While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  I know it’s a question about the book, but I don’t know what, so I just sit there looking at the wall, ignoring him.

  “Samuel, Tintin est un garçon qui vie des grandes aventures. Je vais te lire une histoire.”

  Something about adventures, I guess. I just keep looking at the wall.

  Then he starts reading, and his voice changes. I can’t help looking at him as he puts on the evil voice of the baddy, then growls just like a little dog. He turns toward me, pointing to the pictures. I see the white dog and the baddy whose face is covered in hair. “Milou,” he says, pointing to the dog.

  I point at the beard in the picture, then at his beard.

  He laughs. “Oui, oui, barbe. J’ai une barbe aussi.”

  Hah, so beard is barbe. Now I can call him Barbe Man.

  He points to the dog. “Chien.”

  But I don’t want to learn any more words. I look away from the book.

  He carries on, walking around the room, doing funny voices, trying to show me the pictures. But I just look at the wall again. I wish he’d leave so I can write to Mom.

  At last he closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. The room feels suddenly very quiet, and I can feel him looking at me. I pretend I’m a statue and sit there not moving a muscle. If I make myself invisible, he might just give up and go away.

  But instead he says a string of words in French. I bury my head in my hands, then I feel his hand on the back of my head, just resting there. I wait for him to go.

  Finally he leaves the room. Now I can write to Mom. I’m not allowed to, so I’ll have to keep it secret, and then I’ll have to find a way to mail it. I put the pen on the paper and push down, pulling the pen forward to make the letter M, but nothing comes out. I push harder. Now it just leaves a scratchy mark. What’s wrong with this dumb pen? I lift it off the paper, squeezing the nib between my fingers. Suddenly ink shoots out everywhere. Stupid pen! I throw it to the side of the desk. I won’t cry. I won’t.

  I hear someone come into the room, but I don’t look up. Then I feel a hand rubbing my back, hear someone picking up the pen and sighing. The flowery smell tells me it’s Pretend Mom. I peek out and see her shaking the pen, then putting the nib to a small piece of white paper. Out of the corner of my eye I see her writing flowing smoothly out of the pen. I lift my head an inch higher to see what she’s writing.

  Cher Sam

  We love you—nous t’aimons

  Please—s’il te plaît

  Give—donnes

  Us—nous

  A chance—une chance

  She puts the pen down in front of me.

  I draw a circle to test it. It works for me too now.

  I write: I wanna go home. Then the pen blocks up again, and the ink comes out in blobs. The lump in my throat gets bigger. But I won’t cry. Instead I ram the fine nib into the paper, again and again.

  She reaches out for my hand, holding it tight. I can’t move it now. She kneels down next to me, taking my other hand. She tries to pull me toward her.

  I freeze, my whole body going stiff. She pulls me harder. I pull back. It’s like a fight. I feel my breath coming quickly.

  Then I see Beard Man in the doorway.

  “Sarah!” His face is red. “Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais?”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Paris, August 20, 1953

  SARAH

  She doesn’t know how to be a mother to him. She hasn’t had the time to learn. It’s too hard to be suddenly given a child, a child with a character already formed. With an awful sinking feeling, she wonders if it’s too late. She’s lost her baby forever and this unknown child has replaced him. They try to go through the routines of a normal life, but nothing’s normal. Though exhausted, both physically and mentally, she finds it impossible to slip off into sleep these nights.

  “Stay still, please, Sarah, you keep waking me up.”

  “I don’t know how you can sleep!”

  “We have to. We need our strength to deal with Samuel.”

  “But can’t you hear him crying?”

  “He’ll stop soon. He just needs time to adapt to his new life. I know it’s hard for him, but he will survive, and he’ll be stronger for it.”

  “Stronger? But at what cost?”

  “Sarah, what do you want me to do?” She can hear the frustration mounting in his tired voice.

  “I just don’t know how you can lie there and go to sleep while he’s crying. I can’t.”

