The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon

by Norman G. Gautreau

  “I suppose it’s always been a compulsion of mine to know exactly where I am,” I say. “I guess it comes from being a sailor all my adult life. My father had a boat I sailed before the war, then my wife and I owned a sailboat in which we cruised New England waters.”

  The captain smiles. “Well, that certainly explains it. Did the navigator give you a satisfactory answer?”

  “Yes. He explained about the GPS instrumentation you use. We didn’t have any of that when I sailed before the war. We didn’t even have Loran-C yet.”

  One of the members of the “D-Day Club,” a man whose bowtie is skewed, raises his glass of wine and says, “Here’s to you sir, and all the men of your generation. Like Private True over there at the next table.” He rises, proffers the toast, puts his glass down on the table, and applauds. Everybody else at the table stands and joins in the applause. I glance at the next table. Pfc. John True remains in his seat, staring at me. I feel a flush of heat in my cheeks.

  “You parachuted into France on D-Day?” asks another guest at the table, a young man whom I had heard was an internet entrepreneur.

  I nod.

  Another guest asks, “What was it like?”

  I remain silent.

  Callie puts a hand on my arm and says, “My grandfather doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  The internet entrepreneur nods and goes on. “I read this book by Stephen Ambrose. He said most of you guys were dropped in the wrong positions, like, all over the place. And parachutes were caught up in trees so men were basically hanging there like, well, sitting ducks. Is that true?”

  “I suppose,” I say. I don’t look, but I can feel Pfc. True’s gaze on me.

  “Were you, like, personally, dropped in the wrong place?” the entrepreneur asks.

  “You might say that.”

  “Well, either you were, or you weren’t.”

  “Then I was dropped in the wrong place, if it pleases you. Many kilometers from my drop zone.”

  “Well then, see? Perhaps that’s why you always want to know precisely where you are.”

  I stare at the man. I don’t know what to say. I crumple the napkin in my lap. I slide a knife from one side of my martini glass to the other. I twirl the olive spear through the liquid and then lift the glass to my lips and take a sip. I avoid looking at Pfc. True.

  No one speaks. The only sound is a nervous cough from one of the other guests.

  Finally, I look at the captain and ask, “What happens if the electronics fail? Or the GPS satellite falls out of the sky?”

  The captain laughs. “We have a great deal of redundancy. All the same, every one of our navigators at Cunard is thoroughly trained in celestial navigation, so unless the stars fall out of the sky, or we misplace our sextant, we’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  The internet entrepreneur turns to me again. “Isn’t it nice to know, with modern technology, there’s almost no chance of getting lost again?”

  I turn toward him, but Callie, her hand still on my arm, squeezes hard. She fixes the man with her gaze. “Earlier, I told you my grandfather doesn’t like to talk about it. So, with all due respect, please stop with the questions.” Under her breath, softly, barely above a whisper, she adds, “And shut the fuck up!” But there was mostly silence in the room at that instant and she is heard.

  The man glares at her, says he is finished anyway, gets up, and leaves the table with half a drink left in his glass.

  For a few moments, nobody speaks.

  Finally, the captain looks from Callie to me. “I have a granddaughter, myself, sir. You are a lucky man.” He raises his glass and says, “Here’s to loving granddaughters!”

  59 Roasted chestnuts for everyone.

  60 Only one other time in my life have I seen that look of betrayal in the eyes of a child. When she was four years old, Natalie’s bicycle was stolen the day after we’d removed the training wheels. She looked at me as if I had somehow opened a gate and carelessly let evil into her world. After she went to sleep from the sheer exhaustion of crying, I scoured the neighborhood until midnight, hoping to redeem myself … to redeem her world. The bike was red. We never found it.

  61 I later learn what he said was, “Such a pity! So much weeping and wailing! But remember, it was the British pigs who did this to you.”

  62 No!

  63 “A thunderstorm!”

  64 “Brother John, Brother John, are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Ring the bell for matins! Ring the bell for matins! Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.”

