How Huge the Night

chapter 19





The Time for War





“What happened to our army, Papa?” Julien asked. “We had the strongest army in Europe, didn’t we?”

“One of the strongest, Julien.” Papa leaned his head on his hands. “We still do. They’re just—it’s—war’s all about position, Julien.” He shook his head. “They did something we didn’t expect, that’s all.”

Something we didn’t expect? That was what it came down to?

Julien said nothing. Papa didn’t look up.

The boches were in France, the radio said. They had made it through the Ardennes, five divisions or more: tanks. Papa went pale at the number. Half the army was stuck in Belgium behind the boche lines, up where they’d thought the fighting would be. They hadn’t put troops to defend the Ardennes, Papa said, because they were supposed to be impassable.

Apparently the boches didn’t know that.

They kept the radio on all the time now. It was all news, spoken breathlessly, no more pompous voice. The boches were dropping bombs and paratroopers all over the Low Countries; it was called blitzkrieg. The boches had bombed Rotterdam and killed thirty thousand civilians. Holland had surrendered. The boches had crossed the Meuse and were plowing west, and the radio kept saying some division or other had fought heroically against incredible odds and gotten rolled right over.

Where was everybody? Where was the army? Julien knew where the army was: in Belgium and on the stupid Maginot Line where the stupid, stupid generals had put them all; how did something like this happen? He lay awake in bed, his blood beating in his temples, not believing it. They had this entire army, and none of them were in the right place, none of them were in the way.

At school it was like a dream, a dream of another place and time where there was war and it was going badly, and people gathered and talked about it in tense voices. It was like being underwater, the tightness in his chest, his heart beating fast for the moment he’d break out through the surface and breathe.

Henri got down on his hands and knees under the schoolyard tree and traced a map of France in the dirt. “Here, see? There’s Sedan. There’s Dinant. They’re here now. Here’s Paris but they’re not going for it, see, they’re going due west, heading for the coast. Here’s Cambrai and Saint-Quentin. There’s a river in front of ’em; you always try to stop ’em at a river because it gives you a defensive position.” He drew a snaky line in the dirt.

“That’s the Oise,” said Julien. “It goes into the Seine west of Paris; I’ve been there.”

Henri glanced at him. “See this?” He slashed a line in the dirt in front of Saint-Quentin. “Paper says we’ve got a division of tanks right there. They’ll hold them up. And see how we’ve got people here and here?” He stabbed his stick at the Maginot Line, and then at northern Belgium. “See, if we can move fast enough, it’s called a pincer movement—” two strong slashes toward the German line, cutting it in half. “And we cut ’em off. See?” He lifted his head, his blue eyes glinting. “You can bet that’s what the High Command is working on right now. Of course they wouldn’t say so on the radio.”

Julien nodded, saw the other heads nodding around him; his mouth was open, breathing in hope. Henri’s teeth met in a fierce grin.

In two days the Germans had crossed the Oise.





By May 22, the boches had reached the sea. It was on the morning news as Julien left for school; they held the entire northern tip of France. The guys stood under the tree, hands in their pockets, looking down at the dirt map at their feet.

There it lay, their country, like a five-pointed star; a pebble for Paris, a bark chip for Tanieux deep in the south. Quietly, with one finger, Roland traced the last of the German advance: a complete arc to the English Channel, a fault line. Like a star with one point broken off; that was all they held, just that farnorth tip. But half the army was trapped behind it. And in front of it lay Paris. Julien breathed in, deep and slow, looking at his country and understanding the truth: this was really happening, after all.

It was a May like none he’d ever known. Blue sky, new leaves unfolding in the sun, flowers bright in the gardens, war maps in the dirt. And in the evening around the radio, lamplight and the smell of fear. Papa’s face with the lines in it, carving deeper as he listened; Mama sitting like white stone. Benjamin not looking at anyone, not willing to leave the radio even to study. Listening desperately for hope.

They’d stopped talking about it, at the table or any time. They talked about other things in brittle voices, and no one was fooled. One morning Julien came down the stairs and froze in front of the stairwell door, hearing his mother’s voice on the other side, high and brittle and scared. “And they were shooting—they were shooting— there was blood in the water—there were children—”

“Sh, Maria. Sh. It was a dream.”

“Thirty thousand people, Martin—thirty thousand—”

He slipped back up the stairs.

That night, Papa beckoned Magali and Julien into his study while Mama cleared the table, and asked them quietly not to discuss the war in front of her or turn on the radio when she was there. They nodded. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But …” Papa looked down, shaking his head. After a moment he looked up at Julien. “I’ve got to be strong now for your mother. And you, I think, for Benjamin.” Magali was looking down at her knees. Julien looked up and nodded, trying to see his father through the pictures in his head: tanks on the Champs-Elysées. Tanks in the Rue Bernier, under Vincent’s window.

“Has Benjamin talked to you—” Papa started, and Julien said, “No.” Are you kidding? As soon as Papa switched off the radio, Benjamin always went up to his room and shut the door.

