by Heather Munn
LUCY CAME over with red eyes one bitter-cold evening, stripped off her socks and put her feet up to the fire, and told me why her father had wanted her to go to America.
“He was gonna get married. That’s who he wanted me to live with. His new wife and her parents.”
“He wha— Wait. Was?”
She nodded gloomily. “I fouled it up. He put off the wedding and went off to Egypt.”
“Is he mad at you?”
“Bit hard to tell, in a letter.”
“But … but you got Benj—”
“Yeah, and now his father’s in jail. If it weren’t for me he’d be still in Marseille.”
I stared at her. “You don’t know that! They could both be in Rivesaltes!”
She bit her lip. “You don’t know either. Oh, man, it’s cold in here.” She put her feet almost into the flames. “I don’t know, Magali. It just feels strange. I feel like I did something wrong.”
I looked at her. “She’s in America, Lucy.”
“I did it so I wouldn’t have to go. That’s the truth.”
“She’s still in America.”
“What do you think about … doing the right thing for the wrong reason?”
I looked into the flames for a moment and didn’t speak. It’s what happens in the world that counts. We don’t have time to waste trying to figure out if our souls are all lined up right. “The right thing is the right thing.”
“But what if it isn’t? What if you do it for the wrong reason and it makes you … do it wrong?” She sighed. “I don’t know. It made me think that’s all. I mean, you go around thinking you’re …” She shrugged, and looked down. “I’d never regret helping her out, Magali, in a million years. I just can’t feel like a hero about it. That’s all.”
“Oh.” I see. “Well,” I said slowly, “you could pray about it.
Maybe.”
She looked at me. “I never heard you suggest that before, Magali Losier.”
“Um—”
She let out a ringing laugh, and clapped me on the shoulder. And then smiled sheepishly. “Well,” she said. “Maybe I will.”
CHRISTMAS CAME. Grandpa killed two chickens for us, and I helped pluck them. We had the Thibauds over. You can’t stop having people over because there’s barely enough food. We told stories and laughed round the table over our chicken and potatoes and our precious wild blueberry preserves, just the same as we would’ve done in the old days over turkey and chestnuts and chocolate and oranges. It’s hard to explain, really, how good that feels in your soul. It’s like in the old days we used to think it was the food that made us happy. And now we knew the truth.
Lucy’s aunt had written a Christmas song, to an Irish tune about a boy named Danny—a high, haunting tune. Mama sang it, in the dark church with all the candles lit. It was a sad Christmas song, about war and how hard things were when Jesus was born, and Mama’s voice made me want to cry. I shut my eyes and saw the inside of a Rivesaltes barrack, the beams of the roof, the shadows, as sharp as if Paquerette had drawn it, and I saw a baby lying in a pile of rags. Mama sang the last lines high, high: “An outcast child, in darkness and in danger … A hidden light, rejected light, the gift of love.”
After the moments of silence, as everyone shifted in their seats and stood up, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, and wondered if maybe Mama would let me take an extra trip.
OVER THE next three months I made five trips. They blur together in my mind, to tell the truth. Twice we went to Gurs, where the people thanked God for the cold that froze the clay mud so it was safe to walk to the toilets. I heard awful stories. An old lady had gotten trapped in that mud, in the rain, and died. It was poison, that place, worse than Rivesaltes. We did the only thing we could do; we got a few children out and to Tanieux.
They’re what I remember.
I remember Christof and Anya and Rebeka, three blond-haired kids—half Jewish. They’d left Germany with their aunt when their parents got arrested. She’d disappeared in Lyon. Two months later when they got sent to Rivesaltes, they found out from Marylise their aunt was in Gurs. I remember Ilana and Miriam, twins, whose mother was dead and whose sixteen-year-old brother had been trying to get them released since the day they arrived at the camp. He walked them to the camp gate in the bitter January wind, with his scarf over his face so you could hardly see he was crying. I remember Georges, a five-year-old whose mother told me they were French, naturalized as soon as they’d moved from Italy, and much good it had done them since Vichy had stripped the whole family of their citizenship in that purge a year ago. Georges fought me as I led him away, and his mother had to turn her back on him to make him go.
I remember too many of them to tell.
I remember seeing the other workers—CIMADE workers, O.S.E. workers, Swiss Aid. Taking other groups of children, to other places. Our allies. Just to see their faces gave me strength. I remember nights in stations, sleeping lightly like a soldier, listening for whatever might come. I remember head counts, that awful moment before you’re sure. I remember so many trains. So many kids, some clinging to me and crying, some wild, some very, very quiet. I remember the moment of handing them over to someone, the relief. Walking to l’Espoir with Paquerette, sitting down by the fire, exhausted. Not saying anything, not needing to. There’s a gladness that you feel, and it passes between you, and you both know it’s there. Those were hard times. They were the hardest times in my life, in a way. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Rosa traveled too. She met me after my trips, every time, and I met her after hers. We didn’t promise each other that, but it was as if we had. As if we’d sworn on our lives. We both knew how it felt, stepping off the train half dead and seeing that trusted face on the platform, that friend you could hand it all over to. I loved Rosa. There wasn’t a shred of me, anymore, that felt anything but glad she was part of this.