  “That’s why children need fathers as well as mothers. Naturally, you’re softer than me, but we have to stay firm and not give in to pity. It won’t help him grow and learn who he really is.”

  “Who he really is? He’s a nine-year-old boy in a foreign country who’s just been wrenched from the only family he’s ever known.”

  “Sarah, please. We’ll talk about it in the morning. We need to sleep now.”

  She turns away from him, tears sliding down her cheeks, but she doesn’t make a sound. David’s right, of course: they need to gather their resources to deal with the angry displaced boy they’ve been given. David has always been the strong one, but she knows he’s suffering too; he just refuses to allow himself to face his doubts. He pretends they’re simply not there, pretends that everything will be fine once Samuel has adjusted to his new life, that if they are consistent and patient, he will come back to them. Sighing quietly, she pulls the blankets aside, slips her legs out of the bed, and sits up.

  “I’m going to get some water,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

  “Don’t go and see him,” David whispers. “You’ll only make things worse.”

  Worse? she thinks. How can things be worse?

  She feels her way around the bed and opens the door into the corridor. She has to walk past his bedroom on the way to the kitchen, and she presses her ear up against his door. It’s gone quiet. Did he hear her coming? He probably doesn’t want her to come in. He hates her. She can feel his hatred like a force field surrounding him.

  But she has this need to see him, to touch him, to know he’s real. She still can’t quite believe her son is back. Gently she pushes the handle down, silently opening the door. Tiptoeing toward his bed, she listens out for the sound of his breathing, but she hears nothing. She crouches down, wanting to check that he’s really there. Laying her hand on the blanket, she runs it over the surface till she feels the solid shape of him. She knows he’s lying there awake, holding his breath, willing her to leave the room. “Sam,” she whispers. “Je t’aime de tout mon coeur.”

  Still nothing. Then he lets out a long breath and she feels him shudder. She strokes his body through the blanket, humming quietly. Then she begins to sing.

  “Dodo, l’enfant do

  L’enfant dormira bientôt.”

  He turns his head, and she feels his warm breath on her face.

  “Can you go now?” He rolls over to face the wall. “Leave me alone.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Paris, September 2, 1953

  SARAH

  Today is a big day for children all over France—la rentrée. Life finally goes back to normal after the two months of summer vacation. Those who can afford it, and even those who can’t, usually leave Paris in August, and those who stay behind benefit from the emptier streets. Sarah and David love Paris in August, and never go away; instead they take advantage of the lack of cars to bicycle through the city, through the Jardin du Luxembourg, then along the Seine to Canal Saint-Martin, where they leave their bikes to have a glass of wine in one of the cafés along the canal.

  Sarah remembers both the thrill and the terror of la rentrée when she was a child. The class lists attached to the wall in the playground, parents and children crowding round, anxious to discover their teacher and classmates for the year. She’s grateful to be able to do this with her own child at last. David is coming too, and she knows he’s looking forward to it as much as she is. It will help things settle down into some form of normality. Routi
ne is what they need now. It’s been hard to keep Sam entertained; he has no interest in anything, not even the Eiffel Tower. He just looked over the edge, expressionless, refusing to be impressed.

  “Shall I wake Samuel up?” David comes into the kitchen, where she’s setting the table for breakfast.

  She turns to look at him. “I’m not sure he’s understood what’s happening today.”

  “I know. I talked to him last night and read that story about the child starting school. I pointed to the pictures and then to him, but I never know what he’s thinking.”

  “No. He’s not sharing anything with us yet.”

  “Give him time. I can tell he’s picked up a few words of French, against his will, of course.” He pulls on his beard. “It will do him a world of good to start school. He’ll have no option but to learn the language. He’ll have to, to survive.”

  “I hope it’s not going to be too hard for him. Children can be cruel, you know, to outsiders. He’s not one of them, is he?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve spoken to the director, and he’s promised to look out for him.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. “Once Samuel gets into a routine, once he starts mixing with children his own age, everything will gradually fall into place. One day he’ll understand that we’re doing this because we love him.”

