by Ruth Druart
The door clicks open. My heart jumps up into my throat. Quickly I hide the letter under the book and open it, pretending to read.
Beard Man comes right up to the desk. “Ça va, Samuel?” He leans right over my shoulder. “Qu’est-ce que tu lis?”
I know he wants to know what I’m reading. “Tintin.”
“Laisse-moi le lire pour toi.” He reaches out to take the book. But I’m quicker than him and push my elbows on it, keeping the letter safe.
I point up at the shelf above the desk. “That one,” I say.
He takes down a book. “Les Trois Mousquetaires, bien, très bien!”
It’s The Three Musketeers! Daddy’s favorite book.
Beard Man opens it and begins to read.
I leave Tintin open on the desk, the letter hiding underneath, and pretend to listen, but really I’m thinking about what else I can put in my letter, imagining Mom’s face when I turn up at home.
I realize Beard Man has stopped reading and is staring at me. There’s a frown deepening on his forehead, as though he’s trying to work something out. Then he says, “Samuel, je sais que c’est difficile pour toi, même très difficile. Mais on t’aime et on va faire tout pour que ça marche.”
He means it’s difficult for me, but that we have to walk forward. I’m pretty sure that’s what he said, anyway.
Oh no! He’s coming back to the desk. I can tell he’s going to pick Tintin up, and then he’ll see the letter. Quickly I slip it out from under the book, letting it fall on the floor. I cover it with my foot.
“Essayons Tintin maintenant. C’est plus amusant.”
I knew it! Thank goodness I got rid of the letter.
Taking the book from the desk, he begins to read again, putting on special voices for the different characters. He’s loud and boyish for Tintin, then mean and sneaky for the bad guys. But he does the dog best of all. It almost makes me laugh. As his voice booms out, he moves around the room, throwing his arms around, acting out some of the parts. I stare at him. He’s really good at the voices. I know he does it to make me smile, and I nearly do. He’s trying to be funny and nice, but it doesn’t change anything. I don’t want him to be my dad. I never will.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Paris, September 18, 1953
SARAH
Last night, Sarah poked her head into Sam’s room and saw a sight that made her throat tighten. David was reading to him, and it looked like Sam was truly listening, his eyes focusing on his father and not on some unseen point as they often were. Creeping back to the kitchen, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
Today is Friday, and Shabbat begins at sunset. After Sarah drops Sam at school, she goes home to prepare the challah, the sweet bread they break before they start the meal. As she’s not permitted to do any work between sunset tonight and sunset on Saturday, she needs to make sure everything’s ready. This means getting all the shopping done, as well as the food ready for the next day too. She enjoys the preparation for Shabbat almost more than Shabbat itself. There’s a comfort in the ritual. Counting out the candles, she places them in the candelabra.
She decides to do the housework before the shopping and cooking. First she tidies the kitchen, then she moves on to the sitting room and finally the bedrooms. As she makes their bed, she remembers all the sleepless nights spent praying that they would find Samuel, trying to work out how to track down the railroad worker at Drancy, the one with a long scar running down the side of his face, almost touching his eye. The Nazis were efficient with their record-keeping, so it wasn’t hard to get his name. The International Tracing Service was put on the case, but they were told it might take years. And it did.
The waiting and false hope was hard to bear, and after five long years, David told her that they had to stop, that they had to accept their loss. Sarah couldn’t seem to move forward. Sometimes when she closed her eyes she could still feel the silky softness of her baby’s head beneath her lips, could still smell his milky innocence. She didn’t feel that she could be complete again till she found him, and in her heart she knew he was alive. She could feel it, just like she could feel his heart beating when he was in her womb. David thought they should try for another child, but Sarah didn’t know how to tell him that her body felt alien to her, that it disgusted her. When she looked at herself in the mirror for the first time after Auschwitz, she thought she was looking at a ghost of the Sarah who had died there. She was unrecognizable. Bones protruded at odd angles, tufts of gray hair sprouted from her head, her eyes like hollows in a skull. This image of herself remained with her for a long time, and it was at least a year before she could look in a mirror again. She had to get to know herself again. And David. They were changed.
