“But you did not hit him back.”
“No.” His voice was small.
I sighed and leaned forward to prop my elbows on my knees. “Machgen i.”
“I am bigger than all of the other children, Nhad. I must have a care.”
“I know you do. But putting Billy in his proper place when he deserves it would not be amiss.”
“I do not want to hurt anyone.”
I ruffled his hair and tilted his head back so I could peer into his face. At sixteen, he seemed both ancient and painfully young. “You’ve a gentle heart, you do, and I am proud of you for being so kind.” He smiled up at me. “But I do not like to see you hurt.”
“All’s well, Nhad. I am not hurt, just a little bloody.”
“Rest is the best treatment for a concussion.” Charlotte’s voice startled me back to awareness.
I rubbed my brow and squeezed the bridge of my nose. “I cannot afford to delay.”
“Rue Tournefort will still be there tomorrow.”
I met her gaze. “I have waited nearly five years.”
_______
We strode quickly, keeping to side streets. “The fighting was intense near the Panthéon just the other day,” Charlotte said, voice low. “We must be cautious.”
“You do not need to come.”
She was silent as we navigated an alley littered with rubble. When she paused to scan the adjacent street, she said, “You don’t speak French. You may have need of me.”
I caught her elbow. She had cleaned my blood from her arm, but the light blue fabric of her dress still carried a stain of rust on the edge of the sleeve. I noted absently that my fingers met where they were wrapped around her elbow. “Thank you.”
She dipped her head to the right. “This way.” I relinquished my grip on her arm and followed her through the late afternoon streets. I had allowed the two women to convince me to rest for several hours while the poultices did their work and the ringing in my head settled to a dull throb.
She stopped and pointed to a sign over our heads on the stone exterior of a building. White letters on a blue background proclaimed RUE TOURNEFORT.
We arrived at the end of the street, but it took us only minutes to traverse the two blocks to reach the door labeled 27. I knocked heavily on the door, not bothering to curb the rising urgency, and Charlotte touched my arm.
“I need to know what to say if someone answers. Why are we here?”
“I am looking for someone.” I swallowed. “A young man. My son.”
She stared at me in ringing silence as the echo of my knock and words faded. We both startled when the door creaked open. An old woman peered through the gap.
“Bonjour, madame.” Charlotte spoke with her for several moments. The woman’s gaze darted to the street behind us when Charlotte mentioned Owain’s name, and she avoided looking at me as she shook her head.
“Non, non, je suis désolée.” She moved to close the door, but I wedged my hand against it.
“Rhys,” Charlotte said quietly.
“Please.” I ducked my head to catch the old woman’s gaze. “Please. He is my son.” Keeping one hand on the door to prevent her from closing it on us, I withdrew the letter from my pocket with the other. “He was here, two years ago. He sent me this letter. Tell her, Charlotte. Tell her I am trying to find my son.”
Charlotte translated quickly, and the old woman finally looked up at me directly. She glanced into the street once more and then opened the door further to usher us within. When we were seated around her table, the old woman began to speak to Charlotte, but her gaze stayed focused on me.
“Her grandson knew your son,” Charlotte said. “They met working at the local café and became friends. They had similar opinions on the war.”
You bloody will fight, or you are no son of mine! I will not call a coward my own. The memory of my shouted words reverberated in my mind, and the pounding in my temples started anew. I rubbed my forehead.
“Rhys?”
“Go on.”
Charlotte hesitated and then continued. “He moved in to help her after her grandson was killed in the bombings. She says he was like a son to her.”
Owain had always cared most for the things broken and hurting. My throat ached. “Ask her to continue, please.”
“She says he met a woman here, a young Frenchwoman named Sévèrin. He would not tell her because he wanted to keep her safe, but she thinks the woman was Jewish. And she believes your son became involved with the Resistance.”
“Where is he now? Does she know?”
The old woman spoke again, and Charlotte’s voice sharpened as she conversed with her.
“What did she say?”
Charlotte sat back in her chair, and her gaze was hesitant as it met mine. “She says she has not seen your son since Vel' d’Hiv.”
“Vel' d’Hiv?”
“Rafle du Vèlodrome d’Hiver,” the old woman whispered, reaching across the table to grasp my hand with her gnarled one.
“Tell me, Charlotte.”
“Vel' d’Hiv was when the gendarmes conducted a mass raid and arrest of the Jews here in Paris. She has not seen your son since July of ’42.”
_______
“What are you thinking?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. I had been as a blind man upon leaving the old woman’s home, and Charlotte had tucked her hand into the crook of my elbow and led me back to Dionne’s flat. “Owain is not Jewish. That roundup should not have touched him.”
“Perhaps it did not. Maybe the timing is mere coincidence. When did he send you the letter?”
I withdrew it from my pocket and offered it to her.
She handled the creased, stained paper with care, turning the envelope over in her hands. “This has traveled some distance.”
I had studied each stamp. They were from multiple locations at different dates. There was one from here in Paris, one from Lisbon, two from Africa, one from Bermuda, another from Manhattan, and one from Sutton Coldfield.
