by Ruth Druart
Once the baby is clean and cushioned in the armchair, she turns to Jean-Luc. “Why are you wearing a Boche uniform?”
“It was the only way I could get out of the station.”
“How did you get it?” Maman’s tone is cold.
“I took the Boche’s pistol and made him give it to me. It was the only way.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“Only in the leg.”
“You should have killed him. Now you’ve left a witness. They’ll be after you.” Maman paces the room, looking down at him. “My husband will be back this afternoon. He can’t know about this.”
Jean-Luc nods. “If they’re looking for me, they’ll go to my place first. They won’t know I’m here.”
“How do you know you weren’t followed?” Maman frowns at him.
“I checked. There was no one near me.”
“But they know you met Charlotte in the hospital. It won’t take them long to make that connection. They could be here soon.” She frowns. “You have to leave. And you have to take the baby with you. They’ll know by now that you took him, and they’ll be looking for you. We can’t take the risk. We’ve already involved Micheline.” She continues to pace up and down the living room. “She’s the loose end that could get us caught. I’ll have to make up some story, but you know what people are like. She’ll talk.” She sighs. “I shouldn’t have asked her. I wasn’t thinking properly.”
“But Maman, we had to feed him. He was screaming. It’s not your fault.”
“Charlotte, don’t you see how we’ve compromised ourselves?”
“I’m sorry. I should never have come here.” Jean-Luc runs his hand through his hair.
Maman dismisses his apology with a shrug. “I don’t know how to cover our tracks now.” She leans over the armchair, looking at the baby. “What are you going to do?” She pauses, glancing back at Jean-Luc. “You must have a plan.”
I know that’s her way of saying she knows he doesn’t have one.
“Maman, please, we have to help him. Think of a way.”
I watch as her eyebrows come together. I peep over at the baby, calmly sleeping, as if the world were a peaceful place.
“Right,” Maman says decisively, looking at Jean-Luc. “I may be able to help. But you are never to repeat what I am about to tell you.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Paris, May 30, 1944
CHARLOTTE
“I shouldn’t be telling you this.” She glares at Jean-Luc, seated next to me on the couch. “If it gets out, many lives could be in danger.”
“I understand.” Jean-Luc swallows.
Maman looks at him through narrowed eyes. “Yes, but will you be strong enough to keep your mouth shut if they catch you?”
“I’d rather die than put someone else in danger.” He leans forward, his hands on his knees.
“Fine, brave words.” She pauses. “But no one knows what they’d do till it happens.” She turns to look at me. “I’ll have to take the risk. I can’t see any other way.”
Jean-Luc nods.
“I have an uncle, called Albert. He lives in Ciboure, a village next to Saint-Jean-Luc-de-Luz.” She stops a minute, rubbing the back of her neck. “He’s active down there. He’s helped people escape over the Pyrénées; British pilots getting back to England, Jews.”
Has Maman been helping people escape? I stare at her, wondering who she really is. My eyes fill with tears of shame. I blink them away, looking at her in a new light.
“He might be able to help you,” she continues. “I’ll tell you his address and you’ll have to remember it. Never write it down anywhere.” Her eyes bore into Jean-Luc’s. “Are you ready?”
He nods.
Maman picks the baby up from the armchair, hesitating for a second as though she doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Then, sighing heavily, she sits down, holding it on her lap. “Twenty-four Avenue de l’Océan—”
“Maman,” I interrupt. “Have you helped people before? Have you given them this address?”
She looks at me for a second before answering. “Yes, I have.”
“But… but… Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Charlotte!” Her voice is harsh. “You should know these aren’t things one can discuss.”
I’m the ignorant child again, kept in the dark. Half of me is mad at her, while the other half is filled with grudging admiration. I just wish I’d known. It would have changed everything.
“Does… does Papa know?”
“This is not the time to be discussing it, Charlotte. We need to act quickly.”
Now I am the selfish child, so caught up in my own world I can’t see into anyone else’s.
