While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “I have a few ideas.”

  Papa sat up straight. “Listen, lad.” His tone was firm. “You just have to knuckle down and get on with it. You have no choice. None of us do.”

  Maman reached out, touching Papa’s elbow, a sign that he should calm down.

  “Don’t we?” Jean-Luc glanced at me. “I think we always have a choice. It’s just that it’s a difficult one sometimes.”

  “Don’t give me that. Right now, we have no choice. We’re trapped. But this war won’t last forever. It’s not going well for Germany. Just keep doing what you’re told to do.”

  “Is that what I should do?” He stood up. “Do you think I should just stick it out, while they deport and probably murder thousands of our compatriots?” His voice grew louder. “Do you think that’s what I should do?”

  Papa stood too, his face turning red. “That’s enough! I don’t like your tone.”

  My heart froze. He had totally alienated them.

  “Well, I don’t like what’s going on. And I don’t like sitting back doing nothing, just grateful that I’m not Jewish.” He paused, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry you don’t agree with what I have to say.”

  Papa faced him, drawing his shoulders back. “I think you’d better leave now.”

  My heart pounded as though it were the only functioning organ in my body. Terrified that this would be it, that I would never see him again, I stood up too, my knees trembling. I threw my arms around his neck, afraid that if I let go, I would tumble down.

  “Charlotte!” Maman shouted.

  Quickly I whispered in his ear, “Don’t go anywhere without me.”

  Papa’s hand landed on my shoulder, pulling me away from him.

  I watched in silence as Jean-Luc left. He hadn’t answered me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Paris, April 30, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  “You are never to see him again. Never! You hear me?”

  Staring down at the parquet, I let Papa’s words wash over me, but I could sense Maman’s eyes piercing me, willing me to apologize, to be the good daughter. Still my tongue lay frozen in my mouth.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He took a step nearer; the smell of rotten acorns on his breath repelled me. I must have backed away, because he took another step forward. “You are an ignorant young girl!” He glared at me. “He can’t go around talking like that! Who the hell does he think he is?” He paused, raising his hands. “And right here in our home, too!”

  He turned to face Maman. “I told you we were too lax with her.” He looked back at me. “She doesn’t understand the consequences of talk like that.”

  “But it’s true.” My heart was beating hard. “He’s not making it up. It’s true what he said.”

  “I don’t give a damn if it’s true or not.” Papa’s voice boomed through the living room. I resisted the urge to put my hands over my ears. “That’s not the point. You can’t go around talking like that.” He reached out for my shoulder. “Do you understand?”

  I pushed his hand away and ran out of the room into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

  I would see Jean-Luc again. I would. And no one was going to stop me.

  I heard the front door close. Thank God, Papa had gone out. But it was too late now for me to run after Jean-Luc. Panic rose up from my belly as I imagined him escaping to join the Maquis without me. How would I find him now?

  God, how I hated Papa. Why couldn’t he have listened to Jean-Luc and talked to him as an equal? Why did he always have to assume his superiority over everyone else? Calling him “just a laborer.” Jean-Luc knew more than Papa about the war; after all, he was right there at Drancy, in the hornet’s nest, as he liked to say. He was best placed to know what was really going on, but no one had wanted to listen to him. Maman always sided with Papa, whatever he said. I didn’t know what she thought about anything, not really.

  Flopping down onto my bed, I picked up my old flattened teddy bear. My grandmother had made it for me when I was a baby, and whenever I felt lonely or misunderstood, I took comfort in its familiar form. It had soaked up many tears over the years, but now the stuffing had started to come out of its neck; I liked to pick at it, wondering where she’d found all the pieces of brightly colored material that I pulled out. So much had happened over the last few months. Things were changing—I was changing. It was time for me to make my own decisions, to leave my childhood behind me. Decisively, I rolled the bear into a ball and stuffed it under my bed.

  The door opened and Maman stood there, looking pale and fraught. I almost felt sorry for her. “Charlotte, have you calmed down now?”

  I turned to face her. “What?” I paused, taking in the lines of worry playing around her mouth. “I’m not the one who needs to calm down.”

  “Charlotte! How dare you talk like that!”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it? Papa was the one who lost his temper, not me.” I turned away from her. Honestly, what was the point?

  She hovered over me, and I knew she was looking for the words to excuse Papa, though I think she knew I didn’t want to hear them. She sat on the bed next to me.

  “Why is it impossible to be honest in this family?” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “No one wants to discuss what is happening.” I turned away, lowering my voice. “You just don’t want to know, do you?”

  “Charlotte, that’s not true!”

  “Yes it is! You prefer burying your head in the sand.” I turned back toward her and saw her swallow, biting her lip, but still I carried on. “We should be more active, more resistant to what is going on right under our noses.”

  She stared at me, her pupils large pools of black. It was the first time I’d ever confronted her.

  “Charlotte, you don’t understand.” She raised her hand, as though about to touch me, but I flinched and she quickly withdrew it. “You’re so young. It’s impossible for you to really appreciate the situation.”

  I sighed loudly. There we were again, beating around the bush.

