by Heather Munn
“And you’re sure, young lady, that Madame Keller wants to go to a foreign country alone?”
Lucy sat back. “I would,” she said. “But if not you can find someone who wants it, right?”
Monsieur Lawrence gave her a wry smile. “Yes. I could.”
“So then—”
“So then, here is your answer. I do not feel authorized to make this decision on behalf of your father. You will write out your father’s address—his most current one, where he can immediately be reached. And you will write out a telegram, asking his permission, and not hinting at illegal activities.”
“And the—the papers—you know someone who—”
“The less said about the papers, young lady, the better. You remember that.”
PLEASE MAY I STAY IN TANIEUX STOP
REASON VERY IMPORTANT URGENT STOP
LETTER FOLLOWS STOP LUCY
Oh, I can’t tell you how it felt. I was drunk on excitement, floating ten centimeters off the ground, I could leap tall buildings. We were doing it! For real! I was sent down to the Swiss Red Cross to deliver Lucy’s letter; the next time they sent someone to Geneva they could mail it from there, away from the censors. The worker I gave the letter to just smiled at the name Lawrence, took the letter and the money, and said nothing. That smile floated me even higher. You know, I know, but we don’t say a word. I couldn’t begin to imagine all that was going on beneath the surface in that place, all the secret ways. It was beautiful.
Meanwhile Monsieur Lawrence was contacting … a contact. Someone who knew the secrets of Marseille, the people who closed their shutters in the evening and sat down at their desks to do work that could get them shot. Oh, it was like a spy story. Lucy couldn’t stop pacing, couldn’t stop talking. Every now and then she’d shut up and grab me and hug me and then jump up and down a couple of times.
“Oh Magali, we’re doing it, we’re doing it! Oh Magali, what if he says no, what if—”
What if she says no. I saw Madame Keller’s face after she’d been closeted with Monsieur Lawrence for half an hour talking about it. Talk about stressed.
“It’s really dangerous,” Lucy fretted to me. “I didn’t know. He says if they caught on she’d be locked up for sure. And she doesn’t speak English. What if she got deported? It’d be my fault!”
“She’s an adult, Lucy. She can make her own decision. Monsieur Lawrence still thinks it’s a good idea.”
He did. And he knew a lot. He knew the secret ways out of the country, what they cost, what they risked. He knew so many people. He had refugees sleeping on his floor, coming to dinner. Other people too. I don’t think they all went by their real names. Monsieur Lawrence knew how to get Monsieur Keller out after Madame was gone, the hard roads he couldn’t have taken a sick wife on. A passeur to guide him across the Pyrenees, or a secret night ride on a fishing boat down to Morocco.
It made sense. It all made sense. I couldn’t believe my luck to be a part of it all.
The answer came within two days:
YOU AND YOUR AUNT DECIDE STOP
PLEASE EXPLAIN STOP YOUR FATHER
Then some German bigwig got assassinated in the Paris metro, and the boches rounded up a hundred hostages and threatened to shoot them. Monsieur Keller was there when the news came through. He just whispered, “I have to get her out of here.” I never realized how much he looked like Benjamin till that moment. That night Madame Keller let us know she’d decided to go. For Benjamin.
They made us promise not to tell him till she was safe in America.
Then Lucy had to telephone her aunt, which involved a lot of English and sweating. She couldn’t tell the truth on the telephone, see. She said her aunt got pretty mad.
But she said yes.
And then the papers. Monsieur Lawrence’s connections were amazing. By the end of my week’s visit Madame Keller had the papers in her hand. One visa and one full set of identity papers for Lucy Fitzgerald, forty years old.
Then it was time to go. Healthier for the two Lucy Fitzgeralds to be far, far apart.
PASTOR ALEX had already left, so it was only us girls on the northbound train. Lots of us. Me, Eva, some people Monsieur Lawrence was sending—Gabriella and Klara from Hungary, and a stunningly beautiful girl going by the name of Juliette—and, of course, Lucy, headed back to Tanieux.
