While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “My son has… has gone missing! Help me!” Her breath is raw, scratching at her throat.

  Too slowly, he reaches a stubby finger out to a buzzer on his desk. Its shrill ring fetches another officer—a taller, leaner man. “Come this way, madame.”

  She follows him into a small room. “Sit down.” He pulls out a plastic chair.

  But she doesn’t want to sit down. She wants him to jump up and start looking for her son.

  “Name?” he asks, his pen hovering over a pad of paper.

  “Samuel Laffitte. Please, he’s only nine. We need to find him quickly.”

  “Mrs. Laffitte, we can’t start looking for him till we have some details. I’m sure you understand.”

  She nods, tears of frustration welling up. She swallows them and tries to answer his questions calmly and quietly.

  He takes notes, looking up sometimes, creases growing between his eyes. “I think I should come to the apartment,” he says. “See if we can find some clues, and speak with the boy’s father.”

  They drive to the apartment in a police car. He puts the siren on, which she takes as a good sign. He understands the urgency now.

  David throws the door open before they have time to knock. “He’s taken his passport!”

  “No! Please, no!” Sarah leans into the wall, clutching her stomach.

  “Please stay calm. We’ll find him, Mrs. Laffitte.” The police officer turns to David. “What else has he taken? Money?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Do you have any idea about where he might be heading, given that he’s taken his passport?”

  “California,” Sarah whispers.

  “California?”

  “His adoptive family is there. He’s only been living with us since the end of July.” David’s voice is flat, a monotone.

  “Yes, Mrs. Laffitte explained the situation. Most unfortunate indeed.” The officer coughs. “We are lucky in that we know where he’s likely to be going, and in that way his options are limited. He won’t be able to take a plane, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try; kids don’t think that far ahead. So he could be heading for the airport, in which case it should be quite straightforward to find him. Or he could be going to a port. Or he could be on his way to visit Monsieur Beauchamp in prison—that option would be the easiest for us. We’ll phone through to La Santé to check.”

  “But he doesn’t know which prison he’s in!”

  “We need to explore all the options. Most kids come back within twenty-four hours, when they get hungry.” He pauses. “We’ll send a couple of men to the airport.”

  Sarah wishes he’d just do it. Quickly. Crucial minutes are ticking away.

  He continues, “We’ll phone through to Le Havre. They’ll be able to check the trains arriving and the boats leaving.”

  “But Le Havre’s not the only port. What if he’s gone to Calais or Dunkirk?”

  “True. We’ll phone there too, and alert police at the railway stations.”

  “But what if he’s already arrived there and got off the train? We went out at midday and now it’s three o’clock. He’s had time to get there by now.” Sarah throws herself into a chair, her head spinning with all the possibilities.

  “We’ll have our men check the boats leaving port. Don’t worry. We’ll get him back. Now, do you have a recent photo?”

  Sarah gets up to fetch the photos Charlotte Beauchamp sent before they met Sam. There’s also his extra passport photo. She hands them over without a word.

  The officer looks at the photos, then slides them into a leather wallet. “I’ll be in touch. Do you have a phone?”

  “Yes,” David replies quickly.

  “You need to stay here, in case he comes back. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  David sees him out.

  Another sharp pain clutches Sarah’s abdomen, like a snake twisting itself around her intestines. She bends over, holding her stomach. In her head she whispers: Please, God, please. Forgive me. You saved him before. Save him again. I’ll never ask for anything else. Keep him safe. I will give him up. Please just bring him back, I beg you.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Paris, October 24, 1953

  SAM

  I can’t stop shivering as the engine starts up and the train moves forward. I look out the window. Au revoir, Paris.

  My stomach rumbles. I guess I should eat something; it might help warm me up. I open my bag and take out the bread. I put the rest of the meatballs inside and take a bite. It tastes stale and leathery, and it makes me feel bad inside—eating food she made for me. They’ll know by now for sure that I’ve gone. I bet she’ll be crying. I swallow the lump of food in my mouth and put the rest of it back in the satchel. Maybe I’m not that hungry after all.

