Mrs. Saint and the Defectives: A Novel

by Julie Lawson Timmer

  She laughed softly. “My husband was afraid I would insist on giving that name to our second son in any case! But I was not so crazy. I named him Marceau; it was Ginette’s maiden name. I think Lea would have approved.”

  “That’s lovely,” Markie said. “What Lucien and Ginette did for your family. And how you’ve carried their names on with your children.”

  “They used to write us every week,” Simone said. “And Cousin Girard would read the letters out loud. He would tell us our life story, too, over and over, from letters Monsieur had written before they sent us over. For Angeline and me, it was our story only from Le Chambon forward, of course. For the others, it was their entire life.

  “We begged him to tell us what had happened to Ginette, and why she did not come, but he had no letter about that, of course. So now, here was Cousin Girard, himself struggling to take care of himself and his wife, and now he had four children on top of everything. There were some hard years, I can tell you. Edouard went to work as soon as he could, but he was young himself when we—”

  “Wait!” Markie said. “Edouard? The Edouard? Angeline’s Edouard?”

  “The very one,” Simone said. “He was only a little older than us, so he was nine when we came to them, to their barn. He was thirteen when we got to Pittsburgh—that’s where Cousin Girard lived. He was fourteen when he left school and got a job to help put food on the table. Later, he was able to put himself through school at night, and he finished high school and then got a college degree.”

  “Is that what caused the rift?” Markie asked. “Did you and Edouard have an affair? Is the ‘old boyfriend’ your sister told me about actually her late husband? I know you said before that there was no fight about a man, but you’ve told me this much. Couldn’t you admit, now—?”

  Simone chuckled softly. “My sister and her many stories. I was telling you the truth earlier, I promise you this. There was no affair, no stolen boyfriend. There was only the fact that when we were old enough to really understand our story after Cousin Girard told it—where we came from, what had happened to our parents—Angeline decided to listen one more time and never again.

  “From that day, she reimagined her entire history. Our history. She was not a refugee—she was Girard’s daughter, and so was I. And Girard was not from France—he was from Quebec. We were not Jewish—we were Roman Catholic. We had no dead parents in Europe, and we never had a brother or sister, so Matias and Lea, of course, were also not dead in Europe.

  “They simply never existed. Angeline made them . . .” Simone flicked a hand in the air. “Disappear. Poof. And when I argued about this, well, you can guess. I ceased to exist as well.”

  “What?” Markie said. “But why would she pretend away your entire history, your religion, your own family?”

  “Many have done this,” Simone said. “There was a thought back then, in some, a fear that it could happen again, and that this time it would spread to the United States. That we would all be rounded up again and sent off, and maybe then we would meet the same fate as our parents, as Matias and Lea.

  “It was not entirely popular, but it was not perfectly rare, either. We knew some refugees, friends of Cousin Girard, who suddenly were no longer refugees, but first-generation Americans. Born one week in Kolberg, Germany, and the next in Scranton, Pennsylvania. This is where Angeline got the idea. They convinced her it was the only safe way.”

  “And at some point, you told her—”

  “When we were finished with high school and talking about moving to New York together to find jobs and an apartment, I told her I intended to tell my real story once we got there. I had gone along with her fairy tale for some years, but when we arrived in our new city to start our new life, I would be taking our family with us, not leaving them in Pittsburgh, where she had hidden them below Cousin Girard’s basement without a second thought.”

  “And that discussion didn’t end well,” Markie said.

  “It ended with me on a train to New York and her staying behind.”

  “And marrying Edouard?”

  Simone nodded. “He was willing to go along with her charade, you see. He loved her so much he would have done anything for her, including allowing her to fabricate an entire story that caused both her family and his to evaporate for all time. Suddenly, they were French Canadian sweethearts who had moved to America for work.

  “He was okay with this, or I should say, he was not so very okay with it at all, but he would allow it. He would pretend along with her about it. But at the same time, he knew her real truth. And I believe she needed that, to have someone who would go along with her new future and yet truly understand her past. I would not do this for her. Edouard would.”

  “And she thought you were coming here now to ask her forgiveness for deciding not to go along with it any longer, all those years ago?” Markie asked.

  “No. She thought I was coming to grant her forgiveness for betraying our parents. Our brother and sister. Our entire family, for generations. Our culture, our religion, our traditions. She thought I was coming here to forgive her for turning her back on everything we were, everything our parents were so proud for us to be.

  “Everything they struggled to protect when they left our most special things, our entire life, behind in Germany and paid their life savings for train tickets to France. When they hid inside a smelly barn, terrified every moment for fear of what would happen if they showed their faces—for fear of what did happen.

  “For turning her back on all that Edouard’s family had done for us. Because surely, if we were not refugees, then Ginette and Lucien could not have been our saviors, could they? They could not have risked their lives, their children’s lives, for our sake. Theirs could not have been names worth carrying on through our own children.”

  “But she didn’t let you say it,” Markie said. “She didn’t want to hear you say it. She thought forgiveness wasn’t yours to give. That only God could grant it.”

  Simone let out a long breath. “I am not sure I would have gone through with it anyway. Even if she had let me.”