It was festive when we started out. It was fun. We got our own compartment because of our incredible amount of luggage, and Lucy and I fell all over each other telling the others what a great time they would have in Tanieux. Since we couldn’t talk about why we were really so crazy excited. We kept catching each other’s eye—it worked, it worked!
Gabriella and Klara told us about their parents, who’d been arrested for vangrancy, also known as running out of money, and about how they’d had to leave Hungary because of the leftist pamphlets their father wrote. Gabriella wanted to know what people in Tanieux thought about Communists, and I couldn’t come up with anything, except I’d heard Monsieur Barre and Monsieur Moriot had a fight about it one time. We finally caught on she was asking if they’d shun her, and we laughed out loud. She brightened right up.
WHEN WE switched trains in Montélimar it was raining, hard. You could hear it beating on the roof of the platform. We had two hours to wait. It was warm inside the station, all the voices and footsteps echoing in there. We found ourselves a bench and set our boxes and bags all around us. I got up to find the bathrooms.
It was on my way back that I saw them.
Again. Two German soldiers, smiling, striding through the station like it belonged to them.
They were young. Bright-eyed. The taller, blond one shot a devastating smile toward a young woman in an elegant coat; she pulled away, her face tight with distrust. The soldiers kept walking, glancing casually around.
That’s when I realized I was between them and my friends.
It all flashed through my head in a about a second. They just want to pick up girls. That’s all.
That’s not good.
I thought of Juliette, with her black curls and big dark eyes and her flawless skin. And she looked Jewish. And then Eva, traveling on her cousin’s papers—and Lucy—
Yeah. The only one out of our group with nothing to hide was me.
I had about three seconds to get between the soldiers and my friends. My heart beat like a drum. No. No. You swore—never again—
So what then? Do nothing?
A watery gleam of sunlight broke through from a skylight above. I stepped into it, looked at the Germans, and smiled. “Bonjour, Messieurs. Are you looking for something?”
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” said the blond one, brightening. His French was perfect. “I was told there was a bar in this train station?”
“Um … not in the station. There’s one across the street …”
“Ah.” He glanced out the window. “Terrible weather. Are you waiting for a train?”
“Uh, yeah. A couple of hours …”
The German smiled, and bent closer to me. He had soft blond hair and deep brown eyes and strong shoulders and I won’t lie, he was gorgeous. “What wonderful timing. I need a drink to warm me up. Perhaps I could escort you with my umbrella, and get you something too?” He was calling me vous, in this deep, courteous voice, his face inches from mine, his deep brown eyes searching me. I felt strange. A little unbalanced. Like when you’re climbing and your boot starts to slip in the mud. That moment where you haven’t fallen yet but nothing’s holding you up. Where there’s only air.
“I …”
“And where are you going? You are perhaps returning to university?” His smile was warm. Admiring. How old did he think I was? Old enough for him. Stupid.
“Oh no,” I said. “I was only, uh …” THINK OF SOMETHING! My mind had gone blank. My brilliant emergency mind, lost in the mists, sliding slowly away from me through empty air …
“Please, do come. I would so enjoy your company.”
At the bar. Yes. Across th
e street. Away from the others … The vision rose up before me of me, sitting down at the bar, allowing this gorgeous German to buy me a drink. Drinking the drink. Then another. Having him walk me to my train. Where the others would see me and—
And then he had his hand on my back.
Oh, so gently, elegantly, so perfectly in control. A firm, warm hand on my back, near my waist, a gentle pressure, turning me slowly round. “Please, ma chère, do me the pleasure,” he said softly, and his smile was warm, and the touch of his hand on my back, well so help me God I try not to lie anymore, so I’ll tell you the truth.
It felt good. Really good.
And that threw me so completely that it might as well have been a gun.
I didn’t know what was happening to me. I didn’t have time to think this stuff out. I just knew I was falling, falling through soft, warm air, my heart flapping like a trapped bird. The smooth pressure of his hand, the light in his smile, warmed me and scared me. I was being taken over. He had no grip on me—I could have turned and walked away.
