by Ruth Druart
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Ruth Druart
Reading group guide copyright © 2021 by Ruth Druart and Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Cover design: Albert Tang. Handlettering: Joel Holland. Photograph of man and railroad: Library of Congress, Prints Photographs Division, FSA/OWI Collection, [reproduction number, LC-DIG-fsa-8d24426]. Photograph of Eiffel tower: Shutterstock. Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: February 2021
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2020933679
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3518-3 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-3517-6 (ebook)
E3-20210106-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One Chapter One: Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953
Chapter Two: Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953
Chapter Three: Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953
Chapter Four: Paris, March 6, 1944
Chapter Five: Paris, March 24, 1944
Chapter Six: Paris, March 25, 1944
Chapter Seven: Paris, March 30, 1944
Chapter Eight: Paris, April 3, 1944
Chapter Nine: Paris, April 3, 1944
Chapter Ten: Paris, April 3, 1944
Chapter Eleven: Paris, April 4, 1944
Chapter Twelve: Paris, April 5, 1944
Chapter Thirteen: Paris, April 12, 1944
Chapter Fourteen: Paris, April 14, 1944
Chapter Fifteen: Paris, April 17, 1944
Chapter Sixteen: Paris, April 18, 1944
Chapter Seventeen: Paris, April 22, 1944
Chapter Eighteen: Paris, April 22, 1944
Chapter Nineteen: Paris, April 28, 1944
Chapter Twenty: Paris, April 29, 1944
Chapter Twenty-One: Paris, April 29, 1944
Chapter Twenty-Two: Paris, April 30, 1944
Chapter Twenty-Three: Paris, April 30, 1944
Part Two Chapter Twenty-Four: Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953
Chapter Twenty-Five: Santa Cruz, July 3, 1953
Chapter Twenty-Six: Santa Cruz, July 4, 1953
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Santa Cruz, July 10, 1953
Part Three Chapter Twenty-Eight: Paris, May 2, 1944
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Paris, May 2, 1944
Chapter Thirty: Paris, May 3, 1944
Chapter Thirty-One: Paris, May 4, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Two: Paris, May 29, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Three: Paris, May 30, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Four: Paris, May 30, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Five: Paris, May 30, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Six: Paris, May 30, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Paris, May 30, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The South, May 30, 1944
Chapter Thirty-Nine: The South, May 31, 1944
Chapter Forty: The South, May 31, 1944
Chapter Forty-One: The South, May 31, 1944
Chapter Forty-Two: The South, June 1, 1944
Chapter Forty-Three: The South, June 2, 1944
Chapter Forty-Four: The South, June 3, 1944
Part Four Chapter Forty-Five: Santa Cruz, July 10, 1953
Chapter Forty-Six: Santa Cruz, July 10, 1953
Chapter Forty-Seven: Paris, May 30, 1944
Chapter Forty-Eight: Auschwitz, November 1944
Chapter Forty-Nine: Auschwitz, January 1945
Chapter Fifty: Santa Cruz, July 10, 1953
Chapter Fifty-One: Santa Cruz, July 13, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Two: Santa Cruz, July 15, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Three: Santa Cruz, July 16, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Four: Santa Cruz, July 16, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Five: Santa Cruz, July 16, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Six: California, July 16, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Seven: California, July 17, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Eight: California, July 17, 1953
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Paris, July 17, 1953
Chapter Sixty: California, July 17, 1953
Chapter Sixty-One: Paris, July 18, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Two: Paris, July 18, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Three: Paris, July 18, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Four: Paris, July 25, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Five: Paris, August 20, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Six: Paris, September 2, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Paris, September 3, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Paris, September 14, 1953
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Paris, September 14, 1953
Chapter Seventy: Paris, September 17, 1953
Chapter Seventy-One: Paris, September 17, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Two: Paris, September 17, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Three: Paris, September 18, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Four: Paris, September 18, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Five: Paris, September 19, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Six: Paris, September 21, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Paris, September 28, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Eight: Paris, October 24, 1953
Chapter Seventy-Nine: Paris, October 24, 1953
Chapter Eighty: Paris, October 24, 1953
Chapter Eighty-One: Paris, October 24, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Two: Paris, October 29, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Three: Paris, October 29, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Four: Paris, November 2, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Five: Paris, November 2, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Six: Paris, November 3, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Seven: Paris, November 3, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Eight: Santa Cruz, November 9, 1953
Chapter Eighty-Nine: Santa Cruz, November 17, 1953
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Poem for an Adopted Child
About the Author
Reading Group Guide
To Jeremy, Joachim, and Dimitri:
my inspiration for this story
And in memory of my grandmother Diana White
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“Let us sacrifice one day to gain perhaps a whole life.”
