He touched the bandage on his face. “Somewhere quiet.”
Papa nodded. “I’ll be glad to walk you to my father’s farm,” he said.
Grandpa put ointment on his cuts and bruises, sat him down at the kitchen table with bitter tea laced with wild honey, then moved around the kitchen making lunch in perfect silence. The clock ticked; the kettle hissed. They could hear the wind in the trees outside. They ate together at the kitchen table, Julien and Grandpa and Benjamin; they asked no questions but how he felt. He felt very tired. He slept the afternoon away, a blanket mounded behind him so he couldn’t roll over. He woke to a breeze on his face and in the sunlit curtains, and Benjamin hesitating at his half-open door.
“Your grandfather sent me to see if you needed anything.”
“Thanks. I’m thirsty.”
Benjamin brought him water and stood by the foot of his bed. “Your father said the Gestapo beat you,” he said.
Julien nodded, drinking.
There was a long silence. Benjamin was looking at his bandage.
“I owe you an apology,” said Julien finally. “You were right. I had absolutely no idea what it’s like.”
Benjamin let out a sharp breath that was almost a snort. “Being beaten by the Gestapo?”
“No. That was nothing. I thought they were going to take me in.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally Benjamin nodded, exhaling again, and sat on the bed. “My new visa’s supposed to come any day,” he said very quietly. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”
“But you are.”
Benjamin looked out the window for a long time. Then he nodded, very slightly.
Chapter 29
AT THE END
IT WAS TWO days later, after his pain had started to ease, after Mama and Magali had come to visit and Mama and Grandpa had agreed he was healing well, that Julien told Grandpa he wanted to go to the cave for a day or two. It was good here. But something in him was turning over and over like a rolling boil, waking him in the night. He had to sit for a while and see for kilometers. He had to wake in the presence of rocks and trees, until the boiling calmed somehow.
Roland had brought his Scout bag, found in the dirt in the woods near Les Chênes, potato skins and mouse droppings scattered among Mama’s medicine bottles. Grandpa washed it and packed it with potatoes again, and a jar of cooked beans. He loaned Julien a blanket, and asked him if he was sure. Julien said yes, and tied the blanket on underneath, and slung the pack on his shoulders. It was midmorning; they stood on the porch together, watching Benjamin pitch fresh straw from a wheelbarrow over the floor of the cow’s stall. He did it pretty well. Julien spoke suddenly, unsure until the last moment whether he would.
“The day Antoine Duval was shot,” he said, “someone from the Maquis asked me if he was at his hotel. I told him. I told him exactly where he was. I wanted him dead.”
Grandpa was silent.
“I’d prefer you didn’t tell Papa, but if you decide to, I don’t want him asking me who it was.”
Grandpa nodded. Benjamin wheeled his wheelbarrow back out of the barn, and they both watched him. Grandpa said, “Do you feel that it was the right thing?”
“It wasn’t and it was. I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know yet.” He settled his pack on his shoulders. “I just wanted someone to know.”
Grandpa nodded, and held out a hand. Julien shook it goodbye, and started off.
It was July. In the hills the crickets sang; the little stream up near the cave ran shallow. He sat on the ledge in the sunlight for hours and did not move, his life tumbling and churning in his head. The gun at Pierre’s hip, the gun in Haas’s hand. The terror of it, that loosening in his guts; his body preparing for death. He did not start trembling till he recalled the joy.
There’s something more, he had said to Élise. It’s part of the end. It’s both at once exactly.
I never felt anything like that before, he said to God. That’s where You are? At the end of the gun?
He closed his eyes and tilted his head up. The sun was a red glow through his eyelids, red with his own living blood. The secret at the heart of life, spilled again and again. He trembled and bowed his head, fingering the healing scabs around his wrist. A silence beneath silence hushed his mind, and he sat a long time with his eyes closed.
Then he opened them. Away in the distance the worn green ramparts of the Vivarais range stood as they had for centuries, and sunlight lay on them.
