by Ruth Druart
“Can I have some water?” She looks around for the kitchen, but the cupboards have been blown to smithereens and the oven door hangs off on one hinge; drawers lie upturned, their contents strewn across the floor, and blood is splattered across the walls. She looks away, swallowing the bile in her throat. “It doesn’t matter,” she says.
David leads her into a small bedroom. Then, taking a key out of his pocket, he puts it into a tiny lock in the wall that she hadn’t even seen. He pushes the camouflaged door open, shining a small flashlight around. She holds her breath, half expecting to find hideaways crouched inside, but it is empty. They creep in. It’s just a cupboard really—barely enough room to lie down. But at least it’s empty and doesn’t smell of anything, except dust.
“I’ll get a mattress.” He hands Samuel back to her. “Wait here.”
She collapses onto the floor with the baby in her arms, too exhausted to answer.
Chapter Thirty
Paris, May 3, 1944
SARAH
Samuel cries softly in his sleep. Sarah would love to roll over and fall back into a deep slumber. The healing power of sleep seems to have soothed her stomach cramps. But she knows her baby must be getting hungry, and she wants to feed him before his soft cries get any louder. It’s important that they make as little noise as possible, but it’s not only that. She can’t bear the thought of him crying. Suffering. It’s what scares her the most. She tries not to think about it, but she’s seen it happen. Babies, children wrenched from their mothers.
In the pitch black of the tiny room, she picks him up, shuffling herself into a sitting position. It’s so warm, she’s slept naked. With her finger she parts his lips, helping him find her nipple. He doesn’t latch on straightaway, but starts and stops, squirming, as though he’s frustrated. She’s still worried she doesn’t have enough milk.
How lucky she was to have a straightforward birth; only the pain was a shock. But how long will their luck last? They should have been safe in their apartment in the affluent residential 16th arrondissement. For goodness’ sake, no one even knew they were Jewish till they had to wear that damned yellow star, like a gaping wound, or a target. In retrospect, she wishes she hadn’t conformed, wishes she hadn’t worn it, but in some perverse way it would have felt like cowardice not to wear it. After all, she isn’t ashamed to be Jewish; it’s her heritage—where she came from. No one will ever be able to make her feel ashamed of that. So she sewed it on as ordered, and went out, her head held high. How naive she was. It immediately changed who she was. People looked at the star, and then at her.
The first time she took the Métro after the star had become obligatory, the controller spoke harshly to her. “Last carriage, mademoiselle.” So she got off at the next stop, moving back to the final carriage, swallowing the hard lump of self-pity in her throat.
A week later, her father was arrested for having stapled his star on instead of sewing it. He thought it would be easier to transfer it to other clothes that way. He was spotted by a soldier and sent straight to Drancy—no trial, no inquest, no chance of appeal. They received letters for the next six months, and they lovingly sent packages of food and words of support. Then nothing, and there was no trace of him, as though he’d never existed. She blinks back the tears that spring to her eyes every time she thinks of him.
Next to her, David doesn’t stir. He must be exhausted. But she’s so thirsty, and hungry too. Maybe that’s what’s stopping her milk from coming. “David,” she whispers. “David, are you awake?”
“No. Why?”
“Can you get me some water, please?”
“How’s Samuel?” he mumbles.
“He’s hungry, but I don’t think I’ve got enough milk.”
“Don’t worry. You will.” She feels him sit up. “I’ll get some water.”
“Thank you. I’m so thirsty.”
He takes the flashlight and leaves their little room.
Sarah feels like weeping as the baby squirms and moans, latching on one minute, coming off the next. What if she can’t feed him properly?
David comes back a few minutes later, handing her a large glass of water. “It’s three in the morning, you know. Our little boy has slept five hours. That’s pretty good for a newborn. The other good news is that they didn’t break all the glasses. Drink this while I go and have a little scavenge.”
Gratefully she gulps the water. She was so thirsty. That must have been what was wrong. Surely her milk will start coming in now.
