“Can’t see the bow wave from here,” I say. “Let’s see if we can find somebody who can tell us how to get further forward.”
“Papa, all you’re doing is procrastinating.”
“I’m not procrastinating. I want you to see the porpoises.”
“You are procrastinating, and you know it. Now let’s get to the gym. Doctor’s orders.”
Christ, she can sound like her mother sometimes! “Lead the way. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your sadistic fun.”
In the gym, we sit in a corner doing breathing exercises with an incentive spirometer for ten or fifteen minutes. Then, at Callie’s insistence, I mount a recumbent bike and pedal slowly for another fifteen minutes. When I finish, we go back out onto the promenade deck.
The fog has thickened, and beads of moisture cover the rails and the seat cushions of the deck chairs. The droplets shiver with the tiny vibrations from the ship’s engines. Nobody is on this part of the ship which is exposed to the wind coming over the bow.
“It’s too early for lunch,” Callie says. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go sit by the pool. It’s a little cold here with the fog, and the pool is sheltered by the upper decks.”
With me walking more slowly than usual, and stopping several times for a breather, it takes us almost ten minutes to reach the stern on Deck 7.
“Up one deck to the adult pool, or down one to the children’s pool?” Callie asks.
“The children’s pool is more sheltered, and it’s down a flight of stairs rather than up. And I’d much rather watch children than overweight adults.”
“Down to Deck 6, then,” she says, offering her arm, which I happily accept.
The pool at the very stern of the ship on Deck 6, reserved for children, is called the Minnows Pool. Callie guides me to a chaise lounge close under the overhang of Deck 7 where I will be completely sheltered from the wind, then says she is going to the bookstore to get something to read. “Shall I pick up something for you while I’m there?” she asks.
“No. I’m just gonna enjoy watching the children.”
“First, let me get you a blanket. It’s chilly despite being in the lee.” She disappears inside and returns moments later with a woolen blanket which she spreads across my lap. I immediately slip my cold hands under the blanket and clasp them together.
Callie says, “Okay, I’m off. Would you like me to bring you something when I return? A coffee, maybe?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” she says. She kisses me on the forehead and mounts the stairs up to Deck 7.
I look out over the stern, past the flapping union jack, at the roiling wake—twin whirlpools of frothy turbulence gradually subsiding into a long, straight scar on the ocean’s surface, until it disappears at the horizon. Laughter draws my attention to the children frolicking in the pool, their whirling bodies splashing the water. I’m filled with admiration for how they move with suppleness and grace, their little muscles rinsed with blood, their free-moving joints awash in fluid. The children are beautiful, their arms, their legs, their torsos willowy and lithesome, an opulence of grace moving with the effortless, flowing confidence of dancers, a suppleness which, for my own ancient body, is just a memory. The sun burnishes the gold of their bodies, and just as their bodies are so wonderfully pliable, so are their spirits limber with laughter, a sound like many tiny bells among the stars.
I remember a photo taken of me at Revere Beach when my father, experimenting with color photography, used the autochrome camera he inherited from his father. There I am, in a red bathing suit, five or six years old, standing in water that sluices and foams around my knees as a wave surges onto the sand. In the background stretches the long crescent of the beach with its roller coasters, Ferris wheels, and other amusements. I remember how the waves threw up spray and cold-licked my ribs and how they caused me to stagger with their weight. The muscles of my legs twitch as I recall the cold of the water, the sandy tug of my wet bathing suit, the smells of coconut oil, and mustard, and seaweed from the crowded beach with scores of blankets and umbrellas sprouting from the sand like colorful mushrooms. And these memories bring to the surface another memory, the night when Élodie and I talked of the movie It Happened One Night and how we dreamed one day of finding a little island in the Pacific where we would jump in the surf together, and the moon and the water would become one with the stars, and the stars would be so close we could reach up and touch them. I remember how, despite the knowledge I could have been shot for desertion at the time, I had never felt so alive, so vital.
