He was dressed in a three-piece business suit with a dark maroon tie and matching handkerchief in the breast pocket. His shoes gleamed in the subtle light, and I guessed they were Italian, or something similarly expensive. Definitely looked like a man of means. Rich like his mother. And very chic, if that word applied to men.
Dad set the sack down and came down the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he walked over to Philippe, sticking out his hand. “We can call Juliette if you like,” he said as they shook hands. “She has her mobile phone with her.”
We learned very quickly that in Europe you didn’t call them cell phones. They were mobile phones, which was pronounced not as “MOH-bull,” but “MOH-bile,” so it rhymed with “no tile.”
“No, no,” Philippe said quickly. He lifted an arm and glanced at his watch. It looked like a Rolex. “That’s not that much longer. I’ll wait inside.” He turned back to me, and the smile he shot at me was very warm and open. “I must say, Danni, Mum has told me all about you. She says you are becoming fast friends.”
I bobbed my head. “I’m glad she feels that way because that’s how I feel about her.”
Philippe looked around and a small frown creased his brow. “Anina and I—that’s my sister—have tried and tried to talk Mum out of all this château nonsense, but she just won’t talk. So I’m glad her very first guests have turned out to be so pleasant.”
As dinner progressed, I found it interesting to watch Philippe and Juliette together. There was a comfortable easiness—almost an equality—between them, unlike what you saw between many mothers and sons. He wasn’t married yet, but that was not unusual for European men.
Once we finished with dessert, Cody quickly tired of the adult conversation and excused himself. Dad left a short time later to get online with Rick to deal with some problems in the consulting business. After ten minutes, I almost left too because it soon became a four-way conversation between Juliette, Philippe, Mom, and Grandpère, much of it conducted in French. And even though the topics were absolutely fascinating—French literature, French Impressionist painters, the European economic climate, the strength of the Euro against the dollar, and the like—I was bored stiff in about two minutes.
But Juliette had this way of bringing the conversation around to Philippe, no matter what the topic happened to be, and I kept learning interesting things about him, so I stayed on. He spoke several European languages, including French, Spanish, and German, in addition to his English. He could slip back and forth between a clipped British accent and a slow Bostonian drawl with perfect ease. After graduating from an exclusive prep school in England, he came to America and attended one of the Ivy League schools. When Mom asked him which one, he modestly admitted it was Harvard. Juliette informed us that he had received a full scholarship there. He was now a vice president at his bank, the youngest in the company. And so on and so on. I was beginning to think that Philippe Dubois had an enthusiastic fan club of two people—his mother and himself.
I’m not sure why, but Juliette’s attempt to impress us with her son actually had the opposite effect on me. Philippe was too polished, too suave, too sophisticated—I don’t know—too “packaged,” I guess, to suit me. As they talked, I kept making the comparison between my dad, the cowboy from Hanksville, Utah, and Philippe, Mr. Slick from Paris, France. And between Philippe and Rick. And I decided that being gauche maybe wasn’t all that bad after all.
I came back to the conversation when Philippe asked Mom a question about running in the mornings.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Since we’re early risers, Lucas and I often go running before breakfast.”
He nodded. “I, as well. I try to run ten kilometers each morning. Perhaps I might join you tomorrow?”
Ten kilometers? That was six miles.
Mom turned to Grandpère. “How early are we leaving for Strasbourg?” She turned back to Philippe and explained. “Since we’ve stuck pretty close to home since our arrival, we thought it was time to see the city.”
Grandpère shrugged. “Not until after breakfast. You would have time for a run, if you like.”
Philippe looked surprised. “But Jean-Henri,” he said, “Mother has told me that you were born and raised here at Le Petit Château. Surely you know Strasbourg.”
Nodding, Grandpère explained. “The last time I was in Strasbourg, other than the night we landed at the airport when it was dark and rainy, was in early 1947. My family and I walked to Strasbourg, then caught a train for Cherbourg. There, we took a ferry across the English Channel and left two days later by steamer from Southampton for New York City. The last image I have in my mind of Strasbourg is mile after mile of bombed-out buildings. I am anxious to replace that image with something more pleasant.”
“But of course you must do that,” Juliette said. “It is a most beautiful city now.”
“I agree,” Philippe said. “We have a Strasbourg branch of the bank and I’m often there.” He snapped his fingers and turned to his mother. “What would you say to that, Mum? Should we offer them our guide service? Show them our beloved Strasbourg?”
No. We can do it on our own.
But Juliette loved the idea. “But of course,” she said. Then to Mom, “If you would not see that as an imposition on your family outing.”
“Are you kidding?” Mom said. “Lucas has been worried about driving in the city.”
“We would be delighted,” Grandpère said, even as he saw the look on my face.
“Then it’s settled,” Philippe said. “We shall spend the day together in Strasbourg.” Back to Mom. “So, will you and Mack still run in the morning?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Juliette turned to me. “What about you, Danni? Are you a runner too?”
