by Ruth Druart
“Ten minutes! But I need to talk with Charlotte and Sam. I can’t just leave like that.”
“I said ten minutes. Now quit your whining, or it’ll be down to five.”
“Please…”
Folding his arms, the officer looks down at his wristwatch.
Without another word, Jean-Luc gets up and follows him out to the waiting car. Thank God, there are no handcuffs. He gets in the back with the officer. They drive to his home.
“We’ll wait here,” the officer says when they pull up behind the oak tree.
Jean-Luc gets out of the car, vaguely aware of Marge’s kitchen curtains twitching. He walks up the garden path and pushes the front door open. Cautiously he breathes in, wondering where Charlotte and Sam are. An eerie silence seeps from the walls.
He hears shuffling noises coming from the kitchen. He goes on through, the blood racing through his veins.
Charlotte, a small suitcase in her hand, stands in the middle of the room. Her mouth drops open when she sees him, the color draining from her face.
He knows what she’s doing. His heart sinks, heavy with the weight of her pain. “Charlotte.” He reaches his arms out to her.
“We have to go. Now!” she screams at him.
He touches her shoulder, bringing her gently toward him. He can feel all her hot energy dissipating.
She falls into him.
“Shh, shh… mon ange.” He feels her body give way as she sinks down to the floor, as though she’s crumbling away under his fingers. Sinking with her, he crouches down, stroking her, murmuring, “Charlotte, Charlotte.”
Someone coughs. He looks up to see Sam standing in the doorway, his little face ashen.
With one arm still around Charlotte, Jean-Luc opens up the other. Wordlessly Sam walks into the fold. He wraps his little arms around Jean-Luc’s neck and whispers in his ear, “Daddy, please don’t go away again. I’m scared.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Santa Cruz, July 13, 1953
CHARLOTTE
“Why can’t we go to France with Daddy?” Sam runs into the bedroom, jumping onto the bed next to me. I want to wrap him in my arms and hold him safe forever. It feels like the world in all its ugliness is crashing into our lives, and I won’t be able to protect him from it.
“Sam, your father had to go to help with a police investigation.” I stroke his silky hair. “It’s not a holiday.”
He sticks out his lower lip. “But I wanted to go camping in France.”
“I know. Maybe one day.”
He gets up, pulls the curtains back, and looks out the window. “Mom, why is the cop out there?”
“He’s looking after us.”
“Why?” He turns around, scrunching up his forehead. “Why do we need looking after?”
A shiver runs down the back of my neck. What can I say? “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case the bogeyman comes. Come on, time for bed now.”
“But who is the bogeyman?”
“He doesn’t exist. It’s just a saying.”
“Why did you say it then?”
“Come on, Sam. Time for bed. Bogeyman or not.”
He looks at me with round, alert eyes. “I can’t go to sleep.”
I lean over him, kissing him on the forehead. “Course you can.”
“I can’t, I’m scared. Can I sleep in your bed? Daddy’s not here.”
It’s tempting to have him near me. I’m scared too. “Okay, just this once.”
After I put him in our bed, I go down to the kitchen, pulling back the net curtains to stare out at the police car. They think I might try to escape with Sam; not that they’ve said anything, but it’s there in the way they look at me, suspicion edged with something verging on pity. I don’t know what to do with myself. Time is slipping away while other people are deciding what will happen to our lives. Marge hasn’t been back. In fact, no one has even called. I imagine it didn’t take long for the news to get out. That’ll give them something to talk about during their coffee mornings.
Without intending to, I find myself wandering into the living room, pouring myself a glass of Southern Comfort. I drink it quickly, feeling it taking the edge off my raw nerves. I’m tired and confused. Maybe I should get an early night; things might be clearer in the morning. I creep back upstairs, glad that Sam is in my bed. I need him near me. Without putting the light on, I get undressed and pull on my nightie. When I slip into bed, I hear his breathing, light but regular. He must be asleep already. I lie on my back, concentrating on breathing down into my abdomen, trying to relax.
Sam lets out a long, heavy breath, turning over. Then he turns back, facing me. I lie there rigid as a piece of metal. I feel him move closer to me, his silky hair caressing my arm. I roll onto my side and stroke his head.
“Mom,” he whispers. “What investigation is Daddy helping the police with?”
“It’s complicated, Sam.” Maybe it will be easier to explain in the dark. I’ve been putting the moment off, aware that everything will change once he knows. “Sam…”
“Yeah.”
“There’s something I should tell you.”
“What, Mom?”
“About you. It’s your story.”
“What story?”
I kiss the top of his head in the dark. “You remember how we told you about the war, when you were born in Paris, and how we escaped across the mountains and the ocean to come to America?”
“Yeah.”
“We had to leave. There was so much fighting, bombs dropping. We were scared the Nazis were going to blow up Paris.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“When you were born, it was so different. It’s hard to imagine. Every day people were being arrested and killed.” I continue to stroke his head. “What I’m going to tell you now is hard to understand, so please listen carefully and let me get to the end. Okay?” I reach for his hand.
“Okay, Mom.”
