While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

I wonder how she can be so dumb.

  But she doesn’t shut her big mouth. “Your mom here, she and your father too, for sure they did the right thing when they brought you to America. But they should have informed the authorities when they arrived. Then we could have traced your real parents and saved everyone a lot of pain.”

  “I don’t care! I’m glad they didn’t. I want my mom.” I run my hands through my hair, afraid that I might use them to hit her again. “I wanna go home.”

  “Samuel, you have to understand, home isn’t where you thought it was.”

  I put my hands over my ears, trying not to hear.

  It’s impossible, though. The man speaks loudly. “Samuel, your real parents have a right to see you. You’re their son, and your mother only gave you up because she had to. Don’t you want to meet her?”

  “No! She’s not my real mom. I hate her.” I look up, glaring at him.

  “Sam-uel.” The lady’s eyes get larger. “You mustn’t say that. She’s suffered so much.”

  “Good. I hate her. I wish she was dead.” I can feel people turning in their chairs to look at us.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” The lady’s cheeks have gone bright red. “You’re upset.”

  I can’t help it. Tears fall down my cheeks. My chest hurts as I try to hold them back. I can’t get any air.

  “We should go.” The man stands up, putting his arm around my shoulder. It makes me feel trapped. I can’t move away, and my chest is going up and down so quick, like I’m drowning.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Paris, July 17, 1953

  SARAH

  In her soul, she’s always known her child was alive somewhere. A mother can feel these things.

  The moment she pushed her baby into the arms of the railroad worker has remained etched on her mind. Time and time again she’s replayed it in her imagination, locking away in her memory the exact form of the scar cutting into the side of his face. And when he wrapped his arms around Samuel, she saw he only had one finger and a thumb on his left hand. She knew then that he would take care of her son, just as the rabbi on the Métro said—he would keep him safe. She knew she would find him again. She just hadn’t realized how long it would take.

  She rolls over, trying to find a comfortable position on her pillow, but really she’s too excited to sleep. Tomorrow is the day she hardly dared believe would ever come. Pure joy races through her veins, an emotion she barely recognizes. It makes her realize just how numb she’s been, how she’s only been going through the motions of living during the last nine years. For the first time since she gave him up, she feels alive. Grateful to be alive. “Thank you, God,” she whispers into the pillow.

  Of course, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s already nine years old, and a fine-looking boy, judging from the photos they’ve been shown. She peered at the pictures, looking deep into his eyes, and recognized her family. Her father’s gaze shone out from Samuel’s dark, intelligent eyes, sparkling with curiosity, and he had her mother’s fine nose. David was present too, in the way he held himself, proudly sticking out his chin. The only likeness she couldn’t see was the one to her.

  She knows it won’t be easy. He doesn’t speak French, and they’ll have to find a way to communicate, but their connection will be deeper than language. This makes her wonder, once again, about the Beauchamps’ bond with her son. She doesn’t like to dwell on this thought, as it leaves her with a feeling of disquiet to contemplate the relationship her child has established with the people he believed to be his parents. Worst of all is the thought of Samuel loving another woman as his mother. The strength of that bond terrifies her.

  She likes to imagine that he’s closer to the man than to the woman. This makes sense in her mind, as it was he who took Samuel. Maybe the woman didn’t even want to take on someone else’s child. That would help explain why she never spoke French to Samuel, her own mother tongue. How could she not have sung him the songs she learned herself in her own mother’s arms?

  Enough. She must stop churning up the past. It’s over now. She needs to plan for the next stage. The psychologist told them that Samuel should be fluent in French in about six months, as long as they stuck to the immersion method, meaning total exposure to French with no interference or translation from his first language; she can’t bring herself to call it his mother tongue. So they are never to revert to English—not that they could if they wanted to—and he is to have no contact with the parents who brought him up, not even by letter.

