Paris Encore

by Bodie Thoene

  “I do not want my head poisoned!” she insisted.

  “If you do not eat, you will die of hunger before Madame Hilaire comes back with potatoes. Or I may kill you to shut you up. You will eat where I say or I will leave you somewhere terrible and not come back.”

  “Papa says the church is . . . the . . . something . . . of the people!”

  “Opiate.” Jerome glanced at his little sister with respect. Not bad for a six-year-old. Marie had been learning her Marxist catechism well. Papa had taught them both to read and cipher. He told them that the schools of France were corrupt. It was better to stay home and learn the truth than to attend public school and be filled with lies.

  “What is op-i-ate?”

  Jerome ran a hand over his face in frustration. Papa had taught the words but not entirely the meaning. It was something terrible, he knew. Something worse than death, according to Papa.

  “It is . . . something . . . I don’t know.”

  “They will lock us in cells because we are Marxists. Then Papa will beat us because of the charity soup kitchen.” Marie sighed and shuddered. She was confused again. “I am scared.” Papillon clambered up and poked his head out of her collar to have a look around.

  “Are you more hungry than scared? Or more scared than hungry?” Jerome stopped in resignation at Pont St. Michel, the bridge that would take them to Notre Dame. He leaned against the parapet and stared off toward the twin towers of the cathedral, the great spiderweb of France.

  How Papa hated the towers and the bells that rang out morning and evening! How he cursed the priests when the bells sounded! “The people will not be free until every priest is strung up and Notre Dame is a gymnasium.” He often spit on the sidewalk after a priest walked by. He taught Jerome to spit as well. He seemed very pleased when Jerome spit first.

  Marie was right. When Papa came back, he would beat them if he found out where they had gone. And surely someone would tell him. Maybe even Madame Hilaire, who often ate there when times were bad. Ile de la Cité was a small place. No doubt someone would see Marie and Jerome go into the soup kitchen. Someone would see Jerome there talking to a priest or a nun about the soup and bread. How could he spit on the floor of the people who fed him? Everyone knew how his father felt about the church.

  Jerome could not see the line of people waiting to go into the Cloisters Soup Kitchen, but he knew it was there on the far side of the cathedral. Once a day at this time a line formed along the Rue du Cloitre, waiting to go into the cloisters, where the long tables were set and the nuns ladled out bowls of hot soup.

  The wind cut through Jerome’s thin cotton coat. Marie rested heavily against the stone wall and laid her head in her arms, careful not to crush Papillon.

  “All right,” she said miserably. “All right.”

  Jerome put his hand on her shoulder in a wave of pity. For Marie to agree to go to this place meant that she was very hungry indeed. “Maybe there is somewhere else. Another kitchen where no one will know we are the children of the clochard. If no one knows us, he will not hear about it. We can eat and . . .”

  “But where, Jerome?” She raised her head slightly but did not try to stand without the help of the wall.

  “Can you walk, ma chèrie?” he asked in a voice so kind that he surprised himself. He had not done well by Marie. He had eaten the best stuff himself. He had not cared for her as he should have.

  “Very far?”

  “Quai d’Orsay.”

  “So far?”

  It was a long way for small legs carrying a hungry belly to go. “Only four kilometers back along the river. There is a place . . . they feed refugees and ragged people bread there. Beside a université. American . . .”

  “But Papa hates the American.”

  “Those people do not even know how to speak French. How could they tell him we were there?”

  Hope shone in her eyes. “Yes? And so?”

  “There is a building that looks like a church. But it is not. We will go into the building that is not a church, even though it looks like one outside. So you will not have to be afraid. And there we will eat.”

  Marie nodded as he took her hand, more gently now. She had never been in any church. She would not know the difference if he did not tell. Her face was set. Small mouth turned down slightly as her dark eyes fixed on the farthest bridge she could see across the Seine. It was a long way.

  “Je marche!” she said solemnly as they set out.

  This afternoon Lewinski carried his gas mask in a canvas shopping bag. He was less likely to be noticed without the thing on his face, he decided.

  It was Christmas Eve. Lewinski had not bought gifts for either Andre or Paul, so now he strolled beside the open bookstalls on Quai des Grands Augustins, searching for some last-minute prize. The scent of roasting chestnuts filled the air. Lewinski bought a bag and munched them as he browsed through rare volumes in hopes of finding something not already on the shelves of the Chardon library.

  American titles would be most appropriate. Herman Melville and Moby Dick? Washington Irving and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow? During his years of study in America, Lewinski had read every volume of the works of Mark Twain. Roughing It and Huckleberry Finn were not among Andre’s classics. A pitiful oversight, Lewinski thought.

  Andre needed help. Now that he was spending time with an American woman, he would certainly desire at least a rudimentary knowledge of American literature. He could not talk to the lady all day about wine and horses, could he? Well, yes, perhaps it was possible with Andre. But Lewinski had never found it possible to speak to a woman about anything unless he had prepared well ahead of time. Literature and art were always safe topics. If he spoke of physics or mathematics, nearly everyone but Albert looked at him as if he had dropped off the moon.

