While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  Another shot rings out. The sound of the dogs barking reaches out into the night. “I said quiet!”

  A body collapses to the ground. More screaming. Another shot. Then it goes almost quiet, the only sound now the dogs. The soldiers stride up and down the platform, waving their guns, shouting out commands in German, while still more people come tumbling out of the wagon.

  “My God, how many of them are there?” Frédéric touches Jean-Luc’s elbow.

  “There must be about a hundred just in this wagon!”

  The soldiers herd the prisoners with guns and sticks toward the back of the platform.

  Jean-Luc still can’t move. The crowd of prisoners pushes past him, avoiding the hard blows from the soldiers’ sticks. Someone shoves a piece of paper into his hand. More pieces of paper are thrust at him. And still he doesn’t move. He’s never felt so helpless in his whole life. He wants to shout, “Stop!” He wants to turn the soldiers’ guns on them. But he is paralyzed, looking on in disbelief. He sees them open another wagon. Hundreds more people come stumbling out. The noise level rises again as they cling to one another, crying and shouting.

  Then he feels a hand pulling on the collar of his overalls. He looks down to see a young woman with bright green eyes. Frantically she pulls his head down toward her mouth. “Who are you? You’re not a prisoner.”

  He holds her around the waist so she won’t get swept away by the throng. He whispers in her ear. “I’m a railroad worker. Do you want me to take a message to someone?”

  “No.” She’s crying, tears streaming down her face. He wants to hold on to her, not let her go. He turns to the side, protecting her from the surging crowd. It’s getting noisier again as more people come stumbling out of the car. He waits for the next shot to be fired.

  She puts her arm around his neck, her lips next to his ear. He wants to wipe her tears away, but he knows she’s trying to tell him something. “Please,” she says. He feels something being pushed up against his chest. Something warm and soft. He looks down.

  A stubby nose pokes out from layers of cloth, and dark eyes open, looking straight at him. The background noises seem to fade away as the infant gazes at him solemnly.

  “Please, take my baby!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Paris, May 30, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  “His name’s Samuel.” The tears continue to stream down the woman’s face. “Take him!”

  Jean-Luc tries to step back, but the crowd is thick behind him too. “No!” He shakes his head. “I can’t!”

  But she pushes the bundle farther into his chest, her chin set hard and determined. A large man knocks into them, moving her away from him. Jean-Luc feels the distance between them opening up. She’s letting go. If he doesn’t hold on to the baby, it’ll fall, be trampled. He raises one hand, gripping it, and with the other he reaches out for her, but the crowd has already swallowed her up. He searches out her bright green eyes in the sea of people. But he can’t see her.

  People move around him as he stands there rooted to the spot. The crowd is thinning out now, the soldiers on the periphery getting nearer. He has to hide the baby. With his left hand supporting the bundle, he squeezes his right hand down in front of it, loosening the buttons on his overalls. He shoves the baby inside, then does the buttons up again. He realizes it has made no sound, but he can feel the heat spreading from it, warming his chest. Indecision floods his mind, panic flaring at the base of his spine. What the hell is he supposed to do now?

  He looks around. The surge of prisoners is almost clear of the train. He’ll soon be exposed. He moves toward them, pushing himself into the throng, trying to lose himself among them.

  The stationmaster’s house! He should head there. He has to shove an old man out of the way as he pushes through. Two women clinging together block his path. He sidesteps them as he moves quickly back down the platform.

  Another shot rings out, and for a moment the crowd seems to stop. Then it surges forward again. Keeping his head down, Jean-Luc keeps on walking. He pushes the door of the stationmaster’s house open. It is empty. What now? Think! Time is everything. He goes up the stairs as fast as his injured leg will allow him. He doesn’t know what to do, where to go.

  The bathrooms are on the second floor. He goes in and closes the door silently behind hm. He could hide here while he decides how to get the hell out. There’s a back door to the station through the rear of this house. It’s usually guarded, but with all the chaos it might not be right now. He looks out the window; it faces out back, and all he sees is darkness.