It was hard, though. Day after grinding day. I could feel my energy leaving me, not coming back. The kind of tiredness I’d seen in Paquerette that summer. It was harder to think, to be patient with the kids, to laugh with them instead of wanting them to shut up. It was harder with Marek. I smacked him again, once, when after two weeks of no trouble he tried to kill somebody. I’m serious. This new kid kicked him, and Marek went absolutely insane—had him down on the floor in seconds, trying to smash his face in. Oh, and crying. Crying so hard.
When I hit him he stopped crying. Some. “Come with me,” I snapped, hauling him to his feet. He came.
It was so cold it hurt, but the creek was where we had to be. I stood on the frozen bank under snow-laden pines, and listened to the cold, cold water gurgling under the ice, and to the labored sound of Marek’s breathing, the sobs that still hadn’t let go of his chest.
“Marek,” I said when he was quiet. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing.
“I know you can talk.”
A split-second glance.
“I don’t know what to do with you. You run, you fight. That’s gonna get you killed, Marek. Hiding is the only way to be safe now and you stink at hiding. I’m doing all this work just so you can get killed the first time a Nazi shows up because you’ll either bolt or hit him”—shut up, Magali—“and it’s not fair. Why should we wear ourselves out for you when you don’t even try—”
“My papa’s dead,” said Marek suddenly.
I froze. The world shifted, swiftly and silently, to that moment when the wild fox takes a step out of the woods toward your outstretched hand. You don’t look him in the eye. You don’t make any sudden movements.
After a long time, I decided I dared.
“How did he die?” I whispered.
“The soldiers kicked him.”
Ice went down my spine. You don’t mean …
“His head was all bleeding.”
My stomach turned over.
“When did it happen?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him shrug a little. “In Gda’sk.”
&nb
sp; I tried not to. But somehow naming a place to it made me see it: the circle of men surrounding a man on the ground …
I don’t really think I understand life, but I know this is true: we live in a horrible world. These things happen. To children, even. I don’t know why. I wish it wasn’t like that. But this is the only world we’ve got.
“I’m so sorry, Marek,” I said. There was nothing else to say.
“My papa was good at fighting,” he said.
A gun added itself to my mental picture, lying useless on the cobblestones outside the circle. It didn’t help. Is that why, Marek? You want to be like him? Well I want you to live longer than him …
Silence. My cheeks were starting to sting.
“I’m cold,” said Marek.
“Yeah. Me too. You want to go home?”
“Yeah.”
We went home.
AFTER THAT he talked. Now and then. Only when you gave him his space, when you didn’t push him. A yes or no, maybe a sentence. It was a little miracle, every time. Except for his name.
That was a disaster.
I told him and told him why he had to be Jean-Marc. It made him go away inside himself, but I had to do it. Even worse, though, was when he was in a good mood and someone called him Jean-Marc.
“My name’s Marek.”
Every time. Just like that. It made me want to hit him. It made me afraid for him.
“My name’s Marek Adamczyk.”
I couldn’t even say his last name. But he could say it fine, and any cop who believed he was French after that was deaf in both ears. Papa Thiély pulled him out of school for a while. For his own protection.
My Marek. I couldn’t think of him as Jean-Marc Meunier either, if you want to know the truth.
WORD CAME to us about arrests in the occupied zone. Not the usual kind—refugees or poor immigrants from Eastern Europe or suspected Communists—but French Jews. Families who’d been in the country for generations, Papa said, doctors and lawyers; well-known names. Benjamin knew some of them. He used to be pretty high-class himself. He skipped school the day after we heard, and stayed in his room, and Papa pretended he didn’t notice.
It seemed to hit Paquerette almost as hard. She got in to Tanieux, and then turned around and went back to Rivesaltes without even a day in between. I had to scramble to pack in time. On the train she said something about “when the work is done.”
“Done?”
“Yes, done. When they stop releasing the kids we’re done.”
“You think they’ll stop? Soon?”
She shrugged. “What do I know? Yes, that’s what I think. Look at them changing tactics like that. Do you see?”
“They only arrested foreigners before. But this was in the occupied zone—”
“And we’re in the free zone?”
She had me there. Calling it the free zone was against the law.
“They didn’t even try to pretend it made sense,” she said quietly. “They didn’t even try to pretend there was a reason. That—”
“They’re not trying to look humane anymore,” I said suddenly, remembering what she said long ago about Vichy.
She nodded.
It was like a jolt of electricity through me. “You think they’ll do it here? Arrest people just for being Jewish? French people?”
She looked at me oddly. “What did you think I was saying?”
“But Benjamin!”
“Yes.”
But. But they couldn’t arrest Benjamin. He was French.
I couldn’t say anything for a while. I looked out the train window. When I looked at Paquerette again, she had paper and pencil out, drawing. A barrack under snow; a child in front of it, rags tied around her feet, looking off to the left at something you couldn’t see; and in front of her, barbed wire.