He sat on the ledge for hours, and neither moved nor thought. Rabbits wandered and browsed in the tufted grass below. Lizards ran up the rocks and sunned themselves. A hawk floated in the blue above, and the rabbits disappeared into cover.
A doe stepped out of the woods, silent as an image, not looking at him. The lines and movements of her body were fluid and soft and utterly strange to him, who had never before seen a deer unafraid. She glanced from left to right, easily, flicking her ears; her eyes almost touched the place where he sat, but she walked on, placing each hoof lightly and precisely, apparently at peace. She walked like a creature in another world, some far earth that did not know him: a place she had inherited long ago.
He began to weep.
He wept a long time, there in the sunlight. The doe browsed and went; he heard her hooves splash in the stream. When he was finished he stood, and climbed down to gather firewood.
He boiled potatoes under the ragged red sunset and ate them with salt. Then he unrolled Grandpa’s blanket and slept out on the ledge in the cool summer night. He woke once and saw the stars overhead in their billions, their brilliance making the shreds of cloud glow pearly white, and heard the sharp bark of a fox somewhere down in the woods. He passed from waking back into sleep without knowing it, and woke again to find the dew in his hair and on his blanket, and got up to wash. He spent most of the day on the ledge again, looking at the far hills, motionless, holding something he could not quite name inside him like a brimming cup too precious to spill. He remembered the knowledge he had found after Duval’s death, the sure and solid weight of it, like a stone in his hand. The thing that could not be given, only found in the seeking, and alone.
But this, this was another thing. It had no weight. He couldn’t grasp it. It was not his.
But it was real.
He ate all that was left of his food that evening. Before bedding down he searched through his pack and set a rabbit snare, the way Roland had taught him. At dawn the next day as he laid his small campfire, the branch started jerking, down below the ledge in the growing light; he scrambled down as fast as he could with his Scout knife out. He held the rabbit by the ears and found himself whispering, “I’m sorry” as he drew the blade swiftly across its throat. He watched its red blood pour out into the earth, wondering if that made it kosher, wishing he could feed her, put the blood back in her white face. “Thank you,” he whispered, and took it up to the ledge to skin it. He cut off a haunch for breakfast and wrapped the rest in newspaper, carefully, a gift for his mother.
He was holding the spit and blowing on the roasted meat to cool it when Pierre appeared.
His face came up over the rim of the ledge, and a smile broke out on it. Julien found his own smile answering, and without another word Pierre took a handhold and swung himself up, moving easily. He was leaner now, dirty and tanned. Julien held out the spit to him, and his eyes lit. He squatted and tore off a couple of slivers for himself, juggling and blowing on them before he bit into one. Julien grinned and started to unwrap the rabbit again.
Pierre sat back on his heels, watching Julien cut off the second haunch and spit it over the fire. “Heard you saw some action.”
“In a way.”
“Boy, this is good.”
“More?”
“Yeah. Mmm.” There was a minute of silence, until they had both licked the juices from their fingers. Then Pierre settled himself. “Listen, I want to hear all about it, but I should probably give you my message first.”
Julien almost leapt to his feet that moment. Lösung. I have the solution now. “Something happen? Down in town?”
“No! No. Nothing happened. Least I don’t think so. I haven’t been there.”
Julien relaxed. “What?”
“I have a message from my captain. To you.”
“He knows who I am?”
“He wants you. For our unit. We heard about the incident, he figured you might like to leave town. He’s always thought you’d be an asset. He’d like to train you as a junior officer.” Pierre grinned and gestured to Julien and his Scout pack and pallet back in the cave. “Come as you are.”
Julien sat back looking at his friend.
“C’mon,” said Pierre, then his grin sobered as he looked into Julien’s face. He spoke more quietly and seriously than Julien had ever heard him speak. “I’d be proud to fight with you.”
“I’d be proud to fight with you too,” said Julien, and looked into the little fire. “Tell him I’m honored. But no.”