  He’s just about to leave when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs. He glances at the cubicles, wondering if he should hide in one, but he’s too late. The door swings open and a soldier walks in.

  “Verdammt noch mal was machst du da?” The Boche frowns at him. “What are you doing here? This toilet is for Germans only. Raus!”

  The baby lets out a cry.

  “What’s that?” The Boche’s frown grows deeper.

  Jean-Luc is quick. Taking his right hand off the baby, he lunges forward, grabbing the pistol from the man’s open holster. It’s lighter than he thought it would be. He shakes it to get a better grip. It’s the first time he’s held a pistol, and he has to look down for a second to check where the trigger is. Once he’s got it, he puts his finger on it, careful not to press it. Not yet. He points it at the German, his left hand holding the baby against his chest.

  The Boche turns white. “Dafür könntest du erschossen werden! You’ll be shot for this!”

  Jean-Luc doesn’t move. “Take your clothes off.”

  “What?”

  He pushes the pistol against the man’s forehead. “Take off your clothes! Schnell!”

  As the soldier fumbles his way out of his uniform, the baby’s crying grows louder. Jean-Luc mustn’t let it distract him. The next few minutes are vital. With the pistol trained on his prisoner, he moves over to the washing area. He pulls the baby out, placing it in a sink. The baby’s cries turn frantic now that he’s lost the human contact.

  Jean-Luc has to block out the crying as he puts both hands on the pistol. It’s time to make a decision. More shots ring out from outside. They’ll be looking for him now. He has to be quick. His finger on the trigger trembles and his heart beats faster in anticipation. It’s best not to leave any witnesses. But first he needs that uniform, and he doesn’t want blood on it.

  Soon the uniform lies at the soldier’s feet, while the Boche stands there quivering in his underwear. “Don’t kill me. I give you time to escape.”

  Jean-Luc stares at him, taking in his puny white chest and skinny arms. He’s no older than himself, younger probably. Not much more than a boy really. More shots ring out. The baby’s crying pierces his eardrums. Jean-Luc’s nerves feel raw. He can’t make a decision with all that noise.

  “Baby’s hungry,” the soldier whispers. “I could get you milk.”

  “Shut up! How do I get out of here?” Jean-Luc thrusts the gun back to his forehead.

  “The door, back of station. No guard now. Show my papers.”

  With the gun still pointed at his prisoner, Jean-Luc slips out of his overalls. It’s going to be harder to get dressed while keeping the gun on him. Or he could shoot him right now, freeing both hands. It would be easier. But then again, someone might hear the shot.

  Ignoring the baby’s cries, he puts the uniform trousers on with his left hand, followed by the jacket and cap. Then he slips his feet into the boots. He’s almost there; he’ll have to button up the jacket later. First he has to deal with the Boche. He points the gun at his head.

  Suddenly the man is on his knees, begging him. “Don’t shoot! Please! I have family.”

  “I don’t give a shit! You think these people don’t have families too?”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “Ferme ta gueule! Shut up! Or I’ll shoot you now.”

  The soldier goes quiet. But the
baby is still screaming. Something about its crying holds him back from shooting.

  He takes the baby from the sink with his left hand, using the other one to aim the gun.

  “No! Please!” The soldier is in tears. “I stay here! I no go!”

  Jean-Luc counts to three, then pulls the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Paris, May 30, 1944

  CHARLOTTE

  “Who’s ringing like that?” Maman looks over at me.

  “I’ll go.” Turning away from the sink, I wipe my hands on the towel. The buzzer goes again and I hurry to the front door. The sound of a baby crying reaches my ears. I pause for a second before pulling the door open.

  It’s Jean-Luc. Standing there in a Boche uniform. Holding a baby. My hand drops from the handle. I feel the blood drain from my face as my stomach lurches in disappointment. A baby! It must be his.

  He pushes past me, closing the door behind him. “Charlotte, you have to help me!”

  I stand there gaping. I don’t know how to ask him all the questions charging through my mind. Whose baby is it?