“Well, I’ll be.” She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “In September of ’41, mail became restricted. The first stamp is from November of ’42. I am stunned it made it to you.”
Two years too late. I shook off the thought.
“Do you need a light for that?”
I glanced down and found I was rolling the cigarette I carried back and forth between my fingers. “No, thank you.” I tucked it into my pocket. “The man she mentioned after telling us of Owain’s disappearance. Where did she say we could find him?”
She handed me the envelope without questioning its contents. “Alfonse. She said that your son mentioned l’épicerie with a red awning on Rue Pavée multiple times.”
“Is it near?”
“It is in Le Marais, on the right bank, but only a couple of kilometers away.”
“Le Marais? What does that mean?”
Charlotte placed a bowl of the stew Dionne had prepared while we were out on the table before me. The nurse had left soon after we returned to fill her overnight round at the hospital. Charlotte sat across from me at the tiny table. My knees bumped hers, but she waved away my apology. “Le Marais is the name of the district. It…it is the Jewish Quarter.”
I sat back in my chair. “Then this Alfonse may know if Owain’s disappearance is linked to the roundup.”
“If he is still there.” Charlotte’s voice was quiet, and she blew on a spoonful of stew before eating.
I had no appetite, but I forced myself to eat. The stew reminded me of my mother’s cawl, though without the lamb. Even so, the fare was far heartier than any I had eaten of late. I was not certain if the gnawing in my gut was from the head injury, hunger, or disappointment. “I will try to find him tonight, then.”
“Wait until morning.” She cut me off before I could argue. “It is dangerous to ask these questions. Even now. That is why she denied knowing your son. She was
afraid we might be with the carlingue. Fears like that do not abate after a few parades and speeches. People are even more leery to open their doors at night to a stranger. We will have better luck if we wait until morning.”
“We?”
She kept her gaze on her bowl, eating with the careful pacing of one long-familiar with rations. “You do not know the city or the language. I am offering you my assistance.”
A fervent edge clipped the smooth cadence of her voice, and I searched her downturned features. Her face was expressionless, save for the pleating between her brows that gave away her tension. Unease crept into my mind, but she was right. A guide through Paris would benefit me.
“Very well, then.” I was careful not to let hesitation tinge my voice. “I accept your offer.”
_______
The street below the apartment was quiet, but even with the hush I could not sleep.
I swallowed a groan as I stood. My head and jaw throbbed. My lower back ached and pinched, but the bed Charlotte had offered me was more comfortable than the cot in the old man’s wood shop, though it, too, was built for a person shorter than I. I had refused the bed at first, but Charlotte had insisted, saying she had spent many a night on Dionne’s settee and it was better suited to her size than mine.
Grimacing as I stretched, I crossed to the window. I let out an unsteady breath and patted my trouser pocket for the cigarette. I tucked it, unlit, into the corner of my mouth, the taste of the paper and tobacco a familiar comfort. I had promised myself after the Somme I would never set foot in France again.
My rucksack leaned against the wall, and my shirt was hung from a peg over a dress. The dress was green and soft, a fine contrast to the thicker, coarser fabric of the shirt the old man’s granddaughter had given me. Charlotte had cleaned the blood from it after dinner.
I retrieved the letter from the pocket and leaned against the window ledge. The fifth arrondissement’s buildings were clustered together like my Balwens jostling in the pen waiting to be sheared. The moonlight that did circumvent the rooftops was faint but enough to read by.
I did not need to read the contents. I knew them by memory. I tucked the letter back in my pocket and stared out into the night, watching the sky gradually lighten over the shadows of the idle chimneys.
And then a jolt of memory had me padding to the doorway of the bedroom and pushing the curtain aside to peer into the apartment. Though she had reminded me of her Colt M1911, Charlotte slept with abandonment, sprawled on her stomach with a thin arm and sock-clad foot dangling over the edge of the settee. Her movements in sleep had her dress rucked up to the back of her knees and pulled taut across the curve of one hip; the fall of her hair had parted to expose the angle of her jaw and the fragile-looking skin of her nape.
I shook out the threadbare quilt that covered the bed. The August day’s warmth lingered even in the dark hours, but Charlotte murmured as I moved across the flat and covered her, shifting and drawing the quilt up to her chin.
She made a picture of vulnerability, but I could still remember that ferocity she had shown in the alley and, later, the straightforward manner that was so American.
And she had known my son’s name before I said it.
4 June 1940
Dear Nhad,
Paris has been flooded with refugees from Dunkirk.
Yesterday, bombs fell on the city.
It was as if hell were raining from the sky.
-Owain
ii
The shop with the red awning on Rue Pavée took little time to find, but the windows were boarded up—a crude Star of David was painted in garish yellow over the door—and no one answered my knock.
“What should we do?” Charlotte startled when I leaned my weight against the door, pressing against the joint where the bolts entered the frame, and popped the door open. Her eyebrows winged over her forehead before she glanced around, but the few people on the street kept their gazes averted from us.
I forestalled her when she started to precede me through the entry. “We do not know what may greet us.” She moved aside to allow me to pass, and I entered the shop.
