by Ruth Druart
“Madame Laffitte, this is not what I meant. You can’t just withdraw him like that. He has to attend school.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll attend a school. Come on, Sam.” She holds out her hand, standing up, ready to leave.
He puts his hand in hers. She’s careful not to apply any pressure, just lets herself feel its warmth. Together, in silence, they walk out of the school, down the street, around the corner, and up the stairs to the apartment. She takes him into the living room and sits next to him on the couch. Burying his head in his hands, he cries and cries. Sarah holds him as he sobs. “It’ll be all right. Everything will be good again. I promise you.”
She picks up the phone, twirling the coiled plastic around her finger. Slowly she dials the number of her husband’s office. He picks up straightaway.
“David, can you come home early? We need to talk.”
“Did you visit Beauchamp?”
“Yes, I went to see him. Please, David, can you come home?”
“What’s the matter? What did he say?”
“Just come home.”
She makes a sandwich for Sam and, breaking the rule in their home, takes it to him in the living room. She sits in the armchair watching him nibble at it. He’s lost so much weight since he arrived, and his skin has turned paler. She wonders if it’s possible for a child to die from sorrow, or would nature kick in, the survival instinct taking over?
“Sam.”
He glances over at her, his eyes blank.
She feels like she’s looking at Beauchamps’ son, not her own. “I know how hard this has been for you. It’s been hard for us too, to watch you suffer, to see how much you detest being here with us.”
He’s watching her, and she has the feeling he’s following what she’s saying. “We love you very much. Do you know that, Sam?”
He shrugs a shoulder and looks away.
“We want you to be happy. But we want you to know who you are too.”
“I know who I am.”
She stares at him in astonishment. His French is almost perfect. “I know you do, Sam.”
How she longs to take him in her arms, to feel his proud, vulnerable heart beating near her own, to breathe in the smell of him. It’s as though he’s outgrowing his child’s body, his thoughts and emotions too substantial to be contained in such a small, slight frame.
She leaves the living room, wandering back into the kitchen, waiting for David.
As soon as she hears the front door click open, she goes into the hall.
“What is it, Sarah? What did Beauchamp say?” David hasn’t even taken his coat off yet.
“Come into the kitchen, please.”
He follows her in. “What did he say?”
“Sit down first. Do you want something to eat?”
“Later. Tell me what he said.”
“He didn’t say much. It was more the way it made me feel.”
David looks at her, his eyes searching hers.
“It was horrible. Him being there… in prison. He shouldn’t be there. It reminded me of…”
He takes her hand, squeezing it softly. “I wish I’d never suggested you go.”
She sees a frown grow across his forehead, and she pushes ahead before she loses her nerve. “He loves Samuel. He really does.”
“I don’t doubt that, Sarah. Of course he does. What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. Someone I could despise.”
“That’s not what you would have wanted for Samuel.” He pulls on his beard. “What did he say to you?”
“He asked me if I would put Samuel’s happiness before my own.”
“Unbelievable! How dare he!”
“And he asked if you would too.” She pauses, looking into David’s eyes. “I told him that of course we would. I can’t believe he asked me. He doesn’t know what it means to give your child away.” Her voice cracks.
“Maybe he knows now.”
“But is it true?”
David raises an eyebrow, as though guessing at what’s coming next.
“Would we really put his happiness before our own?”
“Sarah, don’t torture yourself like this. He’s our son and we love him. One day he’ll love us back. He just needs time.”
“Time,” she repeats. “The intolerance of time.”
“What?”
“Time stole him away from us.”
“And time will give him back.”
“No.” Her throat feels thick; it’s going to be hard to let out the words she really wants to say. “David, I can’t do it… I can’t do it anymore. When he ran away, I prayed to God.” She wants to reach out, take David’s hand, but she can feel a wall growing between them. “I made a promise to him. I promised to give Samuel up if he brought him back safely. That’s all I want now. His safety and happiness. I don’t care about the rest.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t stand by watching his despair, his misery. He’s behaving like a prisoner who can’t see a way out. He’s losing his will, and he’s only a child.” Picking up a tea towel, she wipes away her tears.
“But Sarah, we can’t give up now.”
“David!” She swallows fresh tears. “We have to… we have to give up. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t.” He moves toward her.
She pushes him back. “I can’t do it anymore. Don’t make me!”
He stands there, staring at her with wide disbelieving eyes. Then he turns away. “I’m going to visit Beauchamp myself.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Paris, November 3, 1953
JEAN-LUC
The worst thing about prison is the helplessness. He could put up with the terrible food, the cold nights, even the constant threat of violence. But the helplessness, that kills him. Sam is growing up without him, and Charlotte is having to manage in America all on her own. She writes to him almost every day, so he knows how she’s had to sell the house, how she’s had to move to a smaller apartment, nearer town, where she’s found a job translating. Her grief pours out of the pages she writes. Sometimes he has to fold them up, to return to them later, when he’s feeling stronger. But today he’s not feeling strong.
“You have a visitor!” the guard shouts, tapping on the bars of his cell with a baton.
