The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon

by Norman G. Gautreau

  “There was nothing you could do,” Élodie says.

  I shake my head. “I failed him.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. When he ran to be with Monsieur Clérisse, we assumed it was because the man had shown kindness and given the children chestnuts. But that wasn’t the point, was it? He ran back to Monsieur Clérisse because he needed a man and I wasn’t available because Mitzi had already claimed me. He needed a substitute father and I wasn’t there for him.”

  “His father had been gone a long time. He knew Monsieur Clérisse. He was familiar. You mustn’t beat yourself over the head about it.”

  “How could I have been so fucking blind? He went looking for his mother, so she could bring him to his father! That’s what it was all about, and I was too stupid to see it.”

  Élodie puts her hand on my cheek. “After the cave and that soldier I gave a haircut to, you said I shouldn’t let it torment me. You said the same thing about the boy-soldiers after Oradour. It’s the same thing. Don’t let what happened to Adrien torment you. It’s the war. It’s the fucking, goddamned war.”

  I place my hand over hers and draw in a deep breath.

  “We do the best we can,” she says.

  I let the breath out in a long, slow exhale. Fuck this fucking goddanmed war.

  Ian says, “You must leave straight away with the children before those two guards are missed and Jerry goes looking for them.”

  “Is there a danger of reprisals?” asks Élodie. “Will you be safe?”

  “Don’t worry about us. You have the children to care for.”

  A half hour later, Élodie and I and the twelve remaining children set off for the arduous trek to the east.

  Three days after leaving Ian and Annabel Beckham’s barn in Saint Lizier, we stop in an open field a few kilometers south of Merens-les-Val. We have had to bivouac each night and it’s been hard on the children who have been having nightmares and seem in constant need of loving touches. As the sun disappears behind the ridges to the west, and shadows creep across the field, Élodie and I organize the children the same way we have the two previous nights. After they have eaten their portions of bread, and swallowed their allotment of water, I arrange them into a huddle with Mitzi sitting in the center surrounded in concentric circles first of the younger children, then of the older children, and finally an outer ring comprising me, Élodie and the oldest children. We press the circles tightly together to create a collective warmth. “It’s the way penguins do it,” I explained the first night, swaying back and forth, imitating a tuxedoed bird and hoping for at least a smile. Periodically, the outer two rings exchange places briefly, so the outermost ring has an opportunity to collect a reserve of warmth before returning to the outside.

  In this way, we pass a long, cold, night in thin moonlight, and with wind snaking down off the surrounding slopes, and tongue-flicking every inch of exposed skin. And through the persistence of each night, Élodie and I can feel, as corporeal manifestations, the nightmares playing in the silence of the children’s minds, for they reveal themselves in the agitated spasms brushed from limb to limb in the huddled circle at the center of which, like the one ember in a dying fire, is Mitzi, the only partially warm body. And that is how we stay until the blood-red light of the sun first paints the bellies of clouds over Pic Carlit, the mountain looming only a few kilometers to our east.

  With stiff limbs, we break the circles apart, pass bread and water from hand to hand and, after a while, set off up the spongy, treeless slopes for the pass through the mountains a mere two kilometers away. When at last we reach the top of the pass, we see no signs of German guards. Instead, we see the green valleys of Andorra spread out below us, and begin along a path that descends, for a change. And the more we descend, the more our spirits are lifted.

  Andorra la Vella, the capital, is twenty kilometers away and we make it by early evening. As we appear on the outskirts of the village, a cluster of mostly two- and three-story stone buildings, we are met by a portly, middle-aged woman who greets us first in Catalan then, after eyeing me up and down, switches to rudimentary English. She introduces herself as Vera-Lucia Ribó and nodding to the children, asks, “Jueus?”

  “Yes,” replies Élodie. “They are Jews.”

  “S’escapen? They escape Hitler?”

  “Yes.”

  Vera-Lucia Ribó smiles broadly. “Is good. I will feed. Okay?”

  Élodie’s eyes water. “Oh yes, thank you! Thank you! They haven’t eaten properly in many days.”

