by Heather Munn
I stared. The boys were starting to grapple. I stood and grabbed Marek’s collar and yanked back, hard. The father loomed up out of nowhere, and the French kid kicked into scene-making mode—“He hit me! He started it! He hit me!” Everyone stared. I pinned Marek’s arms with all my strength while the man started to come down on me: public menace, blah blah blah, oughta be locked up. What a great idea. Worked out well last time. They locked him up ’cause he was Jewish, and now he’s completely insane.
“Marek,” I said, my voice heavy with command. “Come with me.” I pulled him back toward our group, behind us.
He whirled and kicked me. I snapped, and slapped his face.
For a moment we stared at each other in shock. The voice inside me screamed, No don’t take it back you can’t take it back and I grabbed his collar again and pulled his face up to mine and said, “You will obey me.” He stared.
“Come.” I took hold of his shirtsleeve and pulled.
He came.
WE MISSED la Galoche by hours. When we pulled into Valence it was full dark outside, raining, and very late. We bedded down in the train station, with endless mutterings and rearrangings, trips to the toilet, kids whimpering, crying, Marek sitting on the blanket watching us all with dull, angry, exhausted eyes. I didn’t leave for the bathroom till he’d lain down and gone to sleep. Paquerette sat on a bench leaning her head back against the wall, eyes closed, face slack with weariness.
Rosa lay on the blanket stroking her little girl’s hair. I sat down by her. She looked at me. “Wow.” The way she said it summed up everything: Rivesaltes, the refugees, the kids, the chaos, Marek.
“Yeah,” I whispered. There was silence for a moment. I stretched myself out by Marek, keeping him between the wall and me. I yawned. She yawned too. I reached for her hand, and squeezed it. Then I got a grip on a fold of Marek’s shirt, and fell deep asleep on the hard station floor.
I think I dreamed. I don’t remember it, except for a few images of running through Rivesaltes looking for someone. What I remember is the feel of my hand touching empty air. Touching the cold floor, feeling for a body that wasn’t there. My eyes opening in the dimness, in the black and gray and the feeble light from the ceiling, and seeing the space where Marek had been.
Empty.
Chapter 9
Gone to Ground
I SAT up, my heart racing. He was gone. It was the dead of night, nothing moving, just a clutter of sleeping bodies in the light of a few dim, flickering bulbs. The tightness of fear in my chest was like nothing I’d ever felt. I’ve lost him. Me. It’s my fault.
I searched. The men’s bathrooms, then the women’s. Then I went over every inch of that station, from north to south. I tried every door except the outer ones. Valence isn’t a huge station. It took about fifteen minutes to make absolutely sure he wasn’t there.
I stood by one of the doors that opened out on the streets of Valence, leaning my forehead against the cold glass of its little window, looking out. It was dark out there. No light in the sky. My heart sank like a stone.
I looked at Paquerette’s slack, exhausted, sleeping face, and I almost turned away and walked out into the streets alone. But where would I start? We’ll never find him, said a cold whisper in my mind, and my belly froze. I imagined it for a moment.
We’d never know what had happened to him.
I knelt down by Paquerette and put a hand on her shoulder.
She jolted awake the moment I touched her—jerked to a sitting position, drawing a sharp breath. She stared at me. Blinked. Groaned, rubbed her eyes, let out her breath, half-collapsing. “What’s going on?” she whispered sharply.
I swallowed. “Marek’s gone.”
“He’s what?”
“He’s gone. I’ve looked everywhere. I kept him between me and the wall but he got past me some—”
She raised herself up on her elbows, glaring. “Unbelievable,” she snapped. “I put you in charge of one kid, and you lose him?”
I couldn’t speak. She might as well have pulled out a pistol and shot me. She stood up and strode into the women’s bathroom.
I stayed where I was, on my knees.
I heard the bathroom door open. I saw her feet coming toward me but I didn’t move. She knelt down to look me in the face. Her skin and hair shone wet in the dim light. She wasn’t glaring anymore.