  She’s been fretting all day, getting his bedroom ready, buying food that she imagines nine-year-old boys like. First she made her own challah bread, adding raisins for a special treat. Then she bought a large bag of potatoes, because a friend told her that they ate potatoes all the time in America, with everything, even breakfast. Imagine that! She could make potato latkes for a starter, then gratin dauphinois to go with the lamb kibbeh. Or would that be overdoing it? For dessert, she’ll make apple cake with honey. She usually saves this recipe for New Year’s, but she wants to make it now to mark a new beginning, repentance and forgiveness going hand in hand. She can’t wait for mother, father, and son to sit down to a meal together, to break bread together. It’s all she wants, and the thought of it makes her heart beat faster in anticipation.

  David turns away from her in his sleep. She puts her arms around him, burying her head into his neck. “Are you awake?” she whispers.

  “No,” he mumbles.

  She lies there feeling restless. David turns back around, reaching for her hand under the covers.

  “Everything will be all right, won’t it, David?”

  “Our son is coming home, Sarah. We will be able to live again.”

  “I wish… I just wish Beauchamp hadn’t got that two-year sentence, though. It seems too harsh. He did save Samuel’s life.”

  “I know. I know. But the decision was out of our hands. And we mustn’t forget, he did keep him hidden from us all these years.”

  She squeezes his hand. “Yes, I know. Remember when he was born?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “You were so brave, delivering him on your own.”

  “I think you were the brave one.”

  She smiles in the dark. “I trusted you, and I knew you knew what you were doing.”

  “Yes, being a research biologist has its uses, doesn’t it?”

  “I was glad I had him at home, but it was hard having to leave so soon after the birth.” She snuggles into him, remembering how they had run to the safe house.

  They stop there. Neither of them can talk about the following night, though they both think about it. Sarah knows David blames himself for what happened. He couldn’t protect her and their son as he’d promised to. He held on to her as she held on to their baby, the army truck they’d been shoved into speeding through the dark, empty streets of Paris.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m sorry.” He put his jacket around her, and she knew he wanted to give her everything. He would have given her the shirt off his back and sat there naked if he thought it would help her.

  When they got to Drancy and the men were separated from the women, he clung to her, taking blows from the guards. In the end, she had to beg him to let go. “Live,” she told him. “Stay alive for me and Samuel.”

  And she knew he would.

  Chapter Sixty

  California, July 17, 1953

  SAM

  “I can’t go to France. I’m American, and I don’t speak French,” I tell the lady again when we get back to the little room after lunch.

  “A clever boy like you will learn quickly. At least it’s the same alphabet.”

  I stare at her.

  “Chinese would be much harder,” she adds. “Sit down, I’ll get you some comics to read.”

  I do as I’m told because the man is watching me. I’m scared to be left in the room alone with him, and I look down at the table when she leaves so I don’t have to see his cold eyes. But I
hear him step toward me. I bury my head in my hands, wishing the lady would come back.

  “Listen, lad.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re gonna have to toughen up. No more of this cryin’. We have work to do here and you’re makin’ it difficult.” He squeezes my shoulder hard. It hurts. I hold my breath so I don’t make a sound.

  The door clicks open. I let out my breath and look up. It’s kind of a relief to see the lady again, beaming away, with a stack of comics in her arms. She spreads out a collection of Captain America and Batman and Robin. I want to say thank you, but the words won’t come.

  “I’ll stay with him.” She turns to the man. “You can get on with your work.”

  I pretend to read Captain America, waiting for him to go.

  “Remember what I said, lad,” he says as he closes the door.

  The lady sits next to me and takes out some papers. “What did he say to you?” she asks without looking up.

  “I dunno.” I pretend to read my comic again.

  “I’m not a psychologist, Samuel, but you can talk about it. It might help.”

  I shake my head, watching as a fat tear falls onto the comic, smudging the print.

  “I just wanna see my mom.”

  “Samuel.” She exhales a long breath. “You’ll be okay. You have your real mom and real dad now. You must be excited to be meeting them soon.”

  “I don’t wanna meet them. I wanna see my mom. Is she comin’ back soon?”