  The woman places a hand on Élodie’s belly. “And you, too. Eh? I will make trinxat. You will enjoy. Follow.” She turns and marches toward the center of the village. Élodie, the children, and I follow.

  “Trinxat?” I ask.

  “It’s a mash of potatoes and cabbage, fried with bacon,” says Élodie. “It’s traditional Catalonian. When you were in England, did you ever try bubble and squeak?”

  “Yeah. At a pub we frequented.”

  “It’s similar.”

  The trinxat is a great hit. Most of the children have two servings and, while we are eating, Vera-Lucia Ribó goes around to several neighboring houses and returns with the news that she has found warm beds for everyone. “I do my part,” she says. “We have been at war with Germany since thirty years.”

  “Thirty years?” I ask. “How can that be? The war is only five or six years old.”

  Vera-Lucia Ribó turns to Élodie. “You explain. My English is not good.”

  Élodie laughs. I realize it is the first time in many days I have heard her laugh. She says, “In the First World War, Andorra declared war on Germany. And then, when the war was ended by the Treaty of Versailles, the diplomats forgot to list little Andorra in the official papers. Therefore, she was, and still is, technically, at war with Germany.”

  Vera-Lucia Ribó purses her lips in a show of disapproval. “No, no. No tècnicament en guerra, veritablement en guerra!68 For the children!” She takes Élodie’s hands in both hers. “But what will you do now?”

  “We were to meet some men in Esterri d’Àneu,” Élodie replies. “But we are many days late because the route we were to take became unsafe and we had to go further east.”

  “I know the men of which you speak. They have escorted many people to Lisbon for the ships. I will send my nephew to Esterri d’Àneu. He will tell them you are coming. But you rest here for a day and I will find donkeys for you.”

  “Donkeys?”

  “Si. So you don’t walk all the way.”

  “But—”

  The woman holds up a hand. “The children must not walk one step more. I will not permit it!”

  And, so it is that, two days after arriving in Andorra la Vella, Élodie, I, and the twelve children set out in a caravan of seven donkeys, most of them carrying two children each, and each led by a farmer holding the reins, bound for Esterri d’Àneu. Using paths only the farmers know, we stop often because the children want to pick flowers by the side of the road. Finally, we arrive in Esterri d’Àneu in the early evening. Élodie smiles at me as I sit astride my donkey with Mitzi braced in front of me and says, “You look like Don Quixote.”

  “And you look like Christ entering Jerusalem. Except he had palm fronds and I don’t think he had so many flowers in his hair.” The children have insisted Élodie wear flowers they have picked along the way.

  Soon, we are welcomed by Àngel Barbera and Miquel Garriga, the two men who will shepherd the children to Lisbon, a journey of more than 1,200 kilometers, mostly by train. Barbera speaks English but Garriga speaks only Catalan.

  The sun is beginning to set as we are brought to a large inn near an ancient stone, single-arch bridge over the Noguera Pallaresa River. The undersides of the clouds, fleeced into long strips as they drag across the surrounding peaks, are gilded butter-yellow. The slow-moving current causes the golden reflections in the river to ripple. We are led through the front door of the inn, and into a large, wood-paneled public room.
Four small tables sit in the center of the room adorned with, I later learn, popular card games from the Basque region, and damas, a version of checkers. At one end of the room is a huge stone fireplace that occupies the entire wall, and rises to the dark, coffered, wood ceiling. Against the other three walls sit several pieces of furniture including a sideboard, a cabinet of Spanish-Moorish design, two chairs with leather seats and backs, and two Moroccan sofas with seat and back cushions, also with Moorish designs. The floor is made of large, red tiles.

  “We have arranged two rooms with beds and cots for you,” Àngel Barbera says to Élodie. “One for the boys and the American, and one for you and the girls.”

  “I see.” Élodie says. She turns to the children and explains the arrangements in French and German. She pauses while Aron Klotz translates her comments into Polish.

  Instantly, there are tears and sobs of “Nie! Nie! from the Polish children which are quickly echoed by cries of, “Non!” and “Nein!” Even Max Jäger shakes his head slowly and mutters, “I’d rather not” in his best, polite British accent.

