by Kathy Kacer
But instead, Sister Agnes simply said, “I will be praying for you.” And then, she lifted her hand and held it out to Helen, inviting her to take it.
“Thank you, Sister,” Helen replied. She knew she wouldn’t miss this nun, not the way that she would miss some of the others. She wouldn’t miss Sister Agnes’s daily scrutiny or the many punishments she had received at her hands. But Helen had come to realize that Sister Agnes did care, in her own unusual way. She had certainly shown that to be true during the terrible confrontation with the Nazi soldiers in town, and after that as well. Helen extended her own hand, accepting Sister Agnes’s handshake as an honest moment of truce.
Marcel stood before the three children. “My lovely friends,” he began. “We’re going on an adventure tonight. There will be a lot of walking, and we’ll have to keep silent most of the time. Will you be able to do that?”
All three of them nodded.
And then Marcel turned to Henry. “You already have some experience at this. So it should be simple, yes?”
Was that a small smile Helen saw pass over Henry’s lips?
Marcel reached into his own backpack and pulled out some papers. “These are your new documents. You’ll carry them with you on our journey.”
He handed a paper to Helen. It was an identity document with her picture on it. And the name on the paper, written in carefully scripted black ink, was Claire Rochette. Where had these papers come from? Helen looked up at Marcel. He caught her glance and smiled.
“Not only am I a wonderful mime artist and an excellent guide, I’m also a good forger, don’t you think? No one will ever know that these documents are fakes.”
Helen looked at the papers again. On the line beside the word Religion Marcel had printed Catholic.She wondered who might be inspecting her documents. But she pushed that thought aside for now, along with all the anxiety that came with it.
“I have to take a look inside your bags—just to make sure you’re not bringing too much with you,” Marcel continued. “The terrain will be difficult at times, and you’ll need all your strength for the journey. I don’t want you burdened by too many things.”
She watched as Marcel quickly rummaged through Albert’s bag and removed a couple of sweaters, placing them in a pile to one side. Then he nodded approvingly. He did the same with a few of Henry’s things. But she knew what Marcel was going to find in her backpack even before he untied the strings and began to rifle through it. The photographs of her parents were there, hidden between the layers of her clothing, but easily discovered by Marcel, who pulled them out and stared down at them, and then up at Helen. She glanced over at Henry, who was staring at the photographs.
“They’re just pictures,” she began hoarsely. “I thought …” And then she faltered.
Marcel shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t bring them. I know you understand.”
Before Helen could say another word, Mère Supérieure stepped forward. She raised her hand and made the sign of the cross in the air above the heads of the three young people. “Go in safety, my children,”she said. “And may God bless and watch over you.”
There was no more time to think about her precious photographs. This was it! Helen placed her backpack over her shoulders, walked out of the dining hall, and followed her brother, Albert, and Marcel out the doors of the convent and into the warm night air.
CHAPTER 28
Henry
Henry lagged behind the others, thinking about the photographs of Maman and Papa. He hadn’t known Helen had had those pictures—didn’t know where she had gotten them. But when the clown had pulled them out of her backpack, he had almost cried out loud. He hadn’t seen his parents’ faces in so long. And now the pain of missing them was so big, it was wrapping around his heart and squeezing until he thought it might burst. He longed for them to come back. But now that he and Helen had left the convent, he was scared that he might never see Maman and Papa again. Henry shook his head. No! He couldn’t let himself think like that. For now, he had to follow the others and keep walking.
He could see Helen looking back at him as they marched through the forest. And even though it was so dark he couldn’t see her face, he imagined the look that was on it—one that he’d seen many times. She would be worried about him and wanting to do something to help. But there was nothing she could do to take away this sadness. At least the clown was there, leading them. There were so many things that Henry could worry about, but the one thing he felt sure of was that the clown would keep them safe. Henry pulled his shoulders back and picked up his pace, passing Helen and Albert until he was walking side by side with the clown.
The clown looked over at Henry when they were alongside each other and said, “I know you must be missing your parents, and I’m so sorry about that.”
It was as if he was a mind reader. He understood Henry so much better than anyone else. “Why are you doing this?” Henry asked.
“Doing what?” The clown’s pace did not slow as he and Henry talked.
“Helping children like us. It’s so dangerous for you. You could be acting on a stage somewhere. You could be famous. Why are you doing this?”
The clown glanced over at Henry. “I haven’t always been Marcel Marceau—or ‘the clown,’ as you and the others call me,” he said. “I once had a different last name.”
“Was it changed the way the tall nun changed our names?” Henry asked.
“I changed it myself.”
Why would anyone want to change their name? Henry wondered.
“I was Marcel Mangel, the son of a Jewish butcher,” the clown continued. “But I decided to call myself Marceau after a famous French general who fought in this country years ago. Right now, I have no idea where my parents are,” he added. “When the Nazis marched into eastern France, I went to join the partisans.”
“The partisans?” Henry had no idea what that was.