WE WORKED, and we worked. We forgot about spring and we forgot about freedom and we put one foot in front of the other. We brought home kids from Gurs who, when we unwrapped their feet to wash them, had toes missing from frostbite. It made me ashamed, to put our donated socks and shoes on those poor wounded feet. It made me want to say, I’m sorry we came too late.
It gets worse, worse, and you stop believing it will ever get better. There’s no time like the second week of February, for not believing anymore in spring. Paquerette and I didn’t say a word to each other, going down to the camp on the train. We slept. We could feel it, both of us, pulling at us like the sucking of the tide. No one lasts forever. I might like to think of Paquerette’s spine as steel, but it was bone like everybody else’s, and we were bone weary. I saw her in those moments when a child started to cry, or walk away from the group; I saw her fight to summon up the strength. I tried to spare her, do it for her. I saw her, walking away at the end of the trip, how she stumbled in the snow from nothing but weariness. I wondered how much longer she could last.
I didn’t hope for the work to be done. No. Not the way Paquerette had said. And not hoping for that, I didn’t know what to hope for.
There wasn’t anything to hope for, really, except that we could save a few.
I’ll never forget that time, ever. If I live to be a hundred. The feel of it, hard as Tanieux ice, Paquerette’s eyes gray as the winter sky, just going on, and yet knowing. Knowing the end was coming; and knowing that the thing we were doing, out of all the things in the cold and terrible world then, was the thing that had to be done.
We went on. We went on. I wish to God that was the end of the story.
Chapter 16
Fight Them
IN MARCH we had a short, glittering thaw that refroze into icicles and hard ice on the streets. In March I saw Erich Müller again. The first German soldier I had ever seen. Or met. Or showed to his hotel. He was limping. I think I jumped visibly when I recognized him.
“Mademoiselle Losier … are you well?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“And how have you been this winter?”
“Fine.” What was he doing here? He’d left. All those convalescents had left. No one spent the winter in Tanieux who didn’t have to. “And, um, how are … you?”
“Not entirely well, or you wouldn’t see me here. I was shot in the same leg that I broke last year. By a Communist, actually.”
I didn’t ask him how he knew. I could imagine. The guy was probably dead by now. I tried not to let my voice falter. “Where were you stationed?”
“Paris.”
I put my hands in my coat pockets so he wouldn’t see them shaking. I was afraid of him, I realized. Not like the first time, the shock at seeing my first German soldier, that had worn off before the train pulled in. No, I was afraid of him, not his uniform. Why was he here? “It’s probably warmer in Paris right now,” I said, smiling, or trying to.
He smiled ruefully. “It’s true. I requested to be billeted here. I had fond memories. No one told me.”
“It’s starting to get warmer.”
His eyebrows went up. “This is warmer?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to be a very tough people here.” He sounded approving.
I took a breath. Get out of it, Magali. Go. “Well. I, uh, wish you a good recovery.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle. It was a pleasure to see you again.”
I watched him move off carefully down the icy sidewalk, and told myself it would be all right. One more thing to be afraid of. I was so tired. I glanced up at the mairie as I walked across the place du centre and remembered standing in that line with Lucy, the day I broke my boots. The day before I met Paquerette. Wanting so much to do something.
Well, I didn’t regret what I was doing. Not for a moment. But I couldn’t remember what it was like to be that girl.
I TOLD Papa about Erich Müller, and about the Communist. He nodded. “There’s rumors they’ve been organizing. Starting to fight them.” I asked him, because I couldn’t quite help wondering, if he thought Müller was telling the truth about why he was here. Papa’s eyebrows went way up
.
“And this is the man you blithely walked to his hotel last summer?”
It’s a bit hard when your own father mocks your stupidity. “Yes,” I said, looking away.
“Magali,” he said, more gently. “We’re nobody, here. And if we weren’t, they’d send someone French to spy on us, not German. No. Why send a German when you can buy someone French?”
His voice turned bitter as he said that, and I looked up and saw on his face the same disgust I felt. I wanted to say something about that kind of French people, but I couldn’t find any words that wouldn’t make him angry, coming from his daughter’s mouth.
IT WAS a time for anger. It was a bad time, and getting worse. Benjamin hardly spoke these days, nor Julien either. Julien paced. Looked fiercely at things the rest of us couldn’t see. One day he knocked on my door, said he wanted to show me something. “Not here. In my room.”
He shut the door carefully. “Just had to show it to someone,” he muttered, and pulled a newspaper out from under his mattress. I stared at it for a moment, and he sat down on the bed with his elbows on his knees.
The paper’s name was Combat. The headline read “Resist: The Time Is Now.” A shiver ran through me. I scanned the first few lines—Vichy has betrayed us, it’s time to fight them, basically. “Who gave it to you?” I was whispering, without even meaning to. It finally occurred to me to glance at the date. October 1941. It was months old.
“Pierre,” Julien whispered. “He got it from Philippe Sarlac—you know him?”
I nodded. A guy in his twenties stands out around here. These days.
“His cousin in Lyon sent it to him. He wants it back—he loaned it to Pierre—”
“Who … who printed it?”
“The Resistance,” he whispered.