It took two weeks for Mathilde to stop crying, and a third week for her to say her first word in Elise’s absence, but within a month, the girl was smiling again, if only occasionally. Children were resilient that way, Juliette knew. She envied them that strength sometimes, especially Claude, who had at first been struck by the loss of his baby sister but who now seemed to rarely think of her at all. What must it be like to be a child, to put aside the memories that were difficult, and to walk into the light of the future unencumbered?
It was for that reason, a desire to remove pain, that Juliette soon broke the promise she’d made to Elise. She will never ever forget you, she had vowed. I will make sure of it. She had meant it when she’d said it, but now she understood that keeping her word would make things not only more painful for Mathilde but more dangerous for all of them. The more Mathilde remembered about her mother, the more trouble they could be in if anyone began asking questions.
So each night, swallowing her guilt, Juliette said in Mathilde’s ear over and over, “We are your maman and papa now, my child. You are a Foulon.”
Most nights, half asleep, Mathilde mumbled a foggy assent, but one night in November, as the other three children drifted off, Mathilde burst into tears at the words. Juliette pulled the sheet up farther to cover Alphonse and Claude in the bed they shared, and then quietly crossed the room to where Mathilde lay weeping into her pillow.
“You must be quiet, my child,” she said in the darkness, stroking the girl’s silky curls. “Your brothers and sister are sleeping.” For a second, she allowed herself to imagine that the head she was caressing was Antoinette’s, that her little family was complete after all. It was easier to believe such things in the dark.
“I want my maman,” Mathilde whimpered, loudly enough that Lucie, who was sharing her bed, stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Juliette put a comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder and waited for her to resettle before speaking.
“I am your maman now, Mathilde,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “We have talked about this. I am your maman, and Monsieur Foulon is your papa.”
“No. My maman and papa went away.”
“No, child. We are right here. We will never leave you.” She stood and smoothed the front of her dress without another word. Mathilde was still whimpering, but what could Juliette do? The sooner Mathilde forgot about Elise and Olivier, the better it would be for all of them. When Elise returned—if Elise returned—there would be plenty of time to right the wrong, but for now, this was how things had to be. Besides, Elise had left of her own accord. The more time that passed, the more Juliette’s stomach swam uneasily with the knowledge. How could a mother who really loved her child do such a thing? Juliette wanted so much to understand, but she couldn’t.
The next night, before putting the children to bed, Juliette gathered them all in the boys’ bed and sat beside them to tell them a tale. It had been a while since she’d lulled them to sleep this way, but she knew she needed to do so now, to remind Mathilde of the new story of her life.
“Once upon a time, there were five birds who lifted off into the sky,” she began, but the words stuck in her throat.
“What comes next, Maman?” Alphonse asked, his voice already thick with coming sleep.
Juliette cleared her throat. “The first bird was big and strong and took care of his brother and sister birds. The second bird fell from the sky, but she found a place to sleep, and she was at peace. The third bird was wise and kind.”
“That’s me,” Alphonse piped up.
“Yes, my love. The fourth was a girl bird, very brave and imaginative. And the fifth bird was the littlest sister, the one all the other birds loved. The mother bird and the father bird loved them all very much.”
Mathilde made a noise and Juliette glanced over to see the tears rolling down the little girl’s cheeks. Her own heart squeezed, and she resisted the urge to pick the girl up and pull her close. No, that was something the other children, her little birds, would need to do, to remind Mathilde that she was part of this new family now. After a moment, it was Alphonse who reached across Lucie and squeezed Mathilde’s chubby little leg in comfort.
“But I don’t want to be a bird,” Mathilde sniffled.
“It’s all right, Mathilde,” Alphonse said. “Maman’s stories always have happy endings.”
Mathilde glanced at him and wiped away her tears. Claude murmured, “Brave girl,” with an encouraging nod, and Juliette’s heart felt as if it might explode.
“Tell us more, Maman!” Lucie chirped, and Juliette smiled at the children and dove back into the story.
“One day, the birds went flying over Paris,” she said. “And do you know what they saw?”
“The Eiffel Tower?” Claude guessed.
“Notre-Dame,” Alphonse said with a yawn.
“Roofs!” said Lucie, and Alphonse gave her an encouraging pat on the head.
“Mathilde?” Juliette asked.
Mathilde licked her lips a few times, then, with a glance at Claude for approval, she murmured, “Stars. The moon and stars and trees.”
“Very good, Mathilde.” For a moment, Juliette could breathe again. Her family was here, and tonight, she would tell them the story of the family of birds who found their way across Paris to the Bois de Boulogne, where their mother and father waited for them with a loaf of bread. Tomorrow, the Foulon family of six would go back to their normal lives, their perfect lives, in the bookshop, where they would always be safe and well, and soon, Mathilde would stop crying for the past and would see only the future stretching before her, open and bright.
PART II
Good night, then. Sleep to gather strength for the morning. For the morning will come.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL, TO THE PEOPLE OF FRANCE, OCTOBER 1940
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
November 1942
Juliette thought of Elise often, but there was no talk of her permitted in the store. She thought of Ruth, too, and of her children, and each time she did, she felt a swell of guilt. After all, a world in which she and her family were safe and fed while the others ran for their lives was madness.
“Do you think we should have done more?” she asked Paul one morning in late autumn, two months after Elise had fled, as they worked side by side in the store, realphabetizing shelves that had grown disorderly. Their French customers had a habit of sticking books back wherever they pleased, while the small German section they now carried at the front of the store, a concession to ensure they stayed on friendly terms with the occupying forces, was always perfectly in order. The Germans were the most meticulous people she had ever encountered.
“Done more about what?” Paul asked absently as he studied the spine of a book of poetry that had somehow landed in their small biography section. On the other side of the store, in the children’s area, Claude was showing Alphonse and the girls how to play jacks. Lately, Juliette had found herself relaxing more and more into this new life as Mathilde was absorbed into the family. The girl rarely asked about her mother anymore, and Juliette knew—to both her relief and sadness—that Mathilde was slowly forgetting Elise.
“About all of it.” She hesitated and waited until he looked up from the book. “About Ruth and the children. About Elise.”
“But what could we have done that we did not do, my love?” Paul’s expression was sad. “We could not have saved Ruth and the children. And we have done what we could for Elise. We have another mouth to feed now, a child that could be a danger to us if she says the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“She will not.” Of this, Juliette felt certain. The child understood now that the past was gone.
“Nevertheless, she is a liability.”
“She is our daughter,” Juliette answered sharply.
Paul seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “But she isn’t, my love. She is not Antoinette. She is not a sister to our children. She is a child we are looking after until her mother comes home.”
Juliette could feel her shoulders tighten, her lungs constrict. “She is our daughter,” she repeated. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she needed it to be true, and when Paul didn’t respond, she decided to take his silence as agreement. After all, he, too, had come to love Mathilde. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in the surprised delight of his laugh when she amused him, see it in the way he lifted her onto his shoulders, just as he did with the three other children, to let them place the highest books on the shelves.
“And what will happen,” he asked after a while without looking at her, “when Madame LeClair returns?”
From the corner drifted the sound of Mathilde’s delighted giggle, joined a second later by Lucie’s. “I think we must be equally prepared for the eventuality that she will not,” Juliette replied.
“If I didn’t know better, I would fear that’s what you’re hoping for.”
“Paul!” Juliette could feel her cheeks flaming. “How could you say such a thing? Of course I want her to come home. She is my dearest friend.”
He merely shrugged, his expression concerned, and so she stepped off the shelving stool and crossed quickly to where her four children played, letting the sound of their laughter drown out the voices of doubt in her head.
* * *