While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  The distant sound of a car engine sets my pulse racing. Leaning forward so my nose almost touches the window, I peer out. Please, God, let it be him. My stomach plummets when I catch sight of a familiar blue hood rounding the corner: Marge from across the road. I watch her struggle with shopping bags while one of her twin boys chases the other around the car. She glances over in my direction. Quickly I back away to the side of the lace curtains. Secrets and lies. What does anyone really know about their neighbors’ lives?

  I have no desire to run into anyone today. If someone saw the black car, all the mothers will know by now. I can imagine them hypothesizing, getting excited. No, I need to get away and distance myself. I could go shopping to another town, where I won’t bump into anyone; somewhere large and anonymous, like one of those big supermarkets.

  I grab my purse, take my keys off the hook by the front door, and get in the car before anyone can see me. As I drive north along the coastal route with the window down, the wind blows through my hair. I love driving fast; it gives me a sense of liberty and independence. I can pretend to be anyone I want to be.

  After half an hour, I spot a sign for Lucky Store. Turning left off the highway, I follow the arrows till I see a parking lot packed with station wagons. I spot one of those burger places and a merry-go-round. Sam would love it here; maybe we should bring him one Saturday and make a day of it. Normally I avoid these large supermarkets, preferring to shop locally, where I can ask the grocer for his crunchiest apples, or the butcher for his leanest cut. They always take their time to pick out the best produce for me, appreciating that I care.

  I don’t feel comfortable in this massive supermarket with its endless rows of brightly displayed food. Housewives in full skirts and smart heels with waved hair push enormous shopping carts piled high with jars and tins. It fills me with a nostalgia, a yearning for home, for Paris.

  Chicken, I tell myself, that’s what I’ll cook tonight, lemon chicken. It’s Jean-Luc’s favorite.

  Two packs of chicken breasts, a pint of milk, and four lemons look lost and forlorn at the bottom of the cart when I reach the cash register. I feel embarrassed, but I couldn’t concentrate on what else we needed for the week.

  The cashier looks at me strangely. “Do you want help bagging, ma’am?”

  Is she being sarcastic? I shake my head. “No thank you. I can manage.”

  My stomach rumbles loudly as I put the solitary brown paper bag in the trunk. I didn’t have any breakfast. Maybe I should get a burger, but the mere thought of it turns my stomach. Instead I drive home, praying Jean-Luc will be back.

  I park the car in the drive and hurry to the front door. It’s locked. He can’t be there. Why would I think he would be? He’d have gone straight to work anyway. I know he’d have been worried about being late as it was.

  It’s already three o’clock. Sam needs picking up from school in thirty minutes. Maybe today it would be better to be late than early. Early means I’ll have to exchange banter with other moms. He could walk home alone—some of the children do—but I love picking him up; it’s my favorite time of the day. When I was a girl in Paris, all the mothers came to pick their children up, ready with a baguette filled with a row of dark chocolate squares. It feels like a family tradition to be there waiting for him at the end of the day. But today, for the first time, I’ll be five minutes late. That gives me twenty-five more minutes to kill.

  I put the chicken in the fridge and wash my hands, scrubbing my nails with the old toothbrush on the windowsill. My father’s voice rings in my head. “Clean nails are a sign of someone who knows how to look after themselves,” he’d say whenever he caught me with dirty nails. “Like shoes,” he often added. “You can tell a person by their nails and their shoes.”

  “Not in America,” I’d tell him now if I saw him. “In America they look at your hair and your teeth.”

  As I put the toothbrush back, I look out the window, trying not to get my hopes up. The street is empty. My stomach rumbles again. I feel a little light-headed. I should eat something sweet. Lifting the tin from the top shelf, I wrap a cookie in tin foil for Sam and break another in half for myself. I nibble at it, worried it will give me stomach cramps, but it makes me feel better, so I eat the other half too.

  Twenty minutes left. I go upstairs, into our bedroom, and sit at the dressing table. Taking the real bristle hairbrush out of the top drawer, I brush my hair till it shines. The mirror tells me I’m still attractive: no fine lines, no gray hair, and no loose skin under my chin. All is in order externally. It’s my heart that feels one hundred years old.

