by Sarah Jio
“What sort of look?” Estelle asks.
“Shock,” Marcella replies. “He came out of the far bedroom holding a crowbar, covered in dust and debris. He looked like he’d…seen a ghost.” She swallows hard. “He told me there was something important that I needed to see. I wish it had been something like ants, or even rats.” She shakes her head. “But it was far worse.”
My heart beats faster.
“Ed had been prepping the floors for sanding when he noticed a loose floorboard, concealing a hidden room beneath.” She covers her mouth. “I can still remember the smell, that awful, musty smell.”
Estelle’s gaze remains fixed on Marcella. “What are you saying you found in there, exactly?”
“At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at,” she says. “Ed’s hand was shaking so badly.”
“Did you find…remains?” Estelle asks cautiously.
I cover my mouth.
“No,” Marcella says. “But it was obvious that a child had been kept there, for a long time, perhaps. It’s possible that her remains had decayed, been destroyed by an animal, or had been disposed of years ago, quietly. Or maybe she was rescued in the end. I just don’t know.”
“She?” I ask. “How do you know the child was a girl?”
“Ed recovered a few items, including a moth-eaten dress.” She pulls a wooden box from beneath her coffee table and lifts the lid. “And these.” Inside is a very ragged brown teddy bear, which she hands to Estelle for examination, followed by a weathered, and quite water-stained, leather diary of some sort.
“It was hers,” Marcella says. “Cosi’s.” She opens up the diary and touches one of the pages. “She must have been an angel. You can tell, just by reading her sweet words. And to be kept in the dark that way…”
“Did you find anything else?”
“No,” she says. “I mean, nothing of importance. I think Ed also mentioned a broken pitcher and a flashlight. We notified the police, of course, and they were able to verify that a German officer had once lived in the apartment.” She nods decidedly, turning back to the box of relics from so long ago. “I couldn’t bear to turn these over to the police. Somehow, it didn’t seem right for a child’s most precious possessions to be locked up in a lonely police department. So I kept them. For her.” She hands them to Estelle. “But I’d like you to have them now.” She smiles.
Estelle smiles. “It would be an honor.”
“After all that, my husband and I decided to say goodbye to eighteen rue Cler. We sold it soon after, to a real-estate management company that wanted to finish the renovation, then put it into a portfolio of short-term rentals for Americans looking for chic Paris apartments.” She shrugs. “We couldn’t sell it fast enough.”
“I can understand completely,” Estelle says.
“Oh,” Marcella continues. “I almost forgot about the necklace.”
“The necklace?” I say.
“Yes. We narrowly missed it, but Ed found it in a corner.” She shakes her head. “How he had the courage to go down there like that I don’t know.” She runs to an antique bureau across the room, selects a small envelope from a drawer, then opens it, depositing the contents in Estelle’s hand: a locket on a little gold chain. The clasp is stiff, but she’s able to pry it open. Whatever was once inside is now gone.
“All of this is just…extraordinary,” Estelle says, obviously moved.
I fan through the pages of the diary, reading Cosi’s sweet musings about her little world, her hopes, her dreams, her fears. And then my eyes stop on a page toward the back. One passage in particular catches my eye:
I’ve had so much time to think down here, and I want to say that I think that the most important things in life are thankfulness, forgiveness, and love. Mama taught me to always be thankful. And when you say thank you it makes other people feel happy. And forgiveness, because, life is too short to be cross. It’s also not fun. And, last but not least, love—because when you have love in your heart, nothing and no one can take it away from you.
“You’re crying,” Estelle says to me. Her eyes are misty, too.
“I’ve always hoped,” Marcella says, “after all the unspeakable things Cosi may have endured, that her story could help someone, somehow.”
I nod. “It already has.”
* * *
—
ESTELLE AND I sit at a nearby café for a long time after we leave Marcella’s apartment. “Do you think Cosi survived somehow?” I ask, taking a sip of my second double espresso. “Do you think she could still be living today?”
“Maybe,” she says, eying the little teddy bear. “Though, sadly, I think it’s unlikely.”
The sky is undecided: one part sun, one part dark clouds, and like the present and the past, both are battling for their presence to be known. The outcome is still unclear.
Estelle entrusts the little box to me before she leaves for class. I linger at the café a moment longer, unable to stop thinking of Cosi. I lift the lid of the wooden box and pull out the diary.
“Today is my half birthday,” one entry reads. “Papa will sing, and Mama and I will get a croissant at the bakery.” These are the words of a child from another era, a soul I will never know, and yet, I can hear her voice, loud and clear, as if she’s sitting right beside me on this bench, legs dangling just like Alma’s would have been.
I read, and I read, and I read, of her hopes and her dreams, of the way she worries for her mama when she hears her screaming in the other room with the “bad man.” And then I come to the very last page. Her handwriting is different here, fainter, messy, unsteady. It’s a farewell, I can see that. “I think today may be my last day. I will tuck away this little book and hold on to Monsieur Dubois and pray for heaven.”
