by Ruth Druart
“What’s the baby’s name?” She removes her glasses, putting them back in her pocket.
“S—” I start, but Jean-Luc quickly cuts in.
“Serge,” he says.
I close my mouth tightly, holding the name Samuel in my mouth. I must learn to think faster; of course his Jewish name would have given him away.
“Serge,” the woman repeats slowly, as if digesting it carefully. “That’s a nice name.”
She shuffles out from behind the desk and we follow her up the stairs. At the end of a dark corridor on the first floor, she stops, producing a key hanging from a chain around her waist. “Pour monsieur,” she declares, opening a door to reveal a small bed rammed up against the window.
“Merci, madame.” Jean-Luc walks past her into the room.
Immediately she closes the door behind him, then turns to glance at me before continuing down the corridor till she comes to another door. “Et pour madame.” Her pronunciation of madame is laden with sarcasm, but I hold my head high as I look around. A single bed dominates the room. “For you and the baby.” She stares at me.
I step into the room, a shiver running down the back of my neck. Without another word, she closes the door behind me with a click. Suddenly I feel very alone. I look down at the bed, which is covered in a threadbare dull brown blanket, then lower myself onto it, the baby still in my arms. The creak of old metal springs makes me jump, and I quickly stand up again. A gentle tap on the door makes me jump again.
Jean-Luc walks in. “Has he woken up?”
“No.” I pull the bundle of baby away from my chest, looking down at the silky dark hair covering the top of his head. “How long do babies normally sleep?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but it’s been twelve hours now.” Jean-Luc reaches his arms out and I place the baby in them. What exactly did Maman give him to make him sleep for so long? I hope she knew what she was doing. I watch as he lays the baby down on the bed, peeling back layers of blanket and clothes, exposing his gray woolen undergarment. I look at his stubby legs—like marble, with a network of thin veins running under his almost translucent skin. His tiny feet are covered in knitted shoes; his arms flop to the sides of his head, giving him an air of abandonment. Tentatively I place a finger on his leg. He’s so warm, but so still. Bending down over him, I blow softly on his eyelids.
He doesn’t twitch.
I turn back to look at Jean-Luc. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“He’s breathing. I just wish he’d wake up. It’s been a long time.” He picks up the tiny body, holding it against his shoulder, patting the baby on the back. Striding around the room, he continues to rub his back, up and down. “Samuel, réveille-toi. Wake up, please.”
I hold my breath.
Gently he lifts him away from his shoulder, holding him at arm’s length. “Get a wet towel.”
Grabbing one of the tea towels Maman packed for us, I run out to the toilet in the corridor. As I drench it in cold water, I silently pray: Please, God, I’ll never ask for anything again, just make him wake up. Please, God.
When I get back to the room, Jean-Luc is sitting on the bed, deathly pale, the baby lying across his knees. He takes the towel from me, wiping Samuel’s face, holding it for longer over his eyelids. All I can hear is Jean-Luc’s breathing, deep and heavy.
The baby’s nose twitches. Then the minuscule movement turns into a larger one as he wrinkles up his nose, his tiny forehead creasing into a frown. Suddenly an ear-piercing wail breaks the silence.
Jean-Luc grins, relief shining through. “I suppose he might feel a bit grumpy after that long sleep. Let’s feed him.”
I let my breath out. Thank you, God. Thank you.
I prepare the bottle with the rest of the milk we brought with us, then pass it to him, watching him as he sits on the bed, guiding the nipple into the baby’s open mouth. “Hush, little one. Dinner’s coming, hush.”
Crying turns to the regular sound of soft swallowing. Immediately I feel calmed, and sit down on the bed. I wonder to myself why I passed the bottle to Jean-Luc when I could have tried feeding Samuel myself. I suppose I don’t feel quite capable yet.
When the bottle is empty, Jean-Luc leans back on the bed, his head resting against the headboard, the baby against him, his cheek squashed up against Jean-Luc’s chest. Uncoordinated hands reach upward as Samuel struggles to put both fists into his mouth at the same time.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
“I have a crib for you,” a shrill voice trills out from behind the closed door.