—From Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
Part One
Chapter One
Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953
JEAN-LUC
Jean-Luc lifts the razor to his cheek,
glancing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a split second, he doesn’t recognize himself. Pausing, razor held in midair, he stares into his eyes, wondering what it is. There’s something American about him now. It’s there in his healthy tan, his white teeth, and something else he can’t quite identify. Is it the confident way he holds his chin? Or his smile? Anyway, it pleases him. American is good.
With a towel wrapped around his waist, he wanders back into the bedroom. A black shape outside catches his eye. Through the window, he sees a Chrysler crawling up the street, coming to a halt behind the oak tree out front. Strange. Who would be calling at seven o’clock in the morning? He stares at the car, distracted, then the buttery smell of warm crêpes wafting up the stairs calls him to breakfast.
Entering the kitchen, he kisses Charlotte on the cheek, then ruffles his son’s hair in way of greeting. Glancing through the window, he sees the car is still there. He watches as a lanky man extracts himself from the driver’s seat, craning his neck, peering around—like a pelican, he thinks to himself. A stocky man emerges on the other side. They walk toward the house.
The doorbell cuts through the morning like a knife. Charlotte looks up.
“I’ll go.” Jean-Luc’s already heading that way. He slips the chain from the lock and opens the door.
“Mr. Bow-Champ?” Pelican Man asks without smiling.
Jean-Luc stares at him, taking in the dark navy suit, white shirt, and plain tie, and the arrogant look in his eyes. The mispronunciation of his name is something he usually lets go, but something pricks his pride this morning. Maybe it’s because the man is standing on his doorstep. “Beauchamp,” he corrects. “It’s French.”
“We know it’s French, but this is America.” Pelican Man’s eyes narrow a fraction as he sticks a shiny black shoe across the threshold. He peers over Jean-Luc’s shoulder, then his neck clicks as he turns, cocking his head to one side, looking at the car port where their new Nash 600 is parked. His top lip curls in one corner. “I’m Mr. Jackson, and this is Mr. Bradley. Mr. Bow-Champ, we’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?” He adds inflection to show his surprise, but his voice sounds false to his ears—an octave too high. Muffled sounds of breakfast reach out to the doorstep: plates being stacked, his son’s light laughter. The familiar noises echo around Jean-Luc like a distant dream. He closes his eyes, clutching at the vanishing edges. A seagull screeching calls him back to the present. His heart beats hard and fast against his ribs, like a trapped bird.
The stocky man, Bradley, leans forward, lowering his voice. “Were you taken into County Hospital six weeks ago after a car accident?” He stretches his neck, as though hoping to gather information about the life inside the house.
“Yes.” Jean-Luc’s pulse races. “I was knocked over by a car rounding the corner too fast.” He pauses, taking a breath. “I lost consciousness.” The doctor’s name, Wiesmann, springs to mind. He fired questions at Jean-Luc while he was still coming around, feeling foggy. “How long have you been in America?” he asked. “Where did you get the scar on your face? Were you born with only a finger and a thumb on your left hand?”
Bradley coughs. “Mr. Bow-Champ, we’d like you to accompany us to City Hall.”
“But why?” His voice comes out as a croak.
They stand there like a blockade, hands behind their backs, chests thrust forward.
“We think this would be best discussed at City Hall, not here on your doorstep, in front of your neighbors.”
The veiled threat tightens the knot in his stomach. “But what have I done?”
Bradley rolls his lips together. “These are just preliminary inquiries. We could call the police in to assist, but at this early stage we prefer… we prefer to get the facts straight. I’m sure you understand.”
No, I don’t, he wants to scream. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Instead, he mumbles assent. “Give me ten minutes.” Closing the door in their faces, he returns to the kitchen.
Charlotte is sliding a crêpe onto a plate. “Was it the postman?” she asks without looking up.
“No.”
She turns toward him, a thin crease across her forehead, her brown eyes piercing him.
“Two investigators… They want me to go with them to answer some questions.”
“About the accident?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they want. They won’t say.”
“They won’t say? But they have to. They can’t just ask you to go with them without telling you why.” The color drains from her face.
“Don’t worry, Charlotte. I think I’d better do what they say. Clear things up. It’s only questioning.”
Their son has stopped munching and is looking up at them, a tiny frown on his forehead.