“Magali,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t find my voice.
“That was a stupid and unkind thing to say and I hope you can forgive me. I was off-balance.” Her voice sounded odd. For a moment in the flickering light I thought I caught the flash of tears in her eyes. “It’s my worst nightmare, Magali. To lose a child … and never …”
The same feeling wrenched in my gut as before, but stronger. “Yes,” I breathed.
She looked at me. Oh, she looked at me and her face said, You understand, and my guts wrenched again and I wanted to cry for joy and pain and fear and the need for Marek to be okay. “We’ll find him,” I whispered fiercely.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she sighed. “I need coffee,” she said.
THERE WASN’T any coffee, of course.
We stood by the doors, watching the first pale streaks of dawn paint the sky, and Paquerette told me we had to wait till the group woke. It wasn’t negotiable. It was her responsibility to get them on their train. I nodded vigorously.
“The group’s your responsibility,” I said. “Marek’s mine. I’ll go look for him. Now that you know—”
“Not alone,” she said sharply.
I shut up, but I glanced outside. I couldn’t help it.
“Not alone,” she said. “I’m leaving Rosa with you.”
Rosa listened seriously to everything Paquerette told her, glancing now and then at her little girl, still asleep on the blanket.
“I’ll take care of Rivka myself,” Paquerette promised.
Rosa nodded, not smiling, still looking at the girl.
She gave us money. She gave us instructions. We were to go first to the war-widow agency where we’d spent the night with Léon’s group. We would speak to Madame Chalmette and Madame Moulin there, explain the situation, and ask for their help. Then we were to have one of them take us to the police station to file a missing child report. On no account were we to skip either of these steps. Then we could begin searching. She suggested we begin with the large park we’d find due west of the station. She gave me all of Marek’s papers and his CIMADE release form. She wrote and signed a statement saying he should be entrusted to our care. She told us not to let anyone push us around. She looked at each of us in turn, with her deep Paquerette eyes, all the sorrow in the world in back of them and courage in the front. And said she was counting on us. And asked us if we felt ready.
I nodded, my throat tight.
Rosa bent over and kissed little Rivka on the forehead, and whispered goodbye. She was silent as we stepped out alone into the chilly morning air, as the pale streaks of dawn began to widen over Valence, and walked north. Far off on our left we could see the mountains west of the city, across the Rhône, lit by the first rays of sunlight, and on one crag the ruined walls of some old fort. I was quiet too. I was picturing the park—green trees and thickets of bushes for Marek to hide in, a fox gone to ground. Every step was carrying me away from it. Paquerette’s orders, Magali. Keep walking.
The city was waking by the time we knocked on the agency door. I did the talking. Within a couple of minutes we were upstairs in their little office, with Madame Chalmette heating water in the tiny kitchen. There was light streaming in the east window, the sharp smell of fake coffee in the air. They asked questions. I sipped scalding-hot coffee and answered them. Madame Chalmette listened intently; Madame Moulin looked out the window, her face thoughtful. She turned to Madame Chalmette. “If you can cover the morning here, Marie, I can cover the afternoon.”
Madame Chalmette nodded.
“So, first the police station.”
She walked us there. Asked to file a report. The officer on duty pulled out a form and started filling it out. He asked for a description, and Madame Moulin turned to me. The policeman frowned at her.
“He’s not your son?”
I stood up straight. “He’s an orphan, Monsieur. He was in my care, temporarily, on a trip to his new home.”
The man’s eyes settled on me and his eyebrows rose in amusement. I felt my face start to burn.
“How’d he end up with you?”
“I’m working for the CIMADE. It’s an organization that helps refugees. It’s our job to bring kids to the homes they’ve been placed in.”
He frowned at me, deeply, for a moment. “Does he speak French?”
