by Ruth Druart
Marbles is our usual game, but now I’ve taught Zack backgammon, and we play after school sometimes. He’s pretty good, but not as good as me. The empty feeling inside me is still there, but when I’m with Zack, I pretend I’m back home playing with Jimmy, and then it leaves me for a while. It’s when I’m alone in the apartment with Pretend Mom and Beard Man that it’s worst. My legs always itch more in the evenings. Maybe I’m allergic to something in the apartment. Daddy’s allergic to bananas; he gets a rash if he eats them. Maybe my rash is like that. My legs always itch like mad as soon as I get in from school, and I usually go straight to the bathroom to have a good scratch.
On Thursday, I realize I forgot to put a return address on my letter. How will she be able to write to me now? I’m so stupid!
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Paris, September 28, 1953
SARAH
Sam is still maintaining the barrier he’s built around himself, trying hard not to learn French. But despite his best intentions, she can see he’s coming to understand more and more. Without realizing it himself, he’s following instructions instead of looking blank like he did when he first arrived. Every day she reads to him after lunch, and every evening David reads to him at bedtime. Sometimes he won’t even look at her, and she can feel him a hundred miles away, but other times, she sees recognition in his eyes when the story or a character is familiar. His eyes are easy to read, just like David’s. Neither of them can help but show their emotions through them. She’s seen the hatred and defiance in Sam’s, the confusion and disappointment in David’s. They’re both so proud, so stubborn.
As she wanders into Sam’s room, she feels small and powerless. Sam is sitting at the desk, doodling on a piece of paper. She looks over his shoulder, but he quickly covers the paper with his arm.
“Sam, est-ce que tu veux jouer au backgammon?”
“Non, merci,” he immediately replies.
“On pourrait lire une histoire ensemble?”
“Non.”
She is at a loss. His desire for her to leave is tangible. “Viens, m’aider dans la cuisine.” One last attempt.
He scrapes his chair back loudly, making her wince at the sound of the legs scratching the old oak parquet. Standing, he turns to face her. His brown eyes are dim and cold. “I wanna go back to America.”
Sarah’s heart feels too heavy for her body. She reaches out a hand to touch him, and for the first time, he doesn’t flinch at her touch, but holds her gaze.
“Oh Sam.” She attempts to bring him toward her. He yields slightly, and now their eyes are just a hand’s span away. She knows it’s the closest she’ll ever get to him. “Sam, chéri, est-ce que tu peux me donner une petite chance?”
His eyes fill with water. “I just wanna go home.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Paris, October 24, 1953
SAM
I think Pretend Mom’s beginning to give up. Sometimes I see her looking at me with those green cat eyes. They look so sad, and I can’t help feeling sorry for her. But she made me come here, so it’s her own fault. Why couldn’t they have just left me alone?
Sometimes with Zack I laugh, but I’m careful when she’s around. She must never catch me laughing or even smiling. There’s no risk with Beard Man, except maybe when he reads Tintin and puts on a girlie voice for a bad guy.
But time is running out, and maybe soon everyone will think it’s normal for me to be here in Paris. The French words are beginning to make meanings; words have crept into my head, even though I’ve tried to block them out. But I will never, ever let myself become French. Not if I have to stay here a hundred years.
I have to escape. Maybe I could go to the prison where Daddy is. It’s called La Santé, and it’s right here in Paris. They think I don’t know where he is, but I’m not as dumb as I let them believe. I’ve heard them talking about it, and even though it was in French, I understood some of it, and I heard the name. I remember it ’cause santé means health, and I thought it sounded more like a hospital than a prison, just like my school sounds more like a hospital than a school.
But that’s a stupid idea. Daddy can’t help me; he’s a prisoner too, like me. Anyway, they wouldn’t let me in. I bet they’d just bring me straight back here. I don’t think kids are even allowed to go into prisons.