“You were born into the war, and even though you were only a tiny baby, you were arrested and taken away to a horrible prison.”
“Why would they put a baby in prison?”
“You were born in the wrong place, Sam. They were arresting all the Jews in Paris and taking them to an awful prison. Many died. But somebody rescued you.”
“What’s a Jew?”
I wonder how to explain it. I’m not really sure myself whether it’s a race or a religion. “It’s… it’s someone whose parents were Jewish. It’s passed on from one generation to the next.”
“What? Like being color-blind? That’s passed on, and so is eye color, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, but it’s nothing like that. It’s more to do with your history—where you’re from, your religion.”
“Are we Jewish?”
“No.” We’ve never talked much about religion, though Sam knows many of the Bible stories. We married in a Catholic church after we arrived in America, but Jean-Luc and I both feel a little uneasy with the indoctrination and the rules of religion. Maybe it’s because we’ve disobeyed so many of them.
“So why were we in the prison?”
I’m not sure how to go on now. How do I tell him he’s not our son? I don’t think I can do it.
I take a deep breath, putting my arms around him, pulling him into me. I breathe in his smell—lemon shampoo and a slight musky odor. The lump in my throat grows hard. I kiss the top of his head and stroke his soft cheek. Then I pinch his nose gently, like I used to when he was small.
He lies there, warm and soft, and I feel him soaking up all my love for him. For a minute we lie there. Safe. Together.
Then he begins to fidget. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to tell him.
“Sam, you were in prison because you were Jewish.”
“But you said we weren’t Jewish.”
“We’re not, but you are.” I take his cheeks in my hands. “Listen carefully, and let me get to the end. Okay?
; “The person who saved you from this prison was your father.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes. He smuggled you out when no one was looking. You were tiny—only about a month old.”
“Where were you?”
“I wasn’t there. Just listen, Sam. Your father was working on the railroads at the prison.”
“Yeah?”
“When he took you, he had to hide you, but you were so small, it wasn’t hard. He hid you under his coat.” I pause, gathering my thoughts, aware of the awful impact they’ll have once they’re released. “Sam, he couldn’t bring your mother and father with him too. He couldn’t hide them like he hid you.”
“What… I don’t understand. You mean you?”
“No. Your real parents are Jewish. They were prisoners too, but Daddy couldn’t save them. He could only save you.”
“But I don’t understand. You’re my parents!” He sits bolt upright and reaches behind him, flicking the switch. Light floods the room.
I squint. But I’m desperate to see Sam, so I open my eyes to the blinding light.
“Why are you saying this?” He puts his hands over his ears, as though he can block out the truth.
I reach out for him, putting my hands over his. “Sam, mon coeur. I’m so sorry. We’re… we’re not your real parents. Your real parents were taken away during the war.”
“No!” He jumps up. “No!”
“Sam, please. Listen.”
“No!” He shoots out of the room.
I hear his bedroom door slam. I have to go to him. He can’t be left alone to make sense of this nightmare. I pull my dressing gown on, giving him a few minutes to calm down. When I open his door, he’s lying on his bed, his head buried in the pillow.
“Sam,” I whisper.
He pretends not to hear me. I walk farther into the room and sit on the bed. “Sam, we love you so much.”
“Why did you say all those things then?” His voice comes out muffled. He turns over, staring at me with angry eyes. His fury wrenches at my core. He wants us to be his real parents as much as we do.
“Sam, I know how hard this is for you.” I take his hand out from where it’s hiding in his pajama sleeve and hold on to it tightly.
“You don’t want me, do you? You don’t like me anymore.”
“No! No! That’s not true!” How could he think such a thing? “We love you so much. We brought you here because we wanted you, and we’ll never stop loving you.” He has to understand that my love for him is pure and unconditional; that nobody could love him more than I do.
I see tears spring into his eyes, slide down his cheeks, and I watch as he sticks his tongue out to catch them. I imagine their salty taste—comforting, like the sea.
He’s staring up at the ceiling, his big brown eyes still watering up.
“There’s a spiderweb,” he announces abruptly.
Startled at his change of topic, I follow his gaze upward.
“I hate spiders!” He wipes his face with his sleeve. “They climb up your nose and out through your mouth while you’re asleep. Not many people know that. I read it and then I knew it, and it was too late to unknow it. I hate it—all those things happening without you even knowing.”
“Sam, I’m so sorry. We didn’t want to have to tell you like this. You’re still so young. It’s difficult for a boy to—”
He jumps up from the bed, wild eyes darting around the room, coming to fall on the fort Jean-Luc made for him. I know what he’s going to do. I can feel it as though I were in his head. He picks it up, lifting it out in front of him. Then he throws it down. It splits at the sides, breaking open. He bends his knee, then brings his foot crashing forward, smashing it into smithereens.
I gasp, remembering Jean-Luc building the fort out of odd bits of wood and old popsicle sticks, putting the pieces together in exactly the right places. All that time and love, gone.
Sam collapses onto the floor, lying in front of the broken fort, curling his legs up to his chest, sobs racking his body.