Oh God! He really doesn’t feel like seeing Sarah Laffitte again.
He follows the guard along the corridor, through the double security doors into the waiting room. The guard points with his baton toward a dark-haired man with a long beard sitting at a visitor’s table, gripping the edges as though he’s holding on, afraid to fall off. It comes to him with a jolt. It’s him! It must be him. David Laffitte.
Blood pulsing in his veins, he approaches the table. Tentatively he holds out his handcuffed wrists, expecting some modified version of a handshake, but Laffitte doesn’t even stand up, and his hands don’t leave the table.
“Monsieur Beauchamp.” He stares at Jean-Luc from under thick dark eyebrows.
Sitting down, Jean-Luc inclines his head, acknowledging his name. He waits for Laffitte to say something, but the man just continues to stare, his eyes boring into him.
“I don’t know what you want from me.” Jean-Luc rubs his temples with his chained hands, trying to ease the headache pounding against his forehead.
“What we want from you?” Laffitte’s eyes drill deeper. “The last nine years of our son’s life.”
Jean-Luc stretches his neck and closes his eyes. His headache is getting worse.
“Do you know what it does to a parent?” Laffitte’s tone is harsh, his voice rising. “Not knowing whether your child is dead or alive. We didn’t know whether to grieve or carry on the search.”
“Listen. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a son. You’ve got him back now. Why don’t you go home and take care of him? You have your revenge.”
“Revenge! You think this is about revenge?” Laffitte’s words burst out, louder than before.<
br />
“Well, what is it about then? What do you want from me?” Jean-Luc matches him in volume.
The guard appears. His baton hits the table with a thud. “I’ve told you before. Keep it quiet!” He puts the baton under Jean-Luc’s chin, pushing it upward at a painful angle.
Suddenly Laffitte collapses onto the table, shuddering and shaking as though he’s having a fit.
“What’s wrong with him?” The guard lifts Laffitte’s head. His face is gray, drops of sweat glistening. Naked fear shines out from his eyes.
“I think… I think you scared him.”
“Me? I was just telling you to keep the noise down.”
Laffitte sits quietly, as though numbed. Jean-Luc puts his chained hands on the table, reaching out toward him. Laffitte stares at him with wild eyes, then he grips Jean-Luc’s wrists, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing.
The guard walks away, tutting loudly.
For a while they sit in silence, and Jean-Luc waits for Laffitte to calm himself.
“I’m sorry,” Laffitte finally says. “It just… it brought it all back.”
“It’s okay. It’s over now.”
He looks up at Jean-Luc with dark eyes. “Is it? Is it over? It will never be over.”
Jean-Luc knows what he means. He tries to change the subject. “How is your wife?”
“She… she was very upset after she came to see you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.”
“She wanted to find out more about Samuel, but instead she came away feeling unworthy in some way.”
“I didn’t intend to make her feel like that. She wanted me to give her details about Sam, but I couldn’t remember everything she asked, like when he first walked, when he first slept through the night. These things aren’t the things I remember.”
“I see.” Laffitte rubs his eyes again, as if he’s tired of it all. “What are the things you remember then?”
Jean-Luc thinks for a minute, Sam’s earnest face vivid in his mind. “His smile. The funny things he said. The way he stuck out his chin in determination or defiance. His long thin arms wrapped around me. The gentle strength he had when he hugged me. The sweet smell of his sweat. His way of looking at me with wide eyes when I’d read him a story—”
Laffitte’s hand lands hard on the table. “That’s enough.” He shifts in his chair. “Why didn’t you have children of your own?”
Jean-Luc frowns. “We wanted to.” He pauses for a minute, wondering whether to go on. “But… well, it was difficult. Charlotte couldn’t. They said it might be due to the deprivation she suffered during the occupation—at that sensitive age.”
“Oh.” Laffitte is embarrassed now, his gray cheeks regaining some color.
“The doctors said there was nothing they could do.” The words roll off his tongue now, feeling like a release. “They said that with a proper diet and healthy lifestyle things should return to normal, but it just didn’t happen.” He looks at Laffitte and is surprised to see traces of Sam in his dark, intelligent eyes, and in the way he rubs them when confronted with a problem. “Can I ask you, if you don’t mind… I know you don’t have any other children either.”
Laffitte stares down at the table, shaking his head. When he finally looks up, his eyes are watery and unfocused, as though he’s lost in a memory.
“I’m sorry.” Jean-Luc doesn’t know where to take the conversation now. They’ve hit dangerous territory, and he scrambles around, trying to find a way out.
But then Laffitte blinks and starts talking, his eyes focused now on some distant point. “It was hard when we got back. The physical labor, the starvation, the brutality—it had all taken its toll on both of us. We’d changed; our bodies no longer felt like our own. We weren’t the young couple we’d been. I think we both felt…” He looks straight at Jean-Luc with wide eyes, as though surprised at how much he’s said already. “It took a long time to feel human again, like ourselves. And all the time we were still looking for Samuel. I wanted to try to have another child, but Sarah’s heart wasn’t in it. She used to cry… She just wanted her baby back.”