On Saturday, they go out together in the morning without me. I think they said they’re going shopping, or maybe to the synagogue. I’m not sure. Anyway, I know they’ll be out for a while because they’ve left me a plate of meatballs, bread, and apple on the kitchen table.
I’m so excited my heart’s thumping like I’m about to run a race. This is my chance! But I make myself wait ten minutes to make sure they’ve really gone before I grab my school bag and stuff the food into the front pocket. It will probably only be enough for one day, so I open the cupboard and pull out a box of cookies and add it to my bag. I need to hurry now. I can always buy more food if I need it. I’m ready. No. Wait. Money!
I go to the hall and see that Pretend Mom has left her purse on the table. There’s a fifty-franc note in the front. It’s a lot of money, and together with the money I might be able to get for the ring, I could have enough. Quickly I go back to my bedroom and grab a sweater, but just as I’m leaving, the mini treasure chest on my desk catches my eye. I grab it, shoving it into my bag.
Now for my passport. I go back into the hall and open the drawer in the bureau, pulling out all the papers and documents, spreading them across the desktop. I run my hands over them, feeling for the thin book with the photo in the front. But there’s nothing like that. Just papers.
I could go without it. If I sneak onto the boat, I won’t need it anyway. But if I can buy a ticket, I’ll have to show my passport. I go to the living room, but there are no cupboards or drawers there, just one bookshelf packed full of books. I run my fingers over their spines, checking to see if it’s been squashed between them. But there’s nothing. Where could it be?
Their bedroom? I’ve never been in there, and I don’t really want to go now, but I need that passport. Slowly I open their door, peeping around, even though I know they’re gone. It smells dusty and old, and the shutters are closed. When I put the light on, I see a polished chest of drawers under the window, but I don’t think it will be in there ’cause the drawers are too big, like they’re for clothes. I look at the bed; it doesn’t even look big enough for two people. There are bedside tables on each side. I reckon Beard Man sleeps on the left, ’cause there’s a newspaper on the table, and he’s always reading papers.
I open the top drawer on the other side. It’s full of photos; the one on the top is of me back home on the beach. I shove it into my pocket and continue to feel around. My fingers hit the edge of a thin book. I pull it out. It’s a passport! I open it up, but the photo isn’t me. It’s her. I throw it down and look again. There’s another passport. This time it’s me. I stuff it in my pocket and run out of the room.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Paris, October 24, 1953
SAM
A drop of rain splashes onto my cheek. When I look up, I see thick gray clouds crossing the sky. But it’s too late to go back and get a coat; I have to get to the Saint-Lazare station. I found out from the teacher at school that trains from Saint-Lazare go to Le Havre, and Le Havre is the huge port where all the boats leave from.
But first I have to sell the ring. I don’t want to do it here, though. It would be better to find somewhere farther away from the apartment, where no one will recognize me. Rue de Rivoli is full of shops, and I can walk there. Drops of rain splash around me, and I get wet as I hurry through the crowds. When I reach the main street, it feels like legs are swallowing me up, while elbows and bags with sharp corners jut into my shoulders. I’m small and invisible as I slide between people, letting myself be carried along by the crowd.
Soon I realize I’m in front of the big department store, La Samaritaine. I don’t want to go in there, so now I have to
push against the flow of people. I’m glad to break free from them, even though the rain falls straight onto me now in big drops.
I look at the windows as I pass by, but I can’t see any jewelry shops. Then I see a man and woman come out of a shop holding an umbrella over themselves, looking down at something in his hand. I just know it must be a ring.
Taking a deep breath, I walk into the shop, straight up to the counter. “Bonjour, monsieur.” I stand on tiptoe, slipping the ring off my finger, holding it out toward the man. “Je veux vendre.”
The man stares back at me. His cold dark eyes make me shiver. He gabbles away in loud, angry French. The only words I understand are “Non! Non! Et non!”
I shove the ring into my pocket and run out of the shop.
