The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon

by Norman G. Gautreau

  This Embattled Shore, Portal of Freedom, Is Forever Hallowed By the Ideals, the Valor, and the Sacrifices of our Fellow Countrymen

  I look to my right where there is a loggia containing a giant mural map of the allied operations from June 6, 1944 to May 5, 1945. And across to my left is another loggia with a mural of the Normandy invasions—maps announcing the exploits that my brothers-in-arms had been achieving while I was traveling through the south of France with the woman I loved.

  Just before 11:00 am, another shadow moves across the cemetery, this one is accompanied by the whop-whop-whop of helicopter blades whipping the air. I look up to see the green of the president’s helicopter with “United States of America” clearly visible in white letters. Some minutes later, I see, to my left, presidents Hollande and Obama walking between rows of topiary toward the speaker’s platform.

  A woman’s voice welcomes the guests and announces the French and the American national anthems.

  Soon, President Hollande is speaking, but I barely listen. Instead, I watch a flock of seagulls eddying and pinwheeling and pirouetting above the crowd until they disappear back to Omaha Beach as the raptor makes its appearance again. And suddenly my attention is snapped back to the podium by the sound of President Obama speaking. As I glance to my left to see the president, my attention is drawn to a flurry of motion behind him. I look over my shoulder and see several veterans standing and snapping photos of Obama. One of them is Pfc. True, who lowers his camera and smiles at me. I quickly return my gaze to the president who is saying:

  “Friends, families, our veterans. If prayer were made of sound, the skies over England that night would have deafened the world. Captains paced their decks, pilots tapped their gauges, commanders pored over maps …”

  Yes! If prayer were made of sound, the foothills of the Pyrénées would have rung the return of Élodie and I would have bolted out the door of the house in Mosset one glorious day and scanned the hills, as I did every day in that time, and she would have appeared, and her lilting gait would have told me it was her, and I would have run and hopped on my bad ankle to meet her, and I would have held her closer than ever before!

  And if prayer were made of sound, the songbirds in the meadows around Oradour-sur-Glane, that place of prayer, would not have been obliterated by the jackhammering of boots in the streets.

  And if prayer were made of sound, Élodie and I would have heard Adrien reply to our desperate calls and he would have returned to us before the border guards gunned him down.

  And if prayer were made of sound, the stutter of Élodie’s Sten gun would never have silenced the meadow where the boy soldiers died.

  And if prayer were made of sound, the song “We’ll Meet Again” would be a prayer.

  My mind is racing. Phrases from Obama’s speech are like trip wires on my memory.

  “And in the pre-dawn hours, planes rumbled down runways and gliders and paratroopers slipped through the sky ….”

  Yes, if prayer were made of sound, the world would have been deafened by the collective silence from the men when we heard the chaplain say, “Tonight is the night of nights” as we lined up to climb aboard our planes.

  And if prayer were made of sound, the prayer would have been the hard click of the static line clip onto the anchor line cable I heard even over the rumble of the plane’s engines, and the rattle of its rivets, as we lined up in sticks and watched for signals from the jumpmaster and tried to ignore the odor of sweat from the man in front or the odor of shit from another man further up the stick who’d messed his pants in fear.

  And if prayer were made of sound, the jumpmaster’s cry of “Go!” would have been a prayer.

  Obama continues. “By daybreak, blood soaked the water, bombs broke the sky. Thousands of paratroopers had dropped into the wrong landing sites, thousands of rounds bit into flesh and sand ….”

  And there was the terrible pain of the shrapnel slicing into my thigh, descending with others as if in a bloom of moon jellies … my buddy hanging lifeless in a low tree amidst white blossoms, his blood staining red the parachute draped over him like a collapsed halo.

