The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon

by Norman G. Gautreau

  And after several more minutes of that back and forth, the Germans left.

  Later that night, feeling our way without headlights in the glow of a waxing gibbous moon, a friend of Casals drives Élodie and me to Mosset in a Citroën. The trip goes without incident. He says his name is Nigel and offers no more, and we don’t ask. We only know from his name and his speech that he is English. Turning off the main road onto a two-track dirt road, with tall grass between the tracks, we drive on for another ten minutes until we finally arrive at a small house nestled in a stand of conifers. Our driver says, “The house belonged to my sister and her husband. They were executed by the Boche. No one has lived here in months.”

  “Do the Germans know of this place?” I ask.

  “No. My sister and her husband were executed some distance away in Rivesaltes. They were trying to help some Brits escape the prison there. You may have noticed how carefully I kept the tires in the tracks, so we wouldn’t bend any grass. No one will know you are here.” He leads us into the small two-room house. “We have put in supplies. There’s a Sterno stove and plenty of fuel. Lots of canned goods. And there’s a pond out back for fresh water.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister and your brother-in-law,” Élodie says. “Yes,” he says. “I’d best be going. Someone will contact you when the next group of children is ready.”

  “Of course.”

  We watch him drive off. As soon as the sound of the engine fades, we become aware of night sounds—frogs in the unseen pond, crickets, cicadae. At the periphery of our vision are the flickers of fireflies. A slight wind soughs through the trees. I put my arm around Élodie’s waist. “Peaceful,” I say.

  “Yes.” She reaches up and kisses me on the cheek.

  I turn to face her and kiss her full on the lips. When I pull back and look into her eyes, I ask, “Were you serious about wanting to make a baby?”

  “Yes. Of course,” she says. She returns the kiss and grasps my hand and leads me inside and turns down the covers of the bed and we undress and we embrace and we sink to the bed and we make love passionately and I am flooded with happiness unlike any I’ve felt before, happiness enough to bring tears, and when we are finished, we lay back, side-by-side, holding hands, as a density of moonlight, pouring through the window, washes our naked and sweat-sheened bodies. But it’s a two-faced moon and I am convinced it is bone-white moonlight from its other face that now shimmers upon a world at war. It is the moonlight a prisoner in Auschwitz, 1,500 kilometers to the northeast, sees sizzling on the barbed wire at the edge of the camp as he thinks of his wife and the same cruel moonlight the man’s wife gazes at through the tiny crack in the barracks wall of the women’s camp at Bergen-Belsen as she thinks of her husband. It is the same unnatural moonlight that weighs heavily on all the broken and burnt-out buildings of London and Hamburg, of Coventry and Cologne, of Darmstadt, Cardiff and Düsseldorf, and it is the same light from the same obese, gibbous moon that hauls an ocean onto the beaches of Normandy, and that flashes in the whirling propellers of American B-17s and B-29s about to bomb a plant in Ruhland, Germany where the moonlight also glistens on the waters of the Schwarze Elster River, beside which a group of children play—a group of children!—and it is the moonlight that sparks off the buckled rail of a sabotaged train track north of Toulouse, and that sheens the decks of ships unloading materiel at a temporary harbor, called Mulberry “B,” off Gold Beach in Normandy, and that glints off the nose detonator of a V-1 rocket aiming for London, and that refracts in the binoculars of a civilian volunteer in the Royal Observer Corps, standing spread-legged, and proud, on the roof of Selfridges in London’s Oxford Street as he watches, with his pig-tailed, freckle-faced daughter by his side, for more V-1 flying bombs, and it is the very same perverse moonlight that gleams on the barrels of 75 mm guns on Sherman tanks waiting for dawn to attack their Panzer enemies in the hedgerows of Normandy, and the same oh-so-very-indelicate moonlight that glitters in the gold tooth of an open-mouthed corpse in a shattered street in Minsk, 2,200 kilometers away, and the same shimmering moonlight that soon, after a slight rotation of the earth, will glance off the rifle of a soldier of the 77th U.S. Infantry Division pulling guard duty on the Orote Peninsula of Guam, and that will flash on the periscope, as it breaks the ocean’s surface, of the USS Sailfish on patrol off Formosa, and that will gleam off the decks of the Japanese cargo ship Toan Maru, so soon to fall victim to Sailfish’s torpedoes, and it is the same unholy light from a pregnant moon, on that night of lovemaking, that also floods through the open, burnt-out roof of a church in Oradour-sur-Glane to lay a ghostly radiance on a mangled and charred baby pram, forsaken on the shattered altar.