I wipe away a tear, pulling her beloved teddy bear from the box. Monsieur Dubois.
CHAPTER 27
COSI
It’s been four days since they took Mama. I know because of the tiny ray of light that streams through the floorboard, signaling when day becomes night. She’s probably had her baby by now. A little sister would be nice, but so would a brother. I’d teach him how to play jacks and tell him never to pull girls’ pigtails. We’d call him Theodore, or Teddy, for short. I pull Monsieur Dubois to my cheek. “That would be a nice name, wouldn’t it?”
When the gun fired, it frightened me, but I didn’t hear the bad man’s voice after that, or his heavy footsteps. It’s all quiet now. Too quiet.
I long for someone to come, anyone. And when they do, I’ll cry out. I’ll use all of my remaining strength to make sure I’m heard. And then they’ll take me to Mama, and everything will be fine again.
I lay my head on the cold floor, wishing there was still water in the pitcher, even just a tiny drop to quench my parched throat. But the water’s been gone for days now. So are the last of the raisins. I feel strange, achy all over and very tired. I’m afraid that if I close my eyes, I may not have the strength to open them again.
I worry about Mama. Something must have happened. I heard a man’s voice in the room above. He came to rescue her, but why didn’t she tell him about me? Why didn’t she send him back to get me? Something must have happened. I squeeze Monsieur Dubois tighter.
I once asked Papa about heaven, and he told me he’d always imagined it to be like his home in Normandy: the scent of apple blossoms dancing in the salty air, fish roasting on the stove, and waves crashing on the shore. I may never see Normandy, but Papa’s description of heaven makes it okay. I imagine him waiting for me there in his red chair by the fire, with a pipe in his jacket pocket and his hands, scarred by rose thorns, folded on his lap.
“Welcome home, Cosette,” he’ll say, arms stretched out wide to me as I leap into his lap. “I’ve missed you so.”
I’ll find Mama in the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, singing a little so
ng as she prepares dinner. “My darling girl,” she’ll say as I wrap my arms around her.
I blink hard, but no tears come. I am like a tulip in the flower shop deprived of water.
My eyes are heavy, too heavy. I am no longer able to keep them open. “We’re going to go to heaven,” I whisper to Monsieur Dubois.
* * *
—
I DON’T KNOW if I’m awake or dreaming, or even if I’m on this earth anymore. I smell the crisp sea air as it whips against my cheeks. There are apple trees in the distance, too, just as I’d imagined. I fix my eyes on a perfect red orb hanging from a branch, and I imagine sinking my teeth into its flesh, when I hear my name.
“Cosi?”
I turn around, but the voice isn’t coming from anywhere near. It’s somewhere else. Somewhere far away. The wind rustles the apple tree and I turn back, standing on my tiptoes and extending my hand higher.
“Cosi!” the voice calls again, but this time it’s closer, and familiar.
My eyes flutter, then close, and when I open them again, the apple tree is gone. There is only darkness, and heavy footsteps above me.
“Cosi? Are you down there?”
Luc. It’s Luc!
“Luc!” I cry, but whatever voice I once had has been reduced to a mere whisper.
“Cosi!” he calls again.
I sit up, using every ounce of my remaining strength, desperate to be heard, to be rescued from this horrible darkness. I feel around for the pitcher, and when my hands clasp its handle, I force my legs to a stand, then crash it against the side wall. It shatters, just as I expected it to, making a loud crash that would be impossible to miss.
“Cosi!” Luc calls out again. I hear his hands patting the floorboards above me, and then beams of glorious light pour into the darkness. I squint as I look up, and my eyes meet Luc’s.
“Sweet child,” he says, leaping down into the space beneath the floor and taking me into his strong arms. “I’ve found you, and I am never going to let you go.”
CHAPTER 28
CAROLINE
That evening, I tell Margot about my day, the story of little Cosi, and she gasps. “To think she was…right there, in the bedroom I’m sleeping in.”
We decide to stay in and make pasta, but I realize I’m out of marinara sauce. Élian is playing happily in the living room. “I’ll run out and grab some,” I say. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Monsieur de Goff is in the lobby, locking up the little room where he keeps his supplies. He must be getting ready to leave for the day.
“Hi,” I say, walking toward him.
He nods at me. “Monsieur de Goff,” I say, eyes welling up with tears. I have no words, and before I can think twice, I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, as if the strength of my arms somehow possessed the power to cure the pain each of us carries. But then I realize that I have gotten lost in a moment of emotions. “I’m sorry,” I say, quickly stepping back. I wipe tears I didn’t know were there.
The old doorman looks at me, a little stunned.
“I…met Inès’s mother,” I explain. “The owner of the art studio across the way. She told me your story, about when you were a little boy.”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“I’m so sorry.”
For the first time, at least in my presence, the corners of his mouth turn upward, forming a smile.