It was my personal belief that his aunt, who said he did, was delusional. “Not very much,” I said, just to hedge my bet. I tried to look him in the eye, like Paquerette had done to Monsieur Bernard, but he wouldn’t look.
He frowned at his form, pushed his hat back a little on his head, and sighed. “All right, give me the description.”
He wrote everything down. He said he would initiate a search. He said it like it was just to get us off his back. But what could I say to him? “No, do it, make sure you really do it.” None of us had the power to command the police.
We looked at each other, walking out of there. “They don’t care,” said Madame Moulin. “We must find him ourselves.”
WE FINALLY made it to that park. On the near side was a square plaza of blindingly pale gravel, with trees in ranks and a monument in the middle; I didn’t like it. I thought it would scare any kid from Rivesaltes. Past it I could see the real park, green and thickety. Well, maybe.
We searched, calling, getting twigs in our hair. Oh, I was thorough. The dawn light strengthened into day. Madame Moulin asked everyone she saw if they’d seen a boy with a bruise on his cheek. We worked our way west until we stood at the edge of the park, where the trees ended and we could see the broad Rhône River between us and the mountains.
Then we went back east, and searched the streets.
HAVE YOU ever thought about what it would be like to actually look for a needle in a haystack? Pulling out a handful of hay and picking through it, oh so carefully, feeling for it, never glancing away, watching for that tiny sharp slip of metal that could so easily slide through your fingers to the ground—gone. You search that handful thoroughly, strand by strand. You wipe the hay dust on your skirt and sneeze a couple of times, then reach for another handful. And as you do, your mind takes in the size of that haystack. Tries to calculate how many more handfuls to go.
And suddenly you want to scream.
“EXCUSE ME, Monsieur? We are looking for a child. He should be easy to recognize. He has a—” “Excuse me, Madame? …”
We searched the streets around the train station. Looking in alleys, peering over walls. If I were an insane child, where would I be? Streets blurred into each other in my mind. I was starting to hate this flat city, flat like a maze; only the mountains rising above the rooftops in the west kept me oriented. Kept me sane. The sun climbed the sky. We walked. My legs ached. “Excuse me, Monsieur?” Valence spread out around us in every direction. In my mind was a cold whisper. You’ll never find him.
Yes I will. I will.
“Magali?”
“Mm.” My legs hurt and my head hurt and we’d drunk our water bottle empty and I was thirsty. I leaned back against a wall and groaned.
Rosa leaned beside me, and turned to me. “Magali, I … I’m really tired.”
I just looked at her.
“There’s got to be a better way.”
My head hurt so bad. Her eyes were accusing. “You can go to the agency and lie down, if you’re not having a nice time.” Now her eyes were hurt and accusing. “Or do you have a better idea?
She shrugged, looking down. “My father,” she said, sticking her hands in her pockets and looking at her shoes, “says no official will ever help you out unless you make him tired of living. He says the only reason our family made it to France is that he learned how to be very annoying and always there.”
I looked at her. “Hmm.”
Madame Moulin came out of the alley she’d been combing. “Are you girls thirsty?”
“You have water?”
She handed me a bottle. I took a long, cold, sweet pull on it and handed it to Rosa. “Madame, what do you think if we went back to the police station this afternoon? Maybe I could make them look for him, if I stay there and don’t go away till they do.”
Madame Moulin’s brows went up. “It’s an idea,” she said. She pursed her lips. “Yes. Hm. It’s a very good idea. But do you think you’re able not to back down?”
Very annoying and always there. That’s me, lady. “Yes,” I said.
We went back to the agency and ate. Madame Chalmette and Rosa went back out into the city. Madame Moulin walked me down to the police station again. I was light-headed by then from the lack of sleep, the heat, the fear. I had to stop at the door and take a few breaths before going in.
There was a different policeman in charge. Younger, thinner, a little less certain. I took a last deep breath, cleared my head, and told him about the missing boy with the bruised face. He frowned.