  I hunt around in the bag, checking what else I brought with me. My hand comes across the small wooden chest. I take it out and open it, looking at the colored stones. I hold them up to the light one by one, wondering if they’re precious. They’re not shiny, but the colors are nice. I put them back and close the box, thinking instead about how happy Mom will be to see me. I bring my legs up to my chest, hugging them, trying to get warm, as I stare out at the gray buildings against the gray sky.

  I must have dozed off, because a man is shaking me by the shoulder. At first I think I’m dreaming, and it takes me a few minutes to remember where I am.

  “Billet.”

  He wants my ticket. Quickly I pull it out of my pocket and show it to him.

  He looks at it, then gives it back without saying a word. I’d like to ask him what the time is and how much longer the train will take. It’s real dark now outside.

  The train screeches. It must be stopping. I look out the window. I can just make out the sign in the half-darkness—Le Havre. I grab my bag and jump off the train. There’s a guard at the end of the platform, checking tickets, so I get mine ready. I wonder how far it is to the port. Maybe there will be a bus. The crowd moves forward slowly. There’s a family of five in front of me, and it takes them ages to find their tickets. I wish they’d hurry up; I want to get on that boat. Finally they go through. I hold my own ticket out for inspection.

  “Comment tu t’appelles?” The guard doesn’t look interested in my ticket.

  “Samuel.”

  “Passeport.”

  “Mais j’ai mon billet.”

  “Oui, et maintenant je demande ton passeport!”

  I take my passport out of the bag. My heart is thudding hard. But it is my passport, and I am allowed to take a train. Everything will be okay.

  I hold it out to the man.

  A hand lands on my shoulder. “Samuel Laffitte.”

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Paris, October 29, 1953

  SARAH

  The boy they bring back to them on that black night is a diminished version of himself, even more withdrawn and morose than before.

  He’s fighting them with silence, using it like a sharp knife. It’s ripping into Sarah’s soul, tearing it to pieces. Once again, David puts him to bed with a story he refuses to listen to, his head turned toward the wall. They go straight to bed after they’ve tucked him in. They’re both exhausted through to their bones. But sleep doesn’t come easily.

  “David,” Sarah whispers in the dark.

  “Please, Sarah. We need to sleep.”

  “But I can’t. I feel terrible.”

  “Sarah, you have to stop this. We have done nothing wrong. It’s not wrong to love your child, to want to raise him. You mustn’t feel guilty like this.”

  The words she really wants to say are stuck in her throat, like a cancer growing. So instead she skirts around it. “I’m not strong enough, David. I can’t do it.”

  “Give him more time.”

  “We’ve given him time. Time is not helping. His resentment for us grows stronger with every day that passes.”

  “He won’t be able to keep fighting us like this. He’ll run out of steam, and we�
��ll be ready to catch him when he falls. He will come back to us. We just need to be patient and keep our faith.”

  “Faith,” she murmurs.

  He turns to face her. Sighing, he reaches for her hand. “We all have our moments of doubt, Sarah. This has been very hard for us, but you’ve been so brave. You’ve always been brave.”

  “I didn’t want to have to be that brave.”

  “I know you didn’t.” He strokes her hand under the sheet.

  “Sometimes I feel so angry inside, then sometimes I feel guilty. I just don’t know how… how…” Tears slip down her cheeks.

  “It will be all right, Sarah. It will. I promise you.”

  “How could it have happened? Auschwitz—how was it possible?”

  David continues to stroke her hand. “Sometimes man is evil.”

  “But was he not created in God’s image? David, it’s—”

  “Shh, shh. It’s going to be all right.”

  But she can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t keep still. Her nerves are raw, as though they’re about to split open any minute. Her body aches from her shoulders down to her toes. It feels like the last two months have aged her well beyond her years. She can’t take any more, can’t see the point in having their son back if it’s only to witness his pain. She turns away from David, trying to calm herself, but the panic is rising up from her belly, threatening to overcome her. She pulls the sheets aside and slips out of bed.

