“Thank you, Jim,” I say. “It’s good to see you. Would you mind calling me a taxi and seeing that he waits?”
“Certainly. Where shall I say you’re going?”
“Just downtown. I’ll give him specifics when I’m in the cab.”
Up in my condo, I make a quick phone call to Cunard to learn where exactly I must go to board the Queen Mary 2. I throw some clothes into a suitcase and rush out the door. I can buy more clothes aboard if need be. I am tempted to stop in Maddie and Ted’s condo to see Arlequin, but last night I told Maddie I would be another week or two at Spaulding Rehab. Besides, it has already been nearly a half hour since I left the hospital and, soon, somebody is bound to realize I am missing. They know where I live. I must be in the cab, and on my way, before they track me down. I drag my suitcase out of my condo and, by the time I reach the lobby, Jim has a taxi waiting. I climb into the cab and wait until we pull away from Jim before I say, “South Station, please.”
An hour later, I am downing an Angus steak burger and a half bottle of wine at my seat on the Acela Express and, a little more than three hours later, the train is pulling into Penn Station where I catch a taxi to the Waldorf-Astoria.
Even in the slow, wood-fueled Citroën, the journey from Montignac to Aquilac should have taken no more than four hours by main roads. But Élodie chooses to travel further east and use secondary roads, hoping to avoid encounters with those Germans who have not yet gone north to Normandy. We circle north of Rodez, then turn south between Rodez and Millau. We travel in silence for the first hour or so, and I marvel at how distant the war seems as we negotiate the lonely, narrow roads between farm fields where neatly rolled bales of hay dot the land. In several fields, we see tan-colored cattle with long, lyre-shaped horns, that Élodie says are called Aubrac.
“They’re used mainly for beef,” she says. “But farmers also use their milk to make Laguiole cheese. It’s wonderful. Rich and creamy. Maybe we can find some for you to try.”
“In the middle of the war?”
“We can’t let the war dominate everything.”
I say nothing, but this gives me hope she won’t insist on escorting me out of France. I don’t care what happens. I only want to be with her. Occasionally, we slow to pass a horse-drawn cart, or stop to wait for a flock of sheep to cross the road.
Eventually, she says, “Do you remember the Roquefort cheese we had with Monsieur and Madame Bosquet?”
I nod. “Kind of crumbly with a bite to it.”
“It comes from those sheep. The breed is called Lacaune.”
I smile. “Suddenly you’re a tour guide.”
She shrugs “I suppose I just want you to know the real France. France without the fucking, goddamned war.”
For some insane reason, it makes me happy to hear her cuss in English. I look out the window to see the France she loves. “It’s certainly peaceful.”
“Look at those fields,” She says. “No bomb craters, no burnt-out buildings. You would never know there was a war on.”
We drive on for another hour before stopping where the road borders a deep gorge. Away from the edge is a copse of trees that hide us, and the car, from sight. Here, we break out the bread and wine Georges Bosquet has given us. Élodie rips off a chunk from the loaf and tears a piece off with her teeth. Crumbs fall from her lips as she asks, with what seems studied nonchalance, “Have you ever been in love, Henry?”
I’m thrilled every time she pronounces my name. Uhnree. “I’ve already told you I’m in love. With you.”
“Yes. But, haven’t you ever thought about it at all? It seems to me you could make some girl wonderfully happy.”
“I think …. Wait! Where have I heard those exact words before?”
“It Happened One Night with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, perhaps?” she asks with a coy smile.
“Yes, of course. They played that movie constantly when I was in England. I must have seen it at least seven times.”
“I know. You don’t remember telling me that?”
“No. When did I tell that?”
“You were probably drunk on wine, or morphine, and have forgotten. And I told you I also have seen it many times. I told you Claudette Colbert was born in Saint-Mandé, near where I lived in Paris.”
“Yes. Now I remember. I was—”
“I lived there with Mama and Papa.” All at once, her countenance darkens and her voice is almost a whisper.
