by Ruth Druart
Jean-Luc shakes his head. His throat is tight. No words will come. He can’t even swallow.
“Her name is Sarah Laffitte. She’s Sam’s mother.”
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paris, May 2, 1944
SARAH
Crouching down, her back against the bed, Sarah mouths to herself, “Breathe.” But instead of a calm breath, a frantic moan rises up from her belly. She wants to throw up but doesn’t have the strength. Rivulets of sweat drip into her eyes, stinging them. Wiping them away, she quickly returns her hand to her hardened abdomen, hopelessly imagining she can ease the pain that way.
David puts his hand on her damp hair. “You should lie down, Sarah. Please!”
“I… I can’t move.”
“You have to get onto the bed.” He places his hands under her arms, pulling her up toward him. She bites her bottom lip hard, blocking the scream that rises in her throat. When she lands on the bed, she rolls over onto one side, curling her knees up, groaning. “Is the midwife on her way?” she gasps in her next heavy breath.
“No one would come.”
“No, David! Please, make someone come!”
“Sarah. It will be okay. We can do this ourselves. I know what to do. I’ve prepared everything.”
Three short, sharp knocks on the front door followed by a pause and then a fourth make her swallow her next protest. She sees the flash of fear in David’s eyes. Only one person knocks like that—their trusted friend Jacques. Without a word, David leaves the bedroom.
She forces herself over onto her back, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe with the pain. Not now, she begs silently. Please, not now.
She hears the front door open, then Jacques’ hushed, urgent voice. “You have to leave, tonight.”
“Tonight? We can’t! Sarah’s in labor!” The panic she hears in David’s voice sets off the next contraction. It lifts her off the bed with its force, like a terrible energy struggling to be set free.
“Your names are on the list. They’re coming for you. Tonight.”
She hears David’s desperate groan. The pain is still with her, but it is almost secondary to what will happen now.
He returns to the bedroom, closes the door behind him, and leans against it. “Did you hear?”
She nods, unable to speak as the next contraction sears through her, silencing her with its power. Tears mingle with the sweat running down her face. Then David is next to her on the bed, and she feels the coolness of the wet towel he places on her forehead. She reaches out for his hand, ready to grip it tightly as she waits for the next wave.
“Sarah, it’s going to be all right. I promise you. I’m going to look after you.” His face contorts as she squeezes his hand with all her might.
The contractions are really close now, and she stares up at the ceiling, praying, “Please, God, make it be quick.” She releases his hand so he can check on what’s happening. Her breath comes in rapid waves now; she can hear herself panting.
“I can see the head! Push now!”
Gritting her teeth, she pushes with all her might. Again and again. She’s exhausted, but now she can feel it coming. She gives one last big push.
“Is it all right? David?” She worries that the nightmares she’s been having about giving birth to a deformed baby have come true.
“He’s perfect.” She hears the crack in his voice, and relief washes over her.
“Thank you, God,” she whispers.
She hears the snip of scissors and realizes he’s cut the cord. Turning to look at him, she sees him holding the tiny new life in his big hands. All her pain has gone.
“Take him. I need to check the afterbirth.” David leans forward, putting the baby, still wet, on her chest. She touches his head, stroking the sparse hair, then looks down at his crumpled face. Dark eyes dart around the room, unfocused but learning. They meet hers for a brief second, and she feels a tightening in her womb, an invisible bond being formed. With her fingertips she caresses his little body all over, marveling at the soft, flawless flesh. More than anything, she wants this child to live. She holds him to her breast and prays.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Paris, May 2, 1944
SARAH
David hands Sarah a glass of water, sitting on the bed next to her. They look down at the baby, sniffling and suckling, searching out her nipple. She feels him grip on for a second, then he loses it again. She knows it will take a day or two for her milk to come in and tries not to worry about it.
David shifts nearer to her. “This moment is precious. The three of us together, here in our home. Whatever happens, we must remember this.” He closes his eyes, resting his head back against the wall, and breathes in deeply. She realizes the birth must have been exhausting for him too. All that responsibility resting on his shoulders, and only having seen childbirth from a textbook. Leaning into him, she silently soaks up his smell, musky and slightly sweaty.
He kisses her on the head. “We have to leave when it gets dark, about six.”
“What’s the time now?” She’s lost all sense of time, has no idea whether it’s still morning or already the afternoon.
“It’s nearly twelve. Jacques said he’d come back about four.”
“Four hours. I need to sleep before we go. I’m so tired.”
“Of course. I’ll make something to eat and pack up a few things.”
The baby’s eyes are closed now, his mouth slightly ajar. David lifts him off Sarah’s chest, holding him against his own, one large hand supporting his tiny back. She understands his need to have him close. Before she lets herself fall asleep, she looks around their bedroom, knowing it might be the last time she sees it. Despite the danger they’re in, she feels a sense of peace as she looks at the large oak chest of drawers that used to belong to her parents; at the painting above it of Étretat cliff and beach, the pointed rock jutting out from the sea. They went there for their honeymoon, and David bought the painting from a local artist. It was a perfect day; they swam in the sea, then climbed the cliff up to the church, where they sat on the grass outside, snuggling into each other. “I want to get you something to remember this day by,” he murmured in her ear. And then, when they wandered back down into the tiny village, they stumbled across a local artist’s studio. The painting was more than they could afford, but they managed to barter the artist down. After all, they were on their honeymoon.