  She goes to the kitchen and opens the window, breathing in the cool night air. She would like to pray, to ask for guidance, but she no longer feels worthy. When she tries to find the words, she encounters only a void. She looks out into the dark night. “God,” she whispers. “If you have something to say to me, say it.”

  A cold silence answers her. And she understands why. Twice she begged God to keep her son safe, and twice he answered her prayers. But the last time she promised something in return. You can’t break a promise to God, can you?

  Putting her hands on the windowsill, she leans out, dark thoughts playing in her mind. What if they had died at Auschwitz? Sam would have continued to live in ignorance of his true history. He would have grown up happy and free from it all. No religion. No history. Free.

  She wants to be free too. Free from all this guilt, pain, and anguish. Gazing out into the night, she realizes there is only one path to freedom and peace.

  For the first time in months, she sleeps calmly and wakes feeling ready for the day.

  As she and David set the table for breakfast, she broaches the subject. “I’ve been thinking. I’ve got an idea. It might help.”

  “Yes?”

  “I could visit Beauchamp in prison. I could ask him questions about Samuel, find out more about how he was brought up, what he was like as a small child. It might help us understand him better.”

  David pauses as he fills the coffee grinder with beans. “Let me think about it.”

  This is as much as she could have hoped for. Patience.

  He looks at her. “It’s seven thirty, time to wake Samuel.”

  She can’t help resenting the way this task is always left to her. She dreads getting him up in the mornings. He’s so lethargic, as though he’s crawled deep within himself, putting himself into a state of dormancy or hibernation. As she pulls back the covers and strokes his shoulder, coaxing him to sit up, his little body resists her touch. The eczema on his legs and elbows needs taking care of before he can get dressed. She rubs the cream in softly, then passes him clothes for the day, leaving him to dress while she prepares his hot chocolate. She brings his drink into the bedroom; an excuse to check that he’s not climbed back under the sheets.

  Today, she talks softly to him. “Sam, don’t fret so much. We’ll work out a way to make you happy again. I would give my soul to see you smile; my heart too, to hear you laugh.” She looks into his eyes, but they are blank, no glimmer of understanding peeking through.

  When they get to the kitchen, David is gulping back his coffee. He puts the bowl down on the table with a small thud. “I need to leave now. Samuel should get up earlier.” Bending down, he grips the boy’s arms and kisses him, once on each cheek.

  Sarah sees Sam go rigid, as though he wishes he were made of stone.

  After breakfast, she takes him to school. She no longer tries to hold his hand or even walk next to him. The pavement is too narrow anyway. Instead she walks ahead, and he drags his feet behind her. The school’s only around the corner and it should just take five minutes, but she has to allow fifteen to get there.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Paris, October 29, 1953

  SARAH

  The front door shutting makes Sarah jump. David must be back from work. She leaves the living room just as he’s removing his coat and hat. Taking the hat from him, she dusts it off with the back of her hand, placing it on top of the hat stand. When she turns back to face him, she’s shocked by the paleness of him.

  “I’ll go and say hello to Samuel.”

  “Of course. Would you like me to get you a drink?”

  “Yes, a pastis, please. I’m feeling a little sick.” He always drinks pastis when he’s feeling ill. He says it kills off bacteria more quickly than any medicine.

  She watches as he turns his back on her, walking down the hallway to Sam’s room.

  “He’s not in there,” she calls after him. “He’s in the living room.”

  She’s only just finished pouring his drink when he comes into the kitchen.

  “Samuel’s asleep.” He scratches his beard. “He’s asleep on the couch. Sometimes I think it’s his way of escaping.”

  “Do you ever wonder what he dreams about?” She hands him the glass.

  “Well, we don’t choose what we dream about, but if he could, I expect he’d be dreaming about America. His heart is still there.”

