While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  Stay safe, for Sam.

  All my love, forever,

  Jean-Luc

  The idiot! He wants to take all the blame, when it was my fault. When it was I who refused to go to the authorities. I’d fallen in love with Sam and was worried that one of those Jewish organizations would take him away from us to “repatriate” him. I had terrifying visions of him being adopted by a Jewish family in Israel. I knew it had happened to children who were hidden in the war and whose parents had been killed. I convinced Jean-Luc that we couldn’t take the risk—that Sam was better off with us, believing he belonged to us, because I couldn’t have lived without him.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Santa Cruz, July 16, 1953

  SAM

  I miss my friends. It’s all gone creepy quiet. No one calls anymore, and I haven’t seen Jimmy out in his yard. I get it now—my story. I just want Daddy to come home and for things to go back to normal. Mom told me to stay inside and lie low for a while. But it’s so boring. Deadly boring. I could go to Jimmy’s, I suppose; she’d never know if I’m quick, unless the cop tells her, but I could duck around the back of his car. I’ve seen him snoozing loads of times.

  I jump up, run out the front door, up the yard, behind the cop car, and across the street. I hold my finger on Jimmy’s bell.

  There’s no answer. I ring again, this time holding the bell down for longer. The curtains at the kitchen window move, and I see Marge looking out at me. I wave, then feel stupid when she doesn’t wave back. It gives me a heavy feeling inside. She moves away from the window and I stand back from the door, waiting for her to let me in.

  Slowly the door half opens. “Oh, Sam. Hello.”

  I don’t know why she pretends to be surprised it’s me.

  “Hi,” I say. “Can Jimmy play?”

  Before she can answer, I hear feet running down the stairs and Jimmy’s there. I feel better already.

  But then he stops on the bottom stair. “Hey, Sam.”

  “Hey, Jimmy.”

  “You should hear all the things everyone’s saying about you.”

  “Shh, Jimmy,” Marge says.

  “Can he come upstairs, Mom?”

  Jimmy never used to have to ask for permission.

  “Come on, Sam.” At least he doesn’t wait for her answer, but shoots straight back upstairs.

  Without looking at Marge, I run after him.

  “You have to set the table soon, Jimmy,” Marge calls after us. “Sam can’t stay long.”

  We both ignore her and make a space among the pieces of Meccano in his bedroom to put our butts. “What you making?” I ask.

  He looks at me. “Nothin’ much.”

  There’s a silence, and it makes me feel bad.

  “Everyone’s saying your dad’s a Nazi.” He looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. And then he kidnapped you. Because you were a baby.”

  “What’s a Nazi?” I remember Daddy’s letter and try to be brave.

  “Well, it’s real bad. They were Germans who tortured and shot people, in the war. They all wore long black coats and high black boots, and they marched through towns killing everyone.” He takes a breath. “Was your dad really a Nazi?”

  “No!” I can’t help it. Tears spring to my eyes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, swallowing the rest. Then I look at Jimmy long and hard. “He was never a Nazi. He was fighting the Nazis, secretly. He saved me from them. They were gonna kill me, so he took me. He never kidnapped me. Then he escaped here to America with my mom.”

  “Wow! That’s real bad.” Jimmy stares back at me, and I can tell he’s working out whether to believe me. “Is your mom your real mom?”

  I shake my head, remembering how we always laughed so much, till our sides hurt, and when we stopped we couldn’t remember what made us laugh in the first place, and that would just start us off again. Jimmy has always been my best friend.

  “But why were they gonna kill you?”

  “’Cause I was born in the wrong place, and in war they do bad things to children, even babies.”

  “Yeah.” Jimmy looks down, and I can see he’s thinking about this. Then he looks up again, his eyes warmer than before. “Who are your real parents, then?”

  “I dunno. They were prisoners too, and they nearly died. But they didn’t.”

  “Are you gonna meet them?”

  “Maybe, dunno.”

  “Why is there a cop outside your house every day? Where’s your dad now?”

  “He’s in France, helping them with the investigation. The cop looks after us now instead.”

  “Cool.” Jimmy frowns. I can see he’s not sure about the whole story. Me neither. I don’t get why we need the cop. Some kids don’t have dads, but they don’t get cops looking after them either.

  He pokes me in the ribs. “Wanna help me make a car now?”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Santa Cruz, July 16, 1953

  CHARLOTTE

  The TV is off and the house is quiet. “Sam!” I call.

  He must be up in his bedroom. I’m just about to go check on him when the doorbell rings. It’s the young officer, John. He takes off his cap, wiping his feet on the doormat as he comes in. “Mrs. Beauchamp. I have some news.” He pauses, looking down at his feet.

  The way he says it, fading out, almost muttering the last word, scares me. It’s not going to be good. I just know it.

  “Come in.” I stand aside.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He clutches his cap in front of his groin.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I put on my pleasant hostess voice, going through the formalities, putting off the moment of knowing.

  “Yeah, please. Thank you.” Please and thank you in the same breath. He must be very uncomfortable.

  “Coffee? Juice?”

  He follows me into the kitchen. “Juice would be great. Thanks.”