  I get up and smooth out the quilt, made by the Amish in Pennsylvania; hundreds of perfect hexagons stitched together by hand. Our first holiday together. Sam had just learned to walk, but was still unsteady on his feet and took a few tumbles. I remember trotting ahead of him, ready to break his fall.

  Ten minutes to go now. I go downstairs, wandering through the rooms. Finally, I open the front door. The bright sunlight hits me and I go back inside for my hat. As I walk down the garden path, I wonder, not for the first time, why Americans prefer to leave their gardens open, without hedges or brick walls. Anyone could walk right on in, up to the house, and stare in through the windows. It’s so different from French gardens, which are always encircled by high walls or thick bushes, discouraging callers who haven’t been invited.

  Jean-Luc loves the openness here. He says that what happened in France could never happen here because everyone is frank with each other; no one would have denounced their neighbor, then gone to hide behind closed doors while they were taken away. I don’t like it when he talks like this, idealizing his new country. I can’t help feeling it’s disloyal to France. Years of hunger, fear, deprivation—these things can change a good person into a bad person.

  “Charlie!” Marge calls over from the yard opposite, interrupting my thoughts. “Where were you today? We had coffee at Jenny’s. We thought you were coming.”

  “Sorry.” My heart skips a beat, and I cover my mouth with the back of my hand to hide the lie. “I needed to do a big shop. I went to Lucky Store.”

  “What? You went all the way out there? I thought you hated those enormous shopping malls. You should have said. I’d have gone with you.”

  “I’m sorry I missed the coffee.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be at Jo’s on Friday. Listen, I need to ask you a favor. Could you pick Jimmy up for me, please? I gotta take Noah to the doctor. He’s running a temperature and I can’t get it down.”

  “Sure.” I attempt a smile, but I feel like a traitor with these neighbors I’ve known for years.

  “Thanks, Charlie.” She flashes me a wide smile.

  As I walk to school, I remember how the neighbors made us feel so welcome from the day we arrived in Santa Cruz, nine years ago. Within the week we’d been invited over, not just for an aperitif, but for a barbecue. I was touched by the way they all got together for the occasion, their loud, cheery voices declaring how happy they were to meet the new family. A large beer was thrust into Jean-Luc’s hand and a glass of white wine put into mine as soon as we stepped into the garden. They fussed over Sam, and a shady place under a tree was found for him to sit on his baby blanket, surrounded by brightly colored toys. There didn’t appear to be a formal structure to the proceedings, not as far as I could see anyway. It was a free-for-all, and as soon as a piece of steak was ready, the guests would swarm to the barbecue. I was grateful when a man handed me a plate with food already on it. We sat wherever we liked, pulling wooden chairs around to join groups.

  It was all so different from Paris. On the few occasions my parents received guests, they would make seating plans for dinner. The guests would wait patiently and quietly for the host to allocate the places. And no one would ever be served a drink until everyone had arrived. Maman often complained about so-and-so being late and making them all wait an hour for their first drink. Well, the war put an end to those dinners anyway.

 
Here, there didn’t seem to be any rules. Women chatted freely to me, their laughter spilling out; men teased me, telling me how sexy my accent was. I was charmed, Jean-Luc even more so. He fell in love with America from day one. If he ever felt homesick, he never mentioned it. Everything was wonderful and amazing for him: the abundance of food, the friendliness of the people, the ease with which anything could be bought. “This is the American Dream,” he kept saying. “We must learn to speak English perfectly. It will be easy for Samuel, it will be his first language; he’ll be able to help us.”

  Samuel soon became Sam, Jean-Luc became John, and my nickname was Charlie. We’d been Americanized. Jean-Luc said it meant we’d been accepted, and that in recognition of this warm welcome we’d received, we should avoid speaking French. He said it would look like we didn’t want to integrate. So we only spoke English, even between ourselves. Of course, I could see his point, though it broke my heart a little not to be able to sing the lullabies to Sam that my mother used to sing to me. It distanced me even further from my family, my culture, and it changed our way of communicating, our way of being. I still loved Jean-Luc with all my heart, but it felt different. He no longer whispered mon coeur, mon ange, mon trésor. Now it was darling, honey, or worse, baby.

