How Huge the Night

chapter 30





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Gustav stood on the main street of Lyon, between expensive shops and restaurants, looking around at the people: men in suits, women in beautiful dresses. The people who still ate.

He didn’t want to do this. But he was so hungry. And Niko, every day by the cathedral, pleading with strangers—in three days getting maybe enough for a loaf of bread. Her collarbones stood out; there were hollows in her cheeks.

It scared him.

They had fallen to searching garbage cans, eating moldy bread, cracking bones for the marrow. Lying in wait on market day to find the smashed tomatoes and broken carrots when the merchants packed up their stalls. But even there, others were before them. Yesterday he had fought a man over half a cabbage. His ribs were bruised. He had come home empty-handed.

So he had to do this.

Lorenzo said purses were the easiest. Then wallets in back pockets. I know you’re not the type, kid, but if it comes to life or death, I want you to live, okay? I want you to do what you gotta do. You got a brother to take care of, don’t forget that.

He watched the people go past. They watched him. Women in fur coats, clutching them closed. Men’s eyes darting round, back pockets empty. He watched for an hour and saw not a single chance. He dared not try for an inside pocket. He’d be arrested. Nina would die.

Even today he could bring her nothing.





“I saved you this, Gustav—a nun gave it to me. I ate half—and this man gave me fifty centimes, with another fifty we’ll have enough for—”

“You eat it.”

“Gustav. It’s for you.”

The woman came out of nowhere, before he could move, screaming. Her face distorted by rage. She grabbed Niko’s crutch, and Niko fell. The woman swung wildly, caught Niko a hard crack on the ribs that made her cry out—Gustav grabbed for the crutch, grappled with her, but his grip broke, and she swung again, and sharp pain hit the side of his head. He heard his own wild voice yelling curses in Yiddish as he plunged toward her, and then someone grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms, and a male voice was shouting in French, and a big, bearded man had the wild-haired woman by the shoulders and was shouting in her face. Gustav went limp, and the arms released him. He fell to his knees beside Niko. She was moaning in pain. Gustav felt her ribs, gingerly. She cried out.

“Is he all right?” said a voice. Gustav looked up sharply. It was the bearded man.

He had spoken in German.





His name was Herr Buhle. A refugee from Alsace, near the German border. He carried Niko in his arms to the train station, where he and his wife lived until tomorrow. Tomorrow they were leaving for Valence, they’d bought the tickets with the last of their money, but his wife was a nurse, he said, and could at least examine the boy—he was sorry he could offer so little help—

“It’s all right,” Gustav whispered.

The woman had thought they were German, Herr Buhle said. She’d heard their Yiddish and taken it for German—hardly more than a month ago the Germans had been here in Lyon, the swastika flying over the city, and they’d left so much anger behind. “Please believe that this is not normal here. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am.”

Gustav nodded. They were entering the station. Herr Buhle led the way to a dimly lit hallway by the bathrooms, where a tired-faced woman sat on a blanket.

He left them with her, and she began to feel Niko’s ribs beneath her shirt. Niko’s eyes followed her, but she didn’t move. Only a sharp intake of breath told him Frau Buhle had discovered the truth; her eyes flicked over to Gustav, but she gave no other sign. “I’m afraid he may have a cracked rib,” she said quietly. She gave him a small bar of soap to wash Niko’s wounds where the skin was broken. He hadn’t seen soap in months. She said when the body was weakened, risk of infection was high.

Herr Buhle came back with a small tin pail; when he opened it, Gustav’s stomach cramped with hunger. Cabbage soup. Still lukewarm. It tasted incredible.

He drew Gustav a map to the soup kitchen he’d got it from and put a French note into his hand. He’d gotten him permission to bring a second serving of soup to his brother every day. He should show them the note. He hoped it would help.

Gustav swallowed, and couldn’t speak.

“I will pray for you,” Herr Buhle added. “Is it all right if I pray for you?”

Gustav nodded.