How Huge the Night

by Heather Munn

  Gustav climbed the chain-link fence, quietly, in the dark; he was hoisting Niko up when hoarse yelling broke out of the shadows, and she fell, landing on both feet with a cry of pain. A guard shouting, striking out with his club—Gustav scrambling—the nightstick clashed against the fence as he jumped down.

  They limped home to their bridge. Niko felt tears clogging her throat. “It’s all right, Niko,” Gustav whispered. “We’ll try again.”

  When they tried, two nights later, there was a dog. A wiry German shepherd, spine bristling, growl heavy with menace.

  They stayed in Lyon.

  Chapter 29

  Peace, Peace

  “Good news,” said Papa. “Monsieur Gautier’s renting us that place of his, after all. Apparently he needs the money. Now we’ve got exactly a month to fix it up.”

  Julien looked up from his beans. “Le père Gautier? The one who wouldn’t rent to you after that … meeting?”

  “You remember that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll need a lot of help. There’s a call out for volunteers. Your grandpa says he can let you and Benjamin go from the farm. If you’d like.”

  Julien looked out the window at the sun on the rooftops. “Yeah. I think I would.”

  “Hey Julien,” Louis said out of the corner of his mouth as they scrubbed blackened baseboards. “Y’hear the one about the toilet paper?”

  “No …”

  “Well the boche says, ‘You French and all the lies you print about our führer, you wanna know what we use your newspapers for? Toilet paper!’ And the French guy says, ‘Hey, I don’t mind, but I’d be careful with that if I were you. You don’t want your butt ending up smarter than your head.’”

  Julien snorted, and Roland and Jean-Pierre roared with laughter. Even Benjamin cracked a smile.

  The work at the Gautier place was hard and hot, but it had its compensations. Julien still went to the hills on Sundays, but the rest of the week, he threw his strength and his heart into the work. He sweated, scraping ancient grease off floors; he scrubbed behind toilets. It was something he could do. In the fresh mornings, they laughed and told stories or sang songs; Gilles and Roland taught him old Huguenot songs from le désert: “We have nowhere now to say our prayers, only a little wood behind Les Ollieres …” But mostly they talked about food. What they’d like to have, what they did have, where they got it.

  Roland had caught a rabbit in a snare.

  “A snare?” Julien leaned forward, and Jean-Pierre did too. “How d’you make those?”

  “Well, wire’s best,” Roland said, his eyes lighting a little, “or you can get a strong piece of string and wax it and then grease it …” Julien paid attention. This was good.

  It was August, the height of summer’s heat; they showed up at seven and broke for lunch at eleven. Baskets and old blankets covered the grass; everyone shared their potatoes and cheeses and melons. Like a huge, rotating village picnic, everyone was there: Pastor and Madame Alexandre, the Raissacs and the Bonnauds, the Astiers, Monsieur Barre, Madame Laubrac, Madame Rostin, the Michels—with two beautiful college-student daughters that Julien tried not to stare at—the Souliers, from the Fellowship, and sometimes Madame Thibaud, Roland’s mother. And Régis Granjon, who was going to teach math at the new school, talking calculus with Benjamin.

  And the guys. They’d have lunch together, all of them: Julien, Roland, Louis, Gilles, Jean-Pierre, and Benjamin—sometimes Jérémie or Antoine—then a swim in the river in their shorts, splashing and wrestling in the water, in the sun, seeing who could stay under longest. The only thing that could have made it better was Pierre. But Pierre wasn’t there. Nor Henri. Nor his father. Count your blessings, thought Julien.

  La France nouvelle! said Marshal Pétain on the radio. A new France would emerge from this defeat, returned to her roots and her values, her honor restored. Political parties had promised disaster if they were not elected, and heaven on earth if they were—how empty all those words seemed, he said, now that true disaster had come upon them.

