While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “I want a lawyer,” he blurts out.

  “Do you?” The officer smirks. “What else have you got to hide from us, Mr. Bow-Champ?”

  “Nothing.” He realizes that for the first time, it’s true. He has nothing left to hide. For a moment, it feels refreshing. “I have nothing to hide.” He sits up straighter in the chair. “I was only trying to protect Sam.”

  “Really?” The officer has that ironic look in his eye again. Spirals of cigarette smoke wind their way upward. “Trying to protect the boy from his own mother? All she had to go on was that scar on your face and your deformed hand. But she never gave up. She’s been searching for him for the last nine years.”

  How is it possible? When he saw the horrific pictures that came back from the camps, he immediately dismissed any thoughts of her having survived. Of the tens of thousands who were sent there, only two and a half thousand made it back. No, it’s impossible. Auschwitz was an extermination camp, and no one survived more than a few months. If they weren’t murdered on arrival, they were worked and starved till they collapsed. That frail-looking woman who thrust her baby into his arms, how could she have survived?

  “Did you search for Samuel’s mother after the war?” Bradley breathes out a cloud of smoke.

  Almost imperceptibly, Jean-Luc shakes his head. He stares at the gray walls, the fluorescent light buzzing in his ears.

  “Thought not. And why was that?”

  “I never imagined she was still alive.” His voice is flat. The air has been knocked out of him.

  “Still, you could have looked. After all she’d gone through, you should have.”

  Jean-Luc looks away, still unable to understand how she could have survived.

  As if he can read his mind, Bradley continues, “They were on one of the last trains to Auschwitz, in May, just a week before the D-Day landings.”

  For a moment, silence hangs between them. Jean-Luc knows that anything he says will sound horribly superficial now.

  “They survived, both his parents, seven whole months of hell at Auschwitz. Then they had to walk through eighteen days of ice and snow till they were halfway safe. Eighteen days with nothing to eat except snow. Of course, many died, but not Mr. and Mrs. Laffitte. You know what kept them alive?”

  Jean-Luc looks at him with wide eyes. He knows.

  “Yes, the thought of being reunited with their son.” Bradley stubs his cigarette out, grinding it down into the aluminum ashtray.

  “You’ve spoken with them?”

  “Yes. I’ve spoken with them.”

  He wants to ask in what language. How can he be sure it’s really them?

  As if reading his thoughts, Bradley continues. “I spoke with Mrs. Laffitte on the phone, in French.”

  A line crosses Jean-Luc’s forehead.

  “You’re not the only one who can speak French, Mr. Bow-Champ. I’m French Jewish, through my mother. We left in ’39, started again.”

  The officers standing behind Bradley glance at each other.

  “How are they?” Jean-Luc asks. It sounds trivial, but it’s not. He wants to know.

  “Samuel’s parents? Much better now.” Bradley taps his pen against the table. Then, taking another cigarette from his breast pocket, he lights up, inhaling deeply. To Jean-Luc’s surprise, he holds the open pack out toward him.

  Jean-Luc shakes his head, wondering why he’s offering him a cigarette now. It unnerves him.

  “Yes,” Bradley continues. “Mrs. Laffitte wept with joy when I told her the good news. She said she had always known her child was alive, said she’d felt it in her blood.”

  Jean-Luc wishes he’d taken the cigarette. He doesn’t smoke, but it would give him something to do with his hands. His breathing is coming fast, and he can feel sweat collecting under his hairline. He knows what’s coming next. He can feel it.

  “She said she knew that one day she would be reunited with her child. I guess she just didn’t realize how long it would take.” Bradley blows out smoke, watching it circle upward. “But now that day has come.”

  Please, no! The pit of fear in Jean-Luc’s belly grows.

  “They want their son back.”

  He swallows the mounting bile in his throat. He has to stay in control. He can’t let them do this.

  “But… Sam lives here now. This is his home.”

  “You entered America illegally with a baby you had taken from his parents in France.”