She lets her eyelids close as she drifts off, happy in her memories. Everything will be all right. God will look after them.
The next thing she knows, David is gently stroking her cheek. “Here, I’ve made you something to eat.” Cradling in one hand the sleeping baby, now dressed in a clean white smock, with the other he passes her a plate of small roast potatoes, carrot puree, and a whole leg of confit de canard.
Her eyes grow wide. “Where on earth did you get this?”
He smiles, touching his nose. “Never you mind. I’ve been saving it for today. You need to get your strength back.”
She kisses him quickly on the cheek, then lifts the plate up. As she breathes in the aroma of hot food, she realizes she is starving, and attacks the duck with her knife and fork.
Suddenly she puts her cutlery down. “Where’s yours?” How could she not have noticed he wasn’t eating?
“I ate earlier in the kitchen.”
She knows he’s lying, and after another few mouthfuls, she puts her fork down. “I’m quite full,” she lies. “I’m not used to eating so much. Will you help me?”
Raising the fork with a piece of duck on the end, she feeds him, and together they share the meal, the baby fast asleep in David’s arms. When they’ve finished, he takes the plate from her, leaning away to put it down on the floor. She kisses him again. “Thank you. That was delicious.”
“Yes, now your milk will taste of duck.”
“That will be nicer than Swedish turnip, dust, and acorns.”
The baby twitches in his
sleep, his hands stretching out like starfish. She takes one of them, spreading it out over her own, looking at his tiny fingers, his perfect nails. “Shall we name him after my father?”
“Samuel. Of course.” David leans forward, kissing the baby on his head. “He’s got long fingers. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a violinist, like his mother.” He scratches his beard as if thinking something over. “I remember the first time I saw you. You were playing the violin in that orchestra. It was the way you looked so intently absorbed.” He pauses. “I wanted you to look at me like that.” He grins. “And then one day you did. Though it took awhile.”
“Yes.” She smiles. “All those Sunday concerts you had to attend!”
“I loved them.”
“And I loved seeing you there in the audience, knowing why you were there.”
He laughs. “Do you remember when you finally invited me to your home, and your father quizzed me on violin concertos?”
“Yes. You didn’t have a clue.”
“Do you remember what he said? ‘You seem to be more interested in the violinist than the violin.’”
“That was his sense of humor.” Tears sting her eyes.
“I know how much you miss him.”
Gazing down at her new son, she blinks her tears away. “Do you think Samuel looks like him?”
“Your father?” He strokes the baby’s head. “Yes, he has his high forehead, but I think he has the same shape eyes you and your mother have.” He pauses. “He’s got my father’s chin, though; see how it sticks out. He’s going to be a stubborn one.”
“Wouldn’t they love to see him now? They would be so proud.” She pauses. “Do you think they will one day? Will we ever find all the people we’ve lost?” She runs a finger over Samuel’s forehead. “Where have they gone?”
“I don’t know, Sarah. But we have to keep hoping. Keep praying.”
“What if we get caught now? They’d take Samuel from us. I know they would. They’d send us to a work camp and put him in an orphanage.” Her eyes fill up at the thought.
“Sarah, we won’t get caught. We’re survivors.”
She looks at him, wondering what makes him think he’s more of a survivor than the next Jewish person.
Loud footsteps on the stairs outside make her jump. She grabs David’s hand. “What if they come for us now?”
He squeezes her hand. “Jacques is looking out. No one will come now. You know they always come in the night or early morning.”
“Not always.” They are never safe. It’s something she’ll never get used to—the constant fear. The knot of anxiety in her stomach has become permanent, but at least it’s helped kill her appetite.
“Do you remember our first meal together?” David squeezes her hand again.
She knows he’s trying to distract her, and he’s right. Her worrying won’t help anyone.
She closes her eyes, casting her mind back, doing her best to dismiss thoughts of the present. “I spent all day getting ready.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” She opens her eyes, looking into his. “But then just before going out to meet you, I took off the high heels Maman had lent me, rubbed the rouge from my cheeks, and wiped away the lipstick.”
“Why?” David looks genuinely confused.
“It just didn’t feel like me.”
He takes her hand, bringing it to his lips. “I love the way you dress. You always look comfortable. I mean…”
Light laughter bubbles up in her throat. “Comfortable? That doesn’t sound very…”
“Sexy?” he finishes for her.
She blushes. He doesn’t usually use words like that.
“There’s nothing more attractive than someone who’s bien dans leur peau—happy with who they are. I always felt that with you.”
She takes his hand, kissing his fingers. “I never felt I had anything to prove with you. You never judged me or asked me why I had done this or that and not something else. It was as though you accepted me for who I was.”
“I didn’t want you any other way.”
The baby squirms in David’s arms, wrinkling his nose. Sarah reaches out, caressing his cheek, and his face becomes smooth and calm again.