  “You wouldn’t have forgiven her?”

  “Non.”

  “Oh . . .” Markie wasn’t sure how to respond. Angeline had acted terribly, but if one twin sister wouldn’t forgive another when she was dying, wasn’t that the end of everything?

  “The other night,” Simone said, “when we were in the hospital, Frédéric and I, he told me what my sister has done for all of . . .” She waved a hand, indicating the group gathered in the family room, and in that motion, she reminded Markie so much of Mrs. Saint that her chest felt like it might collapse. She had never seen anyone say as much with finger flicks and wrist movements as these two European/Canadian/American Jewish/Catholic twins from Breslau/Le Chambon/Pittsburgh.

  “How she took them in,” Simone went on, “when they had no place else and no one else.” Her eyes shining with tears, her lips forming a quivering smile, Simone reached for Markie’s hand and squeezed it hard in her own. “And oh! Markie! You cannot know how it made me feel to hear this! To hear how she has been spending her life!

  “Because is this not precisely what Edouard’s family did for ours? Is this not a way of honoring our history, our family, as well as anyone could? Is opening her home to people who are not so welcome by the rest of the community not the perfect way of showing her respect for our religion, our heritage, the way our people were treated back then?

  “Is this not everything our parents would have wanted for us to become: people who help others in need? Since the two of us lived because of the way other people helped us when we were in need? Is this not the most wonderful way to honor our brother and sister?”

  Tears slipped one after the other down Simone’s cheeks, but instead of trying to wipe them away, she smiled through them as though they were as welcome to her as the news about what her sister had done.

  “I came here to forgive Angeline for not being more like me!” Simone laugh
ed. “Big, important me! Because I have been a pillar of the Jewish community in New York. My husband and I both. We have given money every year to Jewish causes, both here and abroad. So much money! Are we not so special!

  “I am sure our money has gone to good use, of course. And the fancy galas we dress up for, those have been for good causes, too. We have flown to Jerusalem many times, to see Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum. We have given money there, attended ceremonies. So significant are we! But have we taken a single person in off the street? Given them a job in our home, a meal at our table? Non, we have not.

  “And meanwhile, Angeline! Pretending still to be French Canadian. Pretending still to be Roman Catholic. Pretending still to be ten years younger than she is so no one will think she saw any part of the war. Pretending none of what happened to us, to our family, actually happened. Pretending, even, that our family did not exist. No brothers and sisters for her, only fictional parents in Quebec.

  “But so what? She has been helping while she has been pretending. Doing good things for real people. Giving them refuge. Food. Work. Pay. Companionship. I should not have come here to grant my sister forgiveness. I should have come here to ask for hers. I have judged her all these years for refusing to lead a life that is true to who she is, to what our family was. For refusing to honor them. And all this time, she has been honoring them far better than I.”

  Chapter Forty

  Markie and Simone sat for a long time in silence, holding hands, each of them weeping, lost in her own thoughts, until Lola came in. She approached Simone tentatively, and Markie could understand why; more than once, Markie had caught a glimpse of Simone and thought she was seeing Mrs. Saint. Simone seemed to understand, and wiping her eyes, she smiled at the little girl and held still while the child stood before her, scanning her from head to toe.

  Finally, Simone said, “It is I, Simone, the sister of a woman who loved you very much. And I would very much enjoy a good-night hug. Could I have one?”

  Lola nodded shyly and stepped forward, and Simone pulled her close and wrapped her arms around her.

  “I can see why you were so important to her,” Simone whispered.

  “Bedtime!” Patty called from the bottom of the stairs, and Simone released Lola, who turned to leave, but then she turned quickly back and hugged the older woman fiercely.

  Letting go, the little girl pecked Simone on the cheek and said, “I loved her. And I love you!” She kissed Markie next. “And you!” she said, before running out of the room. Seconds later, Markie heard her thunder up the stairs, begging to delay her bedtime until after she had a bath.

  Soon after, Bruce and Ronda came in to say goodbye before letting themselves out the side door. Markie offered to drive them, but they insisted they liked the bus. Jesse and Angel disappeared next, Jesse calling good night from the basement door before they clomped downstairs.

  Markie heard the kitchen faucet running as Frédéric filled the glass of water he kept beside him during the night. Smiling ruefully, she thought about the day she moved in, when Mrs. Saint was rummaging through the moving boxes, looking for a glass so her “Fraydayrique” could get enough water. Markie thought about how annoyed she had been with the old woman that day. And the day she brought Angel over for “Chessie.” And the day she had been so bossy about Lola spending Halloween in the bungalow. And many, many other days.

  It all seemed so harmless suddenly, seen in the light that Simone had cast on her sister. Markie had acted badly, she knew now. Had thought wrongly, taking her neighbor’s humble kindness and twisting it into something secretive and wicked. The woman had brought Jesse a dog because she thought he needed something to hug, for goodness’ sake! She had made sure he had the cable channels he wanted. She had arranged for him to have a job that would keep him away from his sketchy friends. She had provided him with a father figure.