  We wake the next day at first light, having slept soundly and without fear for the first time in weeks. The moonlight that blanketed the house in the night is now replaced by the glow of new sunlight. I go outside in time to see the moon slide behind a mountain to the west just as the sun rises blood-red in the east, as if seesawed up by the dense, sinking moon.

  Élodie joins me and puts her arm around my waist and we stand gazing at the mountains and she says, “No clouds. It promises to be a beautiful day.”

  “It almost feels like the war could be on another planet.”

  “Let’s enjoy it while we have it. What do you want to do?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” I push a tendril of hair behind her ear and plant a kiss on her temple. “Except make love to you and listen to you play the violin.”

  She sighs and leans against me. “That, my good sir, sounds like an excellent plan.”

  For breakfast, we eat some of the bread lest it go stale because we have no idea when Casal’s friend might deliver more. “We can break into the baked beans and whatever else we have later,” Élodie says.

  Looking through a cabinet, I make a discovery. “Would you believe they somehow found a half dozen cans of Spam, a few cans of sardines, some other stuff with labels I can’t read.”

  Élodie examines the labels which read Les Anis de Flavigny and Bloc de Foi Gras de Canard. She says, “This first one is a candy, the second one is duck liver.”

  “Do all French hideaways eat like this?”

  “Maestro Casals is well loved. No doubt he asked for help.”

  “Yes. And didn’t he also say the Krauts let him take food to the prisoners in … where was it?”

  “Rivesaltes.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Obviously, he has sources.”

  After eating some bread, we return to bed and make love again, and sleep, and make love again, and sleep more, and it is afternoon by the time we rise and go out into the meadow that fronts the house. The field is alive with the twitter of songbirds, the buzzing of bees, the chirping of crickets. From the far end comes the nickerings and snorts of two Mérens ponies grazing side by side. Butterflies flit about the field which is a varicolored profusion of flowers—the blue carpet of gentians with their mossy fragrance, the rich aromas of orchids, purple, yellow and white, golden lilies, and the lavender of the bearded iris. And in the luxuriance of these scents, and these colors, we make love in the grass under the sun which heats our bodies and we feel the grass tickle our flesh and we listen to the sounds of the field and we taste the sweet salt of sweat on our bodies. And in the evening, we tune the wireless Casals has loaned us to Radio-Londres, the voice of the Free French Forces broadcast from London for news of the war and especially for music, like the many songs composed by Frenchmen and sent secretly to London so they could be played as acts of resistance.

  For eight days, it goes like this. Days spent lying in the meadow, swimming in the pond, evenings listening to the radio and making love. Then, on the ninth day, we are jolted out of our reverie by the sudden appearance of the Citroën and Casal’s friend, Nigel.

  “It’s time?” Élodie asks.

  “It’s time,” the man replies.

  When we arrive in Prades, Casals says only, “There are seven children waiting for you at Merens. There i
s an ancient stone bridge. They are in the house opposite. It has a blue door, the only one in the village. Nigel can get you to a tiny hamlet called Orlu about six kilometers from Merens, then you’ll have to walk the rest of the way on mountain paths. Fortunately, there is enough moonlight.”

