While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  If only I hadn’t worn these damned shoes. “Jean-Luc, let’s stop and get ourselves sorted out. Please.”

  His eyes grow wide in surprise as he looks at me. “We’ve only been walking for a few minutes; Samuel will quiet down once we get going.”

  I nod, swallowing the tears forming in my throat, pausing in my stride to bend down and take my shoes off.

  “Charlotte, what are you doing?” He stops in his tracks, making the baby cry louder.

  “I’ll walk in my socks. Keep going.”

  The earth is soft and spongy underfoot, and it’s a relief not to have the shoes cutting into me. Only the occasional stick or stone jars into the soft sole of my foot. The crying gradually dies away as the baby drifts off to sleep. We walk in companionable silence for a while, and my spirits begin to lift again. It will be all right, I think, though there are still a couple of things I’m unsure about.

  “Jean-Luc, should we call him Samuel or Serge?”

  “What?”

  “Samuel does sound Jewish.” Just saying the word “Jewish” out loud feels like a crime, and I look up guiltily.

  He pauses in his stride, looking at me. “But it’s the name his mother gave him. We can’t use it now, but as soon as we get out of France, we can.”

  “I like it, actually.”

  “Me too. It’s a good solid name. How are your feet?”

  “Better without the shoes.”

  “We’ll get you something to wear when we cross the Pyrénées.” He takes my hand, raising it to his lips, kissing it softly. “I’m so happy you came with me, Charlotte. I’ll never forget these few days with you. You’re so brave, and you don’t even know it.”

  “Well, that’s not really bravery then, is it? I’m just no good at estimating risk.” I grin as if I’m joking, though deep down I wonder if it might be true.

  “Yes, you’re a little nervous, aren’t you? I can see it every time a tree groans. You jump.”

  “I do not!”

  “You do!” He laughs. “So, that makes you brave. You’re scared, but you’re doing it anyway.”

  I smile, happy to let him have his way.

  After another couple of hours, we find a secluded spot under a large oak tree. Samuel is groaning now, obviously hungry. I take him, angling the bottle into his mouth. He sucks it, then pulls away, crying loudly, his mouth full of milk.

  “He doesn’t like it.”

  “Here, let me try.” Jean-Luc holds his arms out, and reluctantly I pass the baby over. The crying increases in volume, but before he offers the bottle, he sways Samuel in his arms, kissing his face. It appears to calm him down. I watch, fascinated, as Jean-Luc squirts out drops of milk onto his finger before giving it to Samuel to suck on. Only then does he give him the bottle, gently guiding the nipple into his waiting mouth. How does he know what to do?

  “Have you got brothers and sisters? It looks like you know how to feed a baby.”

  “No.” He smiles. “It must be instinct.”

  A tiny wave of jealousy and unease washes over me. I’ve never even held a baby before. It’s not that I’m not interested; I just don’t know anyone who’s got one. There’s only Micheline Deschamps from upstairs, but I’ve really only seen hers from a distance.

  After Samuel has drunk the whole bottle, Jean-Luc puts him up against his shoulder, rubbing his back. Suddenly an enormous belch makes me jump. We both laugh.

  “How do you know about that then?” I ask. “I wouldn’t know to do that.”

  “My mother used to look after the neighbor’s baby, and I remember her patiently waiting for the belch after feeding her. But usually it would take longer.” He lays Samuel down on the grass, leaving him to kick up his little legs. Then he pulls out the bread we bought that morning, and the dry saucisson we’ve carried all the way from Paris, slicing it with his penknife. It’s tough and chewy, but I eat it hungrily, and there is a large chunk of creamy Brie to help it down.

  Feeling a little sleepy, I lie back on the grass, closing my eyes. Jean-Luc lays his head gently on my stomach. “This is perfect,” he whispers. “Time out of time. We’re running for our lives, but here we are lying in the grass like we’re on a picnic.”

