Paris, 7 A.M.

by Liza Wieland

  Her mother turns, bends at the waist, catches Elizabeth up into her arms. Aunt Mary, who is sixteen, arrives out of breath. Gertrude! Don’t! she cries. Put Elizabeth down. Then Mary covers her eyes with her hands. Gertrude Bishop has turned away to gaze out into the bay. Not the Bay of Fundy, but the smaller one, whose name is too hard to pronounce. Over her mother’s shoulder, Elizabeth watches Mary. Gertrude Bishop doesn’t speak, but she is trembling, so that the chattering of her teeth makes a sound that could have meaning in actual words. Like a typewriter, Elizabeth will think years later the first time she has occasion to use one, my mother’s teeth, when she was cold or confused, sounded like this.

  Being held and being afraid to be held. Horrible, delicious, essential as physical pleasure. I want this. I could die from this.

  Elizabeth does not believe Clara will touch her. In any case, Clara is probably not strong enough to do any great harm. Still this entire—what is the word for it?—errand here is a kind of madness. Grief appears as a woman in a blue coat, half mad, at the end of a dock, almost twilight, blue-gray water that isn’t endless, not very wide.

  And something else: words she might have heard all those years ago. I shouldn’t like to lose you.

  But the loss feels inevitable, as madness feels inevitable. A loved one dies, and then you go mad. Clara is an example, a literal embodiment of that causality, that truth. A loved one dies and so you go mad. Elizabeth realizes she has been waiting for it in herself, since she received news of her mother’s death right before graduation. Robert’s death. It hasn’t come. Not yet. Gertrude Bishop driven mad by the death of her husband. Robert by Elizabeth’s refusal. Clara driven mad by the death of her daughter. Elizabeth by the death of her mother. Clara and Elizabeth. They make a ragged pair. Léonie appears behind them, having made no sound.

  Clara explains: The baby usually arrives on Sunday or Monday. The day workers in the orphanage leave on Friday evenings, carrying their large lunch pails, their weekend shopping in huge canvas market bags, shapeless bundles of nappies to wash at home. It’s not difficult to hide a baby. They are handed off twice in Belgium, come into France by car or by boat, and travel west from there. The final destination is Paris, sometimes England, in a few cases America.

  The babies are deeply loved, Clara says. A few are sick. Not a single one has died on the way.

  They seem to have superhuman strength, an astonishing will to live. They are touched and spoken to constantly. Most have been separated from their mothers for only about a week before they start their travels.

  Léonie says something, and Clara translates: they move hand to hand like ten-pound bars of gold.

  I was sent that way, Elizabeth wants to tell them. Not secretly, though. My mother went to a kind of prison because people thought her strange and dangerous. Instead of a yellow star, she wore a blue moon, a purple nightshade, a whirling planet. She prayed in a different language, not to God, but to my father.

  Elizabeth, Clara says, as if she knows what thoughts have captured and distracted her.

  I’m sorry. You were saying . . . ?

  We’ve come, Clara is saying, to bring two infants back to Paris. Two girls.

  Had you planned this when I phoned you Thursday? Or before that?

  I had not. But last week, I didn’t know how I would manage two on my own. And then your call came, and I had my answer.

  It’s very convenient. Quite a coincidence.

  Sometimes that happens, Clara says. Not very often. Not as often as we would like.

  Elizabeth understands there is a whole universe moving inside this house. Babies delivered by women who are not their mothers to other, older women who are also not their mothers. It all sounds like a fairy tale or a fable. She could write this. But then she recalls Miss Moore’s letter about her stories. Do you think your calling is to write fables? I can’t help wishing you would sometime, in some way, risk some unprotected profundity or experience. Do you think you can see the world by withdrawing from it? The answer to these last questions is clearly supposed to be no. Elizabeth feels an odd desire to return to the bedroom and lean again on the high side of the wooden crib. What is happening in this house is no fable. Some characteristic private defiance of the significantly detestable was how Miss Moore defined substance. This house is substance.

  Inside, Léonie begins to clear the dishes, but Dominique takes her by the shoulders and steers her toward the parlor. On y va, he says, and Clara follows Léonie, who lights a fire in the grate and settles herself in one of the large armchairs. Clara tucks herself into a corner of the sofa, closes her eyes. In a few minutes, her breathing slows to a rhythmic whistle.