  “By 8:30 a.m.,” the president says, “General Omar Bradley expected our troops to be a mile inland. Six hours after the landings, he wrote, ‘we held only ten yards of beach.’ In this age of instant commentary, the invasion would have swiftly and roundly been declared, as it was by one officer, ‘a debacle.’ But such a race to judgment would not have taken into account the courage of free men. ‘Success may not come with rushing speed,’ President Roosevelt would say that night, ‘but we shall return again and again.’ And paratroopers fought through the countryside to find one another.”

  But not me. At the very instant men were dying and others were desperately trying to find each other among the fields, I was in a barn I mistook for heaven because an angel was playing the violin.

  After Obama’s speech, there is a moment of silence before he and President Hollande place a wreath to honor the dead, and that is followed by a 21-gun-salute. And through it all, I wait impatiently and, as soon as it is over, I stand and shuffle around the right wall of the colonnade and, when I reach the path, I am met by Corporal Meléndez who stands with an empty wheelchair.

  “I thought you’d be tired, so I brought this.”

  “Excellent!” I reply. “I can walk, but I can’t run and, frankly, I need the men’s room. How fast can you make this thing move?”

  She smiles. “Have a seat and try me.”

  I plop into the wheelchair and Corporal Meléndez takes off at a fast jog. People coming in the opposite direction smile at me as I speed past them. We quickly arrive at the visitor’s center and the corporal waits outside while I shuffle into the men’s room. And when I emerge, Callie is waiting for me.

  “What was that all about?” she asks. “Are you and Corporal Meléndez taking up a new sport?”

  “I had to go to the men’s room.”

  “Well if you’re finished, we need to be off,” Callie says. “I arranged for a personal guide to take us through the D-Day museum and she’ll be waiting for us.”

  Less than an hour later, we are at the Mémorial de Caen Museum.

  “Can you manage the stairs, Papa?” Callie asks.

  “I think so. If we take them slowly.”

  We climb two short flights of stairs separated by a broad landing, my cane clicking on the stone with every step, and we enter a vestibule where guards inspect the things we carry, and finally, upon nods from the guards, we enter a spacious lobby where a WWII British fighter-bomber hangs, suspended from the ceiling by cables.

  “That’s a Tiffy,” I say.

  “A Tiffy?” Callie frowns at me. No doubt she sees a darkness that must have come to my countenance.

  “A Hawker Typhoon.”

  “Okay.” She pauses, wrinkles her brow for a moment and says, “She said she’d be standing under the plane. That must be her.”

  Directly under the Tiffy stands an older woman who advances toward Callie with a broad, welcoming smile. “I am Elizabet Billings,” she says in the Queen’s English. “You must be Callie.”

  “I am.” Callie takes the woman’s hand. “And this is my grandfather.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, indeed.” Welcome to the Mémorial de Caen, Mr. Budge. And on behalf of my country may I express my gratitude for what you and your American colleagues did those many years ago to help us help France gain her liberation.”

  I smile, nod, but say nothing.

  “Right, then,” the woman says, “If you’ll follow me, we’ll begin.”

  She leads us into a corridor that slopes downward and curves to the left. On the wall to our right is a chronological series of photographs and maps tracing the origins of World War II. I move slowly, keeping a grip on the red, metal rail to my left. It has been a long day and my legs ache from all the walking, especially the walking in the sands of Omaha Beach. Soon, I spy a bench in a dark corner and tell Callie I need to si
t for a few moments. They sit with me and, as soon as they sit, we learn why the benches are in such a dark space. In front of us, a film starts showing. It is about the Warsaw Ghetto and shows the suffering of the Jews, including scenes of children clearly malnourished.

  Elizabet Billings says, “It’s so sad when these things happen to children. My mother was caught up in Operation Pied Piper. She was evacuated to the Cotswolds.”

  “Pied Piper?” asks Callie.

  I lean forward. “It was the evacuation of British children from the cities to the countryside to protect them from the blitz. Some one and a half million women and children were evacuated from London alone.”

  Elizabet smiles. “Yes, that’s right. You seem to know a lot about it.”