  The bell rings out across the empty playground, interrupting my thoughts. Children come swarming out, buzzing around looking for their mothers. Sam is easily recognizable, with his dark hair shining out from the throng of blonder heads. His olive skin and fine features tell of different origins. A neighbor once said that his long eyelashes were wasted on a boy. As if beauty could be wasted on anyone. What a strange thought.

  Sam looks over, smiling his lopsided smile, just like Jean-Luc’s. He’s too old now, at nine, to come running up like he used to, and finishes talking with his friends before he wanders over, carefully casual.

  I kiss him on each cheek, well aware how much it embarrasses him, but I can’t help myself. Anyway, a little embarrassment now and again is character-building.

  “Go tell Jimmy he’s coming home with us,” I say.

  “Swell.” He runs off, but stops suddenly, turning around and taking a step back toward me. “Is Daddy home?”

  “Not yet.”

  Without a word, he walks away to find Jimmy.

  When they reappear, I take out the chocolate chip cookie, breaking it in half. Jimmy wolfs his half down.

  “There are more at home,” I say.

  “Yeah!” Jimmy runs on ahead. “Come on, Sam!”

  But Sam walks next to me.

  Jimmy runs on anyway, disappearing around the next corner. I put my hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Daddy will be home soon.”

  “But what did those men want?”

  “We’ll talk later, Sam.”

  “Boo!” Jimmy jumps out at us.

  My heart leaps into my throat, and I scream.

  Jimmy’s laughing hysterically. “Sorry,” he manages to say between giggles.

  When my heartbeat returns to normal, I pretend to laugh too, releasing the tension of the moment.

  Jimmy grabs Sam’s arm, and they run on ahead.

  When we get home, I set the tin of cookies on the kitchen table in front of the boys. “Have as many as you want.”

  Jimmy looks at me wide-eyed, grinning from ear to ear. “Gee, thanks.”

  It brings me a little comfort as I watch them tuck in, enjoying what I’ve made.

  “They’re the best ones yet, Mom.” Crumbs settle into the corners of Sam’s mouth. Jimmy nods in agreement, his mouth too stuffed to utter a word.

  “Do you want me to make some for your class?” I offer.

  “No thanks. Just for us.” Sam looks at me with dark, jealous eyes.

  I want to reach out and hold him close, tell him he has nothing to worry about. That my love for him is deeper than the ocean, that it will last forever. Instead, I start preparing the evening meal, grating the zest off the lemons, squeezing them, adding the juice to the zest. I slice the chicken breasts before soaking them in the juice. I’m not following a recipe; it’s just how Maman used to prepare lemon chicken for Sunday lunch, before the war.

  Chapter Three

  Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953

  JEAN-LUC

  They pull up in front of the City Hall. Jackson switches the engine off and sits there for a minute, staring into the rearview mirror at Jean-Luc. Then the two men get out of the front, waiting for Jean-Luc to let himself out. But he’s in no rush, is even tempted to wait until one of them opens his door for him. That would put a different angle on things. Details count. Abruptly Bradley raps on the window with his knuckles. The sound is harsh, twisting the knot of fear in Jean-Luc’s stomach. But why is he so afraid? It’s totally irrational; he’s done nothing wrong. Leaning forward, he pulls on the door handle, stepping out into the morning sun.

  They walk up the steps in silence, entering through the grand double doors. It’s still early, which is probably why there’s no one around. They take him down some stairs, along a dimly lit corridor, then into a room with no windows. Bradley flicks a switch, and a fluorescent light bar buzzes then flickers before flooding the room with bright white light. A Formica table and three plastic chairs on metal legs are the only objects in the room.

  “This might take awhile.” Jackson removes a crumpled cigarette pack from his breast pocket, tapping it against the table. “Have a seat.” He offers the open pack to Jackson. They light up, watching Jean-Luc.