I followed.
He didn’t need me to tell him where the bar was. He knew. It was me he’d wanted. And I was following … This isn’t happening … This isn’t … My stomach clenched. We were passing the bathrooms. With a swoop like a bird diving off a rooftop, my mind dived for escape.
My hand went to my stomach, and I stopped. His hand kept up the gentle pressure, with smooth authority. “I feel sick,” I blurted. “My stomach.” His eyes on me weren’t quite so warm now.
“I am so sorry, Mademoiselle. Perhaps you need a place where you can lie down.”
“The bathroom—”
His eyes were deep and brown and hard. He didn’t take his hand off me. He knew.
I swallowed, working my throat. “I’m going to vomit,” I said, fast and hard. I felt a flutter of his hand, a hesitation. The next moment I was gone. I saw the other German, the one I’d barely noticed—black hair and a thin face—looking at me with very sharp eyes as the bathroom door swung shut.
And then I was safe. Safe in the world of women, the place where they let you alone, safe to dive into a stall and lock it, and sit down on the toilet lid and lean against the wall, my cheek against the wood, shaking.
I THINK I was in that bathroom for an hour.
I didn’t dare go out there. He knew. They both knew. And those eyes, and that hand, what was it about him that had made me feel so trapped? They are the masters of this country, and they are very dangerous. It was horrible, horrible. I’m a strong person. I am. What was that?
I stood over the toilet bowl for a minute, looking down into it, swallowing.
After a minute I sat down on the lid. It was bad. I didn’t dare go back out there. I couldn’t lie well enough, not to him. What could he do, if he suspected? I didn’t even know. I didn’t know! The long list of secrets I knew blazed through my mind, and I shuddered. I’d thought I had nothing to hide …
The worst was knowing I would lead him to the others. One way or another. Because he was—oh please don’t make me say it—he was smarter than me. He wasn’t as young as I’d thought. And I wasn’t as old. My emergency mind hadn’t saved me. Hadn’t been there. Maybe it had never been there. Maybe it was Paquerette who’d made me smart somehow, and without her I was stupid and helpless. Sixteen years old and alone.
And I had made a Nazi suspicious, and left him out there with my friends.
I sat on the toilet lid and prayed. I don’t think I did it very well. I didn’t have that much practice. God, help. That was stupid. I’m sorry. Please don’t let this hurt my friends. It was my fault, punish me.
I sat praying, trying to count the minutes going by; straining to hear what was happening outside. Should I go? What if they were watching for me? What if I missed my train? What if I missed my train and he was still there?
This is what a mouse feels like, listening for sounds outside its hole.
I could hear Nina’s voice. She thought she had, what is the word—control.
“MAGALI?” IT was Lucy’s voice. My heart nearly burst with relief. I threw open my stall.
“Are you all right? We looked for you everywhere. Don’t you want any lunch?”
“I’m all right, I’m all right. Did the Germans see you?”
“What Germans?”
I leaned on her, weak now. “There were Germans. I was trying to get them away from you all. They were picking up girls. They tried to take me for a drink, they … I don’t know, Lucy, I got scared.”
“You mean you—”
“I talked to them,” I snapped. “It’s not a crime.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Hey, sure, um, sure it’s not.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I was shaking a little. “I … it was too strange, it … he got suspicious, I … Lucy, will you promise not to tell Paquerette? Please? Please?”
She looked at me. “I wouldn’t.”
I swallowed. The others. There were too many to keep a secret. “Tell the others I felt sick. I do.”
Her face shut down. “You want me to lie to them?”
My cheeks started to burn. “What’s the big deal? We lie to people all the time! You just got papers f—”
“Shut up,” Lucy hissed. She glanced swiftly at the closed bathroom door. Her face was hard. “We’re in a train station.” You idiot hung in the air, unsaid. I shut up.
“All right,” she said. “What’re we gonna do?”