  Sarah nods. “Yes, let’s go and wake him now. Breakfast is ready.”

  David knocks on Sam’s door, pushing it open at the same time. “Samuel, c’est l’heure.”

  The shape in the bed doesn’t move. Sarah watches from the doorway as David goes over, putting his hand on the blankets. “Samuel. C’est l’heure aujourd’hui. School.”

  “What?” Sam turns around to look at him, and Sarah can tell from the look of horror on his face that he understands.

  She comes into the room, opening the wardrobe. She pulls out his ironed dark trousers and a gray shirt, then puts them on the bed next to him.

  He sits up and shakes his head. “No! No school. I don’t wanna go! I can’t speak French.”

  Sarah looks at him, understanding what he’s said, but finding no reply. She points at the clothes on the bed and leaves the room. David follows her out.

  They drink their coffee in the kitchen, waiting for their son to appear. Ten minutes go by, then fifteen. He’s not going to come.

  “I’m going to get him.” Sarah leaves David sitting at the table, buttering his bread.

  When she goes into his room, her heart stops. She closes her eyes at the scene, wishing, just wishing, she hadn’t had to see it. He’s under the bed, and the stench of urine claws its way up her nostrils. Without a word, she walks toward the bed. She puts her hand on the neatly ironed pile of school clothes. They’re wet through.

  She wants to scream at him, call him a disgusting little boy. Instead she holds her breath, swallowing her anger, then reaches under the bed and pulls him out by his elbow.

  He’s not got his pajama bottoms on. She stares at his legs in horror. They’re covered in patches of raw skin. He looks at them as if he’s forgotten all about them, then back up at her, eyes wide with fear. He’s obviously been trying to keep them hidden from her.

  She reaches down to touch them. They feel damp at the same time as dry. “Oh no, Sam.” She’ll have to call the doctor; he can’t possibly go to school like that.

  When she goes back into the kitchen, David is still sitting at the table, waiting patiently for his little family to join him. “David, there’s a problem.” She waits for him to turn and look at her. “Samuel’s legs are covered in an awful rash. I’ll have to call the doctor.”

  “What? Wait. Let me see him first.”

  She follows him out of the kitchen, down the corridor and into Sam’s room. Sam is sitting on his bed now, a blanket over his legs. David wrinkles his nose, turning to Sarah. “What’s that awful smell?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Just look at his legs.”

  David stretches out his hand, about to remove the blanket, but Sam holds it down. David stands back, a frown deepening. “Has he wet the bed? What’s wrong with his legs?”

  “His skin is raw. You have to see it.”

  David turns back to Sam, kneeling down now in front of him. “Let me have a look.” Gently he pulls the blanket aside.

  Sarah’s heart feels like it’s breaking as she looks at the poor child, sitting there, exposed.

  Suddenly Sam leaps up and runs out of the room. The front door slams. He must have gone to lock himself in the bathroom.

  David’s sitting on the floor now, his face deathly pale, his eyes staring blankly ahead. “What are we going to do, Sarah? What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to call the doctor. We need help.”

  “Call that Polish one. He speaks English. Samuel needs to talk to someone. I’m going to talk to him through the door and wait for him to come out.”

  But he doesn’t come out, and an hour later, the doctor arrives. They explain the situation to him, then leave him to talk to Sam through the locked door.

  After fifteen long minutes, Sam comes out. Sarah and David leave the doctor to examine him in private, aware that their presence will only make things worse. They wait in the kitchen. Sam’s hot chocolate has gone cold, and a feeling of utter rejection spreads through Sarah.

  David looks as dejected and hopeless as she feels. “I love him so much,” he says. “Whatever he does, I’ll never stop loving him.”

  Sarah looks at him, at the gray lines around his eyes, at the sadness in the downward slant of his lips. “I know. That’s how parents are supposed to feel.”