  “It needs feeding!” His eyes dart around.

  My tongue feels fat and heavy in my mouth. I will it to move, but no words form. Then I sense Maman bustling behind me.

  “What’s going on?” She stares at Jean-Luc. “What are you doing here?”

  He takes a step farther into our apartment, the baby crying more loudly now. “A woman at Drancy made me take her child. I don’t know what to do with it.”

  Maman raises her voice. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Please! It needs feeding. I had nowhere else to go.”

  Maman turns to me, her voice brusque and businesslike. “Charlotte, run upstairs to Madame Deschamps on the fifth floor. She’s just had another baby. Ask her if she’ll feed this one.” She grabs my arm before I can move. “Don’t tell her about Drancy. Just say we found it on the steps of the old boulangerie.”

  As I leave, I see her take the baby out of Jean-Luc’s arms. “Hide in the bedroom. She mustn’t see you.”

  I hurry out through the door, my mind whirring away. He took a baby!

  Breathless, I ring Madame Deschamps’ bell. Her small son opens the door.

  “Is your mother home?”

  He turns around, shouting, “Maman!”

  “Oui,” I hear from the living room. “Who is it?”

  He looks at me, a deep frown appearing on his little face.

  “Just tell her it’s Charlotte from the third floor.” I don’t wait for him; instead I hurry straight through to the living room.

  “Madame…”

  “Hello, Charlotte.” She smiles at me from where she’s sitting in a large armchair, a baby asleep at her breast. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, not since you started working at the hospital. How are you?”

  “I… I… We need your help. There’s a baby… It’s starving hungry. Can you feed it? Please?”

  “What? What baby?”

  “It was abandoned. In front of the old boulangerie.”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard enough to feed the one I have.”

  “We can give you our rations,” I say recklessly. “Please!”

  “Okay, okay. Give me five minutes.”

  I watch as she gently eases her own sleeping baby off her nipple and lays it down on the couch. “Laurent,” she says to her young son. “Keep an eye on your sister, will you?”

  The boy nods solemnly, sitting down next to the infant.

  I wait while Madame Deschamps buttons her blouse up. As we hurry down the stairs, we hear the baby wailing.

  “Sounds very hungry to me. I hope I have enough milk.” She cups her breasts as though measuring their content. They don’t look very big to me, and I wonder how she’s going to manage it.

  Maman comes out from the living room, the baby screaming in her arms. “Micheline. Merci. Can you help?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know if I have enough milk. I’ve just fed mine and I haven’t eaten yet today.”

  “Charlotte, go and get some bread and that saucisson. Bring some water, too.”

  When I come back with the supplies, Madame Deschamps is in Papa’s armchair, undoing her buttons. Maman passes her the baby. I stare as Madame Deschamps pushes its head inside her half-open blouse. But the crying continues, amid much squirming and struggling. She takes the baby away from her breast and looks at its shiny red face screwed up in anger. Then she lifts her breast up and pushes her nipple into its mouth. But the baby pulls away, screaming louder. Madame Deschamps sighs, looking at Maman with a raised eyebrow. “A right stubborn one you’ve got here,” she says.

  “Please try again.” Maman’s voice trembles with anxiety.

  I’m scared too. What if we can’t feed it? Will it die?

  Madame Deschamps rocks the baby from side to side and I think she’s going to give up. Then humming softly this time, she tries again. Gradually the crying fades away, replaced by tiny sucking sounds. Relief washes over me; I turn to smile at Maman, but her eyes are fixed on the baby, her lips pursed. I can tell she’s trying to decide what to do next.

  “Maman,” I whisper. “I said we’d give her our ration coupons.”

  Sighing, she walks over to the desk, taking out the envelope we keep in the top drawer. She pulls out our tickets and hands them to Madame Deschamps.

  “Poor little thing. I guess its parents were rounded up.” Madame Deschamps looks at Maman.

  “I don’t know. We found it outside, on the doorstep of the old boulangerie.”

  She tuts. “The things people are forced to do these days. It’s terrible.”