As I stare at the children in the pool, no longer really seeing them, I see those other children whose names are as fresh to me as they were seventy years ago: Max Jäger of the blond hair who spoke fluent German and English and whose British mother was sent to the internment camp at Drancy and then on to the east never to be heard from again; the Godowsky children from Poland, Jerzy and his sisters Elżbietá and Klará; two others from Poland, Kamilá Brodny and her brother Józef who wanted to call me “Tata;” and Rebekka Weiß—whose headmaster at her school in Vienna instructed her classmates to spit in her face—and her brother Stephan, who, even though a year younger, tried to protect her; and the sweet sisters from Dusseldorf, Leni and Renata Gottfried, who couldn’t bear to be apart from one another; and Aron Klotz from Saxony who spoke Polish as well as English and his native German, and who was more than helpful as a translator for the five Polish children; and, of course, little, sweet Mitzi, who was as close as I ever got to having a child until, years later, I married and started a family of my own.
And then there was Yvette and Adrien, whose mother begged Élodie and me to take them under our protection while she went off to find their father. Christ, I remember how stupid I felt when I was nervous the addition of Adrien and Yvette brought the number of children to thirteen—unlucky thirteen—and then how I rationalized the thought away when I realized, counting Élodie and me, the number in our party had already been thirteen, and nothing bad had befallen us.
I remember them all. After seventy years, I remember them all and I wonder how many of them have survived through all that time.
The morning sky over Sainte-Aimée is clear as Élodie and I assemble the children in advance of setting out for the 3rd safe house, a dairy farm north of the commune of Le Fossat on the Salat River, a tributary of the Garonne.
Abbé Basc accompanies us out of the barn and escorts us to the far end of the village with a broad smile on his face. He says, “My nose tells me Monsieur Clérisse has begun his diversion. We will treat the children. The Boche never come until the afternoon.”
Élodie makes a theatrical show of sniffing the air. I, too, sample the air. It’s a familiar, but almost forgotten, aroma that makes me think of snowy fields in Maine on my grandfather’s farm. “Roasting chestnuts!” I blurt, and just as I say it, we turn a corner and come face-to-face with an old, portly man wearing a checkered beret and a coat with sleeves so long only his stubby fingers emerge from the cuffs. A large, dented, long-handled roasting pan sits over a vigorous fire. As we approach him, Monsieur Clérisse gives a laugh, shakes the pan with a clatter, and says, “Châtaignes grillées pour tous.”59 To the side is a bowl where already-roasted chestnuts sit cooling.
Élodie echoes his laughter and turns to the children, and says, “Roasted chestnuts for everybody! Geröstete Kastanien für alle!” and Aron Klotz says, “Pieczone kasztany dla wszystkich!” A murmur rises among the children, and with shy, hesitant smiles, they come forward one by one and hold out their hands, like prayerful congregants at Holy Communion, and receive a half dozen roasted chestnuts each with a roll of laughter from Monsieur Clérisse, and a guttural but musical “Châtaignes grillées pour tous,” and only Adrien holds back until his sister returns to him with a handful of chestnuts and offers one to him, and he accepts it. She is followed by Max Jäger, who also offers a chestnut to Adrien with a smile, then Je
rzy Godowsky repeats the gesture and is quickly followed by his sisters Elżbietá and Klará, so, in the end, Adrien has nearly a full share of chestnuts and the children look around and smile at one another with wide-eyed wonder, and I see the chestnuts must feel good in their hands—the heat of the chestnuts in their tiny, nervous hands—and it seems to momentarily wish away the war, and the ripples of laughter rising from the children (except for Adrien) make me smile until my cheeks ache.
After all the children have received their chestnuts, Madame Cazenave approaches Monsieur Clérisse who nods, smiles at her, and places a single chestnut in the palm of each of her hands and with his stubby fingers tenderly folds her fingers over them and leans over and kisses the knuckles of each of her closed hands.
Abbé Basc quietly says to Élodie and me, “One each for her two lost sons. It’s a tradition between them whenever Monsieur Clérisse finds enough chestnuts to roast.”