  He watches as I pour orange juice into a glass. “Sam knows about his parents and all?” he asks abruptly.

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  “It’s confusing for him. He’s missing his father terribly. We both are.”

  John nods, as though he understands, and we sit down at the kitchen table. I watch him as he drinks his juice. He has an open face and bright blue eyes. His hair is dark blond, brushed to one side, his nose is small—delicate, even, and his chin is round. He looks so young. Studying him, I take a sip of water from my own glass. Distracted, I miss my mouth and water drips onto the table. Before I have time to get a cloth, he’s up on his feet, pulling the tea towel off the metal bar in front of the oven door. I let him wipe up the water.

  “Did you sew it?” He holds up the tea towel, looking at the embroidered picture of Pont Neuf. “It’s pretty.”

  “My grandmother did.” Why does he want to talk about the damned tea towel?

  “You carried it with you when you escaped? All this way?”

  “Yes, I have three. Sam slept wrapped up in them.” I feel the years slipping away, the clocks turning backward. It feels like I’m back there now, slipping, sliding, desperate to escape.

  “Have you been in touch with your family in France since you got here?”

  “Not really. They found it difficult to forgive me for what I put them through.” I pause, thinking about the selfishness of my decision. “I just ran away without a thought for them.”

  He nods.

  “I was very young.”

  “Yes, we all make mistakes when we’re young.”

  “Mistakes? Is that what you think it was? A stupid mistake?”

  He goes red. Poor guy. It’s not his fault.

  “What news do you have?” I ask. I’m ready to hear it now. “Is it about the trial?”

  “Yes, it was very quick—for a trial. They were talking about it at the station just before I left for my shift. They’ll send someone soon to tell you officially.”

  I stare at him. It must be ba
d.

  “You’re here now, John. Just tell me.” I’ll shake it out of him if I have to.

  I watch him swallow. I bet he wishes he’d just stayed outside.

  “The jury was unanimous, Mrs. Beauchamp.”

  “Unanimous?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you.”

  My heart lurches. I take the tea towel from him to wipe my eyes, praying: Please, God, don’t let it be too bad. “Just tell me. Please.”

  “They found your husband guilty on the charge of kidnapping, but due to extenuating circumstances, he’s only getting two years. It’s just a token sentence really.”

  “But he’s not a kidnapper! He’s not!” I jump up, knocking my glass over. Everything’s swimming out of focus.

  “Mrs. Beauchamp, they had to give him some kind of a sentence or people might have made a fuss.”

  “People? What people? He’s not a kidnapper. He saved Sam!”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Beauchamp, please. There’s more.”

  A sharp pain cuts through my chest. I gasp. No words come. The room starts to spin, around and around. There’s no air. Everything goes black.

  He’s holding my head up, supporting it on his bent knee. Water’s dripping down my face, and my wet shirt is clinging to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he’s saying. “I threw some water over your face. You weren’t coming around.” He puts his hands under my arms and attempts to pull me up, but I have no muscle tone. I flop back down to the floor. He stands there looking at me. “I’m sorry you’re so wet. Would you like some water?”

  I look at him and laugh. More water? Awful hysterical laughter spills from my mouth. I can’t stop it. I try to push words out, but the laughter takes over again.

  “Please, Mrs. Beauchamp. Let me help you up.” He tries again. I force the laughter back down, and this time I manage to get up. I let him place me back on the chair.

  “Maybe you should have something sweet. You’re very pale.” He brings over the tin of cookies, holding it out to me. The smell fills me with nausea. I shake my head.

  He puts the lid back on, then looks up at me, his bright blue eyes staring into mine. “You know, my father died in France.”

  I don’t want to know. I just want him to leave. Two years! How is that possible?

  “He was in the navy. He was there on D-Day. An officer. We went to a service in Normandy after the war. Where they buried them, the cemetery, y’know—it’s American territory now.”

  I wonder why he’s telling me this. I don’t care. “Two years? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Normally it’s much longer for kidnapping.”

  “But how can they accuse him of kidnapping? He’s not a kidnapper, is he?”

  He pauses. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beauchamp. It’s not for me to say.”

  “But they’ve got it all wrong, haven’t they?”

  “I can’t say. It wouldn’t be professional of me.”

  “Professional?”

  “Yeah. It’s not up to me anyway, is it?”

  “But what do you think?”

  “You should have given the boy back, after the war.” He holds my gaze. There’s sympathy in his eyes, but a hard stubbornness too.

  “What else is there? You said there was more… Where’s Sam?” Dread fills me.

  “He’s gone to his friend’s house.”

  “What? He didn’t ask.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s still there.” He touches my shoulder. “Mrs. Beauchamp, for what it’s worth, I think you’ve been a great mother to Sam. I can see he’s happy and well loved. I understand you wanted to keep him and forget the war, but you know, at the end of the day, he’s not your child, is he? Look, you’ve got some time now to talk with him, make him understand.”

  I stare at him, terrified about what’s coming next.

  “They came to a decision. About Sam.”

  I screw my eyes up tight, as if I can block it out. I don’t want to know.

  “Sam is to be returned to his natural parents, in France.”

