by Heather Munn
Chapter 35
Second Thoughts
“Henri knows about Gustav and Nina.”
Papa stared at him. “Does his father know?”
“Not yet. That’s what he said. ‘Not yet.’”
“Go, Julien. Take my umbrella. Go tell your mother, and then do whatever she says. I’ll tell your teachers she needed you home.”
“He’ll know why I left school.”
“What do you think he expects you to do? What difference do you think it’ll make? Julien, go.”
He pounded up the stairs and threw open the door. “Mama! They know about Gustav and Nina!” He stood, breathing hard, his wet shoes dripping on the floor.
“Who? Who knows?”
“Henri Bernard.” Henri, that swine, that Vichy-loving—
“He saw me and Gustav Wednesday night. He says they should be ‘taken care of’ and sent to a camp. I tried to tell him, Mama—he wouldn’t—”
Mama held onto the doorframe. Her face was pale. “Does he know where they are?”
“No. He tried to get me to tell him.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Julien. Here’s what you’re going to do. Go tell Sylvie Alexandre. Then do my shopping, and tell the grocer I’m not well. Which is true. Then go back to school and tell Roland Thibaud. Discreetly.” He was opening his mouth but she went on. “Where you are not going is anywhere near Gustav and Nina, not now during school hours when anyone who sees is bound to notice. You’ll go see your Grandpa after school and drop by the Rostins’ on the way home. With Benjamin along to translate. Whether he likes it or not.”
“He said he wanted to go with me. Next time I went.”
“Good,” said Mama. “Now go.”
Outside Gustav’s window, the moon was setting; pale shreds of cloud passed over it, driven by the wind. Benjamin was asleep in the next room, the room that belonged to André, the prisoner of war. Benjamin, who’d chosen to stay the night and skip school to be with him. Why didn’t these people tell him anything? A German Jew his own age with fluent Yiddish living with Julien, and they’d never told him. Even if Benjamin was in hiding too—but he wasn’t, he’d said.
Benjamin didn’t need to hide.
Gustav closed his eyes. He had failed her. He had been stupid, he had grown confident, he had spoken to Julien in the dark street; and now Nina would die. They would be taken to a camp, and separated, and there she would finish what she had started. She would die. It was his fault. If he hadn’t urged her to tell the truth—if he hadn’t insisted on calling her Nina every chance he got—they would at least be together in the camp. If he hadn’t spoken in the street. He imagined the stationmaster’s son, a peering face behind a thin curtain, and the taste of vomit rose in his mouth.
And he couldn’t even go to her.
But why? Why couldn’t he? They thought he should stay hidden here like a mouse in a hole—why? Because the authorities might only find one of them? If they took her, she would die. That was all that mattered. If they took her, let them take him too.
Nina. We came so far. Nina, you’ve got to hold on. Was he praying? He didn’t even know. Could God really let it end like this? Was there a God?
He didn’t even know.
He paced and listened to Benjamin’s deep breathing and thought of the things Benjamin had said. You can’t go. This is the worst time for you to go. He didn’t care. Fräulein Pinatel would take him; he’d sleep on the bare kitchen floor, he’d clean the whole apartment every day, and she’d take him in because she knew it. Because she was a good woman. And at least they wouldn’t come and find Nina there alone—in her bed, asleep, her eyes opening to the sight of men in uniforms—
No.
And so he knew; there was one thing he knew.
At least they would find them together.
For what was left of the night, Gustav slept.
Benjamin translated. Everything Gustav had turned over in his mind, in the dark. Monsieur Rostin didn’t wait for him to finish. He held up a hand. “Oui. Oui. Va voir Nina.”
The Rostins went outside, left Gustav with Benjamin. They sat across the table from each other, Benjamin turning and turning his water glass, looking down. His parents used to live in Paris. He’d said that last night. Now Paris was taken. He didn’t know where they were.
“Benjamin,” said Gustav; Benjamin looked up quickly. “Will you—teach me a little French?”