  Using only single-lane back roads, it takes us almost three hours to travel the forty kilometers to Orlu in the Citroën. After Nigel drops us off, we watch him disappear into the moonlit night. We climb until we summit a ridge and follow the ridge line westwards. Eventually, by the reflection of the moon in the water, we locate the Ariège River and follow with our eyes its silvery length to the village, a cluster of buildings that we assume is Merens. We hunt for a gentle slope that will take us from the ridge to the valley, and eventually find one. Carefully, we descend, feeling for the ground with our feet. At the base of the ridge we come to a small brook only a hundred yards from the bridge over the Ariège. First, Élodie crosses, stepping from stone to stone. “Be careful,” she says with a whisper, since we are so close to the village. “It’s slippery.”

  I begin to cross. I’m nearing the far end when I slip, and my heart sinks, and I make a desperate leap for the opposite shore. I land awkwardly, and pain shoots through me. I lay on the ground grabbing my ankle and cursing softly.

  “You’re hurt,” Élodie whispers. “Where? Your ankle?”

  I nod. “I think I broke it.”

  “Let’s get you to the house so we can have light to look at it,” she says. “Can you walk?”

  With Élodie’s assistance, I stand and instantly find I can put no weight on my left foot. I shake my head. “It’s no good. I can’t walk.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here. I’ll help you. Put your arm around my shoulder.” She supports me as I hop, one-footed, and we make our way to the stone bridge. On the opposite side, as promised, is the house with the blue door. Élodie taps lightly. Moments later, the door opens, and we are greeted by a middle-aged woman. “You’re late,” she says.

  Élodie replies, “I’m Azalais.”

  “I’m Céleste. No need for your nom de guerre. I know who you are. I adore your music. And this is the American Nigel told me about?”

  “Yes. You know a lot. Where can he sit to take weight off his ankle?”

  “I like to know what I’m getting into,” the woman replies, as she guides us into the next room and points out a sofa.

  As Élodie assists me to the sofa, she says, “You’re French by your accent, but you speak excellent English.”

  “I went to school in England,” the woman replies.

  “Me, too. When the war is over, we must talk. In the meantime, is there a doctor we can trust?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can you send for him?”

  “Her,” the woman replies. “And no need, for I am the doctor. Let me look at this ankle.” I start to untie my boot laces. “You’ve broken the little finger on your right hand some time ago,” she says, pointing at my finger. “Why did you never get it reset?”

  “I keep it as a reminder not to jump out of airplanes,” I say.

  Céleste smiles, takes hold of the boot with both hands. “This will hurt,” she says. She gives a hard tug and pulls the boot off and I stifle a cry of pain. “It’s best to do it quickly,” she says with an apologetic tone. She removes the sock and takes my foot in her hand. “It’s already swollen big as a grapefruit. You broke it, for sure. It’s probably an avulsion fracture. In any case, it needs a cast and you won’t be walking freely on it for several weeks. I have crutches you can have.”

  My heart sinks. “But, the children?”

  “You’d be next to useless. They would have to help you.”

  “Where are the children?” Élodie asks.

  “There are seven of them. It would be too dangerous for that many to remain here. We’re accustomed to one, maybe two, aviators. The children are in a summer sheep barn in the high pasture about two kilometers from here.”

  “What should we do?” Élodie asks of both me and Céleste.

  “You have no choice,” Céleste says quickly. “The children can’t stay where they are. You must take them, and you must do it without the American.” She raises her eyebrows inquisitively.

  “His name is Henry,” Élodie says.

  “Yes, you must go without your Henry. I will send word to Maestro Casals and he will send Nigel to collect Henry. But you must leave with the children tomorrow.”

  Élodie peers into my eyes for several long moments, her eyebrows knitted. At last, she says, “Then I will leave with the children tomorrow.”

  I sleep fitfully that night because of the lingering pain. And the prospect of parting with Élodie. When I finally slide out of bed, I see, outside the window, Élodie’s silhouette against the sky. I hop outside on one leg and a crutch and turn my collar to the chill wind coming off the mountains and hug Élodie from behind and she looks over her shoulder at me. Her face is blanched by light from the moon that is still visible in the dawn sky. “You slept badly,” she says.

  “It was painful. You slept poorly, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope the children slept peacefully.”