“I’m sure I’ll be back soon.” Jean-Luc’s voice rings false in his ears, as though someone else is uttering these words of comfort. “Can you call the office; tell them I’ll be late?” He turns to his son. “Have a good day at school.”
Everything has gone still, like the hush before a storm. Quickly he turns and leaves the kitchen. Normal. He must act normal. This is only a formality. What can they possibly want?
Ten minutes. He doesn’t want them ringing the bell again, so he hurries into the bedroom, opening the drawer in the wardrobe, glancing at his ties coiled like serpents. He picks out a blue tie with tiny gray dots. Appearance is important in a situation like this. He takes his jacket off its hanger and walks back down the stairs.
Charlotte is waiting in the kitchen doorway, her hand over her mouth. He takes it, kissing her cold lips, looking her in the eye. Then he turns away. “Bye, son,” he shouts toward the kitchen.
“Bye, Daddy. See you in a while.”
“Catch you later, crocodile.” His voice cracks, missing the right note again.
He senses Charlotte’s eyes on his back as he opens the front door and follows the men to their black Chrysler. He takes a deep breath, forcing the air down into his abdomen. Now he remembers hearing the storm break in the middle of the night; can feel the earth thick with water, starting to evaporate already. Soon it will be humid and hot.
No one speaks as they drive past familiar houses with large, open lawns reaching out to the sidewalk, past the paper shop, the baker, the ice-cream parlor. This life he’s come to love.
Chapter Two
Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953
CHARLOTTE
I stare out the kitchen window, though the black car vanished many minutes ago. Time feels frozen. I don’t want it to move forward.
“Mom, I can smell burning.”
“Merde!” I grab the pan from the stove and throw the blackened crêpe into the sink. My eyes water as smoke fumes swirl up. “I’ll make you another.”
“No thanks, Mom, I’m full.” Sam hops off the stool and darts out of the kitchen.
As I glance around, the remnants of the disturbed breakfast fill me with panic. But I have to pull myself together. Slowly, I climb the stairs, going into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face, then slip into the dress I wore yesterday and go back downstairs.
Sam bounces up and down at my side as we walk to school. “Mom, what do you think those men will ask Dad?”
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“What could it be, Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s about a burglary.”
“What?”
“Or a murder!”
“Sam, be quiet.”
He immediately stops hopping around, dragging his feet instead. A pang of guilt shoots through me, but I have more important things to worry about.
When we get to the school gate, the other mothers are already walking back home.
“Hi, Charlie! You’re running late today. Coming over for a coffee later?” Marge’s voice rings out from the group.
“Sure,” I lie.
After dropping Sam off, I dawdle around the gate to g
ive the others time to get ahead. When I see they’re far enough in front, I walk home slowly, loneliness threatening to engulf me. I’m half tempted to join them for coffee, but I know I won’t be able to hold myself back from blurting something out. There’s a chance that no one saw the car come for Jean-Luc this morning, but if someone did, I’d need to have a story ready. They’ll want to know all the details. Yes, it’s best to avoid any contact.
Once home, I go from room to room, plumping up the cushions on the couch, washing up the breakfast things, rearranging the magazines on the coffee table. I remind myself that there’s no point worrying, it won’t help anyone; after all, he’s only been taken in for questioning. I should do something practical to keep my mind occupied. I could mow the lawn, save Jean-Luc the trouble.
I pull on my gardening shoes and drag the lawnmower out from the garage. I’ve seen Jean-Luc pull the string on the side to get it started, so I give it a tug. Nothing happens. I pull again; this time something inside spits, but quickly dies. Now I pull harder and faster. Suddenly it’s whirring away, pulling me with it. It stinks of gas, though I quite like the smell.
The rhythm is soothing, and I’m disappointed when the job is quickly finished. I put the mower away and go back into the house.
Maybe the living room could do with a cleaning. As I take the vacuum cleaner out from under the stairs, I remember that I did this only yesterday. Defeated, I slump to the floor, the thick vacuum pipe still in my hand.
The past is flooding back. Jean-Luc never lets me talk about it. In his pragmatic way, he told me to leave it behind, where it belongs. As if it were that simple. I have tried, I really have, but I can’t help my dreams when I’m fast asleep, where I see my mother, my father. Home. These dreams leave me with a yearning for my family that casts a long shadow. I have been in touch with them; I wrote once we’d settled down and found somewhere to live. My mother wrote back; a short, curt letter saying that Papa wasn’t ready to see me yet. He still had some forgiving to do.
I wander into the kitchen and stare out the window, willing Jean-Luc to come back. Released from questioning, suspicions unfounded. But there’s only the empty street.