The place smelled stale, as if it had been boarded up for some time. But there was no stench of rotted and spoilt food. There were few staples left on the shelves, and no produce in the bins. The shop was clean, if dusty, and the glass from the broken windows had been swept into a pile against the wall.
“Someone has been here since the place was boarded up.” Charlotte’s voice was hushed, and I nodded. She snuffed out the meager light by closing the door behind us, and we both stood still to allow our eyes to adjust to the dark.
I checked the back storeroom, and it, too, was deserted.
“Rhys.” Charlotte’s urgent whisper drew me back into the shop, and she pointed toward the ceiling.
I looked up, ears pricked, and after a moment, I heard it: the quiet creak of a footstep. I glanced around the front room but saw no doors other than the one through which we had entered. I retreated into the storeroom, Charlotte close on my heels, and hidden in the shadows of the back corner of the room was a narrow door.
Standing off to the side, I turned the handle. The door opened soundlessly, and after a moment, I glanced around the corner. The narrow staircase leading to an upper floor was empty, but it was dimly lit by a window from the flat above. I could not see into the flat and could only see the edge of the window and the adjacent rooftops. There was no sound of movement.
“Wait here,” I whispered to Charlotte, and carefully edged up the stairs, keeping an eye on the doorway above me.
The flat was empty save for a rumpled cot in the corner. There was another door leading off of the flat, and I watched it for several breaths. No shadows flickered in the doorway, but still I waited, and in the silence, I thought I could hear the low sound of harsh breathing.
The young man who suddenly erupted through the doorway appeared more startled by my presence in the flat than I was by his, and a tremor shook his hand as he lifted the gun and took aim at my head.
“Haut les mains!” I stood silently watching him, and he crossed the distance between us in hurried strides. “Haut les mains!”
He had never fought a man in close quarters. I could see it in the darting of his eyes and how he had positioned himself too close to me when I had the clear advantage of height on him. He was young, no older than fifteen or sixteen, and frightened. He jabbed the gun at me and repeated the phrase.
“He wants you to put your hands up.”
Charlotte’s voice startled him, and the gun started to swing away from my head and toward her. I stepped into him, grasping the boy’s wrist, shoving upward so the gun was pointed toward the ceiling and then twisting his arm against the natural bend of the joints. He cried out and lost his grip on the weapon, and it clattered to the floor.
I released him and kicked the gun toward Charlotte. She stood at the entry of the flat, her own pistol leveled at the boy. “I thought you were staying downstairs.”
Her gaze did not leave the young man. “I prefer to not be left behind.” Her voice was calm and even, her hand perfectly still on the gun. It was a ready stance, one born of long practice, and I wondered again why she had offered me her help.
“You cannot barge in here!” the boy said in heavily accented English. “You have no right to do so!”
“I am looking for someone, and it is imperative I speak with a man named Alfonse. I was told I would find him here.”
“Why should I tell you anything, you—”
“C’est assez, Pierre.” The new voice spoke from the shadowed doorway, and Charlotte’s gun swung toward the man who came forward. He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I am unarmed.”
“As you can see, I am not,” she said, voice and hands unwavering.
He dipped his head toward her and then turned to me. “I am Alfonse, the man you seek.” He studied me, gaze shrewd. “Come. I know why
you are here, and it is best we sit and talk. You do not need your weapon here, mademoiselle.”
I nodded when Charlotte glanced at me, and the reluctance was clear in the pinch of her brow as she lowered the pistol. We followed Alfonse through the doorway in which he appeared into a bare kitchen. He opened a door across the room to reveal an empty pantry and stepped within.
“Rhys,” Charlotte said, voice low, “I do not think—”
Her warning cut off abruptly as Alfonse slid aside the back panel of the pantry to reveal an adjacent, hidden room.
“Such subterfuge and caution have become necessary, I am afraid.” Alfonse stepped back and gestured for us to precede him.
I ducked through the pantry and into the hidden room. It was a long, wide room with numerous cots set up along one wall and at the far end of the room under a dust-shuttered window was a table and chairs. Against the wall opposite the cots, shrouded paintings, sculptures, and trunks were carefully stacked.
Charlotte passed me and approached a painting, lifting aside the shroud to peer at the contents of the frame.
I did not recognize the art, but I heard her indrawn breath. “What is this place?”
Alfonse and the boy followed us into the room, the latter sulking to the corner to slouch onto a cot. Alfonse closed the panel behind him. “It is a sanctuary of sorts, if you will. And a storehouse. Come, please, be seated.” He led the way to the table and chairs, studying me as we sat across from one another. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
“Then you do know Owain.”
“Know him, yes. We have a connection now, you and I.”
“How so?”
“Owain is my…How do you say it in English? My nephew through marriage?”
I sat back in my chair, and Charlotte glanced at me, reluctantly letting the shroud fall back into place and taking the seat at my side.
“My niece, Sévèrin, is your son’s wife.” He smiled at me.
I rubbed my forehead and pinched the bridge of my nose. My jaw was stiff and ached when I spoke, and my head throbbed, making my stomach swim sickeningly in my midsection. “Then he is alive?”
Once More Unto the Breach Page 2