  Sarah nods, leaning back against the sink. “I wish… I wish he could think of his home as here, but it’s too late, isn’t it? Home is set in your mind from a young age, and then it’s fixed.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah. I don’t know anything anymore.” David pulls a chair out from under the table, slumping into it. “I’m just so tired. I don’t feel well.”

  She sits down next to him. “So am I. I feel like I’ve been beaten from the inside. The fight is going out of me.”

  He turns to look at her. “Do you remember, Sarah? Do you remember how hard it was to keep believing, to keep fighting? Sometimes I just wanted to close my eyes and wait for the sweet release of death to take me.”

  “I know.” She strokes his arm gently, understanding his need to go back over it. She feels the same need to relive it sometimes. Maybe it’s her mind trying to make sense of it all. But there was no sense. Maybe it’s because each time she plays it back, she hopes the sharpness will be slightly less killing. That a memory replayed a thousand times will lose some of its potency.

  “I think I would have died if I hadn’t known Samuel was alive somewhere,” David says. “I clung on because I wanted to find him again.”

  “So you knew too? You knew he was alive?”

  “I didn’t know, but I held on to that thread of hope. I made myself strong for him; I wanted him to be proud of his father wherever he was.”

  “He gave me strength too.” She pauses. “It was our love for Samuel that kept us going, wasn’t it?”

  She sees a solitary tear slide down David’s cheek, losing itself in his beard. She knows how hard it is for him to talk like this. It upsets him too much. He needs to stay in control, and these overpowering emotions make him feel like he’s losing his grip. She knows this, though he has never explained it to her. Now that he’s started talking, she wants to keep the conversation going. It will help them both.

  “I remember one day when I was digging that trench outside the camp,” she continues, still stroking his arm. “It was so hot, and we had no water. I remember wiping the sweat from my brow, then licking it from my hand. Then I noticed a guard
standing next to me, watching me. I flinched, expecting a beating. But instead he asked if I was thirsty.” She pauses. “I didn’t dare reply. Then he pulled out his canteen and offered it to me. I didn’t want to take it. My fear was worse than my thirst. But he pushed it into my hand. I took one gulp and tried to give it back. I thought it might be a trap—that I’d be shot for drinking from a guard’s canteen. But he told me to finish it. So I drank it all.” She stops stroking David’s arm. “I didn’t even say thank you.”

  David sits up straight. “It wasn’t the water that saved you that day, was it? It was seeing an act of kindness in hell itself. It gave you hope.”

  “Yes, and it made me believe someone would be taking care of Samuel. And then when I saw you through the snow in that broken building, I knew we would all be together again.”

  He takes her hand. “I don’t know how you recognized me. We all looked the same; like skeletons. I was ready to give up even though I knew the war was over. I just wanted to lie down and die. Then I heard you call my name, like a dream, and suddenly you were there, holding me, saying my name over and over.”

  She squeezes his hand. “I was looking for you. I knew you’d be there.”

  “And I knew it couldn’t be a dream because I was so damned cold. Then I heard God telling me to keep my faith and stay strong, that soon our ordeal would be over.”

  “But it wasn’t, was it?”

  He takes a gulp of pastis and shakes his head.

  They sit in silence, each lost in their memories. Sarah remembers the stories David told her afterward. They’re his memories, but she likes to visit them, imagining the ingenious ways he managed to get messages to her, helping her keep her faith. With his research skills, he was taken on in the medical laboratory under the supervision of the notorious Dr. Mengele. He spent his days in the relative warmth of the lab, staring at cells under the microscope. Often he was left on his own, and he managed to get ahold of medical supplies for other prisoners. He was taking an enormous risk, but he was clever and hid them in unlikely places. He put small antibiotic tablets into his ears and penicillin under the soles of his feet. These were highly valued items and could be easily traded for a message carrier. They knew about the experiments now, but David knew back then. He told Sarah that knowing what they were doing had made him feel complicit in some way. It was impossible to remain unscathed. And he still carried the guilt.