  Albert. How Lewinski wished that Albert Einstein were here to discuss the enigma of Enigma with him. Together their two minds were flint and steel. The sparks would fly, and the riddle would be solved in no time!

  Lewinski longed to send his old mentor a cablegram, but Andre had forbidden it. So instead he wrote it in his head as he walked:

  Happy Holidays, dear Albert! I am not dead! I am Richard Lewinski!

  He laughed loudly at his own joke. Heads turned to see what was so amusing. But they did not hear it, so they did not know.

  He jingled his change. Enough for Roughing It but not for a cablegram, too. Too bad. Such a message would cheer poor Albert up. No doubt Albert was also depressed over there in America. So many minds like his and Lewinski’s had been extinguished here in Europe.

  Lewinski found Andre a copy of Twain’s masterpiece. He dipped into his pocket and fumbled with his change again. French money. So confusing.

  “May I help you, Monsieur?” asked a young lady. She was a student from the look of her drab clothes and run-down shoes. But she had a pretty round face, brown eyes, and thick black hair beneath a blue beret.

  He smiled at her. “Are you fond of the American author Mark Twain, Mam’zelle?”

  She gazed up at him as if she had not understood the question.

  Did he ask the question aloud or only think he said it? “I said . . . ,” he began again.

  “You are—” she unsheathed thick glasses and put them on—“Doctor Lewinski!” She said this very loudly.

  Richard reached for his gas mask as heads turned. Two tough-looking fellows with determined expressions pivoted in unison to glare at Lewinski.

  “You are mistaken. I am not.”

  “Pardon! But you are Doctor Lewinski! I heard you lecture at University of Berlin. Four years ago. A moment! My boyfriend is just there! He teaches mathematics now at the Sorbonne. He attended your lectures each week . . . oh, Jan! Look here! It is Doctor Lewinski!”

  “No, it is not.” Lewinski backed away as panic welled up in him.

  She turned aside for an instant. “But I remember . . .”

  Lewinski slapped down his payment for the book and hurried off. The y
oung woman called after him. The two toughs put their hands into the pockets of their overcoats as if they had guns.

  The woman smiled and waved as she shouted down the quai, “Merry Christmas, Doctor Lewinski! I am so glad that you are not . . .”

  “. . . dead.” Richard finished her sentence as he rushed across Pont Neuf and forgot to turn toward home.

  The organ of the Cathedral of St. John was miraculously intact. The steps leading to the organ loft were blown away, so Horst watched as an old man in the robes of a musician climbed a ladder to reach his instrument. He was followed by two boys who would tread the bellows. There were a few moments of wheezing as the bellows awoke; then the building rang with the joyous strains of Bach’s chorale Nun Danket Alle Gott—“Now Thank We All Our God.” The music resounded through the shattered windows to the outside, drawing in still more worshippers from the streets until the place was packed. Still there was room enough on each side of Horst for several more to crowd in.

  The melody of Bach formed a sharp contrast to the somber congregation. In the vast sea of people, Horst could see no spot of holiday color in their attire. Black dresses, shawls, and scarves adorned old and young women and girls alike. Old men and young boys wore black coats and sweaters. Their complexions all reflected varying degrees of the same shade of gray.

  Horst’s gray green uniform made him stand out from everyone. The presence of a German officer at the mass seemed as inappropriate to the prevailing mood as the music of Bach. He caught the fearful glances of the Poles who worshipped here. “Why does he not go with his own kind?” their eyes seemed to ask. Was it not a fact that the German military had their own army of priests and pastors who preached the doctrines of the Reich and spread their poison even on this holy day? Why then was this German major disturbing what small comfort the faithful found in this sacred place?

  How could they know that he was not the one they should fear? Horst knew he was not the only German attending this afternoon’s Christmas Eve Mass at the cathedral. He easily spotted the plainclothes Gestapo agents among the congregation. While men and women knelt in prayer, the Gestapo looked on with disdain and scribbled notes and phrases from the Father Kopecky’s sermon in black notebooks. From the diligence of these agents, Horst was certain that the days of the diminuitive priest were numbered.

  And what was the priest’s crime? Today he preached the old sermon—the same story Horst had heard every Christmas Eve as a child growing up in Germany. Yet now, in the context of Poland, the story of the birth of a Jewish baby in a manger took on a new and irritating significance to the servants of Hitler. Horst knew their questions:

  Was there some political reason the priest dwelt on the jealousy of King Herod and the murder of every baby boy in Bethlehem in an attempt to destroy the foretold Messiah?

  What did the priest really mean when he spoke about the desperate flight of Joseph and Mary from the slaughter? He used the word refugee. Was he drawing parallels, perhaps?

  Why mention the death of the tyrant of that age and compare it to the victory of the one life that began in the degradation of a stable? Was he intimating the treasonous hope that the Führer would perish?

  And why did he mention that the child was a Jew descended from Abraham? Surely he knew the edicts of the Führer on the unfortunate matter of the Jewish heritage of Christ.

  Why did he read aloud those promises of Old Testament prophets whose writings were now banned in all churches of the Reich?