While David is gone, she tries her best to relax, telling herself that they will be safe here, that this madness will be over soon, that one day life will return to normal. They just have to hang on a little longer.
David comes back and she hears the excitement in his voice. “Guess what I found?”
“What?”
“They had food stashed in the toilet tank.”
“Is it safe to eat?”
“Yes. It’s all conserves. Black currant jam, tuna, olives, pickled peppers.” He pauses, then, like a magician, produces a plate covered in food.
Together they share the odd assortment. “I love tuna with black currant jam.” Sarah squeezes his hand. “Thank you. I don’t know why we never tried it before.”
While she tucks into the food, she holds the baby on her nipple with one hand, but she stops worrying about him feeding. After a while, she realizes he’s stopped squirming, and she can tell he’s swallowing. He’s drinking. Leaning back against the wall, she enjoys this new sensation as she feels her milk coming in. Everything is going to be all right.
Later, she dozes off, fully content and with a full stomach for a change.
She must be in a deep sleep, because she dreams someone is tapping at the window, begging to be let in. She’s just about to open the window when she wakes up.
There is a tapping. But it’s not coming from the window. Her pulse jumps. It’s coming from the cupboard wall.
“David!” she whispers urgently, shaking him awake.
“What is it?”
“Shh. Listen. Someone’s out there.”
He goes silent. Sarah can almost see his ears prick up.
She squeezes his arm tight. There it is again. A soft tapping. Three short taps, followed by one longer one.
“It’s Jacques.” David reaches out to open the door, while Sarah lets out the breath she’s been holding.
“It’s okay,” Jacques whispers. “The coast is clear. You can come out.”
Jacques has brought them supplies; mostly food, a few undergarments for the baby, and some diapers. “My wife wanted me to bring more, but I couldn’t carry too much in case I was stopped.” He pauses. “You’ll have to move again tomorrow.”
“Why?” David frowns. “It would be good for Sarah to rest for a few days.”
“I know, but it’s too risky. I’m worried we have a traitor among our group. The Boches are finding our safe houses too quickly, too easily. I can’t help thinking someone’s giving them tip-offs. Only myself and two other people I trust know that you’re here, so you should be all right. But it’s safer for you to move.” He smiles. “And this time, I have a house for you in the country. It’s out in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Not too far, but you’ll have to go by car. I’m getting it organized. You just need to be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon.”
David puts his hand on Jacques’ shoulder. “Thank you, Jacques. We’ll never forget what you’ve done for us.”
Jacques doesn’t say a word; he just covers David’s hand with his own.
Chapter Thirty-One
Paris, May 4, 1944
SARAH
Something wakes Sarah. Though the cupboard is dark, she knows it’s early morning. Her first thought is for her baby. It’s like she has been given a gift—the best, most exciting gift ever—and as soon as she wakes, she wants to see him, touch him, check that he’s real—that she didn’t dream it all.
She can’t see him in the dark cupboard, but she can sense him l
ying next to her, can hear his light, regular breathing. Instinctively, she knows he’s fast asleep. A creaking noise makes her jump. It sounds like someone outside on the stairs.
“David,” she whispers. “Did you hear something?”
“No.” He rolls over in his sleep, reaching a hand out for her. She takes it, intertwining her fingers with his, telling herself it must have been her imagination, that she should just go back to sleep, while the baby’s sleeping. She must keep up her strength for what lies ahead. They could be moving every day now. But she doesn’t feel safe knowing that they are out there looking for them.
A pounding thud shakes the wall. She lets go of David’s hand, pulling herself up to a sitting position, sweat breaking out on her forehead. She picks the baby up, holding him tight against her chest.
David is sitting too. She can’t see him, but she can feel the rigidity of his body, like a statue next to her, both of them willing themselves to turn to stone.
She hears doors opening and slamming, heavy boots running upstairs, commands shouted in German. “Schnell!” “Bewege dich schneller!”