“An underground movement,” the clown said. “We think of ourselves as freedom fighters. In our own way, we’re trying to fight back—holding rallies, demonstrations, getting information across the country, interrupting the progress of the Nazis. There are many people like me who are part of the Resistance, doing all of those things and more.”
“So you decided to help children like me and Helen and Albert get across the border?”
The clown nodded. “I needed to find something important to do. Don’t get me wrong, I love to perform. But helping in this way has given me a sense of purpose.” He glanced over at Henry. “Can you understand that?”
Henry nodded. “I think so. And your parents?”
“I’m hoping that they’re safe.”
“That’s just like us,” Henry exclaimed.
“We seem to have a lot in common, Henry.”
Henry smiled. “You didn’t call me le muet.”
“I don’t think that’s your name anymore, is it?”
Henry thought about that for a moment. “No.”
Then the clown smiled. “You stay close to me, my friend. You’ll be my assistant and we’ll lead the way for the others, won’t we?”
Henry had no idea where they were going or how he could help get them there. But he felt his chest swell with pride. And for the moment, he forgot about his parents and all his other worries.
Deeper into the forest they trekked, staying well clear of the town, lit up in the distance—the town where the horrible Nazi soldiers had tried to question him. He looked away from those lights, looked straight ahead of him, placing one foot in front of the other, stepping over deep earthy ruts and tree roots that bulged from the ground. Leaves rustled softly above Henry’s head. Every now and then, he caught a peek at stars that sparkled in the clear night sky. And then, they would disappear, swallowed up by the trees that towered above him. Small animals hid from view but called out to one another from branches and furrows; an owl hooted, a small fox growled, a rabbit d
arted away when they approached. It was so peaceful out here, Henry thought—too peaceful to be dangerous. At least, that’s what he hoped.
At times, it felt as if they were walking in circles, first in one direction, and then turning around and going completely the opposite way, as if they were starting again. The forest would thin out, and then the trees would multiply and thicken and practically shove them off the path with their massive overgrowth. But the clown led the way as if he had walked this route dozens of times. Every now and then, he paused to check the sky and then sprinted forward again, barely looking behind him to see if the children were close.
Henry kept up with every step, feeling the muscles in his legs working harder than when he had run laps in the courtyard. Still, his breathing had become shallow and quick, and he could feel the sweat rolling down his back and dampening his shirt and the backpack that he carried.
Every once in a while, he looked over his shoulder at Helen. He didn’t want her to fall too far behind. But Albert was right next to her, and so far, she was keeping up, though she was starting to look tired.
Suddenly, the clown raised his hand and came to an abrupt stop.
The children paused behind him, waiting and listening. But the only noise Henry could hear was the sound of their own breathing, each one gulping in air and trying to recover from the long and difficult night hike. Henry peered around the clown, who was still stopped on the path, his arm held straight up in the air. He could just make out a clearing up ahead and what looked like some small farmhouses. The clown suddenly turned and motioned for everyone to come closer. He bent down to whisper to them.
“It’ll start to get light soon. We need to get out of the woods and find a place to rest. I know a farmer here who’ll let us use his barn. He’s a good man,” he added. “Wait here and I’ll go and talk to him.” And with that, the clown disappeared, walking out of the forest and toward the lights of the farmhouse.
Henry sank down into the soft dirt. How long had they been walking? he wondered. Probably hours. His body longed for sleep. If he could, he would have closed his eyes right here in the woods and drifted off. But he willed himself to stay awake and alert. Helen and Albert lay on the ground close to him. Neither one was talking. Everyone seemed too exhausted to say a word.
A few minutes passed, and then Henry heard a rustling in the bushes ahead. The clown reappeared and motioned for the three of them to follow him. Henry pulled himself from the ground and crept after the clown, ducking down as they crossed the open field toward a barn that seemed impossibly far away. The forest had offered some comforting protection. Here in the open, he felt as if a thousand eyes were watching him. He picked up his pace.
When they finally reached the barn and went inside, the smell of fresh hay mixed with cow manure filled his nostrils. It was overpowering at first, nearly taking his breath away. He wrinkled his nose as he climbed after the clown up a steep ladder and into the hayloft. Helen and Albert were right behind him.
The clown motioned for each of them to find a place in the loft. Henry moved to a far corner. He brushed aside a spider web and let his body sink into the soft and prickly hay, repositioning himself several times until he had found a comfortable spot. He had no time to think about where they were or how far they still had to go. He had no chance to wonder where his parents were. He had no time to worry about Helen and whether or not she was okay. He was asleep as soon as his head settled onto the hay.
CHAPTER 29
Helen
The sun woke Helen, peeking through cracks in the barn roof above her hayloft bed. She blinked several times and stretched, uncertain at first about where she was. And then it all came into focus: the hours and hours they had walked before they had finally stopped to get some rest. Helen hadn’t been sure how much longer she could have gone on. And all the while they’d been walking, she’d remembered that other escape, the one that had brought her and Henry to the convent. Maman had also made them trek for long distances. And while the paths had been smoother and easier to walk across, the worry about where they were heading had been equally intense.