  Soixante-neuf ans, Dominique says.

  He means Léonie. Léonie is sixty-nine. His tone seems to imply that a woman with so many years deserves a nap. He hands Elizabeth a white lace-edged cloth and gestures that she should dry the dishes he is washing. The kitchen window looks out on the sea, a view she can almost remember from childhood—almost. North facing, nearly the same latitude, identical darker and lighter shades of blue and gray, the same west-racing doughy clouds, patches of light beaming through as if a child had poked a hole here and there to expose the blue dish underneath. Storms at sea, probably eight or ten miles out, occasionally a line of silver where the sun has sliced though the cloud cover. The silver line moves west, broadens, thins, disappears.

  Je voudrais voir cette scène tous les jours, Elizabeth says.

  Regarder, Dominique corrects. Je voudrais regarder.

  He is telling her not to see, but to look at. There’s a difference.

  Bien sûr. Merci, Elizabeth says.

  What happened to their mothers? Elizabeth asks. Les mères? She can’t help thinking of the mothers’ grief—their separate, then communal, then colossal loss. She doesn’t think Dominique will understand the question, but he does.

  Mystère, he says.

  Are they all Jewish? Juives?

  Dominique nods.

  So, the mothers have done the most reasonable thing: they have tried to save their children. But surely it has brought them anguish. They will not know what’s happened to their children. Then, suddenly, she decides this cannot be true. Certainly the orphanages would have asked for an address to send news, to keep track of which babies belonged to which mothers. In case they ever came back.

  Léonie’s glass tumblers are heavy and large, and Elizabeth struggles to hold on to them inside the lace-edged towel. Such things seem determined to break.

  As if he’s reading her thoughts, Dominique takes the tumbler from her hands and places it on the shelf beside the sink. His composure calls to mind the sailboat and the three-quarters of an hour he and Clara were occupied belowdecks and how completely unlikely it is that she has come to be in this house with three much older people who seem to be operating a kind of underground railroad for Jewish infants from Germany. Of course, she would be expected not to write to Louise or Margaret or Miss Moore or anyone else about this. Maybe by tomorrow it would all seem like a dream.

  No. Tomorrow there will be infants to carry back to Paris. Or if not tomorrow, then the day after. How on earth will they manage it, on a train, with their baggage?

  I will have to be the mother, Elizabeth says. Clara is too old. Je serai la mère.

  Oui, Dominique says. He hands her another plate to dry, and then another.

  Will we say they are twins? What is twins? Deux. La même.

  Oui.

  Elizabeth feels afraid, and then angry. I can’t do it, she says. I’ve never held a baby for more than thirty seconds, and that was long enough and it was five years ago. Je ne peux pas.

  C’est simple, Dominique says.

  Elizabeth steps away from the sink. She believes Clara must be out of her mind. They will have to talk it out when they get back to the hotel in Arromanches. Elizabeth will stand her ground. Clara should not have put her in this position. She turns to look at Clara and Léonie, asleep, lit unevenly by the fire. T
heir faces are stone, like statues in a graveyard.

  * * *

  That evening, after dinner and a bottle of wine, Elizabeth does not argue or protest. Annoyance and apprehension sodden into a mild curiosity that feels familiar. At eight o’clock, the sky goes red then salmon then pink, hysterical color, a woman trying on shirts: not this but this, not that, try this. Elizabeth starts toward breathlessness and wonders if she will need an injection of adrenaline, but she knows it’s not really asthma.

  After she’s paid the bill, Clara suggests they walk down to the marina, crowded tonight with houseboats at the docks and caravans in the car park, the last vacationers of the season, not quite ready to go home. Conversations hum, lanterns and cook fires glow, glasses and bottles chime. They smell charcoal and fermented apples. The Sirène rides in her slip, but Dominique does not seem to be on board. They sit on a bench at the end of the fishing pier.

  I could never live far from the sea, Elizabeth says.

  Why is that?

  I suppose it’s what I’m used to.

  All your life?

  The important parts.

  I imagined you’d have more questions about today.