I had already seen it coming. I smiled sweetly. “I am, but I was lucky enough to find a young boy in the village who likes to run. I’m paying him twenty cents for every mile he jogs for me. And so far it’s working out great. He’s making money and I’m getting in twenty-five miles a week.”
Juliette’s mouth dropped open, something I hadn’t often seen in her. “Really?”
Philippe laughed. “It’s a joke, Mama. She’s just kidding you.”
CHAPTER 24
Le Petit Château
October 9, 2011
A quick report on yesterday, then to some great news.
Strasbourg was amazing! And it turned out to be more fun than expected, even with Philippe along. We left right after breakfast with Philippe driving the other six of us in the van. It was a perfect fall day with clear blue skies and temperatures in the low sixties.
Strasbourg is the largest city in eastern France and is very beautiful. It sits on the west bank of the Rhine River, which forms the border between France and Germany, so it is a wonderful mixture of both French and German culture. We saw some really amazing and awesome things, which I won’t detail for now.
More puzzlement about Juliette and her son, Philippe. With almost every day that goes by, we see more and more evidence that Juliette is quite wealthy, and yet she is perfectly content to be hosting a bed-and-breakfast guest house in a little village in Eastern France. And Philippe? Well, he can be insufferably arrogant at times, but he was also enormously charming and very funny. Overall, it was just a fun day.
We came back and had dinner together, but I slipped out early—with Mom’s and Dad’s permission—to call Rick. We talked for over an hour and it was wonderful. Maybe a little awkward at first, but soon we were laughing and joking with each other like nothing had happened between us. It felt so good. The only reference we made to New York was that he told me he had gotten a five-thousand-dollar check from the Today show. That wasn’t a surprise because me and Cody had each gotten one too. Rick said he tried to give it to his dad, but he wouldn’t take it. Made him open up a savings account at the bank in Green River. Good on you, Charlie.
Then, stupid me. I told him that Clay and Joel were now saying there was a possibility of us staying through Christmas, since Interpol wasn’t making much progress in their investigation. This was just to be super safe. Rick had already heard that. I guess Clay calls him regularly too. So I worked up my nerve and asked if he wouldn’t come over and join us, just for Christmas. Mom and Dad had told me to ask him, and said they would pay for his tickets. I assured him he didn’t have to stay very long. Just come and see us for a few days. Maybe see some of France.
He went very quiet for a time, and I knew I had blown it. He finally said that he’d think about it. Translation? “No way.” When we finally hung up, I lay on the bed and cried myself to sleep.
Okay, enough of that. Today was better. To our surprise, and Juliette’s irritation, Philippe was gone by the time we were up. He’d left a brief note saying that he had to get his report of the conference prepared for a meeting first thing on Monday, but promised he would return as soon as he could get free to spend more time with her. I wasn’t too broken up to have him gone. Though I had warmed up a little toward him, he still left me feeling uncomfortable, and I wasn’t sure why.
We went to the little church in the village this morning and I got to attend my first Catholic mass. The church is over two hundred years old. It was way different from our church services, but kinda neat in its own way. Most of those there were older people, especially older women. Dad said that’s the trend all over Europe. The younger generation just doesn’t care much about religion.
But what was really super cool was what happened after the services. Grandpère took us out behind the church to the old church graveyard. We walked around and found the graves of several of our ancestors. But the neatest of all was that we found the graves of Angelique Chevalier and her grandfather, Alexandre Chevalier. Angelique is the one who fled Germany with her mother when men killed her father trying to get the pouch. Mom was named for her.
It was this really weird thing to stand right where their bodies now lay in the ground. It made them seem so real to me. I don’t know why, but suddenly I got pretty emotional.
And then Grandpère dropped his little bombshell on us. He put his arm around Mom and pulled her close. “You know,” he said, “this Thursday is October thirteenth. That will be exactly one hundred and forty years ago that Angelique turned thirteen years old and had to flee Germany for her life. I was thinking that might be a good day to see if we can’t retrace some of her journey. What do you think?”
Wow! What a question. We leave early Thursday morning. Grandpère has promised us we can actually walk in the same creek she did. And we’ll come all the way back to Le Petit Château, just like she did.
The Rhine Valley, Germany
October 13, 2011
Our reenactment of the flight of Angelique Chevalier from her little village in Germany to Le Petit Château turned out to be more deeply stirring to me than I expected—and my expectations were pretty high. Grandpère had stressed that what he hoped for was not just retelling her story but actually reenacting the key parts of her experience.
The village of Schwarze Kirche was hardly a village at all. There were maybe five or six small farmhouses with their outbuildings set amidst the vineyards that filled the valley. Black Church seemed like an odd name for a settlement to me, but Grandpère explained that it took its name from Black Creek, which ran nearby, and had nothing to do with the idea of evil.
The cottage in which Angelique had been born and lived the first thirteen years of her life had never been rebuilt. But we did find the site, which was about a quarter of an acre of land knee-high in grass. One of the villagers told Grandpère that some people believed the site to be cursed, and that was why it had never been rebuilt. But Grandpère said it was much more likely the result of little villages like this slowly dying as the younger generations moved to the cities.