“You’ve suffered such a great loss,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulders.
She leans her head against my chest. “Bugger all,” she says, her voice muffled. “I hate this bloody, awful war! I wish those farmers could just make their cheese, and tend their cows, without worrying about being shot by Germans.”
I squeeze her shoulders. We stay like this for several moments until Élodie reaches for the bread and pulls off a piece and hands it to me. “So, have you been in love? Have you ever thought about it at all? It seems to me you could make some girl wonderfully happy.”
She’s testing me. “Sure, I’ve thought about it. If I would ever meet the right girl, somebody that’s real, alive. Sure, I’ve thought about it. I’ve even been fool enough to make plans. You know, I saw an island in the Pacific once. I’ve never been able to forget it. That’s where I’d like to take this girl.”
She wags a finger at me. “You missed some lines. Also, Clark Gable said, ‘I’ve even been sucker enough,’ not fool enough, to make plans.”
“Your memory is that good?” I ask.
She nods and tears off another piece of bread. “I have mémoire photographique.”
“Photographic memory?”
“Aha! You see. Already you are learning French! So, Monsieur Henry, what sort of girl would this be?”
“Let’s see. The kind of girl who would jump in the water with me.”
“Surf,” she says. “Clark Gable said, ‘surf.’”
“Yes, right. Surf. And love it as much as I did.”
“And the nights, Monsieur Henry?” Her eyes sparkle.
“I can’t remember,” I say. “Give me a hint.”
“Nights when you and the moon and the water all become one and the stars—”
“And the stars are so close you feel you could reach up and touch them. Boy if I ever found a girl who was hungry for those things, I’d … I’d ….”
Élodie leans closer and says, “You’d swim in the surf with her, you’d reach up and grab stars for her, you’d laugh with her, you’d cry with her, you’d kiss her wet lips.” She offers her lips and we kiss.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’d do,” I say.
She breaks into a laugh. “Monsieur Henry, you are such a romantic!” Laughter like wind chimes. “Will you take me with you to this little island? I want to do all those things with you. I want to celebrate the end of this war with you. I want to grow old with you. I want you to take me to Hollywood, so I can see what Claudette Colbert saw. Then we can go to our little island in the Pacific.”
“I know just the island,” I say. “My grandfather gave me an old book of his. It was about the three voyagers of Captain Cook, and there was a long section about Tahiti. That’s where I want to take you.”
“Perfect!” she says. “I fell in love with Tahiti by studying the paintings of Paul Gauguin. The ‘Women of Tahiti,’ ‘Joyousness,’ ‘The Repas,’ ‘Eau Mystérieuse,’39 ‘Et l’or de leurs corps.’40 We’ll drink mysterious water and live forever, and our bodies will become golden.”
“Our bodies will become golden and we’ll play in the surf,” I say.
“Yes, we’ll play in the surf.”
“And there will be no more killing.”
“No more killing.”
“And the moon and water will become one with us.”
“Then it’s settled. When the war is over we’ll move to Tahiti and grow old together and however old we become, our bodies will forever remain golden!”
It should be a happy
thought, but our eyes are moist. Both of us. And she reaches out and her fingers feel like shy caresses on my skin and I see a tear spill onto her cheek. I wipe it away as I choke back my own tears. And then it’s time to get back on the road.
We’re quiet as we resume our journey south, skirting population centers like Millau, Saint-Georges-de-Luzençon, Saint-Affrique and, certainly, Castelnaudary where there are doubtless Germans. Élodie says Aquilac is too close to Toulouse—where there is also a major German presence—for us to take chances, so we give Toulouse a wide berth and approach Aquilac from the south. At nightfall, a few kilometers from the village, we hide the car in an abandoned barn and wait for the morning. There is not enough moonlight to drive into Aquilac, and it is too dangerous to use headlights.