  Callie reaches for my hand and squeezes it. She says to the woman, “My grandfather here, helped save children like that during the war and he’s devoted his life to writing about refugee children. You may have read his book Reluctant Salvation, by G. H. Budge.”

  I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “But call me Henry. It’s what I go by.”

  She gives me a pleasant smile, but I notice another woman, a guide with another group, turn and look at me with a strange expression.

  “Well, I will certainly look for your book. Mr. Budge,” Elizabet says.

  “Henry, please.”

  “Yes, of course. Henry.”

  During the rest of the film, I feel the younger guide’s gaze on me. Finally, I turn to look at her, but she’s whispering intently with Elizabet. Billings. And then the film is over, and we rise and start down the corridor to my left. That’s when I see it! “My God!” I whisper. I hobble down the corridor like a hooked fish being reeled in.

  From behind me I hear Callie calling, “Papa, what are you doing?”

  But I don’t answer. I rush along the hallway and immediately bump into a man who is gazing at a display on the side wall, and the man turns and glares at me, and I mumble an apology but continue on and brush by a second person and accidently hit a third on the ankle with my cane, muttering apologies all along the way, and I stop only when Callie catches up to me and grabs my arm.

  “Papa, what are you doing? Have you gone crazy? I’ve never seen you be so rude!”

  I’m breathing hard. “That photo!” is all I can say. I wave my cane toward the wall facing us at the end of the hallway where an enlargement of a black-and-white photograph covers the entire wall, floor to ceiling. It is of a woman walking alongside a horse she is leading by the reins she grasps in her right hand as it pulls a cart down a road past a car piled high with boxes and household belongings. A small, large-eared dog walks at her heels. A Papillion, like Arlequin.

  “What about it?”

  But I can’t speak. I can’t catch my breath. I’m afraid I might hyperventilate.

  “Papa, you must relax,” Callie says. “What’s got into you?”

  “Are you okay, sir?”The guide who’d given me the sidelong glance is suddenly beside us.

  I say nothing. I can’t drag my eyes away from the photo.

  “The title,” the guide says, “is ‘Mai-Juin, Mille Neuf Quarante, L’effondrement’ which translates to ‘May-June, Nineteen Forty, The Collapse.’”

  Callie turns to me. “What’s so interesting about this photo, Papa?”

  “Please, Madam, pardon my interruption.” The woman is speaking again, but I barely hear her. “My name is Francesca Dulong. I am a guide here, and I overheard you tell my colleague your grandfather helped save children during the war and that his name is“—she stops as if she can’t get the words out—”that his name is Henry Budge.”

  “What?” Callie asks, frowning at the guide.

  “Well, I … I … is your grandfather American? Mister Henry Budge from America?”

  “Yes, why?” Callie looks between me and the guide.

  Francesca Dulong puts a hand over her mouth and sucks in her breath. “I … I … Oh, my God! Oh, my god! I think Mister Budge knows the woman in that picture!”

  I haven’t taken my eyes off the photo.

  Callie turns to me. “Do you, Papa? Do you know her?”

  All I can do is nod.

  With my mouth open.

  And try to breathe.

  71 In my advancing years, I’ve become increasingly lachrymose—as given to tears as a child who’s lost a pet—making it necessary to keep a handkerchief at hand at all times; a far cry from the hardened paratrooper I once was. (Pun intended.)

  72 “He’s always with the bottle or the balls of pétanque.” Pétanque is the Southern French version of boules or bocce.

  73 “Come with me.”

  74 “I know nothing. Leave me (alone).”

  Chapter 16

  And the Gold of their Bodies

  Francesca stares at me, mouth agape. “The woman is … Mon dieu! … the woman is my grandmother. Élodie Bedier.”

  Callie gasps. “Élodie? The Élodie?”

  Again, I nod. I whisper, “Élodie.”

  Callie gapes at Francesca. “She was your grandmother?”

  “Yes.” Francesca nods and reaches out to lay a hand on Callie’s arm.