They sat there all morning, heads bent together over three pages of paper, writing. Practicing. My sister is very sick. My sister does not speak French. Please do not separate us.
He could hardly keep his head upright. They ate lunch with the Rostins. Benjamin left. Madame Rostin ordered Gustav to bed, and he slept.
Julien woke Saturday morning, certain they had been taken away. They hadn’t.
But they would be.
It was torture. The waiting, the knowing, the going to school and pretending it was fine. The flag salute, even though he was deliberately late to avoid it. He’d almost liked it before, he realized: standing there with his friends ignoring, mocking it, being mad at it.
Now the thought of it made him physically sick.
He did not hear a word that any teacher said. He didn’t see Henri, either, because whenever the particular shade of blue that was Henri’s jacket came into the corner of his eye, he turned his whole head away.
Gilles came to him and asked him why he’d been late and informed him that there were only five flag saluters. “I guess we convinced some of ’em the other day. Don’t think it worked on Henri though. I don’t know what we expected, you wave a newspaper in that guy’s face and he’s not gonna go”—Gilles did a mock double take—“‘Oh my word, you’re right!’” He looked at Julien. Finally. “Hey Julien, you okay?”
“Fine,” said Julien.
At night, he lay staring into the dark, reliving the scene: him and Gustav on the dark street; Henri at some unseen window. He’d revise it, make them walk tall as if they had a right to be there, make Gustav shut up with his accent. Make it unhappen. Uselessly. Again and again.
He couldn’t pray. He tried.
They were not taken that day. But it didn’t mean anything. There was day after day after day. There was no knowing which would be the one.
It was night when Gustav woke. His mind was heavy, full of sleep. He crawled out of bed, dressed slowly by the moonlight through his window. Made a bundle of the blankets and sweaters Madame Rostin had given him. Winter was coming. He crept quietly through the house and out the door.
The moon was still high and almost full; the garden, the apple trees, the barn were laid out clear as day in the silver light. He couldn’t go yet. It was by moonlight that he’d been seen.
He went into the barn and looked up the hayloft ladder. From there, he’d see everything. The silvery hay field, the dark woods he would walk through soon. He set his bundle at the foot of the ladder and climbed up.
As he began to crawl into the hay, his hand touched something solid—it gave a loud grunt—he reared back and scuttled backward in the dark. “Mais t’es qui, toi?” said a voice, deep, sleepy, and angry. “Mais va-t’en, merde, fous l’camp, c’est ma grange ici!”
Gustav retreated farther, wishing he’d had Benjamin teach him threats and swearwords. Trying to remember his French. “Who—you?”
“C’est chez moi, ici,” said the shadow. “T’es qui, toi?” Chez moi. “My home!” The farm was his home? Was he nuts?
“I am Gustav,” he said calmly. “I work for Rostins. I sleep here.”
“Pas possible,” said the voice. He could make out his outline now—broad shoulders and a heavy face—he looked a little like—
“Dis pas à mes parents, hein, sinon …” That meant, Don’t tell my parents …
That was who he looked like.
“They … they say you gone—”
“Well I’m not, am I?”
Gustav shook his head, trying to gather enough French t
o tell this guy to wise up. Living in the hayloft while a stranger slept in his bed. “Your parents are good,” he started.
“Oh, shut—” said Pierre, but Gustav cut across his words, leaning forward in the dark. “My parents are dead,” he said loudly and clearly. “I have no home. You have parents.” What was French for stop being an ungrateful blockhead? “I go away now, to the town. I am not in your bed now. Go. Go sleep in your bed. Va chez toi.”
“Va t’faire …” said Pierre, weakly.
“Au revoir,” said Gustav, and climbed down the ladder.
An hour later when the moon had set, he took up his bundle in the pitch black night and started down the little path into the woods, south toward the town, toward Nina, toward whatever would come.