  “Is it? It hurts so much.”

  “Yes, it does.” She sits down heavily.

  “I don’t know what more we can do for him. Truly, I don’t.”

  “I know. All he wants is to go back home.” Silent tears fall down her cheeks.

  David sits next to her, putting his arm around her. “His home is here. We’re his parents.”

  “In his eyes we’re not, are we?”

  “Not yet. But one day he’ll accept the truth. We have to show him that we won’t give up on him.” He pauses, frowning. “We’ve been through worse than this, and we made it. When I was weak, you were strong. And now I’m going to be strong for you.” He reaches for her hand.

  Sarah doesn’t know what he can do to help her.

  “Eczema,” the doctor tells them when he comes out. “Probably aggravated by stress.” He gives them a prescription for various pills and creams. When they show him out, he turns back to them. “This is a very difficult situation. You will have to be extremely patient and gentle.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Paris, September 3, 1953

  SARAH

  The next day, Sarah decides to teach Sam at home. School can wait. The psychologist said that with total immersion he would learn French in six months; that it would come naturally, like a baby learning to talk. But Sarah feels his resistance like a wall surrounding him. Babies don’t have this kind of opposition blocking their language acquisition. It’s not the same thing at all.

  She needs to get Sam more involved instead of leaving him to mope.

  There’s the memory game she bought before he came. They can play it together in French. You have to pair up the baby animal with the adult animal. She can teach him animal names like this.

  She takes his hand and brings him into the living room. He lets himself be led. She sits him on the soft green armchair that used to belong to her grandmother. Then she turns to the dark wooden cupboard where they keep photos, cards they’ve received, and the new games. Setting the cards out on the glass coffee table, she mixes them up facedown. Then she turns over the first one. It’s a baby kangaroo. “Kangourou.” She reaches for the next one; it’s a baby lion. “Lion.”

  Sam stares at her like she’s crazy, but she just smiles back. “À toi”

  For a moment he sits there, staring blankly ahead. Then slowly he reaches out for a
card, turning it over. It’s a kitten. He turns another. It’s a cat.

  “Tu as gagné!” With a surge of pleasure, she sees him reach for another card. He’s participating! She mustn’t get too excited, it’s only the beginning, but for the first time she can see a tiny light glimmering at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Then without a word, he disappears back to his room.

  They eat croque monsieur for lunch. This is one dish he appears to enjoy. After lunch, she decides to take him to the Jardin du Luxembourg. It’s quite a long way, and they take the Métro. She knows he likes the trains. His little face lights up each time one comes hurtling through the tunnels.

  In the gardens, she leaves him to take it all in, sometimes pointing at something, saying the word slowly in French. He looks at her but doesn’t repeat the word. She doesn’t push it. One step at a time. They walk past the lake, stopping to look at the miniature wooden sailing boats blowing about on the water. Sam turns away. Children stand around holding long wooden sticks, ready to poke their boats back into the water if they come near the edge.

  Sarah gestures toward the boats. “Veux-tu essayer?”

  He shakes his head, and she knows he’s understood.

  An ice-cream truck draws up next to the lake. She decides not to ask him what he wants, but pokes her head through the window. “Vanilla, please.” She looks over at Sam.

  “And for the young man?” the ice-cream seller asks, following her eyes. “Chocolate? Strawberry?”

  She watches Sam closely, wondering for a moment if he’ll refuse to answer.

  “Chocolate,” he finally says.

  The man grins. “English or American?” he asks.

  “American,” Sam replies, the pride in his voice ringing out.

  “Oh là là, ’ot dog!”

  “Do you have hot dogs?” Sam sounds excited for the first time since he arrived.

  “Mais non! No! This is France! Never the hot dog.” The man laughs, turning around to dig into the boxes of ice cream. He turns back with a perfectly round ball of dark ice cream sitting on top of a cone, gleaming in the late summer sun.