“Didn’t someone already come in for that? This morning? Yes, here it is. Don’t worry, Mademoiselle, we’ve got it under control. We’ll let you know if we find him.”
Madame Moulin and I looked at each other. Then I turned back to the officer. “Thank you, Monsieur. It will be easy to let me know. I’ll be here.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Here? But … there’s absolutely no need to do that, it’s not … it’s—”
I sat down on a wooden bench along the wall. “I’ll just be right here. Till you find him.”
I think it took less than ten minutes for me to fall asleep.
WHEN I woke I was lying on my side on hard wood, my knees drawn up a little. There was a pillow under my head. I had no idea where I was. A police station. What was this pillow doing in a police station? Someone was shaking my shoulder. Gently.
“Are you all right?”
“Mmm.”
“I need you to come with me and identify someone.”
I blinked. Looked up at him. He was smiling at me.
“Mmm,” I said, and stood up, trying not to fall. I followed him into the next room.
Loud voices. People. I shook my head and tried to focus. Two policemen, big guys, holding a kid between them who writhed and tried to kick; a kid with a bruise on his face, dust in his black wiry hair, and murder in his eyes. I cried out—almost went down on my knees and hugged him. Then I froze.
His hands were behind his back. He was in handcuffs.
Heat rushed through my body. “You take those handcuffs off that child!” I shouted. “He is eight years old!” I was shaking. Don’t yell at men with guns, Magali! I was afraid in another moment I was going to cry.
Beside me the young officer cleared his throat. “Indeed. I confess I am somewhat surprised.”
“You wouldn’t be if you’d been there, Monsieur,” growled one of the men. “He bit me.”
“Bit you?” My voice came out high.
The man flipped his wrist outward, and I saw the deep marks. No blood. I blinked.
“He’s never done that before, Monsieur. I’m sorry. He’s been very frightened—”
The room erupted. Everyone started talking at once. “Frightened? The kid’s vicious—” “He’s insane!” A big man in civvies with a black frown on his face stepped up to loom over me. “That child is a menace to society. I am pressing charges so don’t think you can walk out that—”
“Order!” the officer shouted. “Messieurs, have some dignity! This is a police station, not a bar.” He cleared his throat again. “Now. Do you, Mademoiselle Losier, declare that this is the same boy you described as lost in a statement dated”—the officer checked a paper—“eight o’clock this morning?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, Monsieur l’officier. It’s him.” I took a breath. Be polite. “Thank you,” I said to the two policemen. “Thank you for finding him. Is there anything I need to—”
“There certainly is.” It was the civilian again, and he got up in my face. “You are going to pay damages, girl. Your little kike here broke a window this big and stole—”
I guess he told me what Marek had stolen, but I didn’t hear him. I was staring wide-eyed into the red distorted face of a man who would use a word like that. About a child. I could feel my blood heating up. No. Calm. No, what’d he say? Pay damages? Not good …
The calm, dry voice of the officer cut through suddenly. “I’m quite surprised, Monsieur, to learn how, ah, large your storeroom window was. We’ll need to look into that. Now, I understand you’re interested in pressing charges, but I want to warn you that that might become quite complicated.”
The store owner stared at him.
“After all, he’s eight years old and it seems unclear who his legal guardian is. I doubt you’d be awarded damages against an aid organization,” the officer said crisply. I stared at him. “Not to mention—”
“Seems to me there’s some part of ‘He broke my window and stole from me’ that you don’t understand! It is my legal right to sue—”
The officer shrugged. “Not to mention,” he finished, “that civil lawsuits are definitely outside my jurisdiction.” He dusted off his hands. “I certainly can’t press criminal charges against an eight-year-old. Will that be all?” He made a motion toward the door.
The red-faced jerk turned to me. “You’d better pay for my window, young lady. I have connections.”
I looked at him. I had no way of knowing. But maybe he did. I reached into my bag and found the money Paquerette had given me for the trip home. I counted out enough for our train tickets and handed him the rest.