  “But it wasn’t like that. I didn’t snatch him from her. She gave him to me.”

  “Gave?” Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Or entrusted you with his safekeeping until the war was over?”

  “What’s going to happen to Sam?” This is all that matters.

  “The French want us to send you back there. They will decide what to do with you and with the boy. Against our advice, Mrs. Laffitte has asked that Samuel remain with your wife until the outcome has been decided upon. She doesn’t want him to be more traumatized than necessary. She’s consulting with some psychologist or psychiatrist. She really does have his best interests at heart.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Santa Cruz, July 10, 1953

  CHARLOTTE

  The doorbell cuts through my dream, slicing it apart, visions of my parents evaporating as I remember I’m in America. It’s funny how my dreams take me back now, as if I were a child again. They leave me feeling disorientated, and it takes awhile to readjust to reality. I reach out a hand, patting the place next to me. Jean-Luc’s not there. He must have gotten up early again.

  “Mom,” Sam shouts. “It’s the doorbell.”

  “Can you go? I’m not dressed yet.” Maybe it’s later than I thought. Turning to look at the clock, I see it’s 7:30. It might be the mailman.

  Marge’s voice echoes through the house. “Hi there, Sam. Is your mom in?”

  What can she want at this time of the morning? I pull the sheets off, put on my dressing gown, and go downstairs.

  “Hi, Marge.” I greet her from the last stair.

  She looks flushed, as if she’s been running. She’s wearing her bright orange sundress, and it clashes with her red cheeks. I can see her waiting for Sam to go back upstairs.

  “Charlie.” She sounds concerned. “Is everything all right? We saw the police car.”

  “What?” My heart freezes.

  “The police car, this morning.”

  I grip the banister. I feel like I’m falling from a great height. I pull my dressing gown belt tight, forcing myself to stay upright.

  “Charlie, is everything okay?” She takes a step toward me.

  “I just got up too quickly. I’m fine.” I hold my hand up. Don’t come any closer. My legs feel like they’re turning to dust. I collapse onto the stair.

  Marge’s face looms large. She sits down next to me, but the stair is narrow, and I feel her flesh through my dressing gown. Her sweet perfume hits the back of my nostrils. It makes me feel sick.

  “What’s going on, Charlie?”

  I can’t form any words. There’s a dam in my head, about to burst. “I… I don’t know what the car was doing there, Marge. I don’t know. I should get dressed.”

  But Marge doesn’t move. “You know you can talk to me. We’re friends.”

  “I’m okay,” I whisper through gritted teeth. “I’ll call you later.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Charlie, you’ve been distant these last few weeks. I can see something’s troubling you.”

  I shake my head, trying to make my voice lighter. “Everything’s okay.”

  “Come on. I can see it’s not. You know a problem shared is a problem halved.”

  I just need her to go. I need to think. Standing up, I move toward the front door and open it.

  She looks at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Well, you know where I am if you need me.” She gives me one last meaningful look before leaving.

  Through the smoked glass I watch her distorted shape walking away. Then I turn back to the s
tairs, leaning on the banister. The police have taken him away. They know.

  The phone explodes in my ears. Oh, God, please make it be Jean-Luc, telling me he’s on his way home, that there was some mistake. I pick it up. “Hello.”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Jean-Luc. Where are you?”

  I can hear him trying to form words, mumbling.

  “Jean-Luc?”

  “Sam’s parents are alive.”

  “What? What are you saying?” I clasp the phone to my ear, unable to make sense of what I’ve heard.

  “Charlotte, they both survived.”