  Élodie’s mouth falls open. “Why not, Max? What’s going on? Why is everyone so upset?”

  “They don’t want to be separated. I don’t either. We all want to stay with you and Herr Henry.”

  Élodie and I gaze at the other children. The three Godowsky children are gathered close together as are Kamilá and Józef Brodny. Rebekka and Stephan Weiß hold hands and gaze back at Élodie and me. Leni and Renata Gottfried hug each other. Even Mitzi seems to understand what is happening, for she has her arms wrapped tightly around my leg.

  Élodie turns to Àngel Barbera. “I’m afraid we can’t separate the children. I’m sorry.”

  Àngel gives a broad smile. “I understand. No problem. You have great duende with them.”

  “Duende?” Élodie asks.

  “How you say? Charm? Enchantment?” He gestures to Miquel Garriga, “Segueix-me,”69 and the man follows him down a corridor that leads from the large room.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Élodie replies with a smile. She looks down at the toddler clinging to my leg. “But this I do know—that little girl is quite attached to you.”

  I tousle Mitzi’s hair and whisper, “What are we gonna do tomorrow when we have to leave them?”

  “I have no idea,” Élodie says in a very low voice. “It will be difficult, but it may be only me who will be leaving them. We still have your situation to discuss. On the morrow are you going back to France with me, or are you returning to your outfit?”

  Before I have a chance to answer, Àngel Barbera and Miquel Garriga return with arms full of cushions and pillows which they drop on the floor before sliding all the furniture together against one wall to leave a large open space in the center of the room. “This way the children can enjoy the fireplace through the night,” he says to Élodie. “We will leave extra wood. But you and the American can have real beds.”

  “Thank you,” Élodie replies. “But please don’t be offended if I say I wish to stay with the children.”

  “As you wish.” The man grins, turns to me, and raises his eyebrows inquisitively.

  “I’ll also stay with the children,” I say.

  Barbera nods. “I will instruct Miquel to light the fire now, so the children will sleep comfortably. You have had to bivouac, yes?”

  “Several times,” replies Élodie.

  Barbera shakes his head in sympathy. “The mountains can be harsh.” Once Barbera and Garriga leave, the children gather around Élodie and me. Several move in for hugs, and Mitzi continues to hang onto me.

  “What are we gonna do?” I ask.

  Élodie shakes her head. For a long time, she remains silent.

  So long, that I ask again, “What should we do?”

  “Let’s teach them a song,” she finally replies. “Let’s get them to sing.”

  “Okay. What song?”

  “Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’.”

  “Swell. I know it,” I say. “Lew Stone played it often at the Dorchester on some type of strange organ.”

  “You went to dances at the Dorchester Hotel?”

  “A few. When I could get leave.”

  “Well, it wasn’t an organ. It was something called a novachord. He led his band from it.” Élodie turns to Max Jäger. “Do you know this song?”

  Max shakes his head. Instead, he asks, “Might we close the curtains?”

  “Yes, of course,” replies Élodie.

  Max lets out a huge sigh, and smiles. “But I’m so sorry I don’t know the song.”

  “It’s alright,” Élodie says. “I’ll teach you all the words. Tell the others what we’re doing and tell Aron to translate for the Polish children.” Max does as she asks then turns expectantly. Élodie says, “Yes, then, gather around children. I’ll play the melody on my violin then Monsieur Henry and I will sing the lines, and you all repeat after us. Here we go.” She opens her case, takes a moment to tune, then notches the chin rest of the instrument against her neck and plays the melody. She then cradles the violin in her lap and nods to me, and together we sing the first line as she waves the bow to the beat:

  We’ll meet again …

  Hesitantly, the children sing the line. Max and Aron translate the meaning. Élodie and I repeat the line and the children mimic us. We do this several times until the children can reasonably approximate the unfamiliar words. Then we move onto the second line and repeat the process, then the third, and so on until everyone has memorized the first verse. Finally, Élodie picks up her violin, and counts out a beat, and plays the melody one time through, and nods, and the children start to sing, and at first their voices are tentative and shy and then, gradually, the room swells with song and the children begin to smile and laugh.

