While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  When he began to decline her pleas to go dancing, she went anyway with other friends. He should have known it would only be a matter of time before she met someone else, but he’d taken comfort in the fact that there were hardly any eligible men around. He hoped she hadn’t got herself a stinking collabo, or worse, a Boche. She wouldn’t say who he was, but surely she wouldn’t be that stupid. Horizontal collaboration, people called it disdainfully, as if they were morally superior. We’re all guilty to a lesser or greater degree, Jean-Luc thought. If he were to name his own kind of collaboration, he would have called it survival collaboration. One had a duty to survive, for all the others who couldn’t.

  The pastis had awakened his appetite and he began to look forward to his dinner. Maman always saved her rations from the week to cook him a proper meal with vegetables and, if they were lucky, some pigeon. On Sunday, after Mass, they would have a lunch of sorts at one of their neighbors’, or at their own home. Everyone would contribute what they could: vegetables from their gardens, pickles they had made the previous year, and sometimes someone would arrive in a cloud of excitement with meat in a paper bag; maybe something a friend had caught, or they had caught themselves. The unveiling of the meat was sacred, and a silence thick with anticipation would fall upon them. Food shared always seemed to go further.

  But now these lunches had become something of an ordeal for him. He found he had nothing to say, and the neighbors’ gossip alienated him with its pettiness. They appeared to be more concerned about who had managed to get butter on the black market or who had caught a rabbit than who was being murdered. Their chatter was of no value, and when they did broach the subject of the round-ups, it never led anywhere. He felt like he was disappearing inside himself, as though he couldn’t remember who he was, or who he was supposed to be.

  This Sunday, it was the Franklins’ for lunch. Monsieur Franklin’s brother had been out hunting in the countryside and had come back with two rabbits. The rabbit stew went down well, and with meat in their bellies for a change, the conversation livened up.

  His mother started it off. “When this damn war ends, do you think there’ll be any wine left?”

  Monsieur Franklin was quick to reply. “Marie-Claire, you know we have some hidden.”

  “I know no such thing.”

  “Ha! Very good. Me neither, then. But when this damn war ends, you and I will go down and get it, eh?”

  “I’ll drink to that.” His mother raised her glass of water.

  “So, Jean-Luc, how is the new job going?” Monsieur Franklin turned his attention away from the mother to the son.

  Jean-Luc felt his pulse rate race ahead, as it did every time his work was mentioned. “Bit too close to the Boches for my liking.”

  “Mais oui, you’re right in the heart of it, aren’t you?”

  “What really goes on there?” Madame Franklin interrupted.

  Jean-Luc looked at her a minute, taking in her thin lips and bird-like eyes. She never missed a thing, and he knew anything he said would be repeated the next day when she joined the queues for food.

  “I don’t know.” He looked out the window, avoiding his mother’s scrutinizing stare.

  “Come on, lad. You must know something. What are they doing with all those prisoners? Where are they taking them?” Monsieur Franklin narrowed his eyes as he stared at Jean-Luc.

  “I haven’t seen anything. I never see the trains, or the prisoners—”

  “I’ve heard they’re cattle trains, not proper passenger trains,” Madame Franklin interrupted. “And that the prisoners have to lie on straw, like animals.” She always seemed to know more than anyone else.

  “I’ve heard similar,” Madame Cavalier added. “And that there are no bathrooms either. They have to pee in a bucket.”

  “That’s disgusting! How do you know that?” His mother spoke for the first time on a new subject. “It must be an exaggeration.”

  Madame Cavalier shrugged her shoulder. “You’ve seen what they are capable of. I wouldn’t put it past them. They’ve arrested thousands, haven’t they?”

  “Therefore they must be shipping them out by the thousand.” Monsieur Franklin frowned, turning to look at Jean-Luc. “Maybe you could find out what they’re doing with them.”

  Jean-Luc stared back. “What?”

  “Well, you’re right there in the thick of it. Can’t you discover what’s going on?”

  “I told you, I never see the trains leaving. I start work after.”

  “Couldn’t you get there earlier?”

  “No!” He paused, calming himself, trying to keep his tone neutral. “We are taken to the station by army truck at seven thirty every morning.”

  “But you’re near the station, aren’t you? Couldn’t you walk there? Have a look?”

  Jean-Luc frowned. “I don’t know.” He paused. “It would be dangerous. They watch us all the time.” He looked up and saw the disappointment in their faces. It made him feel like a coward. “Maybe… maybe if I got up very early and sneaked out, I could see one of the trains leave.”

  His mother gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.

  “Good lad!” Monsieur Franklin grinned. “You could get a photo. I have a camera.”

  A photo? What good would a photo do? He would be risking his life for a damn photo. There must be some other way.

  When they returned home, his mother boiled up some disgusting roasted chicory and acorn drink. He took the cup from her, pretending to drink it. “Maman, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh dear,” she laughed. “Not again.”

  “No, seriously. I need to do more than just take a photo.”

  “What do you mean, son?”

  “I need to do something.” He screwed his eyes up. “Something that makes a difference.”

  She whispered, “What about the Résistance?”

  “But I don’t know anyone.”