“Are they related?” asks Élodie.
Abbé Basc shakes his head and says, “Only in a shared human kindness.”
As Madame Cazenave whispers “Merci,” and takes a step back from Monsieur Clérisse, Adrien bursts into the space between them and throws his arms around Monsieur Clérisse and presses his cheek against the old man’s chest and Monsieur Clérisse lets out a surprised and happy laugh and tousles the boy’s hair.
“What’s Adrien doing?” I ask Élodie.
“I think it’s been a very long time since a stranger showed him some kindness.”
After bidding farewell to Abbé Basc and Monsieur Clérisse, Élodie and I lead the children away from Sainte-Aimée. Under a hot sun, we pass several farm fields, stands of chestnut trees, and meadows crowded with shrubs of white, clustering viburnum.
Élodie turns to me. “The flowers look like new-fallen snow,”
“Are you still worried about snow in the mountains?” I ask, gazing at the foothills that stand in a blue haze before us.
“We’ll be there in two days,” she says. “If so, it will be difficult for us.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I am afraid we will—” her voice cuts off, choked by emotion
“No! Not on my watch, damn it! We’re all going to make it through.”
Élodie gives me a half-hearted smile. “Well said, you,” she whispers.
Suddenly, a dozen or more distorted shadows sweep around the meadow in every direction like chaotic facets in a broken kaleidoscope. Élodie glances at the sky and frowns.
I follow her gaze and see a large, scramble of birds wheeling and circling, swerving and dipping, in confused patterns. “Hawks?” I ask. All at once I’m aware the songbirds in the meadow have gone silent.
She shakes her head slowly. “Lammergeiers. I think you call them ‘bearded vultures’ in English. They have ten-foot wing spans.”
“What makes them congregate like that?”
Again, she shakes her head. “It’s unnatural. I’ve seen them kettling before, but not so many of them.”
“Perhaps there are a lot of prey in the fields around here.”
“No. They’re scavengers. They feed mostly on dead animals.”
And, just as quickly as the lammergeiers appeared, they disappear beyond the tree-topped ridge to our south and a barely discernable thrumming appears, a drone we wouldn’t have noticed except that the songbirds are still silent.
“Merde!” Élodie whispers. She continues to stare at the sky. The children must hear it, too, because they also have stopped in their tracks and are staring at the sky. Then I see it—a tight formation of a dozen planes appearing over the ridge, out of the scumbled, bright-edged clouds, sunlight flashing from their fuselages, and the drone of their engines gradually increasing and turning to a rumble that we feel in our feet as they pass overhead.
“Stukas?” I ask.
Élodie shakes her head. “The horizontal stabilizers are lozenge-shaped. On the Stuka, they’re a hard rectangle.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they’re Tiffies.”
“Tiffies?”
“Hawker Typhoons.”
“British?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s no problem,” I say. “They’re probably cleaning up pockets of Germans.”
“Except, the fuckers don’t know where the Germans are in this part of France. Only the Resistance knows that.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“The allies refuse to listen to the Resistance.”
“Why?”
“They don’t trust them because there are Communists among the resistance fighters. Allied bombers have already killed many innocent people by not knowing where to drop their bombs.”
“Shit!”
As the planes pass overhead, we see their shadows undulate away from us over the uneven ground and across the river and then we hear the first explosions from the direction of Sainte-Aimée.
Élodie grabs my hand. “What do we do?”
My heart pounds as I fight the desire to turn around, go back, do something. I feel the weight of Mitzi’s make-shift carry pack on my back and see the fear on the children’s faces. “I don’t know.”
“We can’t go back,” Élodie says firmly.
“Everything inside of me says we must return and see if we can help, except—”
“Except our first responsibility is here,” Élodie says, gazing at the Pyrénées in the distance, beyond which lay a promise of safety for the children.
I drag in a deep breath. “Yes.”
“We must go on.”
“We have to.”