The fire crackled in the silence. “I thought you were over that stuff,” said Pierre finally.
“I was.”
“Should I—I mean,” Pierre gestured at his shredding bandage, “it takes awhile, after you see your first action, I mean I know. Should I ask again … later?”
Julien’s sudden laugh rang through the valley. Down in the grass below a rabbit ran wildly into cover. Pierre stared at him.
“No,” Julien said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s …” He poked the fire, then looked up at his friend. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Yeah? Tell it to me sometime.”
“I will. You still hungry?”
“Are you kidding?”
They ate the second haunch in silence, looking out over their hills.
It was midmorning when he started down toward Tanieux. He took the short way, down the little ravine and across the shallow river, glancing north toward the steep slope he’d scrambled up in the driving rain with Élise and the others, in that storm they’d fled ahead of and not quite escaped. He remembered Élise’s driven, bloodshot eyes. He stopped for a moment on the north road, remembering the sound of motorcycle engines, and prayed.
Then he walked on down toward his town, singing “A Mighty Fortress” softly under his breath.
At the corner of the Rue Peyrou, just three houses into town, he paused and looked twice at a figure sitting on the stoop of the Chaveaus’ house, whittling on a stick. It was Marcel. He walked over to him, and Marcel rose.
“You’re home,” Julien said as they shook hands.
“And you,” said Marcel, gesturing to his face. “Your father told me that was the Gestapo.”
“Yeah,” said Julien. “You on a break?”
Marcel shook his head. “I’m home. I got compromised. I’m off the job.”
“Arrested?”
“Almost. The person I was guiding got caught. Then the police came looking for me. She’d told them I could testify she wasn’t Jewish.” He looked away. “I always wondered if that would happen if it came to the point. I testified, not that it was likely to be any use. Our train was leaving that minute. They asked for my papers, I saw one of them going for his handcuffs, I ran and jumped onto the moving train. I was lucky.”
“And her?”
Marcel shook his head, and looked down at his knife. After a moment he said, “That’s my story. Trade.”
Julien watched the knife peeling bark for a few seconds, and finally said, “I tried to get someone back from them. She’d rescued a boche officer who was drowning in the river and I thought they might release her. They told me she’d escaped and sent me home, and like an idiot I almost led them to her, down in the woods by Les Chênes. She hid in the treehouse and I tried to throw them off the trail and they beat me up. They didn’t find her.”
“That treehouse.”
“You were right to put on the canvas covers.”
“It seems like so long ago.”
“Yeah,” said Julien.
He went on down the familiar streets, nodding to someone every now and then, ignoring curious glances. The Rue Emmanuel still looked the same, though he didn’t know why this should surprise him. The heavy downstairs door of his house still made the same rising creak when he pushed it open; the hallway and stairwell were dark and cool, the old stone steps worn in all the places he remembered. As he climbed, his mother’s singing came down to him in the dark, pure and clear as falling water. He knocked, and Mama opened to him, letting light in from the dining-room windows to shine on the tears welling in her eyes.
She didn’t hug him. She took both his hands and looked into his face. She said, “My son,” and shook her head. She kissed him on each cheek, carefully, then did it again. He slung his pack off his back and fished in it for the package of meat, the layers of newspaper slightly bloody now, and held it out to her.
“Oh, Julien!” She took it from his hands with both of hers, her eyes shining, and turned toward the stove. “I’ll lay a fire right away.”
“Isn’t Magali at Les Chênes? Shouldn’t we wait for supper so she—?”
Mama’s laugh rang clear. “You stew a rabbit for hours, Julien. At least if you want a good flavor. Yes, we’ll all have supper together, and celebrate.”
He blinked at her, thinking, Roasted for minutes tasted fine to me. Thinking, So happy. “Sorry it’s missing the legs. I was only going to eat one, but Pierre showed up.”
Mama gave him a long look, sobering. “That’s all right, Julien,” she said. “Your father wants to talk to you. He’s in his study. Why don’t you go see him while I get this started?”