  “We have to return to our fundamental values,” Monsieur Faure had told Julien yesterday, sweeping plaster dust off the stairs. “Pétain understands that. We were sliding into selfishness, individualism, abandoning our nation—that’s why we were defeated, not some tactical mistake. And just like the Bible says, Julien, if we repent, we can be saved. He is a truly Christian leader.”

  It was called the National Revolution. The new motto of France was Work, Family, Nation. A return to real values—hard work, duty, loyalty, faith. Implementing practical measures like seed distribution to help the farmer, the backbone of the nation, alleviate hunger. Purging the administration of those who had failed through incompetence, laziness, or even deliberate sabotage, including those who had been French for only a short time yet had slipped into government positions. There would be youth camps to teach France’s glorious tradition to her young people, her best hope.

  “Well,” Grandpa said. “Heaven on earth, eh?”

  Julien and Magali both stared at him. He didn’t sound impressed. “Grandpa,” said Magali, her voice rising in surprise, “you’re against him?”

  Grandpa laughed. “A bit early for that, isn’t it? He hasn’t done anything yet!”

  Papa smiled at Magali. “It takes time, Lili. Don’t be in such a hurry. Did I tell you all what I keep hearing on my other radio? The shortwave? I hear De Gaulle saying our best hope is to go on fighting. Refuse to accept the defeat. He’s calling for volunteers—gathering an army in England.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know yet.”

  Magali was grinning. “Can I go?”

  Julien snorted. Then looked at his grandfather.

  “Soon Pétain will have to act,” said Grandpa. “Then we’ll know.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Monsieur Raissac bit out, shaking the newspaper.

  “Oh, I can,” said Monsieur Barre.

  Julien sat cross-legged on the grass with the men, sweaty with hard work, feeling like a man. “Can’t believe what?”

  “You’ve heard what the boches have done, haven’t you, young man?”

  He knew. They’d annexed Alsace and Lorraine. French territory. Annexed it.

  “Well, we stole it from ’em in the last war, what d’you expect?” said Monsieur Bonnaud.

  “They broke the armistice! It was written, black and white—”

  “What I don’t understand,” drawled Monsieur Barre, “is why anybody ever expected them to keep it. Don’t people realize who we’re dealing with here?”

  “The marshal cut a deal. This wasn’t some kind of unconditional surrender. That’s why the boches aren’t here in Tanieux. There were terms.”

  “And see what they do with them!”

  “The marshal’s doing the best he can,” said Monsieur Michel. “I’d hate to be in his position, but we need someone like him.”

  “We need a leader,” said Monsieur Astier slowly, “and we need hope … but I wonder. He is in a difficult position. And so are we. I notice that he doesn’t speak very much about that.”

  Heads around the circle were nodding. Honor and glory, Julien thought—but he does, he talks about the defeat—

  “The marshal cut a deal, and the Germans have broken it. What can the marshal do?”

  There was a long pause. Eyes were on the ground. Finally, Monsieur Barre bit out, “Not much, that’s what.”

  Monsieur Astier nodded. “So I ask myself, why is the marshal trying to make France feel powerful when she has no power right now against Germany? I’m not sure. But when I ask myself, is that a good thing … I think the answer is no.”

  “‘They have treated the wound of my people lightly, prophesying peace, peace, when there is no peace,’” said old père Soulier softly. He had been sitting quietly at the edge of the group. Julien looked at him in amazement.

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Astier.

  The boches were bombing England to pieces. The BBC w
ent on about courage and solidarity; Radio Vichy made it sound like half of England was rubble. Papa said it might be true this time. “The Brits don’t dare tell it as bad as it really is. They have to keep their spirits up.”

  They’d invade England soon. Then there would be no one left.

  Julien and Roland walked up into the Tanières, and Roland showed him how to place the snares he’d made. They went there again in a couple days, but the snares were empty. “There’s not so many this time of the season,” Roland said. “Better in June when they’re young and stupid.”

  “Like us,” said Julien.

  Roland grinned. “I hear Pierre’s getting a pretty good catch,” he said. “He always did know the good spots.”