  We’ll meet again

  Don’t know where

  Don’t know when

  But I know we’ll meet again

  some sunny day.

  The children insist on singing the song repeatedly and they revel in the fullness of their voices until, finally, one after the other, they are yawning and lying down on the cushions and falling asleep.

  After the last child is asleep, we slip out the inn, and walk to the center of the arched, stone bridge. We brace our elbows on the chest-high parapet of the bridge and listen to the water flowing underneath. Above, silvered clouds drift under the moon, blocking its light, then revealing it again. Each time a cloud passes, the river beneath us responds with wavelets of reflected light. Élodie wears a scarf that is wafted by the breeze, floats out for a moment, and snags on the stone of the bridge. Gently, she lifts it away from the stone. “Are you going on to Portugal with the children?” she asks. “Or are you returning to France with me?”

  I answer immediately. “I’ve been thinking about it,” I say. “I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

  “If you mean what I think you mean,” she says, “do you understand the implications?”

  “I guess they call it desertion.”

  “You could be shot.”

  “Or hanged.”

  “Yes. Or hanged.”

  “It’s worth the risk.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  She lays her head on my shoulder. “Yes. And I love you.”

  “And I love the children,” I add. “We have nothing to be sorry for. Those children have a chance to survive the war now, and I feel good about that. And, as you said, there will be others.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” she murmurs. “The consequences!”

  “Nobody does,” I say. “But whatever happens, we must bring more children over the mountains. I don’t care about the consequences. I would rather die with you, doing our best, than live without you.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a consequential life.”

  Élodie gazes into my eyes for several long
moments. She places her hand on my cheek and kisses me. “Then we will go to Prades.”

  “Prades? Why there?” I ask.

  “That’s where Maestro Casals lives, and he has contacts. He will help us gather more children.”

  “But why not return to Saint-Lizier and Ian and Annabel Beckham?”

  “Saint Lizier was good for when we were planning to cross the mountains further to the west. But now that we’re using La Pas de la Casa, Prades is about half the distance.”

  Several hours later, the early morning light, liquid and golden, inundates the land like spilled egg yolk. It warms the faces of the children, glistens in the tear trails on their cheeks, and glints dully off the muddied metal surfaces of a waiting truck. Àngel Barbera and Miquel Garriga will take the children west to the train station in Huesca in Aragon from where they will travel by rail to Lisbon, and then by ship under neutral-flag, through U-Boat infested waters, to Britain.

  The truck idles with a quiet rumble.

  As Élodie and I approach the children, Élodie says, “I’ve been living in fear of this moment. I’ve grown so fond of them.”

  “Me too, frankly,” I say. “But it must be done. We’ve brought them this far, you and I together. Now, we need to let them go.”

  “I’m just so afraid of putting a foot wrong, of saying the wrong thing.”

  As Élodie and I come alongside the truck, several of the children throw out their arms, and lean over the rail, and cling to us. Mitzi, who is not yet in the truck, has an especially fierce grip on my leg. I am forced to gently pry her hands away as Àngel Barbera bends down to lift her into the bed of the truck. She wails and reaches out for me. I stand at the side of the truck, and she leans out to hug me, and I pat her forehead, and I wipe away the tears on her cheeks with a finger. Several of the other children are crying. Even Max seems about to lose his composure. Surprising myself, and in what must look almost like a priestly gesture, I place my right hand on the boy’s cheek and say, “You must be brave for your new journey, for at the end, you will be free,” and I approach Jerzy Godowsky and his sisters Elżbietá and Klará and I place a hand on each of their cheeks and say, “Be brave for your new journey. At the end, you will be free,” and I do likewise, one by one, with Kamilá and Józef Brodny, and with Rebekka and Stephan Weiß, and with the sisters Leni and Renata Gottfried, and with Aron Klotz, and with Yvette Monsigny, and, finally, with Mitzi.