TWENTY-THREE
In the last few moments before dawn, Vianne sat near the mound of fresh-turned earth. She wanted to pray, but her faith felt far away, the remnant of another woman’s life.
Slowly, she got to her feet.
As the sky turned lavender and pink—ironically beautiful—she went to her backyard, where the chickens clucked and flapped their wings at her unexpected arrival. She stripped off her bloody clothes, left them in a heap on the ground, and washed up at the pump. Then she took a linen nightdress from the clothesline, put it on, and went inside.
She was bone tired and soul weary, but there was no way she could rest. She lit an oil lamp and sat on the divan. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Antoine beside her. What would she say to him now? I don’t know the right thing to do anymore. I want to protect Sophie and keep her safe, but what good is safety if she has to grow up in a world where people disappear without a trace because they pray to a different God? If I am arrested …
The door to the guest room opened. She heard Beck coming toward her. He was dressed in his uniform and freshly shaved, and she knew instinctively that he’d been waiting for her to return. Worrying about her.
“You’re returned,” he said.
She was sure he saw some spatter of blood or dirt somewhere on her, at her temple or on the back of her hand. There was an almost imperceptible pause; she knew he was waiting for her to look at him, to communicate what had happened, but she just sat there. If she opened her mouth she might start screaming. Or if she looked at him she might cry, might demand to know how it was that children could be shot in the dark for nothing.
“Maman?” Sophie said, coming into the room. “You were not in bed when I woke up,” she said. “I got scared.”
She clasped her hands in her lap. “I am sorry, Sophie.”
“Well,” Beck said. “I must leave. Good-bye.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Sophie came closer. She looked a little bleary-eyed. Tired. “You’re scaring me, Maman. Is something wrong?”
Vianne closed her eyes. She would have to give her daughter this terrible news, and then what? She would hold her daughter and stroke her head and let her cry and she would have to be strong. She was so tired of being strong. “Come, Sophie,” she said, rising. “Let’s sleep a little longer if we can.”
*
That afternoon, in town, Vianne expected to see soldiers gathering, rifles drawn, police wagons parked in the town square, dogs straining on leashes, black-clad SS officers; something to indicate trouble.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary.
She and Sophie remained in Carriveau all day, standing in queues Vianne knew were a waste of time, walking down one street after another. At first, Sophie talked incessantly. Vianne barely noticed. How could she concentrate on normal conversation with Rachel and Ari hiding in her cellar and Sarah gone?
“Can we leave now, Maman?” Sophie said at nearly three o’clock. “There’s nothing more to be had. We’re wasting our time.”
Beck must have made a mistake. Or perhaps he was simply being overly cautious.
Certainly they would not round up and arrest Jewish people at this hour. Everyone knew that arrests were never made during mealtimes. The Nazis were much too punctual and organized for that—and they loved their French food and wine.
“Oui, Sophie. We can go home.”
They headed out of town. Vianne remained on alert, but if anything, the road was less crowded than usual. The airfield was quiet.
“Can Sarah come over?” Sophie asked as Vianne eased the broken gate open.
Sarah.
Vianne glanced down at Sophie.
“You look sad,” her daughter said.
“I am sad,” Vianne said quietly.
“Are you thinking of Papa?”
Vianne drew in a deep breath and released it. Then she said gently, “Come with me,” and led Sophie to a spot beneath the apple tree, where they sat together.
“You are scaring me, Maman.”
Vianne knew she was handling it badly already, but she had no idea how to do this. Sophie was too old for lies and too young for the truth. Vianne couldn’t tell her that Sarah had been shot trying to cross the border. Her daughter might say the wrong thing to the wrong person.
“Maman?”
Vianne cupped Sophie’s thin face in her hands. “Sarah died last night,” she said gently.
“Died? She wasn’t sick.”
Vianne steeled herself. “It happens that way sometimes. God takes you unexpectedly. She’s gone to Heaven. To be with her grandmère, and yours.”
Sophie pulled away, got to her feet, backed away. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“She’s Jewish.”
Vianne hated what she saw in her daughter’s eyes right now. There was nothing young in her gaze—no innocence, no na?veté, no hope. Not even grief. Just anger.
A better mother would shape that anger into loss and then, at last, into the kind of memory of love one can sustain, but Vianne was too empty to be a good mother right now. She could think of no words that weren’t a lie or useless.
She ripped away the lacy trim at the end of her sleeve. “You see that bit of red yarn in the tree branch over our heads?”
Sophie looked up. The yarn had lost a bit of color, faded, but still it showed up against the brown branches and green leaves and unripened apples. She nodded.
“I put that there to remember your papa. Why don’t you tie one for Sarah and we’ll think of her every time we are outside.”
“But Papa is not dead!” Sophie said. “Are you lying to—”
“No. No. We remember the missing as much as the lost, don’t we?”
Sophie took the thready coil of lace in her hand. Looking a little unsteady on her feet, she tied the strand onto the same branch.
Vianne ached for Sophie to come back, turn to her, reach out for a hug, but her daughter just stood there, staring at the scrap of lace, her eyes bright with tears. “It won’t always be like this” was all Vianne could think of to say.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sophie looked at her at last. “I’m taking a nap.”
Vianne could only nod. Ordinarily she would have been undone by this tension with her daughter, overwhelmed by a sense of having failed. Now, she just sighed and got to her feet. She wiped the grass from her skirt and headed up to the barn. Inside, she rolled the Renault forward and opened the cellar door. “Rach? It’s me.”
“Thank God” came a whispery voice from the darkness. Rachel climbed up the creaking ladder and emerged into the dusty light, holding Ari.
“What happened?” Rachel asked tiredly.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I went to town. Everything seems normal. Maybe Beck was being overly cautious, but I think you should spend one more night down there.”
Rachel’s face was drawn, tired-looking. “I’ll need diapers. And a quick bath. Ari and I both smell.” The toddler started to cry. She pushed the damp curls away from her sweat-dampened forehead and murmured to him in a soft, lilting voice.
They left the barn and headed for Rachel’s house next door.
They were nearly to the front door when a French police car pulled up out front. Paul got out of the car and strode into the yard, carrying his rifle. “Are you Rachel de Champlain?” he asked.
Rachel frowned. “You know I am.”
“You are being deported. Come with me.”
Rachel tightened her hold on Ari. “Don’t take my son—”
“He is not on the list,” Paul said.
Vianne grabbed the man’s sleeve. “You can’t do this, Paul. She is French!”
“She’s a Jew.” He pointed his rifle at Rachel. “Move.”
Rachel started to say something, but Paul silenced her; he grabbed her by the arm, yanked her out to the road, and forced her into the backseat of his automobile.
Vianne meant to stay where she was—safe—intended to, but the next thing she knew she was running alongside the automobile, banging on the bonnet, begging to be let inside. Paul slammed on the brakes, let her climb into the backseat, and then he stomped on the gas.
“Go,” Rachel said as they passed Le Jardin. “This is no place for you.”
“This is no place for anyone,” Vianne said.
Even a week ago, she might have let Rachel go alone. She might have turned away—with regret, probably, and guilt, certainly—but she would have thought that protecting Sophie was more important than anything else.
Last night had changed her. She still felt fragile and frightened, maybe more so, but she was angry now, too.
In town, there were barricades on a dozen streets. Police wagons were everywhere, disgorging people with yellow stars on their chests, herding them toward the train station, where cattle cars waited. There were hundreds of people; they must have come from all the communes in the area.
Paul parked and opened the car doors. Vianne and Rachel and Ari stepped into the crowd of Jewish women and children and old men making their way to the platform.