But it was really strange. After one hundred and forty years, I could feel the presence of evil around me, just like that day out near Robbers Roost. As Grandpère read Angelique’s account of how the men had come that morning, I found myself shivering in spite of my warm clothing. I guess Dad saw that too, because he came up and put his arms around me and held me tightly until we finished.
We didn’t attempt any kind of reenactment there, of course. But we stood together in a circle as Mom held the umbrella and Grandpère read Angelique’s account of that horrible day. Then, with the help of a local vineyard keeper, we did find the path that led to the forested hillsides in the distance. Dad drove the van across the valley to meet us while the four of us followed the path mother and daughter had used to flee from their attackers.
Leaving the van at the base of the hill, we followed the path into the forest and actually found the place where the trails split, one going up the ridge, the other crossing over to the next valley. This was the site where Angelique’s mother had sent her on alone, taking her coat away so she could draw the dogs after her. For our reenactment, Mom took the mother’s role; I became Angelique. We didn’t have to pretend very much. Suddenly, I could hear the distant baying of dogs, and I desperately clung to Mom as she told me to take off my coat and give it to her. Both of us sobbed and sobbed as Mom finally pried my hands loose from hers and told me to run. It was so real, I had to keep reminding myself that it had happened a long time ago.
We also found about a six-kilometer (or one-mile) stretch of the creek. Mom had thought to bring flip-flops for us, so all of us but Dad—who had to drive the van—changed our shoes for flip-flops and plunged in. Even Grandpère wanted to do it. It was raining lightly by then, and the water was freezing cold, so we were shivering pretty badly by the time we got out again. But I will never forget how I felt as I walked that mile hand in hand with my great-great-grandmother’s memory.
After we crossed the bridge over the Rhine into France, we drove north on the main highway that led to Strasbourg until we could see the city in the distance. But as we passed a sign showing an exit for Ostwald, one of the suburbs of the city, Grandpère called out to Dad, “Take this exit, then stop as soon as you can find a place to pull off the road.”
To my surprise, once we were stopped, Grandpère asked only me and Mom to get out. “Okay, you two. Remember, this is a reenactment of that day so many years ago. Though Angelique carries her name, I should like you, Danni, to continue to take her part since you are much closer to her age then.” He focused in on me. “I know there are many distractions, but try to let yourself go back a hundred and forty years ago. While the road is paved now and much wider, you’ll pretty much be following the same route she took. To do that, go straight on this road to the next intersection, then turn right, or north. It’s a much smaller road. Follow that for a couple of miles until you see the sign for Le Petit Château. We will meet you there.”
One part of me wanted to protest. I had several blisters by this time—one on each heel, and a big one on the ball of my right foot. From the way she walked, I suspected Mom did too. But we said nothing. Blisters seemed appropriate, lending authenticity to our experience. Angelique had said nothing about blisters in her account. Back then, people walked much more than we do now. But if she had walked twenty-six miles that day, she almost certainly had her own cluster of blisters.
The rain had mostly stopped, but I was still shivering a little and my feet still felt like blocks of ice. That was not all bad. It helped to numb the blisters. By choice, neither Mom nor I had worn hats, and our hair was wet and stringy. It seemed important to both of us that we not be too well prepared for our trek. We didn’t say much as we walked along. We were passing large vineyards and small clusters of forest. Everything was still mostly green, though the grapevines were mostly wilted or gone. I was glad Mom was walking this with me. I knew it would create a bond we would share for the rest of our lives. I think Grandpère knew that too and had planned accordingly.
About half an
hour later, Mom nudged me. “There’s the sign for Le Petit Château.”
The rain had started again in earnest, and I had to wipe my eyes to see better. Sure enough. It was a small metal sign bolted to a post on the side of the road. An arrow pointed left, and underneath, it read, Le Petit Château, 3 km. We increased our pace and walked up to it. I looked around.
“So this would be the place where she found the little wooden sign, right?” I said.
Mom was peering through the rain in the direction it pointed. “Yes. The château is about a kilometer up the road, and the village about a mile beyond that.”
I started as a figure stepped out from between the rows of grapevines into the road about fifty meters away. “Bonjour,” he called. It was Grandpère, of course, but in that instant, he was a mysterious man who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, causing a thirteen-year-old girl to shrink back in fear. I was thinking of Angelique’s account of this day.
“Allo,” I called to him.
“Are you the one I am supposed to meet?” he called back.
Mom and I smiled at each other, and she nodded for me to respond. “Pardon?” I cried.
“I know it sounds strange, but a short time ago I had a strong impression that I needed to come out here to the Strasbourg Road to meet someone.”
I felt the tears welling up again. “What is your name, monsieur?” I called back.
“Alexandre Chevalier. And yours, mademoiselle?”
I choked back a sob of joy. “I am Angelique Chevalier. I believe I am your granddaughter.”
To Run With the Swift Page 33
