. That had happened even before she left France with Mademoiselle Claire. Aimee remembered the night angry men had broken into their home and dragged her oncle from bed, beating him all the while with sticks—clubs that looked like those the Home Guard had carried when they arrested her on Hanukkah. When she’d asked the next day what Oncle had done, tears escaped her papa’s eyes and he’d said, in a voice dull and flat, “My brother was born. He was born Jewish.” Oncle Pierre never walked into the house again.
That was war, Aimee knew. People disappeared in different ways for different reasons. She knew too well about them being smuggled through the night to faraway places. Wasn’t she one, after all?
If Maman and Papa were taken, Aimee knew she could not find them again, and they would not come for her, no matter that they had promised.
It was frightening and horrible to imagine all of life without Maman and Papa. But truth be told, even though Aimee kissed the mezuzah each night after the lig
hts had gone out, she’d been having a much harder time remembering the faces of her parents. She remembered more the smell of Maman and the warmth of her body as she had cradled Aimee in her arms. She remembered the sound of Maman’s voice as she sang over her before bedtime.
Mademoiselle Claire was nearer her mother’s age than anyone, but she never held her, never sang over her. Madame Langford had tried, but Aimee knew her heart was torn. Madame longed for her own boy who had gone away and never returned. Sometimes when madame held her, she cried, and that made Aimee feel worse. Mrs. Newsome was kind, but she was so very busy with all the children and the household.
Twice since living at Bluebell Wood, Aimee had heard Dr. MacDonald say the animals in the forest took better care of their children than Mademoiselle Claire did. Aimee didn’t know much about the animals in the forest, but she knew about the lambs on the fells. She’d seen how the mother sheep never turned her children away, no matter how rude, no matter how hard they butted up against her sides demanding their dinner. Perhaps living with the animals might be a good thing.
It was not a new idea to Aimee. She’d been thinking of it all the winter, had even saved a bit of food for when the time was right. She knew just where she’d go. Auld Mother Heelis had given her the idea. Aimee was certain the old lady would never lead her astray, and that she knew things other grown-ups did not.
Aimee had even whispered her plan to the little lambs on the fells that spring whenever she saw them. They hadn’t responded, but Aimee hadn’t supposed they would. It wasn’t up to them.
Now that Papa had likely been taken away, Maman would need her more than ever. Until she could find a way home, she could live with the sheep. The days were warm and the nights mild. The moon shone bright enough she could probably make her way without a torch, even in the dark.
Aimee crept back upstairs and into bed, making certain no one saw her. She fell asleep, dreaming of laying her head against the soft, warm coat of a newborn lamb.