  “No, neither do I.” She put her hand over her forehead. “We must be mixing in the wrong circles.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not something you can really ask someone, is it? Are you in the Résistance? Because I’d like to join too. I think you have to wait to be approached.”

  “Has no one ever approached you?”

  “No, Maman. How about you?”

  She shook her head. “But you know, if they had, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Then again, what use is an old woman to them?”

  She was right. It wasn’t up to old women to fight; it was up to young men like himself. He did want to fight; he wanted to stop the trains that were deporting the prisoners to God knows where. But there was that promise, the one he’d made to his father before he left.

  Papa had taken him aside while his mother was out queuing for bread. “Son, promise me one thing.”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise me you’ll look after your mother while I’m gone.”

  Jean-Luc’s gaze didn’t waver as he looked at his father. “I promise.”

  “Now I can leave knowing that the two of you will be safe here. It will help me find my way home.” Papa had gripped him around the back of his neck, pulling his face toward his own. Jean-Luc had wrapped his arms around his father and they’d held each other tight for a moment. Then Papa had pulled away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Papa. He wandered into his bedroom, glancing at the walls and the bookshelves his father had cut, sandpapered, and put up himself. The books were arranged first by subject—adventure stories in one section, fantasy in another—then from the tallest to the shortest, all the spines the right way up. He could order his books in a way he couldn’t order his life.

  Chapter Seven

  Paris, March 30, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  “Eh, les gars. What’s up this morning?” The driver glanced at the men in his rearview mirror.

  Jacques shrugged a shoulder, Frédéric grunted. The others remained silent, looking down at their feet as the army truck sped through the
dim and empty streets toward Bobigny station.

  “Remember, we’re the lucky ones,” the driver continued. “Better here than at some work camp in Germany.”

  Jean-Luc stared back at him in the mirror. Why couldn’t he just leave them alone? Putain de collabo!

  “We’re just tired,” Philippe mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

  “Tired? But the day hasn’t even begun yet!” The driver shifted the long gearstick, causing a horrible crunching noise of metal against metal. Jean-Luc shuddered, as though in empathy with the gearbox.

  The driver sighed. “You might find today even more tiring.” He left the remark hanging as though waiting for someone to ask why.

  But no one would give him that pleasure.

  “The train was late leaving this morning.” He caught Jean-Luc’s eye. “Yes. Trouble getting the passengers to board. Some of them decided they’d rather not get on.” He took his eyes away from the mirror, changing gears again as he turned a corner. It was a smooth change this time, and an expectant silence filled the truck. They wanted to know what had happened, but no one wanted to participate in the conversation.

  “So,” he started up again, “the platform is still a mess.” He pulled into his usual spot. “Enfin, les gars. Time to get out.”

  The six men shuffled out the back of the truck, shoulders slumped like defeated troops being led away by the victors. As they stepped onto the platform, a gust of wind blew something pale along the quay, then upward onto Jean-Luc’s face. He heard Marcel’s boyish laugh. How could he laugh at a time like this?

  Then the laughter stopped. Jean-Luc pulled the item from his face, holding it out at arm’s length. It was a nightie. Fragile. Feminine. How had it ended up here, floating down the platform like a ghost? His eyes wandered away from it, to the platform itself. A fancy purple hat. Two black bowlers. A walking stick. A pair of broken spectacles. A porcelain doll, its leg broken. A soft monkey, pink stuffing spilling from its neck.

  His stomach contracted into a tight ball, bile rising in his throat. He looked over at the other five men, trying to gauge their reactions. Philippe sighed before walking into the stationmaster’s house to report for duty. Frédéric’s face turned white and he closed his eyes. The others looked down at the ground, shuffling their feet. He wanted to hear them say something—anything that would help him make sense of the scene in front of him. But there was no sense to be made. It was a world gone mad.

  He looked back at the platform, scanning the ground. A larger object toward the end of the platform attracted his attention. Instinctively he knew what it was—too big for a soft toy or a doll, but shaped like one. He told himself it couldn’t be. It must be a large teddy bear. Yes, a very large teddy. His mind went blank and he looked at the scene as though it were a movie and the film had frozen. Then the action started up again, and now there was no doubt at all.

  “Go into the house!” the guard shouted.

  He stumbled into the stationmaster’s house. Someone shoved a piece of bread into one hand and a cup of ersatz coffee into the other. He dropped both. As the cup crashed to the ground, hot liquid splashing out, he looked around at the shocked faces, waiting for—dreading—the next scene.

  He felt a baton land on his shoulder, but he made no move to protect himself.

  “Achtung! Outside!” someone shouted in his ear. “Out now! Clear the platform.”

  Stumbling out onto the platform, he started picking up items: two pairs of broken spectacles, the hat. He was getting nearer to the end of the platform and could feel himself being drawn toward what he had seen earlier. He looked up, scanning the area. He couldn’t see it anymore. Could it be that he had imagined it? He must have. Then he saw a group of men dragging something along the ground. He took a couple of steps nearer, wondering if they were dragging a bag full of clothes or rubbish. But in his heart he knew they weren’t. He watched as they lifted it up and threw it into a dumpster.