  “Pierre? He’s back?”

  “Nope. But someone put two dead rabbits on his parents’ doorstep this week.”

  “Really?” He remembered standing on a boulder up in the Tanières and asking God what he’d ever changed because Julien asked. Dead rabbits. Huh.

  “Wish the dumb guy would just come back.”

  “Yeah,” said Julien.

  September. Two weeks before the first day of school. The place was rewired, painted, spotless. They had a huge picnic, half the village, to celebrate with toasts to the new school, to the revitalization of Tanieux, to defeat for the boches—that last from Monsieur Raissac who might have had a drop too much. “Nothing like shutting the barn door after the horse gets out,” whispered Louis. Benjamin snickered.

  They went down to the river, Julien and all the guys, for a loud, splashing, water-wrestling swim before the party broke up for the summer. Julien looked around at his friends. Only two weeks, and they would all be back in school. Henri would be there. But so would Jean-Pierre, and Louis, and Roland.

  In the hills, three days before school, Julien caught a rabbit. It lay in a gap between the tough, green genêts, its legs kicked up awkwardly, its neck in his snare. He stood a moment, looking at this small life he had taken, then gave a whoop that echoed through the hills.

  Roland showed him how to skin it, took the skin and promised to tan it for him. He had meat. Soon he’d have leather. He’d gotten it himself. Roland slapped him on the back.

  Mama outdid herself that night, chunks of rabbit in a savory sauce with thyme and wild mushrooms. It was heavenly. He ate till he was completely full, mopping up the last of the sauce with a crust of bread. Even the potatoes tasted good.

  “Look what they’ve done, Julien,” said Papa.

  “New commission to review foreign-born citizens,” Julien read. “Protecting our nation against foreign influences … a commission to review the cases of all foreign-born citizens naturalized after August 1927 … the foreigners in question may have been …” The usual. France must be French. Foreign influences, Communists, undesirables let into the country with too few restrictions. Kick ’em all out. The journalist seemed to think they were going to.

  He looked at his father.

  “They’re only reviewing, right?”

  “True. We may not even know … what they’ve decided. Till we try to get Benjamin a ration card. Don’t tell him. Okay?”

  Julien nodded slowly. Picturing Benjamin’s face. “But Papa, does the marshal—”

  “Does he what? Approve?”

  Julien shrugged. Does he know about it? What a stupid question. But—honor and glory—fundamental values—foreign influences, corrupting foreign influences, purging foreigners out of the new Vichy government, was that what “fundamental values” meant? Being French? French by blood?

  The marshal, the beloved, heroic marshal, who sounded so noble on the radio, who wanted to give France a new birth of honor and virtue—he thought he could do it by throwing Benjamin out? Julien felt the bile rise in his throat.

  “It’s like your Grandpa said,” said Papa. “Now we know.”

  Above the place du centre, the swallows flew, crying, turning against the red sky. Julien watched them and felt a deep, sweet sadness rise in him. It had been a good summer. In spite of everything. He was still full—both heart and stomach full—from the meal they had just had with Roland’s family. One of those meals where awkward conversation slowly gives way to loud talk and laughter, and by the end of the night, everyone is in a warm bubble together, the world outside forgotten for the circle of faces and the light in them. He’d never seen Benjamin so happy. They’d asked him so many questions. Julien had learned what the words meant that Benjamin had whispered on the night he ran away. Ribbono Shel Olom: Master of the Universe. God.

  There were guys around the Tabac-Presse. Julien headed for them.

  And saw too late who they were.

  Henri, Lucien, and Gaston. “That’s why I put the sign up at the mairie,” Gaston was saying. “The papers won’t report it! The Jews own them all! The marshal can change the law, but someone’s gotta …”

  Julien turned, walked casually across the place toward the mairie. A notice board stood there, glassed-in and locked. A paper was taped outside the glass.

  Marchandeau Law Repealed. A law against racist and anti-Semitic speech in newspapers or on the radio. Repealed. By the beloved marshal, naturally.