The stone walls of the barn are mostly in good repair, but the wooden roof has large gaps through which we can see an extravagance of stars. In the northeast sky is the “W” of Cassiopeia, and not far from it, the Northern Cross. Polaris is plainly visible, as is the broad ribbon of the Milky Way.
“You seem to know the area,” I say.
She nods. “I grew up just west of here and know many of the people in Aquilac. Also, I’ve given some duo concerts with Aliénor Breasiac. She’s a pianist from Aquilac. Quite famous.”
“What kind of concerts?”
“Standard classical repertoire. Bach, Bartók, Schuman, Ravel.”
“Two country girls make it big on the world stage?” I say.
“That’s one way to say it. But this war ruins it all.”
“The war will end,” I say. “Germany can’t hold out much longer.”
She frowns. “I wouldn’t be so confident. I think it will take at least another year or two. And then, when it ends, will we even be able to go back to the way it was before? If we survive, that is.”
I kiss her on the forehead. “We’ll survive,” I say bravely. Later, we finish the wine Georges Bosquet gave us. In the distance, the last of the light lingers on the peak of a mountain. Élodie tells me it is the Pic de Saint-Barthélemy. I take her into my arms. “How about a little snogging?”
We fall back and make love and sleep lightly until we hear the morning twitter of swallows, the plaintive call of a dove, the low of a cow, the crow of a cock. I yawn and stretch, and look up at the sky.
“The war could be on another planet.”
“We should go quickly,” Élodie says. “Perhaps we can get to the home of the Duponts before anyone sees us. It’s on the edge of the woods. We’ll cut through the trees.”
“You said you know these people?”
“Very well. They are lovely people. You’ll see.”
Outside the barn, a low fog creeps over the farm fields at knee level. In the distance, the summit of Pic de Saint-Barthélemy is bathed in a golden light. We move stealthily through the trees. Only the snaps of twigs under our feet threaten to reveal our presence, but the sound is drowned out by the twitter of song birds and the squawk of crows. In the distance, a dog barks. The rising sun creates a blinding aureole of brightness at the perimeter of the woods. We emerge a hundred feet from the Dupont house, our long shadows stretching before us. We are startled when a door flies open.
“Qui est là?”41 The questioner is a stocky woman in her 50s with a yeasty countenance and kind eyes.
“It’s me, Odette. Élodie Bedier.”
“Élodie! Mon dieu! Est-ce que vraiment tu?”42
“Yes. It’s truly me.”
“But why do you speak English?”
“I have an American with me,” Élodie replies. She turns to me and says, “Before the war Odette taught beginning English.”
Odette Dupont rushes to greet us. “Élodie! Élodie! It is so good to see you after so long a time.” She kisses Élodie first on one cheek, then the other.
Élodie introduces me to Odette and says, “We have a message for Ruth and Elsie Benjamin. Isaac wants them to know he’s alive and well.”
“You saw him?”
“Along with Auguste Pauly and several others. They are all well.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” She pauses, then asks, in a low voice, “Did they tell you about my house?”
“Obviously, we know you are sheltering Ruth and Elsie Benjamin and we know they are Jewish. It’s very dangerous.”
“War is dangerous,” Odette says. “Isaac wanted them to escape and go to England, but they refuse to leave him.”
“They are brave.”
“Perhaps too brave. It has become much more dangerous in recent weeks. It’s as if the allies have poked a … comment on dit, nid de frelons?”43
“A hornet’s nest,” Élodie says.
“Yes, it’s as if they have poked a hornets’ nest. The Boche have increased their efforts to send as many Jews to the camps in the east as possible. They are crazed. You’ve come at just the right time. I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean, the right time?”
“Auguste and Isaac didn’t tell you about the children?”
“No. What children?”
“Children sent to us by their parents, some who were bound for the concentration camps. In some cases, the parents were sent to Drancy.”
“Drancy?” I ask.
Élodie turns to me. “It’s an internment camp near Paris. Jews are kept there before being deported to concentration camps in the east. The rumors say they are extermination camps. We know of Auschwitz and Dacau. There are others.”