Sunday morning after breakfast, Mama beckoned Julien into the kitchen to dry the dishes she was washing. She turned and looked at him intently, her hands in soapy water, and asked, “Julien, will you tell me what you know about Henri Bernard?”
Julien looked at the cup he was drying. “He’s a lot like his father.”
“How?”
“He’s arrogant. What he wants out of life is everybody obeying him. And he talks big about honor. Like Vichy. He’s into Vichy.”
Mama looked sober. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen him in action. A lot.” He could still see him looking at that newspaper, the look in his eyes for a moment—he knew I was right—then the narrow-eyed snarl … It wasn’t about truth. It was about winning. Always.
“Hm. That’s too bad,” said Mama. “I was starting to think— Julien, we’ve heard nothing from Monsieur Bernard, not a word. It’s not like him. Sylvie Alexandre expected him up at the parsonage yesterday demanding to know where they were. It’s almost as if he didn’t know.”
Julien stared at her.
“And I was wondering—the only explanation I can think of is if your friend Henri is having second thoughts. And hasn’t told him yet.”
Second thoughts—the king of France didn’t have second thoughts. Julien saw it again, that moment, that hesitation, that look in his eyes when they opened for a split second to the truth—and then his own voice, snarling shame. Shame.
“He’s not my friend.” His throat hurt. “And he doesn’t have second thoughts.”
“I wondered why he came to you about it before telling his father. He must have waited a whole day without telling his father, just so he could talk to—”
“He was giving me the chance to rat on them!” His heart was starting to race.
“Did he really think you would?”
“I don’t know.” There was broken glass in his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” His pulse pounded in his ears It was not possible. It was too late.
No one listens to his enemy.
Julien sat in church, not hearing what Pastor Alex said, aware of nothing but what he was not looking at: on the far side of the church, Henri and his father in their pew. Henri, who had not told his father for three whole days. Who was wondering what to do, wondering what was right. Was he really? Was it even possible? He had seen it—seen, for a moment, doubt in the ice blue eyes. And hadn’t even noticed the miracle.
And what had he expected, each with their guys lined up behind them, like—like one warlord against another?
He heard Gilles’s mocking voice: Oh my word, you’re right.
He shut his eyes; there was darkness. And in the darkness there was God. He had been there all along. Lying in wait.
Julien shifted on his pew, wanting to stand, to run, to find a place where he could hide. There was no escape. From what he’d done.
It’s not about truth. It’s about winning. That’s true. About me.
He’d thought he was such a hero. Defender of the truth. He who’d asked God to teach him the weapons of love, so long ago by the Rostin’s fire—and who’d dropped it, like he’d dropped carving, and neither God nor Grandpa had ever said a word. Stupidity wasn’t enough. It wasn’t about stupidity at all. We will resist with the weapons of the Spirit; without fear, without pride, and without hate.
He’d just liked his own weapons better. That’s all.
He turned his head and looked across the church at Henri. He’d picked him for his scapegoat. Acted like it was Henri who passed every vicious Vichy law, like it was Henri who tried to send Gustav and Nina away to die. And he had taken his revenge, oh, he’d gotten him good. He’d stolen his soccer games from under his nose, won over half his followers, laid siege to the palace, and claimed the throne. He was winning. Julien, the new king of France.
But God. Gustav and Nina. I thought I was defending them.
The organ began to play, deep echoing notes, but in Julien’s head there was silence. God did not answer. God didn’t need to.
You cannot attack with the weapons of love. You cannot defend with the weapons of hate. What if he had done it right? What if he had done it like Jesus said, like God and Pierre had taught him in the white womb of the snowstorm: quietly, simply, with grace even for an enemy, even for a betrayer? What if he had pulled Henri quietly aside and spoken to him without pride and without hate; two boys in an empty hallway, speaking in low serious voices? The way Henri had spoken to him.
Oh, God.