  “Please, Charlotte. You have to make some concessions for your father, and for me too. He’s been through more than you know. Maybe we should have talked to you more, but… he didn’t want to.” She paused. “He was only eighteen years old when he was sent to Verdun during the last war. He saw things one should never see. I only know because of his nightmares.” She reached for my hand. “Do you know why he can’t enter a butcher’s shop? Did you ever wonder about that?”

  I shook my head, guessing the answer.

  “The smell of blood.” She removed her hand, rubbing her forehead with the back of it. “Like so many of us, he believed Pétain was a war hero, that he was wise to negotiate a kind of peace with Hitler.” She paused. “Pétain knew what war was. And he did what he had to, to save us from another.”

  “But Maman, he didn’t, did he? He didn’t save us from another. We’re sitting here right in the middle of one.”

  I watched her frown grow deeper, realizing that for her, we were not right in the middle of a war. We were sitting this one out.

  “It was very hard for your father,” she continued. “We didn’t imagine that it would come to this. We both thought it was better to join forces with Germany than fight them.”

  “Join forces?”

  “We had no army to fight them with.”

  “But… but doesn’t that make us collaborators?”

  “No, Charlotte. No!” She took my hand again, this time gripping it tightly. “We’re just civilians. And we’re doing our best to survive—raising families, carrying on—because… because we have to. That’s what we do. We’re not soldiers.”

  I wondered if this was the moment I should put my arms around her, but the violence of Papa’s outburst still resounded in my head. I wasn’t sure how to be now, how to think of my parents. It felt like I was drifting away from them, caught up by another current.

  I only wanted
Jean-Luc.

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Santa Cruz, June 24, 1953

  JEAN-LUC

  “Drancy. So tell us what you did there.” Jackson pulls out a chair and flops into it, his long legs stretching out in front of him. Jean-Luc studies him. His protruding forehead and thin nose give him a predatory air. And now it looks like he’s homing in on his prey.

  “I was a railroad worker. I’d been working for the SNCF since I was fifteen.”

  “The French national railway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which was taken over by the Nazis.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you were working for the Nazis at Drancy.”

  “Not exactly.” He pauses, scratching his head. Is this what they want from him—a confession that he was another Nazi whore? “I had no choice. I was sent there. None of us wanted to be there.”

  “I bet!” Jackson leans forward, looking into his eyes. “I bet the Jews especially didn’t want to be there. Did you know they were taking them to a death camp?”

  “No.”

  Bradley sighs. “Had you heard the words ‘death camp’ before?”

  “No! Never!” Jean-Luc takes a breath, giving himself a minute to prepare his answer. “Though it was clear to me that many of the prisoners would die on the train or once they arrived at their destination.”

  “But you’re saying you didn’t know the prisoners were being sent to a death camp?”

  He doesn’t blink or move a muscle. He’s trying to work out the difference between knowing and understanding. He puts his fingers against the space between his eyebrows, trying to ease the pounding in his head.

  “Did you know Auschwitz was a death camp?” Jackson insists, his voice growing in volume.

  “No! I didn’t know.”

  They look at him coldly. He can tell they don’t believe him. They hate him without knowing him.

  Jackson stands up abruptly. “Mr. Bow-Champ, is there something else you’d like to tell us?”

  Jean-Luc’s pulse rate increases. What do they know? Jackson’s got his beady eye on him, but Jean-Luc concentrates on keeping his face blank.

  “So, nothing to say.” Jackson turns to nod at Bradley. “Our investigation is still open. We have to ask you to remain in the state of California in case we need to call you in for further questioning. You are free to go for now.”

  Jean-Luc’s heart beats fast and hard as they accompany him down the corridor, up the stairs, and out the double front doors. When they deposit him outside, he takes a deep breath, savoring the taste of freedom. Everything will be all right.

  He wishes he’d asked if he could call Charlotte, get her to pick him up, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to think of such practicalities. Maybe a bus will come along soon. Impatience runs through his veins, telling him he’s done enough waiting. He decides to forget about the money and takes a cab, going straight to work. He’s already missed more than half a day.

  He phones Charlotte from work in the early evening. She picks up straightaway, anxiety ringing out in her rushed way of talking. “Thank goodness it’s you. What happened? What did they want?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m at work now, but I have to stay late to make up the time. Let’s talk when I get home.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Not till about eight.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep some dinner warm for you.”

  When the cab drops him off outside his house at 8:30, he suppresses the urge to run up the path. Someone might be watching. Once the front door clicks shut behind him, he breathes a sigh of relief. He stands there for a minute savoring the smell of lemons and rosemary. Home.

  Charlotte steps out of the living room. “What happened? What did they want?” The words leap from her mouth. She doesn’t even say hello.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know!”

  He looks at her, eyes aching with fatigue.

  “But what did they say?” she goes on.

  “Nothing really. They just asked me questions about what I was doing at Bobigny.”

  “Nothing about…”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “But what will happen if they find out?”

  “They won’t. It’s virtually impossible.”