  “But, not was. Is. She is my grandmother.”

  I stare at Francesca, mouth open. I shake my head. “No. No, there must be some mistake.” My voice comes out in a squeak. “I don’t understand. She’s dead. He said she was dead. I looked for her!”

  Francesca reaches out to touch my arm. “Oh, but … but she’s very much alive. She lives in Paris.” Francesca raises a hand to her mouth as if just now grasping the enormity of what she’s said. “Oh, my God!”

  “It’s impossible!” Tears well up unbidden. “Not after seventy years.” I shake my head and wonder if someone has given the moon a spin. “No. It can’t be. That picture is not her. It’s someone who looks like her.”

  “No, it’s her.” Francesca says. Her eyes are round. She seems almost frightened. She speaks rapidly. “It was taken by a photographer during the evacuation of Paris after the Germans came. She saw it at an exhibit years later, bought it, and donated it to the museum. I was with her when they unveiled it. Oh, my God!”

  I simply can’t believe it. “Perhaps she had a sister,” I say, struggling to comprehend what’s going on. “Did she have a sister?” But, I know she didn’t have a sister and I know for certain it’s her. And at her heels is her little Arlequin.

  “No. I tell you, it’s her! It’s my grandmother, Élodie Bedier. I call her Mémère.”

  Callie’s voice is high, a slack-jawed expression of incredulity painted on her face. “She’s alive?” Her voice has joined Francesca’s and mine in the upper registers. People are staring at us.

  “Absolutely,” Francesca says. “And living in Paris.”

  “Impossible!” It can’t be true, can it? The enormity of the idea is … too much.

  “If she’s your grandmother,” Callie says, “she had a child. Your mother? Father?”

  “Mother,” says Francesca, a circumflex of a crease forming on her forehead. “Her name is Adrienne Savary. But … but … her maiden name is … that is, Mémère gave her the surname Budge. That’s why I was startled when you told me your grandfather’s name.”

  I lean heavily on my cane, and my hand, gripping the curved handle, rocks to and fro, the rubber ferrule tip fixed on the floor and acting as an insecure pivot point. If it were possible, the force of my plant would have driven the cane straight through the floor to the level below. “My god!” I whisper over and over again.

  “Oh, my god!” Callie’s voice reaches into an even higher register. Francesca’s hands frame her face as if she’s in shock. “Mon dieu! I think I am going to cry.”

  “Me, too!” Callie uses a knuckle to wipe a tear from under her eye. “When was your mother born?”

  “April tenth, nineteen forty-five.”

  Callie closes her eyes and counts on her fingers. I can see her doctor’s mind working it out. Finally, she says, “Sh
e was conceived in early July of nineteen forty-four.” Callie shoots me an inquisitive look.

  I’m still confused, not sure of what is happening, and it’s a long moment before I can reply. “Mosset. That’s when we were in Mosset. I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”

  Francesca says, “Oh, my god, yes! I’m definitely going to cry.” Her eyes are shining, glistening tears poised, ready to fall from her lashes.

  I’m losing my balance. I stagger and almost fall against Callie, who says, “My grandfather needs to sit for a while. He was recently shot and is still recovering. Is there a place?”

  “Shot? As in gunshot?” Francesca looks like she just got news of the coming apocalypse.

  Callie puts her arm around my shoulder to support me. “He stopped an attempted rape by beating the bastard over the head with his cane and ended up getting shot in the chest.”

  Francesca’s hand flies to her own chest. “Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” Vaguely, I think this seems to be the winning phrase of the day.

  “We need to get him someplace he can rest.” Callie’s voice is a mixture of pride and protectiveness.

  “Yes,” Francesca looks around. “This way. Come. There is a restaurant in the museum. La Terrasse.”

  I say nothing.

  I only nod.

  I shuffle so slowly, supported by Callie, it takes us almost five minutes to get to the restaurant.

  After we take our seats and order salads and wine, I say to Francesca, “Your mother is named Adrienne?”