  He returned home that Saturday evening in a state of numb despair. He barely acknowledged his mother, going straight to the bedroom that had been his since he was born. Sitting on the bed, he stared at the bookshelves. Les Trois Mousquetaires looked down upon him with derision. As a young boy, he’d imagined himself growing up tall and strong, becoming like one of the musketeers, dashing and daring—someone his father could be proud of. Not the weak-hearted man he felt himself to be now.

  The door creaked open and his mother stepped quietly into the room. “What’s wrong, son?”

  He looked at her, at the little lines around her mouth, the dark shadows under her eyes. And he knew he wouldn’t be able to tell her.

  “I can’t do it anymore.” He paused. “I can’t be a part of it.”

  “I know it’s hard. This damned war is hard on us all.”

  “You don’t know everything, Maman. You don’t know.”

  Sitting down on the bed next to him, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “What don’t I know?”

  He shook his head as if he could shake the knowledge out.

  “I want to know what’s upsetting you, son.”

  He looked into her eyes, which were shining with concern. “No, you don’t. Not really.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. I’m a tough lady, you know.”

  “No one’s that tough, Maman.”

  “Come on.” She squeezed his left hand. “You’ve always talked to me. Don’t stop now. We need each other more than ever, and I can see you’re suffering.”

  “They’re killing them.” He blurted the words out. “I saw them, I saw them on the platform. Bodies. A baby. There was a dead baby lying on the platform.”

  He felt his mother go rigid by his side. She took her hand away, clasping her other hand, the knuckles turning white. “A baby? Are you sure? We know they’re shooting adults, Résistance people, Jewish immigrants, but—”

  “I saw it, Maman, lying on the platform, after the train had left. Then it was gone.”

  “Maybe you imagined it. You’re under a lot of stress, working for the Boches. It’s not surprising. You need to rest.” She lifted a hand, about to put it on his shoulder, but he hunched forward, burying his head in his hands.

  “I knew no one would believe me.”

  “It’s not that. I believe you think you saw a baby, but are you really sure it was there? For God’s sake, why would they kill a baby?”

  He took his hands away from his face, looking at her. “Why do you think? What do you think this is all about? Arresting every last Jew, taking them away for ‘resettlement.’ What do you think they’re really doing with them?”

  “They’re sending them to work camps.”

  “What? Old women? Old men? Babies?” He paused. “They only took Papa to the work camp, didn’t they? They didn’t take you. They didn’t even take me. They wanted me here working on the lines, and they didn’t want you because you’re not strong enough. So why take all the Jews? Even the old and the weak. They’ll be no use to them.”

  His mother shook her head.

  “Think about it, Maman.”

  “No, son. You’re going too far. You have to stop thinking like this. It’s not helping.”

  “Not helping?” He jumped up from the bed, frustration tightening his throat, suffocating him. “Why won’t you see what’s going on?” He pulled at the books on the shelf, flinging them to the floor, one by one.

  He didn’t care what happened to him now. He just knew he had to do something.

  Chapter Eight

  Paris, April 3, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  “Salut, les gars.” The driver nodded at them as they climbed into the back of the truck.

  As usual, the men ignored him. Under normal circumstances, seeing the same man every day, Jean-Luc would have asked his name. But he didn’t want to know anything about him. He stared out the window. It was one of those early spring days. The sun was rising, shining out through a cloudless sky—bright, but still too weak to warm the air. His knees twitched
up and down with a restless energy. Gripping the back of his neck, he rolled his head around in a pathetic attempt to calm himself. He had to do something. He’d promised himself he would. And now an idea was growing in his mind. It was just an idea, and he didn’t know if he could go through with it, but he started to imagine it as if he would.

  What if he could manage to derail a train? He would just need to loosen the bolts on the fishplates, then force the tracks out of line with a crowbar, throwing the train off its tracks. It might not even be that hard. But he couldn’t do it alone; he needed Frédéric to be his accomplice, to pass his work when he checked it at the end of the day. He knew that if he presented Frédéric with a fait accompli, he would be left with no choice but to go along with it; he wasn’t the kind of man to denounce a friend. Was he?

  He glanced over at his colleague, wondering. It was obvious that Frédéric couldn’t stomach working for the Boches any more than Jean-Luc himself could, but to commit an act of sabotage? That took courage. If caught, they would face the firing squad, but not before they’d been interrogated and tortured first. Tortured! He closed his eyes, blocking out the thought before it took root.

  Frédéric suddenly looked up at him, their eyes locking in a moment of mutual understanding. What the hell were they doing here?

  Jean-Luc’s thoughts returned to his idea. Was it worth it? It would probably only delay the train, but that was already something. And it would anger the Boches, that was for sure. His pulse started racing as he imagined the train coming off the tracks—the chaos it would cause. The idea excited him. Could it be his chance to do something? As he imagined putting his plan into action, the impotent anger he’d felt before turned to rage. Rage at them for taking his father away, rage at seeing a dead baby on the platform, as though it had been nothing more than an abandoned suitcase. Then rage at himself and all the others who’d silently stood by, terrified for their own skins.