  I know what he means. I feel safe here with him and Samuel, as if the world with all its troubles has agreed to leave us alone. It’s a false sense of security, I tell myself, and we shouldn’t stay for long, just a few more minutes. Running my fingers through his hair, I wonder how this much happiness became possible. I’m thrilled and amazed at how you can get what you wish for; you just have to want it more than anything else—be ready to sacrifice everything else for it. And I have, I realize. I’ve left my family and friends behind. My father will probably never speak to me again, and my mother—it’s difficult to say. She knew she couldn’t do anything to stop me, so she helped me, but I knew she was angry with me for having put her in such a difficult position. There were no kisses goodbye, just practicalities, though that has always been the way with her.

  “Charlotte.” Jean-Luc speaks my name softly, interrupting my thoughts, turning his head toward me. “There are no rules, are there?”

  My hand slowly traces the outline of his nose. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we make our own rules. We’re not following the path that was set out for us. We decided our future for ourselves.”

  “Our own rules? Yes, but I think we still need the principles we were brought up with.”

  “Principles? What are they? My only principle is not to let principles get in the way of living.”

  My finger comes to rest on his forehead. I’m not entirely sure I understand what he’s getting at. “But we still need something, something stronger than ourselves; values that are handed down from generation to generation. Don’t we?”

  He takes my finger, bringing it to his mouth, kissing it. “Are you talking about religion?” He pauses. “Do you really believe in God? After… after everything?”

  “I do now.” A small laugh escapes my lips. “Actually, I do.” I lift my finger away from his mouth. “I prayed for something once, and God heard.”

  “He answered your prayer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you ask for?”

  “I can’t tell you that. It’s between me and God.”

  “You’re making me jealous.”

  “Don’t say that. It sounds blasphemous.”

  “Sorry. I wonder what you asked for, though. Was it for a handsome man to steal you away?”

  I pinch his cheek softly. “Well, I’d still be waiting if it was that, wouldn’t I?”

  He laughs, a light, bubbly laugh that eats its way into my heart.

  “I wish we could stay like this forever.” I kiss his cheek.

  Chapter Forty

  The South, May 31, 1944

  JEAN-LUC

  By the time they get to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, the sun is beginning to sink between streaks of low cloud in a pink glow, the waves crashing onto the shore in a timeless rhythm. Tall, ornate houses stand on the street opposite the beach, little bridges stretching across the road connecting the front doors to the seafront promenade. It all looks so picturesque, Jean-Luc’s mind begins to wander, imagining beach holidays—playing in the sand, soaking up the sun in peace and safety. He shakes his head, closing his eyes tight, wondering if one day this kind of dream will become normality.

  They need to head to the small village just over the river—Ciboure. The bridge is easy to find, but Ciboure itself is a maze of narrow, twisting streets. They wander around in what feels like circles. But there’s not a soldier to be seen, it’s eerily quiet, and Jean-Luc can’t help wondering if they’re being watched through cracks in the walls.

  “The curfew starts soon.” Charlotte’s voice is an octave too high. She puts her shoes back on, and he sees how much they hurt her with every step she takes, but he says nothing.

  When they turn the next corner, he recognizes the street name straightaway—Aven
ue de l’Océan. Samuel is moaning and squirming against his chest. He knocks softly on the door, but no sound comes from the other side. This time he raps his knuckles hard against the wood, leaning forward to listen for any hint of movement.

  “Oui?” The door opens a crack, but remains locked by a chain.

  Jean-Luc steps back, letting Charlotte put her mouth to the crack. “We’ve come about the hens. One of them is sick,” she whispers. It’s the secret code her mother gave her.

  Jean-Luc holds his breath as he listens to the chain sliding along its track, then the door opens. They quickly step over the threshold while the woman looks up and down the street before closing the door behind them.

  The smell of boiled cabbage wafts down the long, dark corridor. Samuel wriggles against Jean-Luc’s chest, whimpering softly.

  A large man appears from a door leading out onto the corridor. “Who is it, woman?” he shouts as he shuffles toward them.

  The woman looks them up and down, then stands back, shrugging her shoulders and letting him through.

  “What have we got here?” The man glares at them through dark blue eyes set in a square and heavily lined face.