But time ticked by. Relentless and indifferent, weeks turning to months, months turning to years. Years as her child learned to love someone else as his mother, someone else as his father. She would sell her soul to have the last nine years of Samuel back.
She tries not to wallow in the sense of loss that she feels, tries to remember how lucky they’ve been compared to many others. They are alive, and their child is alive too. It’s so much more than they could have expected after they were taken to Drancy on that dark morning only two days after she’d given birth.
She wanders into Sam’s room, rearranging the books on his desk, folding his clothes, which are strewn across the floor, putting them away in the drawers and cupboards. She picks up his pillow, intending to smooth it out, but instead she breathes in its smell—the boyish odor of sweet sweat.
Quickly she puts the pillow back, telling herself to stop procrastinating. There is a lot to be accomplished today, but she’s so tired. She’ll rest for just five minutes; it will give her the energy to carry on. She lies on his bed, closing her eyes, breathing in the scent of him. A sense of peace comes over her, making her feel closer to her son, lying here on his empty bed, than she has since he arrived.
Opening her eyes, she feels ready to tackle the day’s chores. She gets up and lifts the sheets and blankets, tucking them in properly. A piece of purple paper catches her eye. Without thinking, she pulls it out and looks at it. It’s a letter.
She drops it as though it’s scalded her. Though she doesn’t understand it all, she understands enough. Crouching on the floor, she grips her stomach, cramps shooting out from deep inside her. It feels like when her water broke, before she gave birth to Samuel.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Paris, September 18, 1953
SAM
It’s Friday, but I wish it was Monday. I didn’t manage to get the letter out from the side of the bed before school. Now I’ll have to wait till after the weekend. School is better than being with Pretend Mom and Beard Man. I hope we’ll go to Zack’s for goûter again. Maybe I could ask to see him on the weekend.
I’m real disappointed when everyone goes straight home after school. No play dates. And when I go into my room, there are fancy clothes laid out on the bed, black trousers and a white shirt, just like last Friday.
I hear the click of the front door, and Beard Man soon appears in my room, “C’est Shabbat, Samuel.” He bends down to kiss me on the forehead.
I suddenly feel a pain in my tummy, remembering Daddy coming home from work, pulling me into his chest, the smell of lemon soap. “How’s my little guy doing today?” he’d ask. The empty place inside me opens up again.
“Go away, go away,” I whisper. But I can feel him standing there, can hear him breathing, scratching his beard. Then I hear his footsteps moving away and the click of the door again. He’s gone. Now I can get my letter out and finish it.
I lie on the bed, pushing my hand down the side. But it’s not there. I untuck the sheets. Phew, it comes flying out. It’s all crumpled, so I smooth it out, then take my pen out of my satchel and sit at the desk to finish it: I’ll come back soon, Mom. I can’t stay here mutch longer. I hate it so bad. I’ll find a way to get back. I’ll give it to Zack on Monday morning.
I’m pushing it back down the side of the bed when Pretend Mom comes into my room. For a moment she just stands there, looking so white, her green eyes shining like a cat’s. Then she points at the clothes on the bed. “Ce soir on fête Shabbat. Il faut que tu t’habilles avec ces vêtements.”
She wants me to put those fancy clothes on again. She leaves the room ’cause she knows I won’t get dressed in front of her. I bet she’s worried I might pee on them, but I don’t want to do the same bad thing twice. That would be boring. Anyway, her shiny eyes made me feel bad inside, a bit like the homesick feeling.