  “They are probably too frightened,” Élodie replies. She reaches back and caresses my cheek. “What was it you called that kind of moon?”

  “Gibbous,” I say, looking up. Sheets of mist roll down the slope from the high pasture where the children wait.

  “It’s the same as it was that wonderful night in Mosset.”

  “Except, then it was waxing gibbous. Now, it’s waning gibbous.”

  “It looks like a pregnant belly,” she says with a hesitant laugh.

  I echo her laugh. “You have a wonderful imagination.”

  “You could ask me not to go.”

  “I won’t lie,” I say. “I was thinking about it in the night. But, no, I can’t. You wouldn’t forgive yourself. You wouldn’t forgive me.”

  “It will be much more difficult without you.”

  “I’m betting you’ll handle the children fine.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She turns in my arms, faces me, reaches up and kisses me. “I love you too much.”

  “Too much?” I ask, bemused.

  “It makes this too difficult. I don’t want to go without you.”

  “You must promise me to be safe. No unnecessary risks.”

  “I’ll return as soon as humanly possible.”

  “Do you hear me? No unnecessary risks.”

  “Yes. I promise.” She pauses, then says, “Maybe the war will end, and this will be the last time. No more children to rescue after this.”

  I force a smile. “Yes. Then we can go to our little island in the Pacific.”

  “My God,” she says. “I wish you could ask me not to go and I could say, right then, I won’t go. What if we don’t make it through the war? We’ll never have that island.”

  “We made our choices. We knew what we were doing. Just be safe. Please, by all that is holy, be safe.” I pause and run a finger along her cheek. “And return to me.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Céleste standing at a distance. I don’t know how long she has been there, but now that I look her way, she approaches and says to Élodie, “You should start out now before the sun is too high.”

  Élodie nods. She lifts her rucksack and slips her arms through the straps and shrugs it onto her back. Then, abruptly, she puts the rucksack down again, fishes through it, and pulls out the Voigtländer camera we took from the dead German and holds it out to me. “Here. You should take this.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s … it’s too much weight.”

  Of course, it weighs very little, and I am forced to wonder what she is doing. I reach out and take the camera. But I can’t escape a sense of foreboding. Is she giving me a parting gift?

  She gazes into my eyes and leans into me. We embrace for a long time until, finally, I take her by the shoulders and ge
ntly turn her so she’s facing the path to the summer barn. “Go,” I say. “The children are waiting. They need you.”

  She holds onto my hand for a long time before finally starting up the path.

  And as she passes out of hearing distance, I whisper to myself “And I need you.”

  I lean against the rough stone of the side of the house and watch Élodie climb toward the leaden, grey-bottomed clouds that roll past the top of the ridge. Crepuscular rays pour down through the morning clouds, and Élodie passes in an out of the light and, halfway to the crest, she stops and turns and gazes back at me for a long time and, finally, she turns again and, within moments, passes into the shredded filaments of a low-reaching cloud, and out of sight.

  70 “Miss Bedier, Maestro Casals will be happy to see you.”

  PART 3

  A MOMENT IN PARADISE

  Ein Augenblick, gelebt im Paradiese Wird nicht zu teuer mit dem Tod gebüsst.

  (One moment spent in Paradise is not too dearly paid for with one’s life.)

  —Friedrich von Schiller

  Chapter 15

  If Prayer Were Made of Sound

  When Élodie ascended the path that day, seventy years ago, the sky was curdled with heavy, big-bellied clouds that the morning sunlight penetrated in bands. It is the same sky I see now as Callie and I disembark Queen Mary 2 a little before noon. We catch the train for London and an hour and, a half later, arrive at Waterloo Station from where we take a taxi to the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane, where I had booked connecting rooms, and where we take brief naps before going down to the Promenade Room for the 3:15 afternoon tea sitting. The maître d’ leads us past coral-colored marble columns with white veins and gold leaf capitals to a divan which is trimmed in green to echo the many palm plants scattered throughout the room. The windows are adorned with heavy drapes, also coral colored.