She turns back to Jean-Luc. “It will be dangerous. Very dangerous. You don’t speak German, I assume?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to get out of that uniform then. I can give you a fake ID. We can cut your hair, your eyebrows to fit the photo. I’ve done it before. And I can give you money.” She pauses. “You’ll have to take the baby with you. No one else will take him on, and going into hiding with him would be too risky.” She looks down at the infant lying peacefully on her lap. “I’m not even sure he’ll survive.”
I know what she’s thinking, but I don’t say anything.
“You’ll have to take the train to Bayonne,” she continues. “And from there go by foot to Ciboure. It’s about twenty kilometers. The train will be the hardest part, but as long as you talk to no one—”
“But won’t people think it strange for a man to be traveling alone with a baby?” I interrupt again. “He’ll be questioned, and how will he get milk?” The terrible thought crosses my mind that she just wants to get rid of him. I don’t know her anymore; I don’t know what she might be capable of.
“We can give him enough expressed milk for two days, by which time he should be in the safe house.” She looks over at Jean-Luc again. “You’ll have to have minimal contact with anyone.”
“But Maman.” I stare at her. “This is crazy! Someone will stop him. I know they will.”
“Charlotte,” Jean-Luc says softly, touching my hand. “It will be all right. I’ll have the fake ID.”
“No!” I stand up, an idea rushing through my head. I step toward Maman, then lean down and lift the baby from her lap, holding him up against me. He’s so small, so light. I look over the top of his head at Maman and speak calmly, quietly—afraid of waking him. “A couple traveling with a baby will arouse much less suspicion than a man alone with one.”
A flash of light crosses her eyes, and I know she knows I’m right.
“No, Charlotte! No!” The light turns to fierce anger.
Jean-Luc stands up too. “You’re so brave,” he whispers in my ear, putting his arm around my shoulder. Then he turns to Maman. “I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe.”
“Safe?” Maman hisses. “Are you mad? You can’t even keep yourself safe!”
Gently he takes the baby from me, then he looks at Maman. His voice is even and calm, as though he’s trying to coax a wild animal. “I know you don’t want to lose your daughter. And it will be dangerous. But I swear I’ll protect her and this child with my life.”
“She’s not going anywhere!” Maman’s eyes dart from him to me.
I take a step nearer to her. “Maman, please. Think about it. We can pretend to be secret lovers, escaping to get married because we have this illegitimate child—”
“No!” She reaches out, gripping my shoulder. “Anything could happen. We might never see you again!” She swallows. “You can’t go!”
I stare at her, realizing that she does love me. Of course she does! My heart fills with regret and shame. Why didn’t I see it before?
But I can’t stay. An urge burns through me to act now, to do something. “You have to let me do this. Please, Maman.”
“You don’t understand the dangers. You have no idea…” Her voice trembles, then fades out, as though she knows
she’s already lost me.
“I understand the risk. And I still want to do it. I need to do it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Paris, May 30, 1944
CHARLOTTE
Gare Montparnasse is in a state of chaos. Soldiers and gendarmes swarm around, stopping people, checking papers, and shouting orders. Adults look anxiously toward the platforms from which trains are departing, while pale, tired children, past the time for tears, stand numbly by. And all the time people are being turned back from the trains.
“The police are everywhere, Charlotte!”
Only too well aware of this fact, I grip the baby tightly against my chest, glancing around.
“Don’t look! Just act natural.”
Jean-Luc’s so jittery, it’s scaring me. If he doesn’t calm down, he’ll draw unwanted attention to us. I stop for a minute, looking into his wild eyes. My heart thumps hard against my ribs and my palms feel sweaty, but I remind myself who we’re pretending to be—lovers eloping with their illegitimate child. What would lovers do?
I stand on my tiptoes, draping an arm around Jean-Luc’s neck, the baby between us. I pull him toward me, lifting my face to meet his. “Kiss me,” I whisper in his ear.