  Chapter 13

  Adrien

  By the time we reach Saint-Lizier two days later, the children are exhausted. Some have bleeding blisters on their feet requiring immediate attention, but Élodie and I are out of supplies for bandages. We hope our contacts, Ian and Annabel Beckham—a British couple who have lived in France for twenty years—can find bandages and ointment. Élodie goes to the Beckham’s house about a hundred meters from the octagonal tower of the small cathedral, while I wait with the children. The evening light is fading and only the nearby peaks of the Pyrénées are in sunshine. The blanched moon has made a shy appearance.

  Ten minutes later, Élodie returns with a tall, middle-aged man who has a mustache and wears wire-framed eyeglasses. “This is Ian Beckham,” she says.

  I shake Beckham’s hand. “Happy to meet you.”

  “Quickly, let’s get the children to the house. My wife has laid out some food.” Minutes later, we hustle the children through the back door of the small stone house. We are met with a yeasty wave of heat.

  Annabel Beckham, who is rail-thin and almost as tall as her husband, wears a blue-and-white print dress that ends below the knees. A white apron is cinched at her waist. She smiles at Élodie and me and says, “The bread will be out of the oven in a few minutes. I’m Annabel.”

  After we exchange greetings, Élodie says, “Several of the children have blisters. Is it possible we can get ointment and bandages?”

  “Indeed, you can,” says Annabel. “We collect them because we get many people who have marched a long way. We have both P. K. Burn ointment and Wehrmacht Mückensalbe and a good quantity of clean cotton cloth.”

  Élodie places a hand over her heart and exhales a breathy “Brilliant!”

  Annabel reaches for a pair of scissors and hands them to Élodie. “I’ll spread the bed sheets on the table and we can cut bandages from them.” Annabel leaves the room and returns moments later carrying several white bed sheets which she spreads out on the kitchen table.

  Meanwhile, Ian says, “I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. The route from Saint-Girons to Seix is compromised.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jerry executed a couple of passeurs, day before yesterday. No way of telling if they tortured the men first and what information they might have gained.”

  “Passeurs are guides?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re saying—”

  “I’m saying you have to pick a different route, probably further to the east.”

  Élodie looks up from her task. “What about going through Andorra?”

  Ian nods. “That’s what I was thinking. We know somebody in Siguer who can help. From that point, there is a safe house in Merens. It’s a little over twenty kilometers of difficult terrain, so you’ll likely have to bivouac one or two nights. But that very fact means it will probably be free of Jerry. And then, Merens is about ten kilometers from the pass over the mountains into Andorra called El Pas de la Casa. Downhill the rest of the way.”

  “We just came from the area near Siguer,” says Élodie.

  “Yes, I know. It will involve some bloody backtracking, but it can’t be helped.”

  Élodie turns to me. “Do you agree?”

  “You know the area.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Élodie says. Turning to Ian she asks, “May we rest the children here for a couple of days?”

  “By
all means. We have an old barn out back where they can stay during daylight hours. And, of course, they can sleep there, so long as it doesn’t rain. I’m afraid the roof is in bad shape.”

  The following morning, I step out of the barn at daybreak and walk around back through hip-high grass for a pee. The grass is bent with the weight of dew and I feel the cold wetness penetrate my pant legs. To the west, the sky is filled with an immoderation of stars. The moon is gibbous in the south. In the east, Venus is low on the horizon, its brightness soon to be swallowed by the sun. Only the very tips of the mountains are lit, like pilot lights, ready to ignite the day. Somewhere in the distance, a cock crows, a dog barks. Closer at hand, comes a dawn chorus of birdsong—first the twitter and whistle of the blackbird, followed soon by trills and peeps of the robin, then the louder warble of the wren. I take a deep breath of cool, clean air and, for the briefest of instants, I can imagine a world waking to the absence of war.

  I hear Élodie call to me. “Henry, where are you?”

  I adjust my pants and walk toward her voice. “Back here.”

  “Is Adrien with you?” she calls.

  “No.”

  She appears around the corner of the barn, her brow furrowed. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

  I grasp her hand. “C’mon. Let’s check it out.”