  “What? But… but how? It can’t be true.” I drop the receiver. My hands are shaking, my whole body overtaken by a fierce trembling. I hear his voice on the other end of the phone, but I can’t pick it up.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Paris, May 30, 1944

  SARAH

  “Please, God, no! Please, no!” Sarah covered her ears and closed her eyes, rocking her head from side to side, crying the words. What had she done? It wasn’t possible. What kind of a mother would do that? Had she lost her mind? She hadn’t stopped to think about it properly. She’d seen the man looking in horror at them, and knew he wasn’t part of it, but neither was he a prisoner. He was a railroad worker. A decent man, she could tell. Otherwise she would never have given her baby up. No, she would never have given him to just anyone. She’d looked into his eyes and she’d known he was a kind man. David would understand. She’d had no choice. Now she had to look for David. They’d been separated in Drancy, and she hadn’t been able to find him when they’d crowded onto the buses, nor at the station. She had to tell him. He would be grateful that his son wasn’t in this cattle truck.

  The train shunted forward. Someone elbowed her in the ribs. The screaming went up a notch. “Fermez vos gueules! Shut up!” someone shouted. “It’s too late now!”

  Too late now. She’d done it. He was gone. Her arms empty, she was nothing more than a hollow body. Numb. She would make herself numb. Her numbness would shield her. The shell of her body was on the cattle wagon, but her heart and soul would always be with Samuel. And she would find her way back to him, she promised herself.

  “Sarah, is it you?” A hand tugged at her sleeve.

  Reluctantly she turned around to see a familiar face she couldn’t quite place.

  “It’s me, Madeleine. From school.”

  “Madeleine Goldman.” As she spoke the woman’s name, she was dragged out of her daze, back into the present.

  Madeleine grabbed her hand, tears in her eyes. “Where are they taking us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They already took my husband.” Madeleine reached out for Sarah’s other hand, gripping her tightly. “I hope they take us to the same place.” She looked into Sarah’s eyes. “Thank God we don’t have children.”

  Sarah’s heart stopped beating, unspoken words forming hard clusters in her throat. How could she say such a thing? How would she know?

  She pulled her hand away from Madeleine’s grip, her heart shrinking into a tight ball. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat seized up. Then the breath came back in a gust. She let out a sob, then another, painfully, as if they were being wrenched from her womb. Madeleine wrapped her arms around her and held her.

  For hours they stood clasped together as the train shunted along the tracks. Madeleine talked on and on, about the war, the disappearances of family and friends, where they might be heading. But all Sarah could think about was Samuel. Where was he now? Had he been fed? Was he crying for her? Her own fear, her hunger, her burning thirst meant nothing to her. She could and would endure. But Samuel—so small, so innocent. The thought of him suffering cut into her heart.

  A woman near them moaned softly while her young son clung to her skirt. One man prayed, some cried, and some were silent. People had begun to relieve themselves in the bucket in the corner of the wagon, and it was already slopping over, barely soaked up by the straw. The smell of urine, shit, and stale sweat clung to the back of Sarah’s throat. She buried her head in Madeleine’s shoulder, desperate to go to the toilet herself but unable to in front of everyone.

  “When will they let us out?” Madeleine whispered in her ear.

  There was only enough room for a few people to sit, and after many long hours Sarah’s head was spinning and her knees felt like they were seizing up. Then someone nudged her. “Your turn to sit down.” Realizing there was a rotation—ten people could sit at a time—she lowered herself slowly to the floor, carefully folding her stiff limbs. Her breasts were hard and painful, and she took the opportunity to massage them, making milk ooze out. Samuel’s milk. She scrunched her eyes shut, refusing to let the tears spill, silently begging God for someone else to be feeding her son now.

  When she opened her eyes again, she noticed Madeleine staring at the damp patches on her linen blouse. They were just about visible in the dim light of the windowless cattle truck.

  “I’m so sorry.” Madeleine’s voice trembled. “You have a baby?”

  Sarah was grateful that she’d used the present tense. It gave her hope. She spoke slowly, deliberately, each word painful. “Samuel. He’s one month old.”

  Madeleine squeezed her hand.

  “I gave him to someone. To keep him safe.”

  “You did the right thing. Can you imagine trying to feed a baby here? We’re dehydrated ourselves.”

  “I have to get word to my husband, David. He’s somewhere here.”

  “We’ll write him a message and give it to one of the men to pass on.” Madeleine paused. “They won’t let men and women be together, will they?”