Papa’s study was also the same. The pitted surface of the desk, the straight-backed chairs, the file cabinet, the pens, the scarred blotter, the pad of blue-lined paper in the lower left-hand corner. Papa stood to give him the bise and sat back down with a small, rueful smile. Julien sat in the right-hand chair as he always had, and looked at his father across the desk.
“We’ve had news,” said Papa.
Julien waited. Even the sick tightening of his stomach was familiar, and the sudden rush of his pulse. He watched his father’s eyes.
“We’ve found out what the Gestapo chief meant. I was able to learn—well, we believe they have new plans regarding Alex and me.” Papa picked up a pen. “They’re taking steps to hire French criminals to have us quietly murdered, with no provable connection to themselves.”
Julien put his hands on the desk and leaned toward his father, but before he could open his mouth Papa was speaking again.
“If anything was decided the day of your encounter with them I am certain it was this. We believe their reasoning is that with the eastern front going so badly for Germany it’s no time to arouse outrage here in France, nor”—he stabbed his pen into the blotter—“to make martyrs.” He looked up at Julien and spoke quickly. “We got the news yesterday. I’ve thought and prayed about it all night. There is no witness in being murdered, no possible good to others. And I’ve heard of cases like this. These gangs they hire—bystanders have been killed.” His eyes fell to the pen in his hands. “Family members.” He laid it down and sat up straight, putting both hands flat on the desk. “I’ll be leaving Tanieux as soon as I’ve made arrangements that can’t be traced. I’m almost certain Alex will do the same.” He met Julien’s eyes with the ghost of a smile. “I’ve asked your mother to come with me.”
His mother. She had laughed like a girl. So that’s it. This. This is it. When he glanced down he saw he was gripping the edge of the desk. He looked out the window then, to where a high hawk floated in the blue, and said so softly he could barely hear himself, “I think I might be afraid to be happy anymore.”
“It’s a hard time. A hard time God chose for you to become a man in.”
Julien turned back to his father, saw his eyes like dark earth. After a moment Papa said, “I’ve been wondering about you. Whether you want to stay in Tanieux now or not.”
He looked down at his desk again, picked up the pen. He cleared his throat and said, “I hear you’ve had an offer from the Maquis.”
“You heard about that?”
Papa’s mouth went wry. “Well, the rumor was you were out in the hills already, training for an officer, but I didn’t credit that.”
Julien snorted. “I guess Pierre’s still got that mouth.”
Papa nodded, looking at his pen.
“I turned that down.”
Papa’s head came up. His eyes searched Julien’s, his face strangely soft, the lines of it washed clean by wonder, as if the face of the young man looked out for a moment from the old. “You did,” he murmured.
Julien nodded. Shrugged. “I’m not doing that.”
Papa kept the pen in his hands, rolling it very gently between his fingers, still looking at Julien.
“I ran into Marcel Chaveau on the way in,” said Julien.
The pen stopped rolling; Papa motioned with his head for Julien to go on.
“Did you find a replacement for him yet?”
Papa shook his head. “Not yet.”
Julien sat back in his chair and looked into his father’s eyes. “Well, then …”
Papa’s eyes did not leave him as his hand went to the pad of blue-lined paper, slowly. “Well, then,” he said.
Chapter 30
THE OTHER SIDE
JULIEN WAS STILL mending his night-crossing shirt when the knock came.
They were early. The rooftops of Annecy gleamed wet and pale in the dawn light; it couldn’t be six thirty yet. But it was the signal. Knock, pause, knock knock knock. Through the open guest room window he heard the voice of his nameless counterpart, high and courteous: “A parcel for you, monsieur,” and Pastor Cantal’s low voice replying. He pushed the needle into the black cloth and pricked his finger. He heard the door close, and the other guide going away. Five minutes, he told his suddenly racing heart. More if they’re smart. Finish your seam.
Flame in the Night Page 27