  “Virtually!” Putting her hands into her hair, she scrunches it up in tight fists, closing her eyes. Then suddenly they’re open again, pupils expanding into pools of black. “Virtually means it’s possible. Possible!” Her hushed shouting becomes louder.

  He takes a step toward her, reaching out with his open hands, wanting to calm her. “Shh, Charlotte. Is Sam asleep?”

  Looking toward the stairs, she nods.

  “Come into the living room.” He puts an arm out for her.

  She avoids his arm, but follows him into the living room.

  He sees the tumbler sitting on top of the cupboard. “Did you have a drink?” It comes out like an accusation. He wishes he hadn’t said anything, and tries to defuse the tension. “I think I’ll have one too. Do you want another?”

  “No!”

  He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out the Southern Comfort. As he unscrews the lid, she stands behind him.

  “We should have told them. We should have told them when we first got here. It’s all my fault.”

  “Charlotte, please.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it? We’ve had to live a lie. And now someone’s going to find out. I just know it.”

  “Of course they won’t. Who’s going to be interested after all this time? Nine years later.”

  The last thing he needs right now is an argument; his nerves are still raw. He sighs, taking a large gulp of his drink. When he looks up again, he sees Sam in the doorway. He looks so small, so vulnerable, standing there in his pajamas.

  “Sam.” He holds out his hand.

  “What’s the matter? Where were you?” Sam rubs his eyes.

  “Everything’s okay. I just needed to help with an investigation. Come here.” Jean-Luc opens his arms.

  But Sam remains where he is.

  Walking over to him, Jean-Luc crouches down to his level, talking in a soft, calm voice. “It’s okay, Sam. The men who came this morning wanted to ask me some questions. That’s all.”

  “But what about?”

  “Just stuff that happened a long time ago.”

  “What stuff?” It doesn’t look like Sam’s ready to drop the subject yet.

  “About what happened before you were born, during the war.”

  Sam frowns. “What happened?” There it was. The question. From his own child’s lips.

  “You don’t need to know, Sam.” Jean-Luc pauses. “On ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur.”

  “What, Daddy?”

  “‘You only see well with the heart.’ It’s from Le Petit Prince—The Little Prince. You remember, that book we gave you last year, for your eighth birthday.”

  “Can you read it to me? You didn’t read to me tonight.”

  Jean-Luc nods, blinking back tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Santa Cruz, July 3, 1953

  JEAN-LUC

  Jean-Luc watches Sam spinning circles in the sand, his olive skin ripening gently under the California sun. “How about practicing your hundred meters?”

  “It’s yards, Dad!” Sam leaps up, jiggling up and down with excitement as his father draws a line in the sand.

  Jean-Luc raises his arm. “Ready, steady—go!” He drops it in one swift movement.

  Sam flies forward, spindly limbs pumping away, forehead screwed up in determination. His new yellow swim shorts flap around his skinny knees, then his legs stretch out one last time to cross the finish line. Panting heavily, he bends over, his head hanging between his knees, gasping for breath—a mini version of a real athlete.

  “Twenty-five seconds. Well done, son.”

  “Wow! Yeah! That’s fast, isn’t it, Dad?”

/>   “Sure is. Could be a record!” Unable to resist, Jean-Luc wraps his arms around him, soaking up his warmth. But then Sam jumps free, running down toward the ocean, stopping halfway to turn around, cocking his head to one side and putting his hands on his hips as he waits for his father to catch up.

  Jean-Luc runs toward him as fast as his good leg will carry him. Standing in the surf, he inhales deeply, savoring the mingling smell of salt and cotton candy wafting over from the boardwalk. He gazes out at the huge expanse of turquoise stretching to meet the horizon. Millions of tiny diamonds twinkle back at him. It’s all so bright and beautiful, the lines so clean. This is America, its colors pure and clear—sky blue and gold. In contrast, when he remembers Paris, he sees dull colors running into each other, streaks of gray and black mingling, never mixing, lines vague and untrue. He’s in love with his adopted country.

  And his son. Every minute he spends with Sam erases another minute of his life before. He opens his mouth and breathes in the taste of happiness. Then he holds his breath as he plunges into the ocean, diving through the waves.

  Sam paddles after him, but is pushed back by the tide. Jean-Luc stops swimming, reaching out for his son. Their fingers meet and he pulls him into deeper water. With one hand under the child’s stomach, he holds him afloat so he can practice his front stroke.

  “Let’s play sharks, Daddy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You close your eyes and count to fifty, and I have to swim away, then you come after me and try to catch me.”

  As instructed by his son, he closes his eyes, counting as Sam slithers off his hands. At fifty, he opens his eyes. Merde! Sam is too far out, way out of his depth now. He’s waving his arms around. Immediately Jean-Luc cuts through the waves toward him. When he reaches him, he pulls him to his chest, treading water as he holds him tight.

  “Daddy, I was scared. It’s real deep!”

  “You’re too far out. Let’s go back.”

  “But now you’ve caught me, you have to eat me.”

  “I don’t eat little boys. Let’s have a proper lunch instead.”