Defy the Night
Page 25
Nina nodded. I gripped the crutches hard, and got my footing on the steep bank facing the stones of the bridge—one foot up on a root, one down in the water. Nina waded in.
There was a jerk, and my right shoulder and the left side of my face were slammed up against the stones, my cheek scraping painfully—and Nina was pressed against the bridge by that awful current, grabbing for the roots of the tree Marek clung to and hanging on like grim death. Without those roots I couldn’t have held her; she’d have been swept straight through. It was terrifying. I tried to brace against the stones with my head and left shoulder, to give her a little more force against the current, but it was far too strong for me. Like so many things I’d met that year. Dread rose in me like dark water.
I should have waited I should have tried from the top I’m stupid I’m stupid they’re both going to die because of …
Something in me slammed the whining voice down. Flat.
She was pulling her way to him. Her right hand was within reach of him. He clung to his log, huge-eyed. Oh no. Neither of them could let go to grasp each other. They’d be swept away—
She was pulling herself up by a root, up out of the water. I couldn’t believe she could do it. She uses those arms to walk, stupid. She had a knee up on the log, one hand buried in a handful of Marek’s sodden sweater. Dragging him upward. He wouldn’t let go. He looked like he was screaming. Oh God, please— Then she had him, he’d grabbed a higher branch and was pulling with her, he was only waist deep now, yes!—her good leg was over the log and my left cheekbone burned with pain, scraping against the stones, and my chest was being pulled apart.
And Marek was straddling the log.
I gasped with the pain and held on like death, and I felt the pull slacken as they inched nearer along the log. Yes. They were among the roots now. I braced. In a moment they’d be in the current again.
And I’d have to pull them in.
I’ll never forget that moment, as long as I live. Like hearing Zvi begin to gasp; like Paquerette’s voice saying, It was me. Those terrible, terrible moments. Cold sweat broke out all over my body. My stomach literally felt like I was plunging through the air. I was just barely strong enough to hold them. But not to pull them in.
A hard jerk on both my arms; my bloody cheek scraped across the stone and I screamed. They were in the current again. The pull slackened as they jammed against the tangle of roots. I pulled with all the strength I had. They did not move.
I tried desperately to bring my legs into play, against the bank, against the stones; I slipped and almost fell. Nina was shouting something. I pulled and pulled, uselessly. Tears were streaming down my face.
Then the change. The pull grew harder. I almost couldn’t hold on. Marek seemed to be nearer now. Yes, he was hanging on to one of the bars of the crutch. Yes, he was climbing the crutch like a ladder toward me. Joy and terror rushed through my body. Oh God, help him keep his grip!
And then the second change. It’s a miracle I didn’t die of shock right there—or worse, lose my grip. Someone was behind me. I felt a body behind mine, a warm hand beside mine grasping the bracing crutch, another on the lifeline crutch, pulling strong and smooth. As if it were easy.
Pulling them in.
In another moment Marek was in the shallow water, gaining his footing, scrambling out; strong hands plucked him up and out of my sight. Nina was on her knees beside me, gasping, fumbling at her belt buckle. I couldn’t untie myself, the knots were hard, the cloth had cut itself into my wrists, and then there were a man’s hands, and a knife, cutting me free. Then he was gone with Nina, and I was scrambling up the bank, breathing hard, barely able to believe. There was grass at the top, and level ground. I fell on it face-first. I lay like a baby on its mother’s chest, safe, unable to imagine any better place to be. It was a long time before my heartbeat slowed, and my breathing.
I’m alive. I’m alive. They’re alive.
Finally I pushed myself up to see who this man was, who had perhaps saved our lives, who could pull so easily against that terrible current.
It was Erich Müller.
I LAY on the grass, trying to breathe. Telling my body everything was all right. So he’s a German soldier. He just pulled Marek out of a river. There’s no reason to be afraid.
But the earth did not feel like my mother anymore. I was wet, and the grass stuck to my bloody cheek, and I was shivering. I sat up and forced my spinning head to take in what I saw.