“Do what you can for him, Julien. I don’t know what we can do …” He shook his head. “It must be awful.” His voice cracked. “His parents, Giovanni …”

An image hung in Julien’s mind, the same image that had appeared to him so vividly the night the war had begun: a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, strewn with shattered glass and shrapnel. The scrape of glass shards against sink enamel; he could feel it in the back of his neck.

There was a long silence.

“Papa,” said Magali in a small voice, “have we lost?”

“No, Lili,” Papa whispered without looking up. “But we will.”





Julien and his classmates stood in the schoolyard, a crowd of boys with whispers moving through it like wind in the woods. Monsieur Astier raised his megaphone. Silence fell.

“You don’t need me to tell you,” the principal’s deep voice began, “what is going on in the north. I think it safe to say that for all of us now, facing this emergency is our priority. That is why,” he said, “we are closing school early this year.”

Astier raised a hand for silence. School would end on Saturday, he said. They were to try to concentrate until then; to learn was to believe in the future. Were there any questions? A hand shot up in the front, and Henri’s firm voice asked whether school would open again in the fall.

Si Dieu le veut. God willing.

Julien felt strange—strangely empty, strangely free, like a boat cut loose and floating. They all felt it; it was in the air, in the eyes all around him. Fear, exhilaration, the ground fallen out from under their feet. They’d sat in classrooms listening; they’d eaten and slept and played soccer; and all this time the world had been changing under them. Even as they made their maps, tried to make sense of things as best they could, the walls of the world they knew had crumbled around them. Now anything could happen.

He sat—they all sat—in classroom after classroom for the rest of that day and heard not a word the teachers said.





Benjamin sat through supper, looking at his plate. Not even pretending to eat. When Mama stood to clear the table, he looked up and spoke.

“I can’t wait till Saturday. I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow. Can I leave my books and winter clothes here?”

For a moment no one moved. Then Mama put down her plate and said flatly, “No. You cannot go to Paris. The Germans could be there before you.”

“I know,” said Benjamin in a low voice, “but I’ve got to try.”

“I guess you’ve been thinking about this for a while,” said Papa carefully. “Tell me how you’re going to do this.”

“Catch the morning train to Saint-Etienne. Find out what’s running north.”

“How do you know there’s anything running north?” Papa asked.

“They haven’t shut down all the trains!”

“You don’t know that any more than I do.” Papa’s voice was firmer now. “There may be a few running—troop transports. You might get as far as Lyon. Maybe even Dijon. After that …”

“I’ve got to try,” said Benjamin, looking at the wall behind Papa.

“And when the trains won’t take you any farther, then walk? The Germans are bound to beat you there at that rate. And when you get there?”

Julien held his breath. Papa was looking Benjamin straight in the eye.

Finally Benjamin dropped his head. “I don’t know, sir. But I’ve got to try. Don’t I have to try?” He looked up, as if pleading for Papa to agree.

“What would your parents tell you to do?” Papa asked.

“Stay.” Benjamin’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Then stay,” said Papa. “Try to think. What happens if they’ve already left Paris? What happens when they send word for you to join them somewhere else, and I have to say, ‘He left for Paris’? How could I face your father if I let that happen?”

Benjamin stared at his plate. Picked up his fork, put it down again. He looked up at Mama. “May I be excused? I’m sorry—it’s good—I’m just not hungry.”

“Of course,” said Mama, giving Benjamin a long look.

“Wait.” Papa laid his hand on Benjamin’s arm. “I want to hear you say you’re not leaving tomorrow.”

“I’m not leaving tomorrow,” Benjamin said in a low voice.

Julien saw Papa’s hand tighten on Benjamin’s arm. “Believe me. It’s the best thing you could do for them.”

“Right,” said Benjamin, and got to his feet.

When he was gone, Papa sat back, shaking his head, and murmured, “Lord preserve us.” His hands on the table in front of him were clenched, one inside the other. “Did you—have any idea about this, Julien?”

“He hasn’t said two words to me all week,” Julien said, suddenly beginning to breathe again.

“Look out for him, Julien. Please. If you can.” Papa pressed his hands against his eyes. Julien shivered, although it was not cold.





In the morning when Mama sent Julien down for the bread, the door of the little boulangerie was locked. A handwritten sign on the door said, No Flour, and underneath that, Shipment Delayed, and underneath that, each word underlined by a forceful hand, That’s All We Know. Julien couldn’t help but smile.

But when he looked again, the smile dropped. Through the window, he could see the bread racks, tall metal baskets with open fronts that covered the whole back wall of the boulangerie. Every morning, those racks were filled with loaves, bushels of tall brown and golden loaves stacked upright and leaning, a whole golden wall of bread. But not today.

Today that wall was completely bare. The racks hung like empty cages, and the chipped white paint behind showed through. He had never seen them empty. They looked so strange.