I drag my eyes away from the baby and stand to let the old woman in.
She opens the door before I get there, her hand resting on a small wooden cot. “And dinner’s ready.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you, madame.” I take the crib from her, closing the door before she has a chance to come in properly and ask what Jean-Luc is doing in my room.
“She’s just checking up on us.” He gets up from the bed. “We’ll leave him while we eat. He’ll be fine; we won’t be long.”
“Leave him? Can’t we take him down with us? I’m worried.”
“We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
“Can I hold him?”
“Later. We should eat first.”
Jean-Luc places him in the crib, but the baby doesn’t look in the least bit tired, still bent on trying to cram all his fingers into his mouth.
“He still seems hungry.” I look at Jean-Luc. “It doesn’t feel right to leave him here alone. Please, let’s take him down with us.”
“I don’t think we should, Charlotte. People will remember us if they see a baby.”
“Samuel… Serge,” I whisper as I lean over the cot, trying out the names. He pauses for a moment, his movements less frantic as he looks at me. Gently, I rub his tummy. He reaches for my hand as he looks up at me. “Let me pick him up.”
“Later. We should go, or we won’t get anything to eat. That old bag would be only too happy to take our dinner away. Come on. We won’t be gone long.”
Dinner is an unidentifiable piece of gray pâté for starters. Dog? Cat? If we’re lucky, it might be rabbit. It’s followed by a wonderfully hot vegetable stew, and there’s plenty of it. Vegetables are obviously easier to cultivate here than in Paris. Three old ladies sit at a round table in the corner and two elderly couples are hunched over their plates in the middle of the room. I eat quickly, swallowing the food in large gulps, anxious to get back to Samuel. Babies can sometimes die in their sleep, and the thought terrifies me now.
“Charlotte, stop worrying. I’ll go back and check on him.”
But before Jean-Luc can get up, a Boche strides in. “Bonsoir, mesdames, messieurs.”
There are low murmurings in reply, and I am vaguely aware of him tucking the napkin under his chin as he sits down. The other guests continue to eat, even more hushed than before.
The old lady, who appears to serve as the waitress as well as the receptionist, shuffles in. When she sees the Boche, she takes a step back, the color draining from her face.
I watch as she recomposes herself.
“Bonsoir, Herr Schmidt.” She approaches him with her hand outstretched, a fake smile on her lips, contorting her wrinkled face.
“Bonsoir, madame. And where is your lovely daughter this evening?”
“She’s ill. A touch of gastro, I’m afraid.”
I concentrate hard on not looking over, cringing inside.
“That is a shame.”
Without looking, I sense the Boche leaning back in his chair, spreading out his paw-like hands on the table. “Send her my warm wishes for a quick recovery, and tell her I hope to see her before I leave.” The last words are spoken firmly, making it clear that it is an order rather than a request.
“She’s quite green with it. You wouldn’t like to catch it.”
“I’ll take the risk. I’m far more likely to catch something from this rancid pâté you serve here.
”
“Let’s leave,” I whisper across the table to Jean-Luc.
“What about the milk? We’ll need it soon. You go back to the room. I’ll ask in the kitchen.”
The Boche clears his throat loudly, then bites into his toast with a loud crunch. Without looking behind me, I leave the dining room, hurrying up the stairs, happy to rediscover the tranquility of our small bedroom.
The baby is murmuring in his cot. I pick him up, rocking him gently, humming a song Maman used to sing to me.
“Dodo, l’enfant do
L’enfant dormira bien vite
Dodo, l’enfant do
L’enfant dormira bientôt.”
A sudden pang of homesickness shoots through me. I miss Maman already: her fretting about where our next piece of meat will come from, her perpetual frown, her understated but deep love for her family.
After a few minutes, Jean-Luc walks in. “I’ve got the milk. It’s okay.”
“What about the Boche? Did he talk to you?”
“No. He’s not concerned with us. It’s the girl he’s after.”