Bang! I run straight into someone. I look up and see a tall man in uniform. A cop! He shouts at me in French, but I have no idea what he’s saying. My legs feel like they’re turning to jelly and my heart beats hard. What if he arrests me? Will he take me to jail? I stand there frozen to the spot.
“Allez! Allez!” He pushes me in the chest.
Phew! He just wants me out of his way. I turn and run. I have to get away from this street. There are too many people. Maybe I should forget about selling the ring and just find the train to Le Havre.
I wonder when Beard Man and Pretend Mom will get home. How much time do I have? They’ll go crazy when they see I’ve gone. They’ll call the cops for sure. But Paris is a huge city and they’ll never be able to find me with all these people.
Just in front of me, I see the big “M” for Métro. Hôtel de Ville is written in curly letters above the staircase. I run down the steps and see turnstiles. I need to get a ticket.
There are people behind little windows selling tickets, so I go to one and look at the lady sitting there. She looks very strict. I feel scared and try to talk in my best French. “Une ticket, s’il vous plaît, madame. Pour Saint-Layzare.”
She looks down at me. “Pardon?”
“Une ticket pour Saint-Layzare.”
“Quoi?” Now she looks real cross, but I’m sure I said it right.
“Il veut dire un ticket pour Saint-Lazare.” A lady behind me speaks over my shoulder.
“Ah, bon. J’ai rien compris avec son accent. Trente centimes alors.”
That’s thirty centimes. As I take the coins out of my pocket, I turn to thank the lady behind me. Her smile sends sparks through my heart. It’s just like Mom’s, and her eyes are the same chocolate brown.
“Comment tu t’appelles?” she asks.
“Sam.”
“Sam? Pas Samuel?”
“Non, je suis Américain.”
“Américain? Dites donc. Quel âge as-tu?”
“Douze ans,” I lie, standing up straighter.
“Douze ans?”
I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She looks just like Mom does when I tell a lie; her knowing smile seeing right through me.
The nice lady buys her ticket, and I follow her down to the Métro. On the train, zooming through the tunnels, I look around at the other passengers. A man with a cap pulled low over his forehead stares back at me with dark eyes. Quickly I look away. He takes his cap off, and I can’t help staring at his shiny hairless head.
“Es-tu tout seul?” He leans forward, touching my knee with his cap.
I shrink into my seat, looking away.
He’s still staring at me when the train screeches to a stop, so I jump off, even though I’ve only gone one stop. Strangely, the nice lady gets off too, and I follow her. I know I’m supposed to be going to Saint-Lazare, but I feel like staying close to her. And I reckon I could try to sell the ring again and then get back on the Métro. We come out to a square, with cafés around the edge. When she crosses the square, I do too. She walks past a big church that looks a bit like Notre-Dame, then on up another street. The street sign says Rue Montorgueil. We pass a shop selling chocolates, another selling cheese, then one selling slimy stinky fish.
She walks into a cake shop with the word Stohrer written above in blue. In the window there are neat lines of chocolate eclairs, smooth lemon tarts with labels of dark chocolate, and buns with juicy raisins poking out. My stomach rumbles, and I check on the food in my bag. Quickly I stuff a meatball in my mouth. Yuck—it tastes like my school bag, all tough and leathery. I’d much rather have a chocolate eclair.
But I don’t have time. I want to sell my ring. I run past the shops with food on display, people shouting out, “Poisson frais de ce matin!” “Huitres d’Arcachon!” “Pommes de la ferme!” Then I hear footsteps behind me, like metal hitting the cobbles—the kind of footsteps a cop or a soldier would have. Regular. Solid. The sound scares me. I want to turn around to check who it is, but if they see my face… well… What if they’re looking for me already? I start to run, and I don’t slow down till the footsteps have gone away.
The shops look dirtier, grayer now. I stare at a woman standing in a doorway. Her stockings are like black spiderwebs, stretching across her white skin, and her skirt looks like it’s made of red plastic. She scowls at me with horrible purple lips. “Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”
I don’t like this street—it’s spooky. And I’m tired, wet, and hungry. I see a tailor’s shop with naked dummies in the window. Then there’s a shop with the words Prêteurs sur gages on a piece of card stuck in the window. I have a feeling it means a place where you can sell secondhand stuff. I’ve seen it in a shop before, near the apartment.