  Sitting down, Jean-Luc crosses his arms, then uncrosses them, attempting a smile. He wants them to understand that he’s happy to comply, ready to tell them what they want to know.

  The men remain standing, their faces rigid. Bradley’s greasy skin shines under the fluorescent tube above, shiny red pockmarks catching the light. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, fills his lungs, then exhales slowly, leaving a thick fog hanging for a second in the middle of the room.

  “Mr. Bow-Champ, where did you get that scar on your face? It’s quite distinctive.”

  Jean-Luc reminds himself that in situations like this, it’s best not to provoke anything. Passivity is best; he mustn’t appear too defensive. Don’t antagonize. Stay calm. He feels a trickle of sweat slide down his ribs.

  “I got it during the war,” he murmurs.

  Bradley looks over at Jackson, raising an eyebrow.

  “Where?” Jackson asks.

  Jean-Luc hesitates, wondering if he could tell the story he’s used so far, the one where he was hit by shrapnel when a bomb fell on Paris. Instinctively, he knows it won’t help him now.

  Bradley leans forward, staring intently into his eyes. “What did you do during the war?”

  Jean-Luc looks straight back at him. “I was working at Bobigny—the railway station.”

  Bradley raises a thick eyebrow. “Drancy?”

  Jean-Luc nods.

  “The concentration camp of Drancy?”

  He nods again. He has the feeling he’s been cornered, forced to agree with the facts. But the facts don’t tell the whole story.

  “From where thousands of Jews were sent to their death at Auschwitz?”

  “I was just working on the tracks.” He holds eye contact; he doesn’t want to be the first one to look away.

  “To keep the trains running efficiently.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  Bradley’s face grows shinier and redder. “Just doing your job? That old line. You were there, weren’t you? You aided and abetted.”

  “No!”

  “Drancy was a transit camp, wasn’t it? And you were helping them transfer the Jews to Auschwitz.”

  “No! I wanted to stop them! I even tried to sabotage a track. I ended up in the hospital because of it.”

  “Really?” Bradley’s tone is ironic.

  “It’s true. I swear.”

  Chapter Four

  Paris, March 6, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  After four years, the occupation had
become a way of life. Some had adapted better than others, but Jean-Luc still woke every morning with a sinking feeling. This morning he dragged himself out of bed to report for duty at Saint-Lazare station, but his boss didn’t hand him his tool sack like he usually did. Instead he stared hard at him. “You have to work at Bobigny today.”

  “Bobigny?” Jean-Luc repeated.

  “Yes.” His boss looked him in the eye. They both knew what Bobigny meant.

  “But I thought it was closed.”

  “It is to passenger trains, but it’s open for other uses.” His boss paused, letting the words sink in.

  “Next to the transit camp at Drancy?” Jean-Luc’s voice came out as a croak while his pulse raced ahead as he tried to think of a way out.

  “Yes. The tracks need maintenance work. We have orders to send six men.” He paused. “Don’t mess around over there. The Boches are in charge of it now. Try not to let them see your hand.”

  Jean-Luc had been working for the national railway company, the SNCF, since he had left school six years ago, at the age of fifteen. But like everything else, the railroads belonged to the Germans now. He looked away, shoving his deformed hand into his pocket. He hardly thought about it; having been born with only a finger and a thumb on his left hand hadn’t held him back or prevented him from ever doing anything.

  “They don’t like things like that.” His boss’s eyes softened. “You work as well as anyone else, better even, but the Boches like everything… Well, you know. You don’t want them sending you to one of their work camps.”

  Jean-Luc took his hand out from his pocket, clasping it with the good one, suddenly self-conscious.

  His father had been a good friend of the foreman, and this contact had helped him get his first job despite his handicap. He’d had to work extra hard to prove himself, but it didn’t take long for his colleagues and superiors to realize that his disfigurement had no effect on his dexterity, that he could grip anything between the finger and thumb of his left hand with a firm pincer movement, using his good hand to do the work.