“And now she’s got him back.”
“Well, he’s not a baby anymore, is he? If only… if only you’d looked for us after the war. Everything would have been different.” He sighs.
“Ten minutes!” the guard shouts.
“Tell me how he is now,” Jean-Luc says. “Please. Your wife told me he was suffering from a skin rash… Is it better?”
Laffitte’s eyes glaze over as if he’s lost in thought. Then he replies, “No, it’s not.” He raises his eyes to meet Jean-Luc’s. “Fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you.” He pulls on his beard, leaning forward. “The poor boy has been terribly disturbed. He refuses to speak French, he cries most nights, and he has developed a rash that is eating him up. Last week, he finally ran away. He was found up in Le Havre, trying to board a boat to America.”
“No! Oh God, no!” Jean-Luc falls back in his chair, holding his chained hands up against his forehead. What have they done to Sam? Pain shoots through his stomach, like knives cutting him up from the inside. He can hardly breathe.
The guard approaches. “Five minutes.”
“Sarah,” Laffitte murmurs. “It’s hard for her to see her child like this. It’s hard for me too, but I make myself think of the long term, see the whole picture. But all Sarah sees is her little boy suffering.” He shakes his head. “It’s killing her.”
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Paris, November 3, 1953
SARAH
While David is visiting Beauchamp, and Sam’s in his room, Sarah takes out her special writing paper she keeps in a wooden box, a dried rose lying on the thick parchment. This will be the most important letter she will ever write. Carefully she fills her fountain pen with ink, thinking about David, knowing it will be impossible for him to accept her decision. But he won’t be able to stop her, not now that she’s told him about her promise to God. David’s faith is like a rock, unmovable, and he wouldn’t want Sarah to compromise hers by breaking a promise like that.
Dear Mrs. Beauchamp,
It is with a broken heart that I write this letter. Samuel isn’t happy here. We are at a loss. His distress at being uprooted is too much for us to bear. I am appealing to you in desperation. He needs you. Can you come?
Sarah Laffitte
The front door clicks open. Sarah looks up from her letter. David stands there, his shoulders slumped, his face gray. Rubbing his eyes, he stares at her.
She doesn’t move from her chair, but gazes at him, thinking how exhausted and weary he looks. She doesn’t even want to ask him how the meeting with Beauchamp went, imagining it could only have been painful.
A silent tear slides down his cheek, followed by another. Still she doesn’t move. How can she comfort him? She has nothing to offer him now, only her surrender. He wanted her to be tenacious, to hold on to their son with all her might, whatever the cost. But she loves Sam too much for that.
She doesn’t notice the tears sliding down her own cheeks until they land on the letter, blurring the ink. As she looks down at the blue splotches, she feels David come and crouch down beside her, his wet cheek leaning into hers. She knows he’s reading the letter. Holding her breath, she waits for his hurt, his anger to come flying out.
“Sarah,” he murmurs. “Sarah.” Then his arms are around her, pulling her into him.
She slips effortlessly into his embrace.
“Sarah, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
“But you’re crying.”
Holding her face in his hands, he kisses her tears away. “Our son is alive. It is enough for me. It is enough, Sarah.”
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Santa Cruz, November 9, 1953
CHARLOTTE
Another Monday morning. I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, put two large spoonfuls of coffee into the filter paper, and heat the water on the stove. Waiting for it
to boil, I light up. I’ve never been a smoker, but now it calms my nerves and gives me something to do with my ever-fidgety fingers. I like the breathing too—a long deep breath in; hold it a second, then let it out slowly. I could give it up if I wanted to, and one day I probably will.
I have to be at the psychiatrist’s at nine o’clock. When I enter his room with its bright white walls, I feel the same apprehension I do every week. It’s hard work pretending to be someone I’m not. I sit on the rounded plastic chair opposite him, looking at him with a fake smile stretched across my mouth.
“Good morning, Charlotte. How are you today?”
“Very well, thank you. And yourself?” I look him in the eye, hoping to convince him that I’m sincere.
He smiles back at me. “What have you been doing this week?”
“I went to pottery class on Saturday.”
He nods as though I’ve said something profound.
“The women there are such fun! We talk about everything.”
I don’t mention how I just sit there letting their conversation wash over me while I stroke the damp clay into the shape of a child’s face, then squash it up to start again. I just can’t get Sam’s features right. I like listening to their chatter. It’s soothing. Maybe it’s the lack of a male presence that makes them feel free to talk. They talk about everything—children, education, their own childhoods, men, love, relationships. They excuse me from participating because I’m foreign and they don’t think I follow everything they say. But I do. I’ve just found this is a good card to play. My foreignness. It stops people from trying to get too near.
“And have you seen any of them outside of the class?”
Damn! He’s not as easy to fool as that. “Not yet,” I say. “But I’m planning on inviting a few of them over next weekend.”
“Good. Very good. You’ll tell me how it goes at our next appointment then?”