Nina knelt on the grass, half turned away, shivering. Paler than I’d ever seen her. Her legs were bare to the knee where she’d ripped the hem off her skirt. She kept her face turned away from Müller. She surely knew who he was.
Marek lay on the ground, his eyes closed, his face white, wrapped in the long coat Müller had been wearing. His clothes lay in a sodden pile on the grass, and Müller knelt beside him chafing his hands. Müller must have stripped him to get him dry, figuring he’d get warm faster with just the coat.
Just the coat.
For a long moment everything slowed down. All Marek’s clothes were on the grass. I remembered the young police officer, the one who’d said his men might have checked.
Müller wouldn’t have … noticed. Would he?
They had Marek’s release papers, up at les Chênes. Being Jewish wasn’t completely illegal. Yet.
“You girls,” Müller said. Nina didn’t look at him. “You should not have tried to do this. You could all have been killed.”
My stomach turned over. For a moment there was the brassy shriek of a fire alarm in my mind, and the hot taste of shame in my mouth.
“We must go,” he said. “We must get you all warm. Where is the nearest house?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t remember. “I only know it’s that way to the children’s home. The one where—” I gestured to Marek. “Where he lives.” My stomach turned over inside me again.
I’d almost said, “Where Marek lives.”
Müller turned to Nina. “Can you walk?”
Nina nodded, quickly, not looking at him. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak, I realized—it was too risky. Her Austrian accent. Her long, dark, curly, Jewish hair. No, no, he just pulled us out of the river. He’s not hunting anyone. He’s not—
I have to get us out of here. No matter what he’s not doing.
I stood up. “Your crutches.” One lay in the grass. I scrambled down the bank for the other. It was still lashed to the tree roots with hard knots. “Monsieur? May I borrow your knife?”
He came down the bank with the knife in his hand and crouched to cut the first knot. He glanced behind him at the river, then bent to his work again, and spoke without looking at me.
“That children’s home, are there many Jewish children there?”
His voice was perfectly casual. Ice slipped down my spine.
For a second I couldn’t speak. He knows. The answer rose from somewhere deep inside. My voice was unfamiliar, like a miracle—light and even, as casual as Müller’s. “Just him, Monsieur,” I said.
Müller nodded.
He finished cutting. I took the crutch and brought it up to Nina. She kept her eyes on the ground as she took it. Müller gathered up Marek in both arms, and I rolled Marek’s wet clothes into a bundle, and we started down the road toward les Chênes. I think we had gone about three steps when it happened.
A huge splintering CRACK sounded behind us. My muscles seized with terror; I spun half-round and fell to one knee on the ground. I caught a split-second glimpse of Müller’s wide eyes, his hand groping on his hip for a gun that wasn’t there.
It was the log.
The log I’d seen shaking in the current upstream—the reason Nina and I had gone in. It had rammed the bridge. The smaller log was shattered, its inner wood showing pale as bone on the fragments that danced and tangled with broken branches in the current. A long shudder went through my body. Oh, Marek.
It was only then that I saw there was someone on the bridge.
It was Paquerette.
MY BREATH caught in a gasp. A gasping sob. I was still on one knee. Another breath, and another, I couldn’t stop them. I tried, oh I tried. I heard a voice—Müller—telling me it was all right, he was safe. He. Marek. I swallowed my sobs, hard. He is safe. She is not. Keep her safe.
“I saw—that log,” I gasped out. “Before.”
“You expected this?” The respect in his eyes brought me back to myself. “Then you did right.”
I nodded. Took a deep breath. I had almost stopped shaking.
Paquerette … Paquerette …
She stood on the bridge, looking at us. At me and Nina, soaking wet. At a German soldier with Marek in his arms. She didn’t move.
Mademoiselle Combe, in French class, told us a Greek myth once. A man goes down to the land of the dead to bargain for the soul of his dead sweetheart and bring her back. He charms the lord of the dead with his music, and he gets her, but there’s one rule: she’ll walk behind him all the way back to the living world, but he can’t look back or she’ll vanish.