“We can’t be together. Tell the others to pretend we don’t know each other. Then I’ll go wait alone on the platform. What time is it?”
“A quarter to one. What about your luggage?”
“Can you bring it in here?”
Five minutes later she brought me my suitcase and a packet of bread and cheese, and left. I couldn’t tell if she was still mad at me.
I went out to the platform and waited for the train. It was still pouring, and the wind was whipping the rain around under the platform roof. I stood there shivering, chewing my bread and cheese and slowly becoming soaked to the skin, remembering how the German had offered me his umbrella.
I had thought the hardest thing about getting home would be keeping the secret about Lucy. Because of all the excitement. But that wasn’t hard at all.
Chapter 13
Secrets
THE NEXT few days were strange. It was like being two people. One happy and proud and moving forward; one sitting in the shadows, trying to figure out what on earth has happened to her.
First there was supper, the night I got home. I was cold and shaken and exhausted, but my parents didn’t notice, they were in such a glow. I answered Papa’s questions about Lucy, and Benjamin’s questions about his parents, and then Benjamin’s questions about Lucy’s visa—horror in his eyes, as if he suspected her of blithely throwing away someone’s still-beating heart—well, you can imagine. I finally said she’d given the visa to Monsieur Lawrence, and everyone unbent. Of course, said Papa.
And then. Then the Family Announcement. My proud parents, beaming at me. “We’ve been doing some thinking and praying,” Papa said. I swallowed, and it hurt all down my throat.
“We think that in light of what we’ve heard from Monsieur Thiély, your taking one—and I do mean one—year out of school to work at les Chênes would be an acceptable option.”
I stared. He’d said what? Was I dreaming already?
And then they started to shower me. With praise.
Papa said I’d matured so much. My dedication to my work was impressive—Monsieur Thiély wanted me back as soon as possible—Mama said she felt so proud, always, seeing me get off the train with the children. Tears came to her eyes, and she added, “Even though I’m still afraid.”
Papa nodded, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “She’s not quite herself when you’re gone.”
“But you see, Magali, I don’t regret my decision. I don’t. When I see you with those children, I don’t see a child anymore. I see a young woman who has
found her calling.” She gave me a brave smile, stretched tight over tears. “It’s a beautiful sight.”
Mama, Mama, I walked up to a German soldier today and smiled at him, and he put his hand on my back and invited me for a drink and I didn’t know what to do. Mama. What do I do?
She thought I was crying because she was crying. Because I was moved. She didn’t know I was crying because there was no more truth in the world, anywhere.
I WAS dreaming. He was there. Walking me around Montélimar, through the old town, a maze of high, narrow streets, his hand on my back pushing faster and faster. He held an umbrella over us, but it wasn’t raining. Hitler was there. Hitler tried to kiss me and I yelled, No, No, and I climbed the façade of the house beside me, up wrought-iron grillwork, and perched on the bracket of an ancient streetlamp hung from the wall. The German’s umbrella was in my hand. The wind whistled down the street as if we were in a canyon. Hitler was gone. Someone was shouting at me to come down. A gust blew the umbrella inside out. I was falling, slowly, the air was pushing against me and my whole body hurt.
I was in my room, in bed, light coming in the window. My whole body hurt. I tried to move, and groaned.
A little later Mama came in, felt my forehead, and told me to stay there, she’d get me bread and tea. I’d feel better soon, she said. It didn’t help much, now that I knew just how wrong she could be.
I WAS sick for three days. Flu. Aching and shivering. Mama bringing me tea. Turning in bed, my thoughts tangled in my head like brambles, thick and spiked. Looking at my ceiling remembering how lost I’d felt, how stupid. A young woman who has found her calling, yeah. The German’s beautiful brown eyes, looking at me, that hand on my back and the flutter I’d felt deep inside. To have looked at him like that—at a man in that uniform. There are decent men in the German Army, Papa had told us once, but something deep, deep inside my mind answered, Not that one. Blond and stunning and used to being obeyed. And Nazi. I felt like I had flirted with the Devil.