He sat and looked across the church at his enemy, the brown hair and the thin face, his enemy singing The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide. He sat and watched him, biting his lip until he tasted blood.
“Mama, I have to go do something. I—I might not be able to make it home for lunch. Mama”—he had never asked this before—“will you … will you pray for me?”
“Of course I will,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked away. He felt sick.
He left his parents and wove through the crowd at the church door. He had to talk to Henri. But he couldn’t do it yet; not without help. A hectic energy flowed through his body, almost equal to the weight that pressed on him: the knowledge of what he had to do, and that it would fail.
He would go first to Roland’s farm. If anyone could help, Roland could.
The sun was riding high and cold in the sky as he took the south road from the bridge; shreds of cloud were blowing swiftly across the hills. He pulled his jacket close around him, walking fast, hoping, afraid. The clouds had covered the sun by the time he reached Roland’s farm.
Roland was not there.
Julien shivered in the wind. He was going to face Henri alone, not knowing what to say. Knowing what Henri would say back. Could he stand there and take Henri’s scorn and give back simple truth—and after weeks of hating, not hate? Oh God, send somebody else. But there was nobody. Almost nobody—
He stopped at Gilles’s house. Gilles wasn’t there.
It just had to be done, and done now. He walked quickly through the place du centre and took the uphill street, thinking of what to say to Henri. Protestants. Talk about Protestants.
He passed the crest of the hill, not seeing the hills and the woods bright with autumn against the blue sky; only the apple orchard, down there, and the black stone house. The wrought iron gate was shut. The house had a look of silence. Only the wind in the apple trees moving, and a solitary chicken scratching in the dirt. His heart sank.
“Hello?” he called, but his voice died away in the stillness. “Hello! Hello! Is anyone there? Henri!” Frail echoes shivered back from the surrounding hills, and died. The gate was locked with a chain and padlock. He took hold of it and shook, hard; then stopped and looked quickly around. But there was no one. Just the blank blue sky looking down on him, and the cold wind.
He could almost hear God laughing.
He stood, looking back up the hill toward home. Tears stung behind his eyes. He crouched down on the road, shivering, and the wind whipped the dead leaves past him. He watched them skitter away down the road north to Grandpa’s.
After a minute, he stood and followed them.
Grandpa’s kitchen was warm, the woodstove
glowing. Grandpa welcomed Julien with a bise on both cheeks and sat him down at the table. Julien was shaking. “Are you all right, Julien?”
He shook his head.
Grandpa put the kettle on the woodstove and sat down. He gave Julien that look, that quiet, open face that meant Julien could talk, there was no hurry, he was listening. He would hear and would not judge.
But this deserved judging.
“Grandpa. I’ve done something very bad.”
Grandpa listened.
“I … I … Henri … Grandpa, I hate him. I really do. Him and his father.”
“I don’t think that’s too surprising,” said Grandpa quietly.
“But he hasn’t told his father yet. And it’s been three days. Mama thinks he could be having second thoughts. And I’m just about the only one who could go talk to him—try to make him understand the truth about them—but he won’t listen to me.” His fingers dug into his palms. “He knows I hate him, and he hates me too. I’ve given him lots of reasons to. Good ones.”
He risked a look into Grandpa’s eyes. They were sober.
“I took over his soccer games that he used to lead. I’ve practically taken over the class. I mean I am it at school right now,” he said bitterly. “I’m the latest thing. And then last week, I put him down in front of everybody—his friends, my friends—I almost got him to punch me. He’s always the one standing there cool as a cat while you get madder and madder and you look dumb, and I beat him at his own game. Except”—he looked Grandpa in the eye—“it was the wrong game.”
Grandpa nodded.
“Do you see? Do you see where this is going? If I hadn’t been a hateful, arrogant … fool, Gustav and Nina could be safe right now. If they arrest her and she dies in some camp, it’s my fault.”
Grandpa’s eyebrows rose very high. He sat back. “Julien,” he murmured, “do you really believe that?”