But we remain frozen to the spot. More detonations. Less than two kilometers away. We feel the ground shake. The roofs of some buildings are still visible. Flames geyser toward the sky from one of them. Probably dry hay igniting in a flashover. Then another building is engulfed. The ground shakes. The hills echo the detonations. The urge to race back and help the people who so recently helped us is almost irresistible. Élodie and I exchange worried glances. We are holding each other’s hand so tight it hurts. A chorus of crying and sobbing rises up from the children. All except for Mitzi who stands rigid, staring up at me, eyes round, mouth open, making no sound. She had been walking hand-in-hand with one of the other girls, but now she looks at me with such an expression of betrayal that I feel like I’ve been pierced through with flaming shrapnel. I reach out to take her into my arms, but she backs away and starts to run in silent circles, waving her arms frantically. I chase after her. At last, I’m able to gather her into my arms and hold her tight and kiss her on the forehead.60
Élodie goes around to the other children, trying to comfort them. She stops abruptly and says, “Where is Adrien?” I scan the area. No sign of the boy. Carrying Mitzi, I go to where Yvette is sitting on the ground, weeping. I start to ask, “Yvette, where is …” before I remember she doesn’t speak English. I look helplessly to Élodie, who turns to the girl and asks, “Yvette, où est Adrien?” Yvette says nothing. She only looks back toward where we came from. I follow her gaze and see Adrien at the far side of the meadow running back toward Sainte-Aimée. I’m hamstrung. I can’t put Mitzi down. Not now. She’d think I was abandoning her. But I can’t carry her and run fast enough to catch Adrien, especially with my wounded leg. Again, Élodie and I exchange desperate glances. She, too, is incapacitated. She can’t leave the children to go after Adrien. It’s unthinkable; they would panic if either of us left them now. Yet, we can’t abandon Adrien. We are left with no choice. We must head back to Sainte-Aimée. And we must somehow find a way to lessen the shock of the bombing, do what we can to shield these innocents from the world that has so monstrously forsaken them.
We arrive back in the village to a cacophony of crying and shouting. A mini whirlwind of ashes and hot embers writhes along the street. A dozen people have formed a bucket brigade, shuttling water from the town fountain to the rectory. Already, they seem to have the fire controlled, though the building is gutted. The barn, however, is a fully engulfed i
nferno. The heat of the fire is so intense, it has created a small firestorm, drawing heated air into itself. A thick roof beam crashes to the floor in a cascade of sparks and instantly there comes the shriek of a panicked horse. I look to where the sound comes from and I see one of the face masks worn by the mutilated veterans, its fleshy enamel flensed and blistered, its copper blackened. Next to it, curlicues of smoke rise from a scorched wooden leg. There is no sign of the three veterans.
“Mon Dieu!” says Élodie. “Copper conducts heat. The mask must have become unbearably hot.”
“So, he threw it away?”
“What choice did he have?”
“What about the others?”
“The barn took a direct hit.”
She’s right, of course. I look around to see if there are more people to form a second bucket brigade. That’s when I see Monsieur Clérisse and Adrien. They are curled up on the cobblestones together and Monsieur Clérisse is stroking the boy’s forehead with stubby fingers that barely emerge from his coat sleeve. The long-handled roasting pan is upended in the middle of the street next to a dead donkey, and chestnuts are scattered everywhere. Several fires roar in the background. My heart sinks when I see, on the opposite side of the street, the prostrate figure of Madame Cazenave who lies on her back, arms outspread, palms open to the sky. Next to each hand is a lone chestnut. Nearby, her copy of Le Petit Prince lies open, spine broken, its singed pages flipping with the fire-summoned breeze.
At the head of the bucket brigade, Abbé Basc grunts as he hurls water at the remaining flames licking at the rectory’s door. I approach him. “Here, let me relieve you,” I say.
He eagerly hands me the bucket. “I thought you left,” he says.
“We’re back.”
“It’s dangerous. The Boche will want to inspect the bombing. They’ll come early.”
“Don’t you have a fire truck?” I ask. “It would go faster.”
The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon Page 22