I’m real scared, but I push open the door anyway, stretching my back, standing taller, pretending to be braver and older than I am. I walk up to the counter. A thin man with a shiny face appears from a door behind it. Leaning his elbows on the counter, he stares down at me. “Oui?”
I take the ring out of my pocket and hold it out.
He takes it from me without a word, turning it over in his bony fingers. His nails are real dirty. I’m trying to look calm, but shivers run down my back.
He looks up at me. He’s noticed the engraving. “S. L. 1944… C’est toi?”
I nod.
“Cinq francs.”
I’m not sure that’s the right price for a gold ring. “Dix francs,” I say bravely.
He smiles, showing crooked yellow teeth. Then he shakes his head, laying a five-franc note on the counter.
I take it and run.
Chapter Eighty
Paris, October 24, 1953
SARAH
David carries the shopping bags into the kitchen.
“You go and see Samuel,” Sarah says. “I’ll put the shopping away.” She takes the raspberry tart out from the top of the bag, putting it carefully on the table. It was expensive, but they bought it because it’s Sam’s favorite. Food, she thinks. How she used to fantasize about it, how it used to invade her dreams. And now they have it, whatever they want really. But she still feels empty.
“Sarah.” David stands in the doorway, his face deathly white.
“What is it?”
“He’s not in his room.”
“Look in the living room. He’s probably fallen asleep on the couch.”
“I looked. He’s not there.”
“He must have gone to the bathroom then.”
David shakes his head, staring at his feet.
“Go and look. He must be there.” She runs out into the corridor. The room’s not locked. She pushes the door open. It’s empty.
“Sam! Sam!” She runs back through the apartment, in and out of each room. Hoping against hope. “He’s not here!” She reaches out for David, her knees losing their muscle, turning to pulp, the ground slipping away beneath her.
He takes her by the shoulders, leading her to a chair in the kitchen.
“What are we going to do?” She gulps down air. It feels like she’s drowning. “We must call the police. Quick! Call them!” Her heart pounds in her ears, her veins pumping hard. “David! Please!”
“Sarah, we need to think this through. Do you have any
idea where he might have gone? Friends?”
“What? Yes. There’s Zack. Let’s try him.” She jumps up, already halfway to the front door.
David runs after her, grabs her elbow, and pulls her back. “Sarah, wait. Please.”
“We have to hurry. He could be far away by now. Oh God! Where has he gone?”
“Calm down for a minute. Please.”
She brings her hand to her throat as if holding herself back. Then she’s dashing toward the door again. They’re wasting precious moments. She knows they have to find him before he gets too far. He’s so small, so naive, he doesn’t understand how cruel people can be, he doesn’t know about all the sick people out there.
“I’ll wait here in case he comes back,” David shouts after her.
She doesn’t stop as she runs to Zack’s. Zack himself answers the door.
“Have you seen Sam?” She doesn’t even say hello.
He frowns, shaking his head.
“Please, Zack. He could be in danger. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
Zack just shakes his head again. She searches his eyes for some kind of clue. Then his mother appears.
“What’s happened?” She frowns just like her son.
“Sam’s disappeared. Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure, Zack? Think carefully. Please. Do you know where he might have gone?”
She waits for a reply, precious seconds ticking away.
Eventually he whispers, “He might have gone back to America.”
Of course! Where else would he go? It makes her want to laugh hysterically. America! How can he possibly imagine he could get that far? She’ll have to go to the police right now. She hesitates for a second, wondering whether to go home first. She decides against it. Time is vital.
She runs to the police station. Arriving there, she is breathless, gasping for air. It’s as though everything is in fast motion, everything except the officer sitting behind the wooden desk. He’s in slow motion. He stands, scratching his belly.