When I leave my room in the dressy clothes, I see she’s lit the candles, just like last Friday. It makes the dreary apartment feel a bit cozier, but a bit spooky too. She’s wearing a long black dress and has put her hair up. Gold loops hang from her ears and her green eyes look so sad in the flickering light. I stare at her; she’s quite pretty actually. For a second I wonder what it would have been like if she’d been my real mom. Maybe I might have liked her. I guess I would have, and even Beard Man too. Kids always like their parents. It’s a strange thought.
She smiles, holding out her arms to me. But I walk right past her.
She drops her hands. Beard Man kisses her on the cheek and takes his place at the table. He pats the seat next to him. My legs feel like they’re being licked by flames, and my stomach twists in pain.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” I leave quickly before he can say, “Toilettes, Samuel.”
I go out into the dark corridor. Luckily no one is in the bathroom. I lock the door and pull down my pants to look at the bandages. I scratch the surface of them, but it’s not enough. So I slide my hand down under them and dig my nails in. It feels good. The white cloth loosens up, beginning to unravel. At least now I can have a real good scratch.
“Sam-uel?” I hear Beard Man’s voice behind the door. “Tout va bien?”
It makes me jump. “Oui,” I shout back, trying to wind the bandages back around my legs. I only just remember to flush the chain in time.
They smile at me when I walk back into the dining room. I’d like to ask them what all this is about; why they make a special dinner on Fridays but don’t invite anyone. Beard Man says a prayer, then cuts a large loaf of shiny bread. He puts the slices in a basket and passes it to me. I put a piece straight in my mouth. I’m starving. It’s nice, like the brioche we sometimes have for goûter. Afterward, there’s a kind of meat stew, with many different dishes on the side. Pretend Mom and Beard Man talk to each other. I hear my name now and again, and sometimes they look at me as if waiting for me to say something, but I just look down at my plate.
After dinner, we clear the table, but no one washes the dishes. The kitchen’s a mess, dirty plates piled up in the sink. I’m surprised they don’t tidy up. Instead they move into the living room. Beard Man’s hand is resting firmly on my shoulder so I can’t sneak off to my room to be left in peace. Well, I could, I suppose, but I can’t be bothered.
Pretend Mom passes a large book to him, and he takes it carefully as though it might break. I guess it’s the Bible. He sits in one of the wooden chairs, flicking through the pages. I sit on the golden couch with Pretend Mom. There’s a hush in the air as he chooses a story to read. I recognize it straightaway from the list of pairs of animals that goes on and on. Some of the animal names are the same in French as in English, like lion, tigre, léopard. I work out that serpent means snake from the way he hisses after saying it. I wonder what flood is in French. But I’m feeling sleepy, and the words run into each other, like a song I don’t know the words to. I lay my head on the arm of the sofa.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Paris, September 19, 1953
SARAH
Sarah wakes early, as she often does these days, David snoring softly next to her. Leaning over him, she tries to read the time on the clock, but can’t make out the hands in the semi-darkness. Never mind, she’ll get up anyway; it will be nice to have a coffee on her own, get her thoughts together before the day starts. Silently she slips out of bed, sliding her feet into her slippers.
In the kitchen, she puts the beans in the grinder and turns the handle. Making coffee takes time, but she finds the smell comforting and the process soothing. Since their return from Auschwitz, she’s found a pleasure in mundane tasks that she never felt before. She takes her time over the dishes, meticulously cleaning every piece, then wiping them dry till they shine. Before, she would have left them to drain. But now these rituals help settle her nerves.
“You up already?” David walks into the kitchen. “What’s the time?”
“I don’t know. It must be about seven.”
“What do you want to do today?”
“I don’t know.” Their Saturdays used to have a routine to them—synagogue in the morning, followed by a simple lunch at home and a stroll around Le Marais in the late afternoon. But now they have to find things to do—things a nine-year-old boy might like. Sarah misses going to the service, and she knows David does too.
“David, why don’t you go to the synagogue and I’ll take Samuel out for a walk? Maybe the Tuileries.”
“I’d like us all to go to the service together, as a family. I don’t want to go on my own.”