I lie down next to him, but I don’t touch him. The moment is too fragile. “Sam, we love you so much. We wanted to save you. In our hearts we are your real mom and dad. We always will be.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Santa Cruz, July 15, 1953
CHARLOTTE
They’re watching me all the time. They call it surveillance, but it feels more like house arrest. They’re not the only ones. I sometimes see Marge at her kitchen window, twitching the curtains. A young officer sits outside the house in his blue-and-white car for the whole neighborhood to see. No wonder no one calls anymore. He’s a few years younger than me, recently married, with a new baby; hence the gray bags under his eyes. Polite and unimposing, he keeps a respectful distance between us, as if he’s embarrassed to be checking up on me like this. He’s just doing his job.
I decide to invite him in for a coffee. I want him to know I’m just a normal mother, and not some anonymous face. Also, I might learn something from him about the trial. I walk out to his car with a straight back and my head held high.
He steps out when he sees me coming, smoothing down his crumpled pants and straightening his cap. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
“Good morning…”
“John,” he fills in for me.
“Good morning, John. I was wondering if you’d like to come in for a coffee.”
“I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”
“I see.” I look at him, noticing the slight tremor in his hands as he straightens his cap again. “What do you think I’m going to do? Lock you up in my house and run away?”
He laughs. It’s a high-pitched, nervous laugh and he covers it up by coughing, rolling his hand into a manly fist as he brings it up in front of his mouth.
“I’ve got some homemade cookies too,” I say, turning back toward the house.
As I guessed, he doesn’t want to appear rude, so he follows me in. When he enters the house, he removes his cap and moves his hands to the edge of it, letting it glide through his fingers, around and around, again and again.
“Come through to the kitchen.”
He watches as I put the coffee beans in the grinder, turning the handle.
“Wow.” He smiles. “Real coffee.”
“Yes, we like our coffee.”
There’s a minute’s silence, then he coughs again.
“Don’t worry about checking up on me like this.” I want to put him at ease. “You’re just doing your job.”
“Yeah, it’s not the most interesting bit. I prefer to be out and about.” He pats his stomach as though he’s already put on pounds sitting out in the car for all of three days now.
“Any news on the trial?” I try to sound casual.
“No, but don’t worry. It will be quick, as it concerns the welfare of a minor.”
“A minor?” I frown. Sam’s the major person in this whole trial.
“Yes, since a child’s welfare is concerned, it will have top priority.”
“But once they understand that Jean-Luc didn’t kidnap him, that he saved him, they’ll stop the trial, won’t they? They can’t really charge him with kidnapping, surely?”
“Mrs. Beauchamp, I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”
I’ve made him uncomfortable. He’s sipping his coffee, though it’s still too hot to drink. I bet he can’t wait to get back to his car.
“I’m sorry, of course you don’t.” I take a deep breath. “How’s your baby?” I ask.
“Swell. He’s a great little guy. Don’t seem to like to sleep much, though.”
“Oh dear. We never had any trouble with Sam. He always slept well.”
“Guess you were lucky.”
“Yeah,” I continue. “He loved his sleep and his food. What we call a bon vivant in France. He was such an easy, happy baby. We really were lucky.”
“Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Beauchamp.” He puts his cup down decisively and stands up.
W
hen I accompany him to his car, I see the mailman cycling away. Silently I pray there’ll be a letter in the mailbox from Jean-Luc. This waiting is killing me. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. I’m barely functioning. I look across the street at Marge’s house. I’ve thought about going over there, telling her the truth, but somehow I don’t think she’ll be ready to listen now. It’s funny how all the friendly faces of the neighborhood have evaporated into thin air. I had hoped that one of my so-called friends would come over to ask for my side of the story. The chance to explain, even if they didn’t understand, would have helped. But the curtains are closed at the kitchen windows, and no one’s in their yards these days.
When I open the latch at the back of the mailbox, I see one thin letter. Quickly I pull it out, staring at the postmark. France. I rip it open.
My dearest Sam, my darling Charlotte,
The two of you are everything to me—my home, my love, my life. Every day I thank the stars above that you came into my life. The past nine years have been more than I ever dared hope for, and they have brought me more happiness than I ever deserved.
Sam, through your eyes I have seen the world in its brightest, most beautiful colors. You have taught me so much: that we are born good, that life is worth living, worth fighting for. That we always have a choice. The best choice I ever made was you. Taking you was the best thing I ever did.
Your mother will have told you your story by now. It’s a special story, for a very special boy. You are brave and courageous, and even though difficult times lie ahead, I have faith in you. You are stronger than you realize.
Once we escaped to America, both your mother and I fell in love with you, and we didn’t look for your real parents. Please forgive us for this.
Charlotte, you gave me faith in myself, I became a better man because of you. Now, you must be clear that this is all my doing, my fault. You had no part in it. Remember how I didn’t let you talk, how I wouldn’t let you speak of the past. I said it was all behind us, that I would build a new life for us here in America. You wanted to tell the truth about our story, but I wouldn’t let you. Remember that through all this, you are innocent.