She wants to whisper something to David, something about the hidden door, about the key he used to open it. Has he locked it from the inside? Are they locked in? Will they be found? But she hardly dares breathe, let alone whisper. She wishes she could see him. If only she could see him, she would feel safer.
A door slams loudly—more loudly than the others. It sounds like it’s the front door to the apartment. She hears David’s sharp intake of air. Silently, she prays: Please, God, protect our son. I’ll never ask for anything more.
She hears loud German voices. David reaches out for her in the dark, putting his arm around her. He holds her tight, and she holds their baby tighter as they sit there trembling.
“Hier drin!” a German voice shouts.
Sarah doesn’t understand what it means, but she knows the voice is right outside the cupboard door now. She grips Samuel, praying again in her head: Please, God, keep him safe.
He’s still fast asleep, and she wonders that he hasn’t woken up with all the commotion. Then he moans softly. She freezes, every sinew and muscle taut. Placing her fingers over his lips, she desperately tries to communicate to him the need to be silent. Frantically she puts him to her breast, but he turns his head away, falling asleep again.
She listens to the loud conversation in German being conducted on the other side of the thin wall. How she wishes she spoke the language now. David’s fingers dig painfully into her shoulder, but she doesn’t flinch. She almost welcomes the pain as a distraction from the terror mounting within her.
Samuel squirms in her arms, whimpering softly. Maybe she’s holding him too tightly, like David’s holding her. She relaxes her grip, consciously letting out the breath she’s been keeping in. He mustn’t feel her tension. It might make him cry.
His whimpering goes up a notch. Her heart freezes. She pushes him up against her breast, trying to get him to latch on, to be quiet. But he pulls his head back, letting out a cry. Loud and sharp.
A huge crash reverberates against the door. Then another, and another. Big black boots come smashing into the cupboard.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Paris, May 29, 1944
SARAH
The mice scurry back and forth, night and day, though goodness knows what they find to eat. Maybe it’s the stench of human filth that attracts them, that keeps them there. Sarah smelled it as soon as she entered the women’s block. It reminded her of the stables when she used to go riding as a child—the stagnant damp smell of sweat and decay.
She doesn’t leave Samuel, not for a minute, terrified that he will be easy prey for such scavengers. The closeness she feels to him comforts her, and she remembers the rabbi’s words on the Métro: “God will look after your child.” She holds on to this thin thread of hope, telling herself it was a prophecy. It helps cushion her from her fear.
Forty women are crammed into a small rectangular room, squashed onto bunks with only straw to soften them, but they are kind to her when they see she has a tiny baby. They always make sure she has enough water to drink, and some of them even share their food parcels. She has nothing to give them in return, just a small smile. She finds she can’t talk. Talking makes her tired, and she needs to save all her energy to feed Samuel. That’s all that matters now. Keeping him alive.
There are only two toilets at Drancy, for the thousands of prisoners—one for women and one for men—and they can only go at designated times. Every time she goes, she scans the faces in the long queue, hoping to see David, but she never does. And every day she looks at the list for the next transport, terrified that one day she will see their names there. If only they can hang on, she thinks. This war won’t last forever.
But on May 29, their names appear on the list for deportation the very next morning: David Laffitte, Sarah Laffitte, Baby Laffitte. They didn’t even ask his name. As though they never imagined he might need one.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Paris, May 30, 1944
JEAN-LUC
Jean-Luc is in a deep sleep when he hears the shouts. “Raus! Raus! Time to get up!” First he thinks it’s a dream; then, as he comes up through layers of sleep, he realizes the voices are coming from right outside his room.
“Philippe!” he says. “Philippe, wake up!” He feels around the wall, looking for the light switch.
Suddenly their door is kicked open and light from the corridor comes flooding through. “Achtung! Get up.”
He throws his pajamas off and struggles into his overalls. He’s aware of Philippe doing the same. The guard stands by, waiting, then pushes them out to the elevator. The other four men are already squashed into it. “Problem in train,” the guard states as he squeezes himself in with them. “Stuck.”