At first his lips feel rigid and cold, but as mine linger on them, I feel them begin to soften, welcoming me. The noises around us fade into the background. From a distance I hear whistles blowing, children crying, men shouting, while we stand there breathing into each other. My heart lifts. It’s going to be all right. I know it is.
Then he draws back. “Let’s go. Platform fifteen.”
He takes my arm, pulling me after him. Together we make our way to the soldier who’s checking tickets and papers before letting people onto the platform. Giving Jean-Luc’s fake papers a cursory glance, he tilts his head toward his leg. “How did you get injured?” he asks in a German accent.
“An accident at work.” Jean-Luc’s face is blank and his tone flat.
People are piling up behind us, but the soldier doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. He looks at Jean-Luc’s ID, then back up at him, then at the ID again. Does he see something that doesn’t fit? Maman did have to hurry, cutting his hair roughly to the same style as the photo.
“Michel Cevanne?”
“Yes.” Jean-Luc manages to keep his voice steady.
“Date of birth?”
“Fifth of July 1922.”
The soldier turns to me. “What is your relationship with this man?”
“I’m… We’re… we’re friends.”
“Friends? Your papers, mademoiselle.”
I pass them to him.
“Is that a baby?” He doesn’t look at the papers, but stares at the baby in my arms.
“Yes.”
He stretches out a hand, lifting back the blanket with long, slender fingers. “Do you have the birth certificate?”
“I… We… we haven’t had time to get one yet.”
“All births need to be registered within three days of birth.”
My nerves contract until it feels like they’ll snap. I don’t know what to say.
Then a policeman appears and whispers something in the soldier’s ear. They enter into an urgent-sounding, hushed conversation. Jean-Luc glances over at me. I know what he’s thinking. Now is our moment.
He grabs my hand, and we run down the platform without looking back. We jump on board at the first door, finding ourselves in an empty carriage for eight. Jean-Luc shuts the door behind us. “Sit down. Act natural.”
I sit next to the window, the baby on my lap. Jean-Luc sits next to me. My breath comes fast but my lungs don’t seem to fill up. My head starts to spin.
Abruptly the door is pushed open. A guard peers in. “In here!” he shouts behind him.
I grab Jean-Luc’s hand. I can’t breathe. I watch in terror as the guard holds the door open.
A man carrying a large suitcase squeezes his way in, followed by a woman and three small boys. Jean-Luc pulls his hand out of mine. I let my breath out. Tipping his hat at us, the man sits down opposite, his wife next to him. Their children fight for the two remaining places next to their parents, leaving the last and smallest one standing awkwardly.
“Don’t be so silly, Henri. Sit down,” the father reprimands the boy.
The boy sits down without a word, on the opposite side to the rest of his family, next to Jean-Luc. Pouting, he starts to pick at the dry scab on his knee.
Nobody speaks. Everybody has secrets. When the train pulls out, the two older boys start wriggling, prodding and poking each other.
“Shh, be quiet. Try and go to sleep.” Their mother fixes them with a glare, but the boys continue to pinch each other’s knees. “Tell them, Georges.”
“Be quiet, boys. Try and rest.” Their father looks up, barely focusing on them.
“Papa, I’m hungry. We didn’t have any breakfast.”
“Be quiet!”
The boy stares out the window. I follow his gaze, out over the gray buildings against a blue sky. Please, God, I whisper in my head. Please, God, let us make it to Bayonne.
Suddenly the carriage door slides open, and a tired-looking gendarme steps in. “Papers,” he states, looking at the family, then at us. My heart picks up pace again.
Reaching into his inside pocket, Jean-Luc produces his papers. His hands are steady and his face maintains its cool, amicable regard. I hold mine out with trembling fingers, squirming in my seat but wearing my sweetest smile to compensate.
“Monsieur Cevanne and Mademoiselle de la Ville, traveling with a baby.” The gendarme raises an eyebrow.