“He’s just checking that you’re still here.” David smiles.
“I’ll always be here for him. I’ll never leave him.” Fresh tears spring to her eyes as she realizes she might not be able to keep such a promise. Not now.
As if he can read her mind, David strokes the back of her head, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “We’ll keep him safe.”
She nods, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
Jacques arrives at four on the dot. Sarah hears him talking as soon as the front door clicks shut. “We’ve found somewhere for you to stay, just for a night or two, then we’ll get you somewhere better. It’s over in Le Marais, Rue du Temple.”
“Thank you, Jacques. I don’t know how we’ll ever be able to repay you. Do you have time to come and see our son?” Sarah hears the pride in David’s voice, and it makes her smile. He’s going to be such a wonderful father.
“Of course! And how is the mother doing?”
David brings Jacques into the bedroom. First he bends down to kiss Sarah on the cheek, then he lifts back the little woolen blanket.
Sarah watches as Jacques’ eyes mist over. He looks at her, then takes a step backward. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let the bastards get him.”
Sarah smiles a sad smile. “I know you won’t, Jacques.”
“I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
“Of course. You must go now.” David sees him out of the apartment.
It’s a long way for Sarah to walk to Le Marais, so they take the Métro at Passy, planning to change at Étoile. David has insisted on bringing her Amati violin. “Some things are too precious to leave behind. It was your father’s before you, and his father’s before that. It’s not just a violin. It’s your history.” So she carries Samuel while he carries a briefcase and the instrument, as if they are just on their way to play music at a friend’s house. Not running for their lives.
They rarely step out the door these days, and it feels strange to be out. The streets are deserted; only a few soldiers strut up and down, rifles sticking upward. David and Sarah hug the buildings, staying in the shadows, changing their path as soon as they spot a soldier. But Sarah is exhausted. Her lungs ache with every rasping breath; she just can’t seem to get enough air. And her abdomen contracts painfully with every step.
When they finally get to the Métro, they are relieved to see there are no soldiers at the gates. They board the last carriage, reserved for Jews. It’s empty apart from one old man, a rabbi. His head creaks up as they sit down, like a tortoise peeping out of its shell. “Bonsoir, madame; bonsoir, monsieur.” He smiles a toothless smile.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.”
He leans forward. “Be careful. They’re at Étoile tonight, like a swarm of locusts.”
“Thank you.” David nods.
“Is that a baby?” The man stretches his head farther forward, toward Sarah.
“Yes, he’s ours.” David smiles.
The man nods solemnly. “He’s very small. How old is he?”
“About six hours.”
The man coughs, his eyes brimming over. “Six hours! You had to move.” Standing up on trembling legs, he places a heavily wrinkled hand on the baby’s head and raises the other hand to cover his eyes. He murmurs a prayer in Hebrew. Then he sits back down again, closing his eyes. When he opens them, they shine brightly under the folds of skin. “God will look after your child. Do not worry. But don’t get off at Étoile. It’s infested.”
They do as he suggests, changing at the next stop, Trocadéro, then again at Marbeuf, finally leaving the Métro at Hotel de Ville. Sarah’s head spins as they get off, terrified that they’ll be stopped. Her breath comes quickly and it feels damp between her legs; she worries that she’s still bleeding, but says nothing.
Finally, they reach the address that Jacques gave them—a tall building next to what used to be a boulangerie. David leans on the heavy wooden door, pushing it open and holding it for Sarah. As soon as they walk into the courtyard, it’s obvious that the Boches have been there. Shutters swing open and upturned plants lie strewn across the ground, their roots exposed. Items of clothing blow about in the gentle evening breeze—a solitary beige stocking, a baby’s undergarment, and a torn man’s shirt. A whisk of wind picks the stocking up, blowing it onto a plant lying horizontally. Bending down, Sarah removes it and stands the plant back up in its pot. It’s like the place has been raped.
“David, we can’t stay here!”
“We have no choice. They’ve already been here and the place has been looted. There’s nothing of any interest left. We’ll be safe.” He looks around, and she follows his gaze, wondering if someone is watching. It’s eerily quiet.
“Come on.” He moves toward the door on the left-hand side of the courtyard. “It’s on the third floor.”
She just wants to lie down. As she climbs the stairs, she feels a trickle of something slide down her inner thigh. Her head spins with every step. Gripping the solid wooden banister, she pulls herself up, but a sharp pain shoots through her abdomen, making her double over.
David puts the violin down, using his free hand to pull her up, but she doesn’t have the strength to move.
“Sarah, I’m going to take Samuel to the apartment. I’ll come back for you.”
“No! We mustn’t leave him alone.” Glancing around, she has the feeling she’s being watched. Why would the whole block of apartments have been evacuated? They wouldn’t all have been Jews living there. The dull walls stare silently back at her. Then she notices bullet holes. They must have put up a fight. That could be why they evacuated the whole building; maybe there were some Résistance fighters involved. She shudders to think where they will be now.
David takes Samuel from her and helps her up, leaving the violin and the briefcase on the stairs as he leads her slowly to the flat two floors up.