  Horst saw suspicion and judgment in the faces of the Gestapo as the crowd filed out. Father Kopecky had condemned himself—not because he had uttered one word different from the Christmas story told in all previous years but because the story itself was the ultimate reproof of all tyranny. The ancient tale could be taking place at that moment in Warsaw, could it not? Simply substitute Nazis as the antagonists determined to slaughter every Jewish child in Poland.

  Horst considered that perhaps he had never really understood the story before now. Like the minions of Hitler who had mingled today with the faithful of Warsaw, he had also listened with new interest.

  Thinking that he would warn the priest about the hostile members of the congregation, Horst lagged behind. The booming organ fell silent. The organist descended from his perch. Nearing the high arch of the foyer, Horst noticed three of the Nazi officials conferring beside a massive pillar pocked by shrapnel. Horst averted his eyes before he drew attention to himself. Leaving the building, he determined that he would come back later and inform the priest of the danger.

  19

  A Strange Entourage

  As Jerome and his sister, Marie, walked toward the American church, the Paris shops began to close early because of the holiday. Traffic thinned out as men and women hurried to get ready for family gatherings and midnight Mass. It seemed that all of France had become religious again since the war.

  Jerome had not remembered that everything in the city closed up tight on Christmas Eve. From the great Louvre to the lowliest butcher shop, the signs were hung and the doors were locked. This fact worried Jerome. It seemed that he and Marie were the only two in Paris who were headed away from home.

  “How much longer? I am tired, Jerome.”

  Marie looked like a half-drowned cat. Brown hair hung in limp strands around her face, her ears protruding like the open doors of a taxi. Her clothes were soaked through, which had to be unpleasant for her and poor Papillon as well. Shoes that were already too large got bigger with every puddle. Her feet shuffled on the sidewalk, and she lagged farther and farther behind her brother.

  Jerome stopped in front of a closed bakery. He put his hands on his hips and tried to look stern, but she was so pathetic that he could not. “You need to walk more quickly, Marie.”

  “Why are the shops closed?” She bit her lip and stared at the display of pastries in the unlit window. “Where is everyone?”

  “You can see that all of Paris is closing and going home for roast goose. It is the night before Christmas. The food at the soup kitchen will be better than every other day. We should hurry.” He looked at the threatening sky. Soon it would begin to snow. Night would surely come before they got back to the Garlic.

  Marie leaned against the stone facade of the shop. “Can I wait for you? You can run ahead and bring back roast goose for me and Papillon.”

  “No,” he snapped. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her along. “I never said that we would have roast goose. Other people have it on Christmas. We will have . . . something else. I do not know what. But you will be glad we walked so far. It will be warm there, and the food will be good. You’ll see.”

  He was talking now just to keep her on her feet and moving. She did not reply. Her eyes were dull. It was too cold for her to be out without a much heavier coat. Her sweater underneath was drenched as well.

  Jerome spotted the ornate spire of the American church rising above the buildings. “There it is, Marie! It only looks like a church, but it is not,” he lied.

  Marie lifted her face and blinked against the raindrops. Jerome thought that maybe now it no longer mattered to Marie what the place was. As long as she could eat and be warm.

  “Good,” she said, and at last her legs began to move a bit faster.

  The last two blocks were not as difficult. Marie did not ask to stop and rest even one time.

  There was no line of hungry people winding down the street like at the cloisters of Notre Dame. “Everyone is already inside eating,” he told her.

  There were no sandbags heaped outside. Jerome explained that this was because the Americans were not at war with Hitler, so their building would not be bombed.

  Jerome helped Marie up the broad stone steps. For a moment they stood before the bronze doors, deciding where to go in. Jerome pushed hard on the biggest door. It swung back easily, and the two tumbled onto the hard stone floor of the lobby. Beyond them, the church was dimly illuminated by the soft colors of stained-glass windows on each side.

  Je
rome had sneaked into a church before, and he knew that this was how a church was supposed to look. Very old. High, arched ceiling. Stone columns. Candles in golden stands at the front—and a large cross behind a big table that was covered with a red velvet cloth. A bright red banner with golden words in English hung down from the ceiling. And there were rows and rows of benches with red cushions on the seats. In an alcove behind the pulpit was a large oil painting of a kind-looking man. It was very serene and beautiful. This was all part of what made it so dangerous, Papa said.

  Today this church was also very empty.

  “Keep Papillon out of sight,” he warned as the head of the rat protruded from between two buttons of Marie’s dress front. “Soup kitchens are very strange about pets like Papillon. They will think he is a rat.”

  Marie shuddered. “Where are the people? The food?” Her voice echoed hollowly.

  “Maybe in the cellar.” Jerome bit his lip. He hoped he had not made a mistake. Where was the cellar? He pointed at the steps at the far end of the foyer. “There.” He held her hand and guided her down the stairs.

  “It is nice here,” Marie said hoarsely.

  “Warm,” he agreed, hoping they had not arrived too late for the food.

  At the bottom of the steps was a long corridor with dark wooden doors on either side. Jerome tried all the latches, but all the doors were locked. At the far end of the corridor was another set of stairs leading up. The two ascended, only to find themselves in the very front of the large auditorium. There was no soup kitchen, no roast goose. Only this big, peaceful, empty building.