He can’t do it. He looks back, and she’s gone.
Slowly and deliberately I turned my back on Paquerette. It was a signal. I’m all right. Don’t come near.
We started our long walk away from the place of death.
She was like a fire behind me. A thing you can feel without seeing. Don’t turn around. My heart ached in my chest with joy and terror. What had they done to her? Paquerette, stay back there. Don’t come near. If only we could get Marek to les Chênes, safe. Safe in a bed, and then Müller would go away. This strange man who put us all in danger by wanting to keep us safe. Oh Paquerette …
I walked. Forever. The wind stealing warmth from my wet body, my arm aching from carrying the dripping bundle of Marek’s clothes. My mind in agony from the things I couldn’t say. Nina. Be careful. He knows Marek’s Jewish. Paquerette, stay back, whatever you do stay back. He knows Marek’s Jewish and he tried to trap me in a lie.
I swung the bundle of Marek’s clothes close to Nina. Look, look at it. Read between the lines. When I glanced at her, I couldn’t tell what she saw. Don’t tell Müller his name’s Jean-Marc. Whatever you do, don’t tell him that. Because then if he decides to check his papers—if he decides to check—
I heard Paquerette’s footsteps on the road behind us. Keeping us in sight. I could feel my fear for her all through my body. My fear that she’d try to protect us.
That it would happen all over again.
When les Chênes came in sight around the bend of the road, Marek stirred in Müller’s arms, and opened his eyes. “Ah,” said Müller. “You are awake. What is your name, little man?”
And Marek looked at Müller with big, dark eyes and whispered,
“Jean-Marc.”
AS WE walked up to the door my knees were as weak as the day I’d first walked into Rivesaltes. If Müller asked for Marek’s papers, he would know. He’d know, if he had any brains at all, the silent answer to his question: Are there many Jews there?
Was that what he was after? Look at how he was carrying Marek. He wasn’t going to throw the kid into the fire. Not when he’d just pulled him out of the water. He was a decent man. A decent man who knew his duty. Who might figure it was his duty to check up on—illegal activities.
And if he found them? Then it would be his duty to call in other decent men who knew their duty, which was to follow the orders of men who weren’t decent at all.
The door opened, and there stood Julie, her eyes wide for a moment, then her fingers going straight to Marek’s neck to find his pulse. Sheer joy broke out on her face. “Thank you, Monsieur, oh thank you! He’s alive!”
Under cover of this I risked a glance back at the road. Paquerette had disappeared.
“He needs warmth,” said Müller. “He has been too long in the river. I do not know, he may need a doctor. And these young ladies here, they were also in the river, trying to rescue him—they will need some care also, I think.”
“Oh, come in, please come in—oh, girls, you’re so wet—oh, Magali, you’re bleeding!—here, Claudine! Claudine! Can you get some dry clothes for them? Some of ours I think—and the first aid kit!—here, Nicole, please come in.”
“Come with me, Nicole,” I said. “I’ll show you where the bathroom is.” I beckoned Nina, and she followed me in her torn skirt, into the living room and down the long hall. She was so pale. When we were in the bathroom I locked the door and turned to her and spoke fast and low.
“Nina, he knows Marek’s Jewish. He undressed him and, and he knows. He asked me if there are many Jewish kids here, he was trying to catch me lying about it. I said only him. I’m afraid he’s going to ask for papers. If they show him the Jean-Marc papers …”
You don’t have to say something like that twice to Nina. She was chalk-white now. For a moment her lips moved. Then she said suddenly, “Magali, I feel very sick.”
“Sick?”
“Yes. I am having strong pains.” She laid a hand on her side. “I need someone to take me to the doctor. I do not think that I can walk.”
The light was dawning. Brilliantly.