It was quiet up here in the hayloft. The only sounds were some birds chirping in the distance and the cows down below, rustling in their stalls and snorting and mooing softly. She rolled over and looked around. Henry was still fast asleep. She could hear his soft snores coming from the far corner of the loft. Marcel had disappeared. But Albert was sitting up and looking at her.
She propped herself up on her elbow. “Good morning.”
He smiled. “I think it’s way past morning. How did you sleep?”
“Really well!” That was true. She had slept better than she had in weeks. The exhaustion after the long hike, mixed with the fresh night air, had worked magic on her. She had not stirred once after laying her head down in the loft.
“Me, too,” Albert replied. “That’s a first for me.” Then he nodded toward Henry. “Your brother is still out like a light. How do you think he’s doing?”
Helen pushed herself up to a sitting position and glanced again at Henry. “I’m not sure. I’m never really sure these days. He looked pretty upset when he saw those photographs of my parents.”
“I’m sorry you couldn’t bring them with you,” Albert said.
Helen gulped. She was trying so hard not to wallow in her own sadness over losing the pictures of Maman and Papa. “It was stupid of me to think I could. As soon as Marcel said he was going to go through our backpacks, I knew he would find them.” She closed her eyes, trying to capture in her mind the images of her parents, knowing that would have to hold her for the next while. Then she opened her eyes again and looked at Albert. “What time do you think it is?”
He crawled across the hay to press his face against the cracks in the barn board, squinting to get a look at the position of the sun in the sky. “I’m guessing it’s mid-afternoon. Marcel said that we’d sleep during the day and move through the night.”
Helen nodded. “Thanks for staying close to me out there.” Albert had not left her side during their entire hike. Even when she had thought she might be faltering and lagging behind, Albert had slowed his pace to walk beside her.
“No problem,” he replied, a sleepy grin on his face. “We have to stick together.”
Just then, there was a rustling from down below and the sound of someone climbing the ladder. Helen froze instinctively, a slight chill passing over her body. Marcel’s face appeared at the top of the ladder and he grinned over at them. Then he slung a package onto the hay and climbed the rest of the way up to sit next to them in the loft.
Marcel opened the package as Henry began to stir. Inside were several fresh baguettes, some cheese wrapped in wax paper, and a few bright red tomatoes. He pulled out a jar of milk, which he set down on the straw. The smell of sweet yeasty bread filled the hayloft.
“As I said, the farmer is a good man,” he said, as he pulled a knife from a holder in the back of his belt and began to cut up the cheese and tomatoes, dividing it among the children. “Eat as much as you can. I’m not sure when we’re going to have this kind of feast again.” As he said this, he tore off chunks of bread to pass around. Then he handed the jar of milk to Helen, motioning for her to take a swig before passing it on.
Helen drank the milk and gobbled her portion of food with hardly a breath between bites. The bread was still warm, and the cheese was soft and tart. The tomatoes were ripe and oozed juice that dribbled down her chin. She hadn’t realized how famished she was. The nuns had given them some sandwiches for the first part of their journey, but those were long gone.
They ate in silence. Then Marcel pulled his backpack over and turned it upside down, emptying the contents onto the hay. He reached inside and lifted a flap at the very bottom to reveal a pocket sewn into the seams. It was completely undetectable. Helen watched as he opened the concealed pocket and pulled some additional documents from it. He laid these on the hay i
n front of them. When Helen looked down, she could see that these were their original identity documents, the ones that Maman had given to Mère Supérieure the day they had arrived at the convent. A third document belonged to Albert. The red letter J that identified them as Jews was stamped on the front of each paper. It glowed in the soft light of the barn. Marcel looked up at them.
“You’ll need these originals when you get across the border,” he said. “But for now, I’m going to put them in a safer place.”
Helen watched in amazement as he first wrapped the documents in wax paper. Then he cut several slices of baguette and placed the wrapped documents on the bread, adding layers of sliced cheese and tomato. Finally, he wrapped the bulging sandwich in the remaining waxed paper and stuffed it into his backpack. He smiled up at the children.
“If we’re stopped, the Nazis will never look at the sandwich. They like to keep their uniforms spic and span. And they don’t like to get their hands dirty going through food. Trust me,” he added, noting the astonished look on Helen’s face. “It’s worked in the past.”
“How many children have you smuggled to the border?” Helen asked.
He lay back on the hay, propped up on one arm, and placed a piece of straw in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ve lost count,” he finally said. “Perhaps a hundred. Maybe more.”
A hundred!
“And they’ve all stayed safe?” This question came from Albert.
Marcel stared evenly, first at Albert and then back at Helen. “Every single one.”
He sat up once more and pulled a worn map from his backpack, unfolding it and spreading it on top of the straw, and then motioning for the children to gather round.
“Let me show you where we’ll be going,” he said.