  As we rush back toward the barn, I peer into the surrounding gloom for any signs of Adrien. There are none. We enter the barn. Some of the children are just now stirring. From the corner, we hear sobbing.

  “It’s Yvette,” says Élodie. We rush to the child and Élodie drops to her knees. “What is it, Yvette? Where’s Adrien?”

  “Il est allé trouver notre mère. J’avais trop peur.”65

  Élodie rolls her eyes, translates. “He’s gone to find their mother.”

  “Goddamnit!” I say. “He has no idea what he’s doing! The danger!”

  Élodie wipes the tears from under Yvette’s eyes, the slobber from her nose. “He’s only a child, Henry. He doesn’t understand. All he knows is something hurts very, very badly, and he wants to make it stop.”

  “Ask her how long ago he left.”

  Élodie asks the girl, hears the answer, and turns to me. “He left just a little while ago. He gave Yvette his portion of bread and cheese.”

  “Christ! He’s taken off without food! He’ll be too weak to go very far. Maybe we can catch up with him.”

  Élodie approaches twelve-year-old Max and asks, “You heard what is happening?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to go after him and we need you to stay with the children. Are you brave enough to do that?”

  “I will be exceptionally brave. You can rely on me.”

  Élodie squeezes his shoulder. “Well done, you!”

  Élodie and I take up our weapons and rush out of the barn. “Which way?” asks Élodie.

  “He’ll try to go back the way we came, all the way to his house in Lagrâce-Dieu.”

  “Mon dieu! That was days ago!”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Maybe at this hour the Grenzschutz won’t be at their posts.”

  “The what?” I ask.

  “The German border guards. You heard Ian Beckham. He said they’re crawling all over this area. We’ve got to get to him before they do.”

  A half hour later, the gloom is starting to lift when we come to a fallow farm field bordered on all sides by trees. We are just starting across the field when we hear something scurrying through the underbrush on the far side of the field.

  “A wild boar? A deer?” I ask.

  “Or Adrien,” Élodie whispers.

  Suddenly we hear a cry of “Halt!”

  “Shit!” I say. “It is Adrien and they’ve seen him!”

  At that moment, Adrien bursts into the open at the far end of the field. He sees us and runs toward us, his arms flailing.

  “Halt!” Two German soldiers crash through the line of trees at the far end, and into the open. They level their guns at the boy.

  “I’ve got the one on the left,” I cry. At the same instant, I fire, and hear Élodie’s Sten gun stuttering. Almost as if choreographed in a macabre dance, the two Germans sink to the ground … at the same time as Adrien.

  “You go to Adrien,” I say, “I’ll make sure about the Krauts.” Moments later, I finish the two Krauts off with a single shot each and return to Élodie and Adrien. The boy is lying in the dirt. He is bleeding from two gaping bullet holes in the back, and his right hand which also took a bullet. While Élodie bends over to examine the back wounds more closely, I say, “Fuck them! Shooting a child! Shooting a fucking child! Fuck the animals!”

  Élodie gives me a wounded look.

  My big, fucking mouth! I know she’s remembering the young German soldier she killed after Oradour-sur-Glane.

  “He’s badly hurt,” she says. “We need to carry him back and see if Ian and Annabel know a doctor who won’t be too afraid to treat him.”

  “Yes,” I say. “But first let me drag those bastards into the bushes and hide them.”

  By the time I return, Élodie is naked from the waist up. She has removed her shirt, ripped it in half, and stuffed Adrien’s wounds with the cloth. “This won’t stop the bleeding,” she says.

  “Let’s go, then,” I say. I lift Adrien into my arms, cradling him. His breathing is erratic, and his eyelids keep closing. His complexion is blanched. “Stay with us, Adrien,” I whisper.