“Poor girl.” I can’t imagine what it would be like to have to lie down with someone you hated, to have to touch them, kiss them. A shudder runs down my spine, but my real concern lies elsewhere. “I think the baby’s hungry again.”
“He can’t be. He only ate an hour ago. Try putting your finger in his mouth.”
Tentatively I place my little finger in his mouth and am shocked at the force of his sucking. I move over to the bed, sitting on it, cradling him on my lap. My stomach lurches, a strong sense of protectiveness surging through me. “Jean-Luc, it’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. This is the best thing I’ve ever done.” He leans over the baby, kissing the top of his head. Then he looks over at me. “Thank you for everything, Charlotte.” He kisses me softly on the lips.
“What about his parents? What do you think will happen to them?” It makes me feel bad, being happy like this while Samuel’s real parents are being transported to God knows where.
“It will be terrible for them, but at least they won’t have to watch their child go through whatever horrors they are facing. It’s our job to look after him now.”
Gently he takes the baby from me, placing him in the crib, then he comes back to the bed, squeezing in next to me, leaning back against the headboard. He turns to face me, smiling his lopsided smile. I smile back, a feeling of warmth and peace spreading through my veins. It feels like we’re a family. Of course, I know we’re not a real family and Samuel isn’t our child, but still, I let myself pretend, because it feels so good. I want to look after them both, keep them safe and warm and loved. I turn my gaze to the crib in the corner, where soft noises can be heard.
“I mean it, Charlotte.” Jean-Luc twists a strand of my hair around his finger. “This is the best thing I’ve ever done.” He pauses. “And I couldn’t have done it without you. Well, maybe I could, but it wouldn’t be the same.” He kisses my cheek. “I knew you had it in you. I could see it in your eyes.”
I put my hand on his leg. It surprises me how natural it feels—my hand on a man’s leg. I wouldn’t have been able to imagine it just a few weeks ago. “Had what in me?”
“This. This daring. This wild side.”
I’m not sure I have a wild side, and I worry for a moment that he thinks I’m more daring than I am. What will happen now? I wonder. Excitement tinged with trepidation runs through my veins, my breath pounding loudly in my ears. I want to say something, but the words stick in my throat.
“I think we should sleep now.” He kisses me on the forehead. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I’ll take the baby in with me; he might need feeding in the night.”
I watch as he tucks the feeding bottle into his pocket, lifting the baby with one hand and taking the crib with the other.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The South, May 31, 1944
CHARLOTTE
The next morning, breakfast is served in the dining room—a basket of stale bread with a bowl of brown liquid to dip it in. Apparently jam and coffee are just as unavailable here as in Paris. We eat quickly, then set off for Saint-Jean-de-Luz. First we need to get to Biarritz, only eight kilometers away. From there we would have been able to take the coastal route, but the Germans put a stop to that when they established the Atlantic Wall. Now we will have to make our way through the fields and farmland that lie behind the coast.
As we cross open land, we keep a lookout for Nazi trucks, but the only person we see is an old lady collecting firewood. Dew hangs in thick drops from the long blades of grass, making our shoes damp as we trek over fields that have been left to grow at will. We are silent, the only noises the sound of our feet, our breathing, and smatterings of birdsong. Jean-Luc carries Samuel in a sling he’s made from a long pillowcase wrapped around his body.
After just a couple of hours, we reach the coastline of Biarritz. I look at the ocean stretching out to the horizon, then I see the mountain range to my left.
“Look.” Jean-Luc points to the largest mountain. “That’s Spain.”
“Spain already! It doesn’t look so far.”
Low clouds hang over some of the peaks, making it difficult to see their true height, while the sun pierces through in rays of bright white, illuminating patches of green, turning them to the color of fresh limes.
I hear a car accelerating quickly, coming closer.
“Get down!” Jean-Luc crouches in the long grass.
My pulse rate races ahead as I lie flat out in the field.
“It’s okay, it’s gone.” The engine sound fades out. “There are some trees ahead; we’ll be safer walking there.”