“I know.” She turns back to the coffee, pouring the ground beans into the filter. “But it will be awhile before he can go. It would just upset him now and might put him off forever.” She glances at David. He’s frowning.
“He understands more French than he’s leading us to believe.”
“I know.” Sarah smiles, thinking how stubborn Sam has been about not learning French, though still she can see his child’s mind soaking it up like a sponge. “But he didn’t even go to church in America—well, only at Christmas and Easter.”
“It must be strange to raise a child with no faith. How can you teach values and principles with no reference?”
Sarah looks at him, wondering for a moment if he’s right, wondering if this means Sam has no values and principles. But she can’t believe that. Despite his anger and his need to show them he doesn’t want to be with them, she can see he has good manners and a sensitivity to others that he tries to hide. He doesn’t really want to hurt them; he just wants to go home.
“At least he’s had some exposure to religion,” David continues. “He knows who God is. He has been in a church before.” He frowns, and Sarah can see he’s working it out. Then he continues. “I think it’s important that we emphasize it’s the same God. We need to find common ground where we can.”
“What about Christmas?”
David smiles at her. “Christmas? You’re thinking too far ahead.”
“Yes, but you know in America it’s a huge event. The whole country celebrates.”
“I suppose we could always give him presents and pretend they’re from some benevolent fat man with a red coat and a white beard.” He grins. “There’s not too much harm in that, is there?”
Sarah knows he’s being ironic, and she’s not in the mood for it. He’s always been adamant about not celebrating Christmas. Distractedly she pours boiling water over the coffee in the filter.
“Is everything ready for today?” David puts his hand on her shoulder.
“Yes. All the food is prepared, and I did the cleaning yesterday.”
“Good.” He takes the coffeepot from her. “Now sit down. Today is a day of rest and worship. I know how you like to keep busy, but let’s remember God on this special day.”
How can she tell him that this is what disturbs her the most? How can she tell him that she doesn’t know how to pray anymore? Her mind swarms with confusion and doubts; she can no longer tell the difference between right and wrong. Is it wrong to want her son back? Wrong to punish the man who saved him? She didn’t want him punished. Every time she thinks about it, her heart contracts with guilt. Apparently it was out of their hands, but prison! It seems so unfair. They’ve all been punished, too much and for too long. She just wants the suff
ering to end. Sometimes it feels like she’s a recipient of everyone’s pain, soaking it up till her heart wants to burst open. She feels it all too much. She’s asked God for guidance, for strength, but it feels like he’s no longer listening.
He answered her prayers when she begged him to keep her son safe. That should have been enough. But no. She wanted more, didn’t she? In her greed and selfishness, she wanted her son back, not only to love, but to possess.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Paris, September 21, 1953
SAM
Monday at last. Phew! I’m so glad to get away from them.
I take the finished letter for Mom out from under my mattress and put it in my school satchel. I’m so excited about giving it to Zack to mail. I even have fifty centimes to give him for the stamp. I stole it from Pretend Mom’s purse.
As soon as I get to school and sit down, I hand it to him. “Zack, I need you to do me a favor, please. Can you send a letter for me?” I give him the fifty centimes.
Zack turns the letter over in his hand. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“I’m not allowed.”
“Oh, yeah, okay then.” He stuffs the letter and money into his pocket.
“Will you be able to do it tonight?”
“Sure. I’ll tell my mum I need to mail a letter to my pen pal in America. I never write to him, but sometimes he writes to me.”
“Thanks, Zack. You’re a true friend.”
Zack pats me on the back. I feel real grown up, like we’re men hatching a secret plan. “Make sure you get airmail,” I add.
“Of course.”
The rest of the day follows the same kind of pattern as last week. Writing in the morning, reciting poetry, gym, then home for lunch, and back again for math and maybe music or art. In a way, it’s not so bad going home for lunch. It gives me a break from all the kids, and I get a lovely warm baguette every day, straight from the boulangerie.