“We’re going to Biarritz to get married,” Jean-Luc blurts out.
My fake smile stretches farther across my face.
The guard looks from me to Jean-Luc and back again, his frown growing deeper. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
“It’s for the baby’s sake,” I say. “My father was going to kill me if I’d stayed. And the baby.” Now I let the tears fall. I’m aware of the shocked faces of the family. This has added another dimension to their journey.
Silence fills the carriage.
“You’re eloping!” The guard lets out a loud dirty laugh. “I think you’d better step outside, monsieur. We need to have a word.”
Jean-Luc pats my hand as he reaches for his satchel. “Of course, monsieur.”
I watch him leave the compartment, then look across at the father of the family, sitting opposite. He turns away, looking out the window.
Please, God, please, please. I bite on my bottom lip as seconds turn to minutes.
After what feels like an eternity, Jean-Luc comes back in and sits down. Relief washes over me like a welcome wave. I breathe again. He leans toward me, whispering in my ear. “He wanted money. He thinks he knows our secret and he wanted money to keep quiet. One secret to hide another.” He touches my knee, looking into my eyes. “A lie that is half the truth is the best lie.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The South, May 30, 1944
CHARLOTTE
The train finally draws to a halt in Bayonne, and we step out into darkness and silence. Tall apartment buildings face the station, but the shutters are closed as though the residents have left, though they’ve probably just shut themselves inside.
“Let’s head toward the river. The town center must be over the bridge.” Jean-Luc takes my hand. When we turn the corner, we see a couple of gendarmes coming toward us. Abruptly, I stop in my tracks. “Just keep going.” He nudges me with his elbow.
As we climb the winding street up to the cathedral, the town becomes a little busier, and a few people sitting outside a café turn to stare at us, their faces unreadable. We carry on past the cathedral, coming to a small hotel just around the next corner.
“Let’s try in here.” Jean-Luc pushes the door open, making it creak loudly and summoning an old lady from her early-evening nap behind the reception desk. She looks at us with rheumy eyes.
“We�
��d like a room for the night, please.” His voice is an octave too high, and he coughs.
“Papers,” she demands, holding out bony fingers, waiting.
I take my papers out. She snatches them off me, like a hungry cat, then removes a tiny pair of glasses she keeps in the right-hand pocket of her blouse and scrutinizes them. She gives them back without comment, then puts her hand out for Jean-Luc’s. She scrunches up her nose as she studies them, then abruptly looks up, a sly smile playing around her tight mouth. “Not married!” she states in a shrill voice.
“We’re on our way to get married.” Jean-Luc puts on his most charming smile.
“You’ll be wanting separate rooms then, won’t you?”
“If you prefer.” Jean-Luc sighs loudly, while I look away in embarrassment.
“I do. How long are you staying?”
“Just the night.”
“So two rooms, one night—that’ll be five francs fifty, breakfast and dinner included.”
Digging into his pocket, Jean-Luc pulls out some coins. Her eyes light up as he counts them out.
“Can we buy some milk?” I ask.
“Milk?” The woman’s forehead turns to deep creases.
“For the baby.”
“What baby?”
I pat the bundle in my arms. She really is a blind old bat.
“A baby! Not married. And a baby!”
I expect her to put the price up again, but instead she asks, “Why aren’t you feeding him yourself? You know how hard milk is to come by.”
“I’ve been ill, I can’t feed him.”
“Ill?”
I feel my cheeks burning. “Yes. Quite ill. I had a nasty infection.”
She leans back. “Not tuberculosis?”
“No, nothing like that.”
An awkward silence follows.
“Milk is very expensive.” Her croaky voice cuts through the silence.
“We know.” Jean-Luc smiles at her again. “But it’s for the baby, and we can pay.”
“I’ll see if I can find some for you. Give me another franc and I’ll ask my nephew. He’s a farmer.”
“Thank you. We appreciate your help.” Jean-Luc digs out the coin.