“I understand now,” I say, “why my questions about the past were so hard for you to answer.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “They ransacked our house, took everything, even our lives. I was the only one to survive. My sisters, my mother, father. They all died in the camp. I don’t know how, but I lived. I was skin and bones and covered in lice when an American soldier carted me out of that godforsaken camp on his shoulders.”
I gasp, overcome with emotion.
“I ended up returning to the rue Cler, living with a great-aunt who’d managed to survive the occupation,” he continues. “We pretended that nothing had changed, when everything had. You could always tell who’d endured terror, though. You could see it in their eyes. Still can.” He shifts his stance. “The summer I turned thirteen, I met a girl a few years older than me. She told me her story, how she and her mother had been held captive by a German, right here in this building.”
I place my hand over my mouth.
“Cosi,” I say.
He nods. “The girl looked different than I’d remembered. She was nearly a woman by then, but it didn’t take long for me to connect the dots. Sadly, her mother died in childbirth shortly after she was rescued. But my friend wouldn’t have survived had it not been for her mother’s care and sacrifice. And Luc.”
“Tell me more.”
He nods. “After Céline was rescued, right before she died, Cosi waited to be freed, but it took days before her mother’s fiancé, Luc Jeanty, connected the dots.”
Jeanty.
“An old school friend of his had lived in a similar apartment on the rue Cler, and they’d often played in a hidden compartment in a back bedroom. He had a hunch that Céline might have hidden Cosi in a similar place. And can you believe it? He was right. He got to her just in time. Skin and bones, barely clinging to life.”
I swallow hard as he continues.
“Luc took her in, raised her like his own. The most admirable fellow I’d ever met. Anyway, when I came to work here, Cosi asked me to make a promise to her.”
“What was that?”
“That I would make sure that no child suffered within these walls the way she had.”
“You are a good man, Monsieur de Goff,” I say, searching his tired eyes. “Is Cosi…still in Paris? I would love nothing more than to meet her.”
The old man smiles. “But, mademoiselle, you already have.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Mademoiselle,” he says, “Inès’s mother…is Cosi.”
* * *
—
MY HEART BEATS fast as I cross the square to the market, so lost in thought as I purchase a jar of marinara that I hardly notice the cashier giving me back my credit card.
On the way back to the apartment, I spot Inès in the distance, locking up the art studio. I wave, and she walks toward me holding a stack of canvases.
“Can I help you with those?”
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t have far to go. I’m meeting my husband for dinner at a restaurant around the corner.” She smiles. “He has bigger muscles than I do. I’ll make him cart these home from there.”
I pause for a long moment, contemplating how to tell her the mammoth-sized story I’ve just pieced together, but I don’t know how or where to start.
“Everything all right?” Inès asks. “You look like you have something big on your mind.”
My arms erupt in goosebumps.
I smile through misty eyes. “Yes, I do, and yes, I’m fine. Listen, it’s a bit of a long story. You’re off to dinner, so why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow and I’ll tell you.”
“Perfect,” she says, blowing me an air kiss before turning around again. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that I sold all of your paintings after the art show.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yes, every one,” she continues, with a sparkle in her eye. “And all to the same customer, too.”
“The same customer?”
She nods. “Victor. He bought them all.”
I swallow hard.
“Oh, come on, don’t look so surprised. The man obviously is in love with you, silly.” She grins. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I wave at her as she dashes off.
A raindrop hits my cheek as I look back at my apartment building. Monsieur de Goff has just stepped out to leave for the night. I watch him raise his umbrella and
think of what he said about his promise to Cosi, and the kinship between those who suffered during the occupation.
Another raindrop hits my face, with another close behind, and then a torrent falls down from the sky. I would normally run for an awning to wait out the onslaught. But not now. Something in me has broken, or maybe, as someone wise said, broken open. I look up to the sky, letting the storm wash over me. For the first time in so long, I am not afraid.
“Alma,” I whisper, the rain mixing with my tears. “I miss you so much, baby. Your daddy does, too. Oh, love, we never wanted this to happen. But you know what? I think I know what you’d say to us right now if you could. I think you’d tell me to go give Daddy a hug, wouldn’t you? And forgive him.”
“Mademoiselle,” a man passing by says. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say, laughing and crying at the same time. I’m drenched, and I probably look like a lunatic. Maybe I am. I don’t care.
“Yes,” I say again. “I’m fine.”
As I run to Bistro Jeanty, I hear young Cosi’s voice in my ear, words she hadn’t wavered from all her life: “I want to say that I think that the most important things in life are thankfulness, forgiveness, and love. Mama taught me to always be thankful. And when you say thank you it makes other people feel happy. And forgiveness, because, life is too short to be cross. It’s also not fun. And, last but not least, love—because when you have love in your heart, nothing and no one can take it away from you.”
CHAPTER 29
CAROLINE
By the time I reach Jeanty, I am soaked, and also…crestfallen. The restaurant’s lights are dim. The door locked. A CLOSED sign hangs in the window.
“No!” I cry, pounding on the door. “Victor!”