  “No! No!” The room begins to spin again. I feel his hands on my shoulders. I collapse into him, silent sobs convulsing through my body.

  “Mrs. Beauchamp, please. You have to hold yourself together. For Sam’s sake.”

  Calm down… I have to calm down. I must stay in control. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, holding on while the air reaches every muscle in my body. He’s right. Sam is all that matters now. I have to be strong so I can save him.

  I open my eyes, pulling back, standing up. “Thank you for telling me, John. I appreciate it.” I wipe my face and look at him. I need to think properly. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I say. “Will you wait here? Please. I don’t want to be on my own.”

  His forehead creases in concern. “Of course. I’ll be right here.”

  Quietly, I go upstairs, into Sam’s room. I take his backpack, which is lying in the middle of the floor, and hold it upside down, tipping his school books out onto the bed. I throw in his pajamas, a sweater, a pair of pants, some clean underwear, his toothbrush, and his cuddly penguin. I’m being practical, calm even. All my energies are focused on saving Sam. It’s all that matters now.

  I creep back out into the hall and along to the bathroom. I flush the toilet. Then, leaving the tap running, I go to my own room and put a couple of things in an overnight bag. I remember to go back to the bathroom to turn the tap off, then I go back downstairs and hide our small bags next to the hat stand.

  “John,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. “Thank you for being here.”

  “Really. It’s nothing. How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m trying to hold myself together, for Sam.”

  He nods, the look of concern still there in the crease across his forehead. I need to get him out of the kitchen, where he has a view across the street.

  “John, do you mind if we sit in the living room, just for a few minutes, while I work out what to say to Sam? I don’t know how to tell him.”

  He looks at his watch. “Sure,” he says. “My shift ends in a couple of hours.”

  I stare at him. “Does that mean someone else will be here?”

  “Yes.”

  “What will they do?” Oh my God, they’ll want to take him away. I know they will.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know if they’ll take him straightaway or wait.”

  They could take him away in two hours! I have to get him out. Immediately. I’ll need to be far enough away in two hours. A wave of panic rises up from my stomach. I want to throw up. But instead I go to the sink and fill a glass with water, forcing my breath down into my abdomen. I have to keep it together. For Sam.

  I glance over at Marge’s house. No sign of the boys. They must be playing inside. Our car is in the driveway. Thank goodness I didn’t put it away in the garage this morning when I came back from shopping.

  I turn back to John, putting on my false hostess voice. “Shall we go through to the living room?”

  He follows me out. I sit on the couch, folding my legs up under me while he takes the armchair. I start to cry. “I’m sorry, John,” I say between snivels. “I’m making this hard for you.”

  “It’s okay.” He coughs in his manly way, his fist rolled up.

  “I’m going to wash my face.” I put on a trying-to-be-brave voice. “Give me ten minutes to get myself together. Do you think you might be able to help me work out what to say to Sam?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He’s flattered that I’m asking for his help. I can tell by the way he purses his lips, as if he’s already giving it some consideration.

  “Thank you, John. I’m so glad it’s you they asked to watch over us.”

  Now he can’t help smiling. It makes me feel manipulative. I realize I would do anything for Sam. Anything to keep him safe.

  I leave the room, closing the door behind me. I pick up the bags next to the hat stand, then noiselessly I open the front door and lock it behind
me.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Santa Cruz, July 16, 1953

  SAM

  “Sam, Sam.” I hear Mom calling my name.

  Jimmy looks at me. “Sounds like your mom’s looking for you.”

  “Yeah.” I try to sound like it’s no big deal, but I’m wondering if I’m going to be in trouble. Or maybe Daddy’s home. That would be swell. Taking the stairs two at a time, I charge downstairs.

  Mom’s there, standing by the front door.

  “You can’t come in,” I hear Marge say. “It’s okay for Sam, but you can’t come in.”

  Mom doesn’t answer her; just grabs my hand and pulls me away.

  “I went to Jimmy’s, Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  She stops and looks into my eyes. I wait for her lecture, but instead she says, “We have to go away, Sam. Now. There’s no time to pack. Get in the car.”

  “What? Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Just get in the car.”

  I do as I’m told. I can tell this is important.

  We pull out of the drive, tires screeching. I look around and catch Marge staring at us, her mouth wide open. Mom’s driving like we’re in a car chase. It makes me scared. She’s acting kind of crazy.

  “Where’s the cop, Mom? What’s happening? Where are we going?”

  She doesn’t look at me. “Let me concentrate on my driving, Sam.”

  I want to cry, and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, trying to be brave. I stare out the window.

  When we get onto the highway, she puts her hand on my knee. “It will be okay, Sam.”

  “But where are we goin’, Mom?”

  “We have to run away.”

  “What?”

  “You remember what I told you about your birth parents, Mr. and Mrs. Laffitte?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, something has happened.”

  “Daddy is coming back, isn’t he?”

  “It’s not about Daddy right now. It’s about you, Sam. Mr. and Mrs. Laffitte want you back. They want you to go and live with them in France.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “I know you can’t. But they want you to go anyway. They want you to learn French and be their son.”