“I fear they are not rumors,” says Odette. “I think many are killed as soon as they arrive at those death camps. Most of the children hiding here have no idea where their parents are. I, for one, think the worst. And now the Nazis will want to finish the job by sending the children to their deaths. That’s why we need your help.”
“What can we do?” asks Élodie.
“You must escort them over the Pyrénées. Like you’ve done with the airmen.”
“The children?”
“Oui. Les enfants.”
“How many are there?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven! We can’t take eleven children. They’ll never fit in the car.”
“What car?”
“We have an old, wood-burning Citroën.”
“Impossible! The Boche are all over the main roads up the Ariège valley.”
“False papers? A train?” Élodie asks.
Odette shakes her head. “Several of them have already experienced the trains, and being caught, and having to escape again. They are far, far too fearful. Ce n’est pas possible!44 They would panic if they saw guards, or the Gestapo. Also, the Boche are watching the trains much more closely now, since the invasion. And, besides, some of the children began their journeys in horrible ways that have left them so very vulnerable. For example, the three Godowsky children were smuggled out of a ghetto in coffins. Can you imagine how frightening that would be for such young children, to be placed in a coffin and having the lid closed? And there is Kamilá Brodny and her brother Józef: They escaped under piles of potatoes in carts. Some of the other carts were stopped and men poked through the potatoes with bayonets. They heard the screams of other children as they died but, somehow, they were spared. There are other stories. No, no, no. For all these reasons, you must walk. The children are too vulnerable. It will be very difficult. Some of the children might die.”
“But my American friend was wounded in the leg. It hasn’t completely healed.”
“That can’t be helped.” Odette looks me up and down as if examining my worth. “You mentioned a car. Where is it?”
“Behind your barn.”
“We must hide it,” Odette says. She hurries to the door of her house and calls inside, “Gaston! Viens ici, s’il te plaît.”45
Moments later, a stout man appears. He carries a wood gouge and wears an apron on which curls of wood shavings cling. He brushes his hair and one or two shavings fall to the floor like oversized dandruff. He nods and greets Élodie with a b
road smile. “Bonjour, Élodie.” He turns to me. “Bonjour, Monsieur.”
Élodie explains that I am American and that I don’t speak French. Gaston shrugs. Odette speaks to Gaston, and Élodie turns to me. “Gaston is going to hide the car in the barn.”
After Gaston leaves, Élodie asks, “The children, how old are they?”
“The youngest is three, the oldest is twelve.”
“May we see them?”
“Not yet,” Odette replies. “If you see their sad, anxious faces it would put too much pressure on you to say yes. Besides, it might also raise their hopes needlessly.”
I ask, “Are there others who can take the children?”
“Everyone who is fit enough is with the maquis fighting the Boche or has betrayed us by joining the Milice. And, in any case, the journey over the Pyrénées must be done two or three more times.”
I don’t understand and ask, “Why two or three more times?”
“I hear, through my network, others are on the way to me. That’s another reason you must take the children who are here now. We need to create more room.”
I look at Élodie, then back at Odette. “Then the decision is made. Isn’t it?” I say. “Bring us to the children.”
Odette hesitates. I feel her studying me, considering her options. Finally, she says, “They are in the hidden cave. We must climb the hill.”
I turn to Élodie. “The hidden cave?”
“It cannot be seen from the village,” she says. “It’s where young lovers have always gone to be alone together.”
“Were you one of these young lovers?” I ask with a smile.
She pokes me in the ribs. “You ask too many questions.”
We climb through stands of chestnut trees along a path dappled with sunlight. Élodie puts out a hand and urges me to walk more slowly so we are beyond whispering distance from Odette. When she is satisfied Odette cannot hear us, she asks, “Do you fully understand what this means for you?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say.
“My mission was to escort you out of France so you could rejoin your American comrades.”
The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon Page 16