  He began to pick at the tape.

  He heard them behind him, but he did not turn. He had one corner of the tape off when Henri spoke.

  “Hello.”

  Julien turned. Henri was alone.

  “Censorship?”

  “This is an illegal notice.”

  “Because there’s a law against the truth?”

  Julien looked Henri in the eye, took the corner of the notice, and pulled. It came off, and he held it up by its corner like the dirty rag it was.

  “I’m proud of you, Julien. Striking a blow for liberty and justice. And free speech and truth.”

  Julien almost couldn’t speak. “You think truth is what’s gonna come of this?”

  “Listen and see. The marshal just might know something you didn’t know. How many Jews own radio stations in this country? Don’t know? Hm. And you’d like for nobody to be allowed to tell you, right? How many Jews are Communists? How many of the Jews in this country are from Germany? Oh wait,” said Henri with a little smile. “Maybe you know that one.”

  Julien opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He was dizzy with rage.

  “You don’t want that thing, right?” Henri said, and snatched the paper out of his hand. He turned toward his friends across the square and saluted; and Julien forgot the paper. Forgot everything.

  It was a stiff-armed salute, hand pointing up into the evening sky. He’d seen it before in newsreels. They used it in Germany.

  When they saluted Hitler.

  His rage dropped away, fathoms and fathoms down, into the void of pure shock.

  “Henri,” he said, almost breathless. “Do you know what that salute means?” He couldn’t know. Even Henri—especially Henri—

  “It’s the new salute of the National Revolution. It symbolizes strength and pride in our nation,” said Henri with calm pride.

  “No it doesn’t!” Julien half roared, his voice cracking. Henri stared at him. “It’s the salute they do in Germany! The Nazi salute! Don’t you understand, Henri?” He had to catch his breath. “It’s Pétain, he’s giving them what they want, they want to turn us into Nazis! French Nazis!” His eyes stung. The swallows wheeled and cried above them in the darkening sky.

  Henri’s little smile was back. “Julien, Julien. Maybe you should go home and lie down. You’ve had a hard day. If we use the other salute, does it make us Brits? Or Americans? The Germans have one thing right, and that’s pride. We could use some too. That’s why we’re supposed to salute the flag every morning at school now. Marshal’s orders. And”—he snapped out the salute again—“That’s how we’re supposed to do it.”

  Henri turned on his heel and walked away. “And Julien,” he added over his shoulder, his voice growing colder, “when you’re in my presence, could you please refrain from calling the marshal a N
azi?”

  School would start in the morning, but Julien hardly slept at all.

  Chapter 30

  Help

  Gustav stood on the main street of Lyon, between expensive shops and restaurants, looking around at the people: men in suits, women in beautiful dresses. The people who still ate.

  He didn’t want to do this. But he was so hungry. And Niko, every day by the cathedral, pleading with strangers—in three days getting maybe enough for a loaf of bread. Her collarbones stood out; there were hollows in her cheeks.

  It scared him.

  They had fallen to searching garbage cans, eating moldy bread, cracking bones for the marrow. Lying in wait on market day to find the smashed tomatoes and broken carrots when the merchants packed up their stalls. But even there, others were before them. Yesterday he had fought a man over half a cabbage. His ribs were bruised. He had come home empty-handed.

  So he had to do this.

  Lorenzo said purses were the easiest. Then wallets in back pockets. I know you’re not the type, kid, but if it comes to life or death, I want you to live, okay? I want you to do what you gotta do. You got a brother to take care of, don’t forget that.

  He watched the people go past. They watched him. Women in fur coats, clutching them closed. Men’s eyes darting round, back pockets empty. He watched for an hour and saw not a single chance. He dared not try for an inside pocket. He’d be arrested. Nina would die.

  Even today he could bring her nothing.

  “I saved you this, Gustav—a nun gave it to me. I ate half—and this man gave me fifty centimes, with another fifty we’ll have enough for—”

  “You eat it.”