  “I’m Charlotte de la Ville; you must be my great-uncle Albert.” She leans forward, about to kiss him on the cheek, but he pulls back.

  “Quoi?” He’s about to say something else, but his words are swallowed up by a coughing fit. The woman pats him hard on the back. “Ça va! Ça va!” He pushes her hand away.

  When he’s regained control, his eyes move from Charlotte to Jean-Luc and back again, but he doesn’t say a word and the atmosphere lies thick around them.

  “Alors?” he finally says.

  “My grandmother is your sister. My mother told us to come here.”

  Suddenly he reaches for Charlotte’s chin, twisting it around, his thumb under it. Jean-Luc sees her tense up, and his heart beats harder, worried they’ve got the wrong man, the wrong address.

  Then abruptly he lets go. “Yes, I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. You look a lot like her. Do you have something personal from her?”

  “From whom?”

  “Your grandmother. My sister.”

  “No.” Charlotte frowns.

  For a moment they stand there waiting, the smell of cabbage growing stronger. Then Charlotte coughs. “She gave me a brooch… for my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Show me.” He scratches at his beard, his eyes narrowing as he studies her.

  With trembling fingers, she unfastens the buttons on her coat, removing the brooch that is pinned to her blouse.

  He takes it in his rough, calloused hands, running his fingers over the smooth surface of the green gem. “I remember this. Who gave it to her?”

  “It was her father, for her twenty-first.”

  For a quiet moment they stand there while he turns the brooch over in his hands. Then, reaching forward, he lays it in her open palm, gently closing her fingers around it. “You’d better not lose it.” He pauses, a smile almost reaching his lips. Then abruptly he grips her by the shoulders, pulling her to him, kissing her loudly, twice on each cheek. When he releases her, he turns to look at Jean-Luc. “Who’s this, then?”

  Jean-Luc offers his hand. “Jean-Luc Beauchamp, very pleased to meet you, monsieur.”

  Albert’s eyes narrow again as he looks him up and down. “I like to know a man before I shake his hand,” he states gruffly.

  Jean-Luc’s hand falls to his side. As if sensing his rejection, Samuel’s soft whimpering turns back to crying. Leaning forward, Jean-Luc undoes the folds of cloth, pulling him out, holding him up. “And this is Samuel.”

  “Your son?”

  “No,” Charlotte answers quickly.

  Albert’s face changes as his wary eyes grow warmer. “We’d best go and sit down.”

  They shuffle along the dark corridor to the kitchen. Albert sits at the end of the long dining table, like a king looking upon his court. Jean-Luc notices the scorch marks of hot dishes and forgotten cigarettes. Passing the baby to Charlotte, he digs into the backpack for the flask. When he shakes it, the sound of a tiny amount of liquid slopping around seems to echo through the room.

  “Do you have any milk?”

  “We can get some.” Albert turns to the woman. “Marie, go and ask Pierre.”

  She shuffles away without a word.

  Jean-Luc fills the feeding bottle with the remaining milk and passes it to Charlotte. She fumbles around with it for a minute before managing to get Samuel to take it, and he finds himself holding his breath as he waits for the baby to start drinking.

  “How old is he?” Albert frowns. “He looks very small.”

  Jean-Luc shrugs. “We’re not exactly sure. Probably only a few weeks.”

  “You traveled from Paris with a young baby that’s not even your own?”

  No one says anything for a minute, then Charlotte looks up. “He’s very good. And we were lucky we didn’t get stopped.” Jean-Luc hears the pride in her voice.

  “So?” Albert raises a hairy eyebrow. “Why come here? What do you want from me?”

  “We’re hoping you can help us.” Charlotte looks at him. “Maman said you’ve helped people escape to Spain.”

  Albert scratches his beard, looking from Charlotte to Jean-Luc and back again. “But why do you need to escape? What have you done? Is Jean-Luc Jewish?”

  “No,” Charlotte says.

  Jean-Luc takes over. “I’m a railroad worker. I was working at the station at Bobigny—Drancy.”

  “I see.” Albert’s thick eyebrows come together, making deep lines on his forehead.