I pull myself up, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. We have to cover about fifteen more kilometers before nightfall, but my shoes are rubbing painfully against my heels. I curse myself for taking shoes I’d hardly worn. They’re ugly flat things too, but the soles looked solid, and all my other shoes were too worn down, no good for walking long distances. I want to stop and take them off, but I fear what I might find. My heels feel damp.
Jean-Luc walks ahead of me until we are out of sight of the road, then he takes my hand. I attempt a smile, but wince instead. I try to keep going, but after thirty minutes or so, the pain is excruciating. I can’t take any more. I pause in my stride. “Can we stop for a minute?”
He turns to look at me with a frown. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Can you wait another hour?”
I resist the wave of self-pity threatening to overcome me. “No,” I whisper. “I think I’ve got a blister.”
“Okay, let’s take a short break.” He takes his backpack off, then unties the knot in the sling and sits down, leaning against a tree, balancing the baby on his legs.
“Is that him, or just the countryside?” I screw up my nose.
Jean-Luc bends over him, sniffing, and the baby grabs at the tufts of hair on the back of his head. I watch as Jean-Luc peels himself free. Then he undoes the cotton diaper, using it to wipe away the smeared poo before tossing it to the side. I watch him take out a clean diaper from his backpack. Then, holding my breath, I undo my laces. As I pull the first foot out, I immediately notice the leather at the back of the shoe is stained with dark blood.
Jean-Luc looks over. “Charlotte, your feet! Have you got another pair of shoes?”
I shake my head, my eyes welling up. What an idiot I am!
“Here.” He passes me a handkerchief. “Put this around your ankle. Give me your shoes.”
Carefully I pull the first sock off, then examine my heel. The skin has been rubbed away, leaving a wide red patch, ripe with blood. Now that the instrument of torture has been removed, I feel no pain and wonder if I wouldn’t be better going barefoot.
With the baby balanced on his lap, Jean-Luc kneads the hard leather between his thumb and finger. “We’ll make a cushion with the handkerchief. You should have said something; we could h
ave stopped earlier.” He passes the shoes back. I decide not to try them until we have to get up again. I know it will be painful, even with the handkerchief.
“I’ll feed Samuel.” He reaches into the backpack for the flask of milk to fill the feeding bottle.
“Can I do it this time?”
“Sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean to take over. It’s just that I feel responsible.” He places the baby in my open arms, handing me the bottle.
I tip it up, and a few drops fall onto the baby’s cheek. He’s squirming now from side to side, and it’s difficult to get him to take the nipple. More drops fall on his face. “This is cow’s milk now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the other milk’s all gone.”
“Maman said it might be harder to get him to take it. Shall we wait till we stop again?”
“I’m not sure.” He pauses. “It might not be a good idea to wait till he’s really hungry. And it’s been three hours now. Try holding him more upright; I think it might be easier for him to swallow.”
I follow his advice, shifting my position, gently coaxing the nipple into Samuel’s mouth. He sucks a little, but then turns his head away as if he doesn’t like it.
“I think he might take it better if he’s hungrier.” I stroke his cheek, giving him my finger to suck on. His little mouth grips it tightly. “We could stop again soon.”
“Yes. Next stop, we can all have lunch.”
Jean-Luc eases the baby back into his sling. This time Samuel’s not quite as docile, squirming and moaning while Jean-Luc ties the knot around him. “Come on, little one,” Jean-Luc coaxes. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
Tentatively I push my feet back into the stiff leather shoes, while Jean-Luc disposes of the soiled diaper behind a rock.
As we continue to stride through the trees, Samuel’s moans turn to cries. I feel like crying myself, every step making me wince in agony. A wave of panic rises from my belly as I reflect on the enormity of what I’ve undertaken. “Impulsive” is the word Papa often used to describe me, and he’s right. I am. But I’m brave, too. In my heart, I know I’ve done the right thing. Together Jean-Luc and I are going to save this baby, and that’s what matters most.