  And it wasn’t only Jesse she had helped. Before Markie had even made it out of the rental truck, Mrs. Saint had recognized her for the overwhelmed, overextended single mother that she was, and from that point on, she had lent Markie her paid employees to try to make her life easier. Frédéric and Bruce to help them move in. Ronda to provide snacks and ingredients. Bruce to do lawn work and gardening. Patty to help with the dog.

  Markie had been incensed at the time. She had acknowledged that when it came to the Defectives, Mrs. Saint was actually trying to help, that the way the older woman had them all assisting one another with their jobs, looking out for one another, had truly been endearing. But Markie had always felt that when it came to her, the old woman was only trying to meddle. Only now, when it was too late, did she finally realize that Mrs. Saint had helped her as much as she had helped any of the others.

  A split second after coming to this realization, Markie gasped. Oh my God! She helped me as much as she helped any of the others! And she didn’t only have the others helping one another, looking out for one another—she had them doing it for me, too! Markie had been thinking—stewing, really—since their meeting that morning with Mr. Schanbaum, about how Mrs. Saint had tried to trap her into being the new leader of the Defectives. She had assumed her bequest was a bribe to get her to stay on as Mrs. Saint’s replacement, the new protector of the group.

  Now she saw the truth: the bungalow and money and college fund were nothing more than gifts from a woman who knew Markie lacked financial security and felt Jesse needed a father figure and a community. Mrs. Saint had been as generous with Markie as she had been with Frédéric and the others not because she had seen Markie as the new keeper of the Defectives, but because she had seen her as one of them.

  And she had felt that, Markie now saw, from the very first day. From before the first day, in fact—from the day Markie had filled out the rental application and revealed her plummet from social, marital, professional, and financial grace. Markie had never been a savior, in Mrs. Saint’s view. She had always been a Defective.

  Markie choked on the thought, and Simone’s head snapped up. “You are okay?” she asked, concerned.

  “I . . . I . . .” Markie couldn’t think of how to explain. She didn’t want to admit to Simone what she had just discovered about herself, about how Mrs. Saint had seen her. But she decided to do it anyway, because Simone had told Markie more that night than Angeline ever had, and Markie felt it was only fair.

  She felt the heat spread over her cheeks as she waited for Simone’s answer. She hardly knew Simone, and after the funeral, she might never see her again. But Markie was the woman who had allowed public humiliation to chase her away from her old town and into a dead-end job: she was not immune from other people’s view of her.

  Simone put a hand on Markie’s and smiled. “Are we not all Defectives?” she said. “And can we not all be saviors?”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “I would like to show you the rest of these,” Simone said, putting a hand on the stack of photos sitting beside her. “I feel it is . . . right . . . that you see them. But I must check with Frédéric first.”

  “Uh,” Markie said, unsure how to respond.

  Before she could say more, Simone rose, and a moment later Markie heard murmurs from the family room. It sounded, from the tone and level of their voices, like Simone was trying to talk Frédéric into the idea and he was against it, but soon the voices calmed, and when Simone returned to the living room, Frédéric was behind her. He regarded the photos on the couch, gave Simone a last pleading look, and muttered something in French.

  “It is time,” Simone said.

  He sighed, then nodded, and she moved the photos and patted the small space beside her on the love seat.

  “I prefer to stand,” he said.

  “Very well,” she said, and held out the first photo for the three of them to see.

  It was Mrs. Saint, radiant and youthful in a white wedding gown, her face tilted up as she smiled adoringly at her equally youthful new husband. Markie leaned closer to Simone to get a better look at the groom, who lo
oked like a decades-younger version of the man standing stiffly, nervously, in the middle of the bungalow’s living room.

  “What?” she said, and reached for the photo.

  Simone let her take it, and Markie heard Frédéric’s sharp intake of breath as she flipped the picture over to read the back. EDOUARD ET ANGELINE, JOUR DE MARIAGE, 1953.

  “You are Edouard!” Markie said, looking up at him with wide eyes as Frédéric’s trapped breath escaped in a long stream.

  “Oui.”

  “But why would she say you’re dead? Why would you live in the basement? Why wouldn’t you tell people you’re husband and wife? Why . . .” She stopped herself. There were too many whys to list.

  Frédéric shifted uncomfortably, and Simone cleared her throat. “I have told about our beginnings, mine and Angeline’s,” she told him. “You can now tell the rest.”

  “I do not think—” he started.

  “I do,” Simone said. “And I believe she would, too.” Frédéric didn’t respond to Simone, but he turned back to Markie, and after a deep breath, he said, “I was dead to her. The man she married, who vowed to be true, died, in her mind. I . . . betrayed her. Many, many years ago, I had a brief affair with another woman. It was a terrible thing. It devastated her.”

  He looked to the corner of the ceiling as though there were a film there, replaying the scene where she discovered his infidelity and fell to her knees, sobbing.

  “We were trying to have children, and I destroyed all of that. She told me to leave, to never see her again, and that destroyed me. I was a cochon to her, but I needed her like I needed air. I fell apart on my own, without her, with the guilt of what I had done. I started to drink more and more. I had started this before the affair, to be true, but I am making no excuses. Alcohol did not cheat on my wife—I did.