  “I knew I had to get out. I was waiting for the right opportunity. First I tried tampering with the rails, but that only landed me in the hospital. Then, one morning as a train was leaving, a woman begged me to take her baby… to save him.”

  “This baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s true. They’re transporting the Jews from Drancy.”

  “Yes, by the thousands.”

  “That’s what I heard. But where are they taking them?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think it must be somewhere far out east. They change drivers at the border. Only the Boches know where they’re really going.”

  The lines on Albert’s forehead grow deeper. “Only the Boches. The bastards!”

  Charlotte stands up. Jean-Luc can see she’s trying to pacify Samuel, who’s crying loudly now. They all look up as Marie comes bustling back in with a metal jug. “Two packs of Gitanes, this cost me.”

  “We have cigarettes.” Jean-Luc digs into his breast pocket, pulling out a couple of crumpled packs. He pushes them along the table.

  “So.” Albert lights up. “This woman asked you to take her baby?” He holds the pack out to Jean-Luc.

  “Yes.” Jean-Luc shakes his head, dismissing the offered cigarette. “She begged me. She knew what would happen if she took him on that train.”

  “So why not pass him on to someone else for safekeeping?”

  “We didn’t have anyone. And… well… we were in a hurry to get out of Paris. I needed a Boche’s uniform, you know, to get out of the station.”

  Albert nods, an inkling of a smile playing on his lips.

  “I had to shoot a Boche in the leg to get one. Then I knew they’d be after me, and I had nowhere safe to leave the baby.” He pauses. “I went to Charlotte’s. I didn’t know where else to go, and her mother helped us. She told us about you and gave us money.”

  “Did she now?” Albert coughs, and it sounds like years of phlegm are being dislodged.

  Marie gets up and whacks him on the back. “I told you it was time to stop smoking.”

  “You’d deny me all my pleasures if you could, wouldn’t you, woman?”

  She tuts loudly, but continues to rub his back.

  “I’m surprised your mother let her only daughter go like that. She knows how dangerous it is.”

  “She couldn’t stop me.” Charlo
tte holds her head high.

  “Thank God I don’t have daughters.” He laughs a throaty laugh. “I always said they were nothing but trouble. Have you thought about where you’ll go after you get into Spain?”

  “America.” Jean-Luc looks at Charlotte. “Land of the free.”

  “Not a bad idea. France is going to be hell for a few more years yet. Once this damned war is over, there will be retributions to be faced. I can only imagine how ugly that will get.” Albert looks at the young couple as if making a calculation. Finally he speaks. “It’s difficult with a baby. The passeurs don’t like taking babies.”

  Charlotte glances over at Jean-Luc.

  “Babies are unpredictable. They cry. It can cost lives.” Albert flicks ash into the large metal ashtray. “It’s a risk. If he cries, you could be discovered. And they don’t want to have to kill a baby.” He pauses. “Sometimes it’s the only option. One life sacrificed to save the others.” He stares at Charlotte with rheumy eyes. “No one wants to kill a baby.”

  “Except for the Nazis.” Marie speaks up, her voice thick with disgust.

  “But… but we can’t just leave him.” Charlotte swallows, her eyes darting from Marie back to Albert.

  “There must be a way,” Jean-Luc says. “We could give him something to make him sleep. It worked on the train.”

  “Maybe.” Albert scratches his beard again. “Maybe. But you have a better chance of making it over the Pyrénées alone. We might be able to find a family to take him in—”

  “Is he circumcised?” Marie interrupts.

  “No.” Jean-Luc answers quickly.

  “That’ll make it easier,” Albert says.

  “We’re not leaving him.” Charlotte’s voice is loud and clear.

  Jean-Luc is surprised by her assertiveness, but he waits, weighing their options.

  “Well.” Albert takes a long puff on his Gitane, exhaling slowly, savoring it. “I have warned you. And it will be difficult to find a passeur. Only Florentino might do it.”

  “He’s a good baby. He hardly cries. He sleeps most of the time,” Charlotte says hurriedly.