  “Please, Samuel, stop saying that.”

  “My name’s not Samuel! It’s Sam!”

  “It’s Sam here in America, but I think you’ll find they call you Samuel in France.”

  I stare at her. What does she mean?

  “Samuel’s your real name, and they don’t shorten names in France. The psychologist told me. She’s been looking into it. It seems there are a few differences you’ll have to get used to.”

  “But I’m not going! I told you I’m not goin’.”

  “Okay, okay.” I wonder if she’s finally understood. But then she says, “They have great schools in France, you’ll soon make friends.”

  “I don’t want new friends. I want my old friends.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Samuel, you’ll stay here tonight, then Mr. Jackson will take you to France tomorrow.”

  “No! Please, no! I’ll be good. I promise.” I jump up. “Please don’t send me away. Please.”

  “Shh, shh.” She stands up, putting her arms around me.

  I can’t help it. I fall against her big soft chest, hiding my head in it. Tears come quickly. This time I don’t try to stop them. It hurts too much inside. I feel snot running from my nose onto her clothes.

  “Shh, honey,” she whispers, her hand on the back of my head. “Let it out. Better out than in.”

  I hear the door click open again and someone’s footsteps as they come into the room. This person touches my arm lightly, then squeezes it. “This won’t hurt. Just a little prick.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Paris, July 18, 1953

  SAM

  I missed the take-off. I can’t remember the landing either. The doctor gave me a shot, maybe two. One in the room, and one before getting on the plane. I can’t remember the night between the two days, but I know there must have been one, because now it’s another morning.

  My head is leaning into a soft cushion, and I realize I’m sitting in a blue room in a big white chair. My head feels fuzzy. When I look around, I see a man with brown hair, wearing a pink shirt. He’s staring at me. I want to drift off into another world again. I let my eyes close.

  I hear him talking like I’m in a dream. He has a strange accent. It reminds me a little of Mom’s; sometimes the words go up when they should go down.

  “We know this is very hard for you. Samuel. Samuel.” I open my eyes and he passes me a glass of orange juice. “Drink this.”

  I take a sip of the drink. I’m so thirsty, I drink it all. He gives me a pastry. I sink my teeth into it. It’s buttery and delicious, and it makes me realize how hungry I am.

  “You want another?” he says.

  I nod, and he takes another pastry out of the paper bag he’s holding.

  I sink my teeth into it, swallowing it in three bites. It feels good to have something in my tummy. I don’t want to think about what will happen to me now. It will only make me feel sick and dizzy again. I look at the man, wondering why he’s wearing a pink shirt. It’s a girl’s color.

  He starts talking again. “Your real parents went through so much, and now they are very excited to meet you.” Not only does he have a pink shirt, he’s also wearing a purple tie.

  “Am I in Paris?”

  “Mais oui. It’s been a long journey, but we are happy you are here now.” He smiles at me.

  “When can I see my mom?”

  “Samuel—”

  “My name’s Sam.”

  “Sorry, Sam.” He pulls up a chair next to me. “We are going to do our best to help you. Can I tell you a story?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  He starts this story about some tiger that gets lost in the jungle and is adopted by a gorilla family, but when he gets to the bit about the tiger having to be carried up the trees by the gorillas I start to lose concentration. His voice is soft and gentle, and I know what he’s trying to do. It’s pathetic. Now there’s a good word. Pathetic. That’s what he is. The marshals were just dumb. This man in his girl’s pink shirt is pathetic.

  “Sam.” He touches me on my shoulder.

  “I wanna go back to sleep.” I turn my head back into the cushion and close my eyes.

  “Sam, your parents are here to see you now.”

  “Mom, Dad? They’re here?”

  “I mean your French parents, your real parents.”

  “They’re not my real parents. I told you!” I jump out of the chair, but my legs feel like jelly. I fall back down. My head hurts so bad. I clutch at it, trying to stop the hammering.