  Élodie kisses Adrien’s forehead and says, “Ne nous quittes pas, Adrien. Ne nous quittes pas.”66

  We start back toward the old barn, and I feel the warmth of Adrien’s blood as it soaks through the remnants of Élodie’s shirt and drips onto my arms. A trail of blood drops stretches out behind us. I go as fast as I can, while trying not to jounce the boy too much. Several times, my heart skips a beat when I stumble and nearly fall. By the time we return to the barn, Adrien’s lips are blue. All the children bolt to their feet and stare in horror as Élodie and I burst through the door with Adrien. Mitzi cries, “Papa!” and rushes to me. Several of the older boys glance shyly at Élodie’s shirtless body and quickly avert their eyes. She plops down on a stool and says, “Give him to me, then go and fetch Ian and Annabel.”

  Gently, I lay Adrien across Élodie’s lap so his body is resting across Élodie’s right thigh and his legs dangle to the side and she supports his upper body with a hand under his armpit and his face is pressed against her shoulder. His blood drips onto her thighs. Blood glistens on the shattered knuckles of his right hand.

  Moments later, carrying Mitzi, I return with Annabel. In her hands is a blouse. She says, “Henry told us what happened. He also said you needed something to wear. It’s here when you’re ready.” She drapes the blouse over the rail of a stall.

  “A doctor?” Élodie asks.

  “Ian is fetching Doctor Delage. He’s excellent. He speaks English and he’s not afraid to treat Jerry’s enemies. We’ve taken many British aviators to him.”

  Yvette is standing in the corner sobbing, and I go to her and lift her onto my hip, the one opposite to where Mitzi is already balanced.

  The rain starts. We hear it gush from a spout and splash into the large, patinated cistern that sits just outside the barn door.

  “Henry, Adrien’s lips are dry,” Élodie says. “Will you get some water from the cistern?”

  “He’s tending to some of the children,” Annabel says. “I’ll go.” She returns moments later with a cup of water and holds it to Adrien’s lips but it only dribbles down his cheeks and onto Élodie’s breast where it dilutes the blood from his wounds. Élodie shivers. “Here, let me,” says Annabel as she takes a dry cloth and wipes the blood and water from Élodie’s breast.

  And at that moment Élodie gasps, “Oh, mon Dieu, non! Non!” 67.

  Adrien’s breathing has suddenly become labored, loud and rasping, wi
th a faint gurgling. Élodie puts her hand on his forehead. “His skin has gone cold!” His mouth opens as in a yawn, he sucks in two breaths, and stops breathing. The barn is silent as everyone waits for the next breath that never comes. The only sound is that of songbirds outside the barn door.

  Later, when Doctor Delage arrives, he examines Adrien’s wounds and says, “I would not have been able to do a thing. These are fatal wounds. Dear god, I hate what those weapons do!”

  An hour later, while Annabel stays with the other children, Élodie, Delage, Ian and I bury Adrien behind the barn and disguise the grave with brush.

  And again, it starts to rain. I look up at the scudding clouds and mumble, “Stop your fucking joke with the rain. This is not a fucking movie!”

  Delage and Ian head for the barn. Élodie grasps my hand and starts to pull me toward the door, but I stay put, staring at Adrien’s grave. “Not yet.”

  “I need to be with the children,” she says.

  “Yes. Go back in.”

  “Won’t you come inside?”

  “In a little while.”

  She stares into my eyes for several moments, nods, and goes back into the barn.

  I can’t stop wondering what I could have done differently. Back then, when Adrien bolted from us to run back to Sainte-Aimée, I should have left Mitzi with Élodie and run after the poor kid and hoisted him over my shoulder and carried him back. Why didn’t I do that? Long moments pass, and I am scarcely aware the rain has stopped, when Élodie appears with Mitzi. “I’m afraid she’s been impossible,” Élodie says. “She keeps saying ‘Papa’ and trying to get out the door. I finally had to bring her to you.”

  I nod and hold out my arms and Mitzi runs into them and I fold them around her and I lift her up onto my hip. The rain clouds have passed, and the Janus-faced moon has invaded the barnyard with light. Rain drops gather at the axils of oak leaves, slide down the veins, hang off the tips then drop to the ground and the unweighted leaves spring back up. The moonlight forms dozens of miniature moons in the water beads that adorn the bushes covering Adrien’s grave.