When they step outside, it’s still pitch-black and cold, no sign yet of the rising sun. The six workers sit in silence as the truck speeds through the dark streets. They’re finally going to see a train. Now he’ll know if they really are cattle wagons. He guesses they must have loaded the train before they realized it was stuck, so this time he might see the prisoners with his own eyes.
His stomach rumbles loudly and Frédéric looks over at him. “Do you think we’ll get any breakfast?”
“Doubt it.” Xavier shakes his head. “They’ll want that train to get going as soon as possible.”
“Yes, before day breaks.” Frédéric looks at his watch. “It’s only five o’clock.”
“Merde!” Marcel looks up. “No wonder I’m tired.”
The truck draws to an abrupt halt. “Achtung!” The guard jumps out and they hurry out after him.
When they reach the platform, they stop dead in their tracks, Frédéric crashing into the back of Jean-Luc. “Oh my God!”
“What the hell?” Marcel puts his hand on Jean-Luc’s shoulder as though to steady himself.
They hear screaming, shouting, crying coming from the cattle train sitting on the line, the doors closed.
“Move on! Move on!” The guard behind pushes them forward with his stick. Jean-Luc feels it prodding him in the back. He resists the urge to turn around, to snatch it from him and shove it in his damn face. Instead he moves forward, stepping over items of clothing strewn across the platform: coats, hats, handbags. As he stares at the train, he sees a long, thin hand reaching out from a narrow slit at the top of a car, then another, and another, clutching scraps of paper. The hands open, releasing the papers, which blow away in the breeze. He stops to pick one up, but he can’t make out the writing in the semi-darkness. The only light comes from a huge beam focused on the train. He shoves the scrap of paper into his pocket, guessing it’s probably a letter for someone—a loved one. He has no doubts left now. These people are heading toward their deaths.
A hand pushes him forward. “Aussehen! Look!” A guard stands behind him, shining a flashlight at the tracks. Jean-Luc follows the beam. Immediately he sees the problem: a wheel h
as fallen into the gap between two tracks. The fishplate that normally holds them together lies open. He doesn’t know how they will be able to lift the wheel back onto the tracks. He turns to look behind him. Frédéric’s face shines out in the half-light, and Jean-Luc sees a twitch of a smile playing on his lips. Has Frédéric done this? He hopes he has. But what can they do now? He looks around at the soldiers and guards on the platform; there are many, maybe as many as forty. And they all have guns. There are dogs too, snarling and straining at their leashes. It’s hopeless.
The hand pushes Jean-Luc again in the back. “See problem?” But Jean-Luc is frozen to the spot. The hand pushes him again. “Look!”
He turns to the angry guard. “What do you want me to do?”
“Fix it. Put train back.”
“I can’t. The fishplate is broken. We’ll need to unload the train and lift it off the tracks to get the lines back together.”
“What?” The guard’s frown grows deeper.
Another guard approaches, speaking in German; it sounds like a translation of Jean-Luc’s words. The first one shakes his head. “No descend train. No unload.”
“Impossible! It’s too heavy!” Jean-Luc puts his hands up in the air to show the hopelessness of this idea.
“Okay. Okay.” The first guard disappears, coming back a minute later with a group of unhealthy-looking men, all bones and hollows of whiteness.
“No!” Jean-Luc looks at the small group of diminished men. It simply won’t work; any fool can see that. A larger group of men approaches, and the six workmen step back, leaving them to argue loudly in German.
“Ja, unload train!” Someone shouts the command. Immediately, bolts are pushed open, doors slide backward on runners, and prisoners come tumbling out onto the platform. They cry and shout names as they reach their arms out for each other.
Then a shot rings out. “Quiet!”
The noise subsides, crying and shouting turning to whimpering and moaning. But the babies among the prisoners won’t listen to the German commands, nor their mothers trying to hush them, and a background noise of wailing continues.