  He puts his hands on my shoulders. I try to push them off, but I can’t. I feel so weak.

  “Sam, please. You need to calm yourself.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “We all need to make this work, including you, Sam. Please stop this.”

  “Will you let me go home?”

  “We—” A knock on the door interrupts his answer.

  Two people walk in.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Paris, July 18, 1953

  SARAH

  “Samuel… Samuel.” Her eyes water as she looks at him. She can see he’s been crying, but he’s beautiful, just like she’s pictured him in her imagination, his silky dark hair, his smooth olive skin, his fine nose, and his dark brown eyes. She wants to drink him in, like a lost traveler in the desert, gone for days without water.

  She feels David grip her hand, almost painfully. “It’s Samuel, isn’t it? It’s really him.” His voice cracks, and she drags her eyes away from her son to see a silent tear sliding down her husband’s cheek.

  “Yes, David. It’s Samuel.”

  She turns back to face her son. She can hardly believe he’s real. “Samuel,” she murmurs. “We’ve found you.”

  David puts his arms out, stepping toward him, reaching out to him. Sarah sees Samuel go rigid, backing up against the wall behind him.

  Putting her hand out, she stops her husband. “Wait.”

  The psychologist who followed them into the room coughs. “He’ll need some time to adjust. Let me introduce the interpreter. This is Madame Demur.”

  For a moment, their eyes are drawn away from Samuel to a slight woman in a pale blue suit, standing next to the psychologist. They shake her hand.

  “I’ll translate for you into French and for your son into English.”

  Your son. Yes. It’s true, they have a son now. But he’s standing as far away as he can get from them in the small room, his hands flat against the wall, his eyes wide with terror, like a cornered animal.
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  “Good morning.” A man wearing a pink shirt and a charcoal-gray suit holds out his hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Laffitte, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Sarah realizes he must be the deputy mayor.

  “Please sit down.” He pulls out chairs. Obediently they sit down, forming a small semicircle. The man pats an empty chair next to him. “Come and sit down, Samuel.” His voice is gentle and kind, but Samuel stares at him with contempt, not moving from his place against the wall.

  David grips his beard, as though holding on for dear life. Sarah’s throat feels raw, so many words she wants to say trapped there.

  Samuel says something in English. They wait for the interpreter. “He says he doesn’t feel well.”

  “Tell him we can go home now.” David pulls on his beard. Sarah knows he just wants to leave the room and take his son home.

  The interpreter turns back to Samuel, translating into English.

  He shakes his head vigorously backward and forward, his silky dark hair swishing from side to side.

  Sarah can see she’ll have to distract him somehow. Opening her handbag, she fumbles around with trembling hands, looking for the photos she brought with her. She holds them out. “Samuel, do you want to see some pictures of your family?”

  The interpreter translates, and Samuel shakes his head again. “I wanna go home. I feel sick.”

  She doesn’t need a translation for this, she gets the gist, but the lady translates anyway.

  “Tell him his home is here now.” David lets go of his beard.

  As the woman translates, Sarah watches her son’s face turn even paler. Quickly she holds out a photo. “Look, Samuel.” She stands up, taking a step toward him. Relief washes over her as he looks down at the picture of her mother and father. “This is your grandfather and your grandmother. Your grandfather was very handsome, just like you.” She places a shaking finger next to her father’s image. Her voice cracks as she remembers the last time she saw her parents.

  Samuel looks away.

  David takes over, his long fingers dancing around his beard as he talks. “Tell Samuel that he needs to go to his new home now.” He waits for the lady in blue to translate, then continues, “We know this will be hard for him. He is only a child, but we must not pity him because he is a child. It’s our job as adults and parents to help him build his character, to help him find out who he is and where he truly belongs.” He stops again, waiting for the translation. “We recognize what Jean-Luc Beauchamp did in saving our son from certain death at Auschwitz, and we also understand how he could have assumed that we perished there. But now we need to focus on Samuel and make this transition as smooth as we can. We are his parents and we love him.”