  Elizabeth sighs, feeling a clench in her chest and shoulders. I do, but I hardly know where to begin.

  They sit in silence. Elizabeth knows that Clara is waiting, and she wonders at Clara’s vast patience, which is not a quality she ordinarily seems to possess in abundance. A woman about Clara’s age, carrying a fishing rod and tackle box, walks out of the failing light and positions herself at the railing. She open the tackle box, removes a small jar, unscrews the lid, uses whatever is inside, a slimy inert thing, to bait her hook. She casts in an awkward, sideways movement, as if she’s having a seizure, and Elizabeth feels Clara tense, rise halfway off the bench. The woman draws a small flask out of her pocket, thumbs off the stopper, and takes a drink. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, sighs deeply.

  I know, Elizabeth says quietly, as if this woman could hear her.

  What’s that, dear?

  Dear.

  Nothing, Elizabeth says. But what if I were some kind of a spy?

  Don’t you think I can look into that? You’re nothing of the sort.

  Of course. But what if I suddenly decide—

  You won’t, Clara says tartly. You’re too busy not writing.

  Elizabeth isn’t sure who has said the words, Clara or herself. Or maybe the woman fishing spoke. Or something else, the voice of the fishing rod. I know what I know, the fishing rod says. But no—it’s her voice, out of her mouth.

  It’s true. I’m not writing.

  That was a guess, but I thought so.

  And I have to get back to New York to not write some more. If I manage to get a book under way soon, I’ll need to be there.

  And your friend will be fine.

  For a moment, Elizabeth wonders which friend Clara means. Margaret. The thought gives her a chill. Margaret will never be fine. The sun, huge and blinding, seems to be racing toward the horizon.

  What is the name of that color? Clara says.

  It would be red, Elizabeth says, except we’ve smudged it. Pinker than red, redder than salmon.

  She doesn’t say: like the insides of a fish, a live thing cut open, gutted. The living parts before they fade and stink.

  The babies arrive tomorrow night, Elizabeth.

  Where will we meet them?

  Dieppe.

  There is no talk of danger, Elizabeth notices. Which means there must be quite a lot of it.

  Are you afraid, Clara?

  I can’t even think of that, Elizabeth. And when the time comes, you won’t think of it either.

  I don’t know.

  When you are my age, you will be lonely and puzzled about your life. You will want it to have had some meaning. Wanting that pushes everything else out of your mind. So.

  Clara stands and takes hold of Elizabeth’s hand.

  There isn’t any room for fear, Elizabeth. Dominique will take us back to Léonie’s house tomorrow, and we’ll go from there.

  Léonie slides out of the armchair, stands, and crosses the parlor to the desk. From the center drawer, she takes a pad of writing paper, which appears to be handmade, knobby grained and deckle edged, like another visitation of lace. She chooses a pencil from a basket on the desk, returns to her chair, and begins to draw. A house. The pencil’s lead is sepia colored, not the ordinary dark gray. Elizabeth wonders where to buy such a pencil—she loves the way it transforms a simple line drawing. Extraordinary what color can do, even a color so mild as this one.

  The house, as it is taking shape, looks like Léonie’s, the very house they occupy right now. She sketches in the roof, the windows, and an old woman sitting in the window closest to the front door. Then Léonie takes the side of her hand—the right hand, which is curled around the sepia pencil—and drags it over the house, from the roof to the ground.

  Hmmm? she says, and turns the sketch so Elizabeth can see it fully. The smeared pencil produces the effect of rain, rain falling on the house, blurring the outline, the sepia a kind of muted sorrow enveloping the house. Léonie draws a winding pathway circling around to the right and disappearing behind the scene. Just before the path runs out of sight, she draws a man—a few quick strokes, but that’s what he is, a man wearing a brimmed hat and carrying some sort of long-handled farm tool, a rake or a shovel. Maybe a scythe? No, no curve to it. Behind the house, she draws trees, not very tall, but with many graceful branches.

  Apple trees! Elizabeth says, hardly knowing where the idea has come from.

  Léonie nods.

  The perspective is elegant, perfect: those trees closest to the house are larger, but then they grow smaller, until the trees in the last row are the size of Elizabeth’s fingernail.