  Maman nods, her eyes locking onto Madame Deschamps’. “Can you take him… her? I don’t even know what it is. Can you take the baby?”

  “No!” Her tone is harsh. “I can’t take the risk, not with four of my own at home.” Her voice softens. “What if they’re looking for it?”

  “A baby?” Maman frowns at her. “Why would they bother with a baby?”

  Madame Deschamps lowers her voice. “What if it’s Jewish?” Then she pats the baby’s bottom. “I don’t think it’s been changed for a while. It’s wet through. And the poor thing has stopped feeding already. It’s asleep, but I don’t think it’s taken much.”

  Maman looks over at me. “Charlotte, get a tea towel. I’ll change the diaper.”

  “A tea towel?”

  “Yes, it should do.”

  When I come back with the tea towel, I see Maman sitting on the couch, leaning forward, talking in low tones to Madame Deschamps. I watch as she carefully takes the baby from her, laying it down on the floor. She pulls back the layers of wool that it’s wrapped in. It’s wearing a gray undergarment underneath. She undoes the buttons, peeling it back. Underneath, the skin appears almost translucent—lines of ribs shining through.

  “God, he’s filthy. We’ll have to bathe him.” She pauses, wiping away the gooey yellow mess from around his private parts. “He hasn’t been circumcised.” She turns back toward Madame Deschamps. “Won’t you take him? Please. We could help you out.”

  “No. I told you I can’t.” She pauses. “Why don’t you take him? Charlotte can help you.”

  “We can’t!” Maman is abrupt.

  “But Maman, we could!”

  “No, Charlotte. It’s out of the question.”

  “I could express some milk.” Madame Deschamps sounds sorry now.

  “What about an orphanage?” I hesitate, noticing Maman and Madame Deschamps exchanging glances. “Couldn’t we leave him outside an orphanage?”

  “He’d be dead within a week.” Madame Deschamps’ voice is a monotone.

  Maman nods. “Orphanages are dangerous places at the moment. He’s malnourished already, and quite weak.” She turns back to me. “Go and fill the dishpan in the kitchen with warm water.”

  I do as I’m told. It’s only half full when Maman comes into the kitchen, holding the baby. “I’ve se
nt Micheline back. She’s going to express some milk. It will be easier than trying to get ahold of cow’s milk, and probably better for him.”

  “Please.” I try to keep the begging tone out of my voice. “Couldn’t we keep him? I’ll help you. You can show me what to do.”

  “Charlotte, we can’t.” Her eyes glisten, and I hear the note of regret in her voice. “Don’t you realize that once they make the connection between you and Jean-Luc, they’ll come straight here. They might even send the Gestapo.”

  “The Gestapo? No!”

  “Yes. They’ll talk to the neighbors. I hope Micheline won’t say anything, but who knows what people might do when put under pressure.” She sighs. “We’re not safe anymore.” She pauses. “Thanks to Jean-Luc.”

  A shiver runs down the back of my neck. He’s put our family in danger. “I’m sorry, Maman.” What if they send the Gestapo? What if they arrest us?

  “Tell him to come out now. He needs to learn how to look after the baby. He can start by bathing him.”

  “Jean-Luc,” I whisper as I open the bedroom door. “You can come out now.”

  He shuffles out, his eyes downcast. “God, I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  I try to smile, but there’s a tight knot in my stomach. Thoughts of the Gestapo marching up our stairs fill my mind.

  “His name’s Samuel.” Jean-Luc looks at me.

  I nod. “Yes, we’ve just found out it’s a boy.”

  When we go into the kitchen, Maman turns to Jean-Luc. “He needs washing,” she states. “I’ll show you how.”

  She helps us bathe Samuel, then she makes Jean-Luc rub cold cream into the angry red skin on his legs. I watch as he dabs the cream on as though he’s scared to touch him. I know why Maman’s doing it—she wants to make him responsible. I watch her watching him, and I can see she’s furious with him, though she’s trying to stay calm. Men don’t know how to look after babies. What will he do?