  Sarah shook her head, knowing that they would be separated.

  “They’ll give men different work,” Madeleine continued. “It will be harder for them.” She paused. “We’ll probably be in the kitchens. It will likely be a huge work camp, maybe a mine.”

  Sarah nodded.

  Out of her breast pocket, Madeleine produced a pad of paper and a pen. “Write small, so it can be hidden easily. You never know.”

  But they did know. They knew they were heading somewhere terrible, that they would be treated cruelly, that they might even die there. They knew, but still they hung on to that thin thread of hope.

  Sarah wrote in tiny, careful letters: Our son is safe. I gave him to a French railroad worker. I know he will look after him. Stay alive so we can find him again. Your loving wife. No names. It was safer that way. Folding the paper into a small square, she put it in her trouser pocket until she’d worked out which man she could entrust it to.

  The truck had grown quiet, the moaning and crying and unanswered questions having all died away. Their mouths dry and their stomachs empty, the prisoners had shut down. Madeleine and Sarah huddled together. A young girl, her teeth chattering, drew closer to them, and without a word Madeleine reached out an arm, taking her into their fold. “What’s your name?”

  “Cecile,” the girl whispered.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She was taken last year.”

  Sarah’s heart lurched, seeing this motherless child. She clutched Cecile’s hand. “We’ll look after you.”

  Whenever the train stopped, they shouted out, begging for water, but nothing was given to them. Finally, on the second day, they were given tepid water to drink and they heard Polish voices. As the train pulled out again, they gazed out through the holes in the planks at a flat, bleak landscape.

  On the third night, the train stopped and did not move again. The prisoners waited in silence, terrified, starving, and exhausted. Then the doors were yanked back.

  “Schnell! Schnell! You filthy animals! Get out!”

  They scrambled out of the wagon, clutching one another for support. Floodlights came on, blinding them. Dogs snarled, baring teeth like daggers, straining on their leashes to get at the prisoners. The SS held truncheons and whips, and among them were some women, in long black capes with hoods, and tall bl
ack leather boots.

  “Men to the left! Women to the right!”

  Sarah gripped her message tightly, looking for someone to pass it to. She picked the nearest man, shoving it into his fist. “Please, give this to David Laffitte.”

  “Ranks of five! Now!” A truncheon landed on the head of a woman next to Sarah. Instinctively, Sarah reached for her, holding her up before she could slip to the ground.

  Exhausted, rigid with fear, and stiff from three days cramped in a cattle truck, they moved into lines of five, one behind the other. Sarah scanned the group of men, searching for David, but she couldn’t see him.

  “Schnell! Schnell!” A shot rang out and the thud of a body landing on the ground resonated through Sarah’s head. She couldn’t look. She clung to Madeleine and Cecile, the three of them bonded now by this madness.

  “Hey, how old are you?” The man pointing a stick at Cecile was an inmate, wearing striped trousers and jacket.

  “Thirteen,” she answered.

  “No you’re not! You’re eighteen.”

  “But I’m thirteen!”

  “You’ll die if you’re thirteen.” In a quieter voice he added, “Just say you’re eighteen.” He moved on down the line.

  Another inmate took his place, screaming at them, “Didn’t you know? In 1944, you didn’t know! Why have you come here? You should have killed yourselves rather than come here.” He pointed to clouds of black smoke against a sky only a shade lighter. “That’s where you’ll end up. The crematorium.”

  Madeleine turned around and vomited. Sarah suddenly understood where the terrible smell was coming from. Now she had no doubt in her mind. She had done the right thing when she gave her son up.

  They had arrived in hell itself.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Auschwitz, November 1944

  SARAH

  Only the hope that she would find her son again kept Sarah alive at Auschwitz, though without her close-knit group of friends, it would probably have been impossible to survive.

  In the third week, when they were queuing for the midday watery soup, a woman she didn’t know pushed into her. “Take this,” she whispered, shoving a hard piece of bread into Sarah’s hand. “There’s something inside.”