  Léonie stops drawing and looks at her picture, frowning. Her hand comes away from the page, turns downward as if she will smudge the rest, but then she doesn’t. The man and the apple orchard remain sharp and clear. Somehow this rain falls only on the house. Inscrutable is the word.

  Voilà, Léonie says. Mon père.

  Elizabeth wants to ask Léonie if she can keep the picture. She loves it, the nearly disappearing father.

  Et Maupassant, Léonie says.

  She tells a story to Clara, who listens, delighted.

  Her father, Clara says to Elizabeth, built all the furniture from applewood, even the crib. And do you know who came here once and put his grandchild into this crib? Maupassant! And the story is that his grandchild was a wakeful little monster, but he slept for hours without making a peep!

  What a fantastic crib, Elizabeth thinks. Right out of a fairy tale.

  Et aussi, Léonie says. She makes a fist with her right hand, as if she will punch something. Then she turns the hand over, opens it, and there in her palm is a small object, also made of applewood, with a hinge and a clasp. Viens ici, Léonie says, and Elizabeth leans closer. Léonie whispers and Clara laughs.

  She says your hair is unruly, Elizabeth.

  I have a friend who says it looks like something to pack china in.

  Léonie combs through Elizabeth’s hair with her fingers and attaches the clasp.

  Voilà, she says, Maintenant tu peux voir!

  Now you can see!

  * * *

  After the sun sets, Léonie’s house turns chilly. She lights a fire in the stove, and they sit together around the kitchen table. Léonie has brought in a huge bushel of apples. She hands out paring knives, and they set to peeling the apples. Elizabeth makes a game of getting the peels off in one piece. It’s slow work, and she worries she’s falling behind, but then she sees Clara and Léonie are playing the game, too. Léonie is best and Clara is worst. She peels away too much apple flesh, and after a minute, Léonie stops her, demonstrates a technique that involves holding the apple as if it were scalding hot.

  Ces pommes, Elizabeth says, holding up an apple. With the other hand, she points at Léonie. C’
est à vous?

  Oui, Léonie says. Le verger de mon père. Mon grand-père, arrière-grand-père. Et alors, mon frère. Jamais les filles. Comme on dit le proverbe, les fils ont les vergers, les filles ont leurs mères.

  The sons have the orchards and the daughters have their mothers. That is the folk wisdom. What happens, Elizabeth wonders, when the folk wisdom is ignored or denied?

  Disorder, suffering, chaos.

  Où est votre frère? Elizabeth says, and Léonie makes a sound that’s part whistle, part air rushing out of a balloon.

  Her brother is a sympathizer, Clara says. He lives in Munich now. He sometimes comes to see about the orchard, but not often. He is not a pleasant person. And as you can imagine, he would not be helpful at the moment.

  In Dieppe, at four o’clock in the morning, there is not much time to waste. Clara leads Elizabeth away from the docks and up a narrow street. Dominique waits in the boat.

  A woman takes shape out of the shadows, as if the night air has pulled back, drawn into itself, tightened, the way flesh does when it meets the cold.

  The woman whispers something, and Elizabeth steps closer.

  The woman turns slightly, reaching back into the retracted darkness. It’s a magic trick: suddenly her arms are full of air, squirming breath, two bundles, the babies. Clara takes one infant into her arms, gestures to Elizabeth, Go on, this one is for you. The baby is large but strangely weightless, and both asleep and awake. The power to be in this middle consciousness is fascinating, otherworldly. This is what keeps babies alive: our awe.

  Va-t-en, the woman says, and she freezes, as if she’s heard something. Her eyes go wide, and then she shakes her head. She whispers Merci and slips away into the darkness.

  Clara starts back down the lane toward the harbor. Elizabeth follows. Moonlight catches in the baby’s eyes, disappears, returns, a small beam turned on and off. The baby is still, as if it understands what is happening. Somewhere a dog barks, and the baby startles but does not cry.

  Don’t trip, Elizabeth tells herself. She cannot see her feet, cannot see ahead, except for the faint outline of Clara’s back. She follows Clara’s breathing, the skitter of gravel. It’s a straight, small alleyway, Elizabeth remembers. There will be lights on the boats in the harbor. They will hand the babies to Dominique, board the Sirène, cast off the lines.