“Nina,” I breathed, “you are amazing.” I hesitated. Think. Don’t be foolish. But it made sense. So much sense. No, no, I should do it, I should be the one. But that voice, that was the foolish one. I would be worthless at faking sick, compared to Nina. “Are you sure, Nina? You …”
She nodded. “Magali …” She touched her side again, suddenly, and winced. “It is true.”
I stared at her.
“I was too afraid to ask him. And all the other men are gone.”
“Magali? Nicole?” I opened the door, and Claudine handed in two dresses, and long underwear. “You girls are still in your wet things, what are you waiting for—”
“Claudine,” I said urgently and low, “he knows Marek’s Jewish. He undressed him. And Marek gave his name as Jean-Marc. Don’t let them show him any papers, Claudine, for the love of God!”
Claudine had snapped into focus. “I won’t. You girls get dressed.” She shoved the dresses at me and was gone.
I changed faster than I ever had before. Then I helped Nina. She was shaking now, uncontrollably. I started to be afraid there was something seriously wrong. I wrapped a towel around her wet hair. “You stay here,” I said. “I’ll go get him.”
I ran down the hall into the living room. For a moment I hesitated, and the scene engraved itself on my eyes: Julie kneeling by Marek near the fire. Erich Müller, kneeling too, saying in a low, kindly voice to Julie, “I hope that you will understand, Mademoiselle, and not be offended—” My heart stuck in my throat with the fear—the fear that I would call out to them, now at the crucial moment, and he would know why.
A cry from the bathroom jolted me to life. Saved me.
“Monsieur Müller!” I shouted, and there was nothing fake about my voice. “It’s Nicole—she’s having pains and shaking, she looks bad, I think she needs a doctor, Monsieur—I’m very sorry—”
He was on his feet already. “There?” he asked, pointing. I nodded and he was off down the hallway. The bathroom door stood open; Nina sat slumped on the side of the bathtub, the towel fallen off her head, barely holding herself up.
I’ll say this for Erich Müller: he was strong. And he was decent. He gathered Nina up without a word, took her in his arms almost as easily as he’d taken Marek. He carried her down the hallway. I asked him if he knew how to find the doctor.
He threw a brief smile back at me. “I have been a convalescent in your village twice, Mademoiselle. I know.” As we came into the living room he said to Julie, “Mademoiselle, there is no automobile here? Or motorcycle?”
Julie shook her head. “No, I’
m sorry, Monsieur. I would ask Monsieur Thiély to do it but he’s not back—”
He waved that away. He set Nina gently on the couch. “Mademoiselle Nicole, can you understand me? I will need to take you on my back, to walk so far as the town. Do you think that you can hang on?”
Nina nodded. She looked terrible. Claudine got a coat around her and put a wool hat over her wet hair. She helped her up to a sitting position as Müller crouched to offer her his back. She clung to his shoulders and he stood, carefully, his hands linked in front of him, his arms under her knees. Julie opened the door for them.
I’ll never forget the sight of them there on the threshold. Him tensed and ready, glancing back for a moment. Her pale face against the back of his jacket, her wide eyes looking at me, tears welling in them. I remembered who was the last man who’d carried her on his back. I stood looking at her, the crippled girl who’d gone into a raging river to save Marek, and who now was facing her worst fear for him. I wanted to speak. To tell her “You are the second bravest person I have ever met.”
Instead, I said what I could. I looked at those two: a strong and decent man ready to help, and a woman of quiet, bone-deep courage, and I felt something move in my gut, in the depths of me. I wondered why I had ever thought there was only one way of being strong. And then I spoke to the one I was allowed to speak to.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you, Monsieur Müller, for saving our lives.”
He looked me in the eye, and nodded. I swear something in his face relaxed. Like that’s what he had been waiting for.
Then he went.
IT WASN’T until he was out of sight, past a bend in the road, that I turned back to the house. I heard Claudine’s voice from inside, from the kitchen door. “He’s gone, you can come in now—please, please come in. He’s taking Nina to the doctor. It’s all right. Oh, are you all right?”
By the time she was done speaking I was beside her.