“What moved you to play the Wach Auf?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Jacques, who didn’t know that this was not the piece Philippe had played.
“Really,” the major said, having changed in an instant. He pushed past Jacques to the third floor. The soldiers flipped off the safeties on their weapons. Looking around, with the pleasure of a hunter, the major asked, “Where’s the cello?” Jacques had no answer. He thought that so near the end of the war for Reims, he was going to die, and that he would be unable to protect his parents, who were going to die as well. He hoped they had fled, but knew that while he was in danger they would not.
The major looked at the ceiling just as he had looked at the sky a short time before, but now he felt betrayed, and he was angry. “What’s up there?” he demanded.
“Nothing. It’s a crawlspace. Too small to enter.”
“I saw the vents and the pitch of the roof,” the major said. He was both driven and led as if in the chase. The corporal opened the closet door and pulled out duvets and bedding, tossing them over his head. Then he announced that he had found a hatch.
Without an order, the private went over to the corporal, cupped his hands into a stirrup, steadied himself, and gave the corporal a boost to the closet shelf. The corporal then used the barrel of his gun to knock open the hatch, and poked his head through just as Louis had frequently done. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the sad, improvised furniture of the attic, the cello, the bow, Philippe, and Cathérine – but not Jules, who had been told to hide among the beams where the bathroom had been built against the rear knee wall, and, as in all the games, had obediently done so.
“They’re hiding Jews,” the corporal called down.
The major was more disappointed than angry, although he was irritated that he was wasting his time and putting his men in danger for the sake of a generous impulse that, in his view, had been thrown back in his face. He could hear through the walls, if faintly, the chest-shaking vibration of at least several companies of American tanks, and the sounds, like surging water, of distant and exultant crowds. “How many?”
“Two. One bed, two chairs. There are only two.”
“Get them down.”
With the deepest sadness and boundless fear for themselves and their child, Philippe and Cathérine left the attic they had entered four years before, and awkwardly descended through the hatch. As the corporal and private helped Cathérine down, each of them felt her breasts with their hands. Philippe saw this. His head swam, and the only thing keeping him upright and able to move was the overwhelming imperative of saving his child. He looked at Cathérine, and she at him. In a single glance they said that they loved one another, that they understood they were going to die, and that what they had left to do now in the world was to hope that Jules, overlooked, would live.
Sadism feeds upon itself, and this was the SS. Philippe and Cathérine were not escorted down the stairs, they were kicked and thrown. By the time they reached the rez-de-chaussé, Cathérine’s ribs and wrist were broken, her face cut and bruised. Philippe was hurt even more, but felt nothing except the exquisite pain that he would not be able to save his wife. She looked toward him, he thought, as if he could save her. The Mignons observed all this in shock, certain that they themselves would be shot for harboring Jews.
As if to demonstrate to the soldiers outside that they were doing their job, the private and the corporal hit Cathérine and Philippe with their submachine guns to propel them out the door and ordered them onto the half-track. They were in too much pain to climb up themselves, so the soldiers hoisted them up, threw them onto the steel floor, and forced them to kneel.
As if to explain why they were not simply shot and left on the ground, and why he was not going to shoot the Mignons, the major said, “We’ll have to live with France.” Then he mounted the step and got into the half-track. He looked up and down the street. The unmistakable sound of tanks grew louder. His men looked at him as if to receive orders, but he held up his hand, meaning that they should leave their engines off, and freeze. He hoped that as the tanks passed on the boulevard they might fail to notice his small unit parked quietly and half in shade in the middle of the block.
Jules had never in all his life been anywhere but the attic room or without the presence of both his parents for as much as a second. Their absence was intolerable, and the game was over. At the hatch, he looked down. The shelf was close, but he was scared. He was, however, more scared to be left alone, so he lowered himself. Once on the shelf, he had to jump. He held his breath and did so, closing his eyes as he fell, and rolling when he landed. Shocked but unhurt, he saw the stairs. He’d never seen stairs, much less taken them, and it was difficult for him to do so. He used his hands, backing down, going sideways, terrified of the height. Still, he made his way down the several flights, and though he was confused as to where he was he saw through the bakery window his mother and father kneeling in the half-track, the Mignons outside, their backs to him, and all the soldiers.
He burst through the door, trying to reach Philippe and Cathérine, but Marie Mignon caught him and pressed him to her, hoping in vain that the Germans would take no notice.
“Is that their child?” The major asked.
“No,” Marie answered. “Our grandson, a Christian child, a Catholic child, baptized.”
The major took a step toward Philippe, who was bleeding from his face and could see through only one eye. “Is that your child?” he asked.
Philippe turned his head to look. Suppressing all emotion, he said, “No.” He knew that Jules would hear this and would not understand.
The major asked Cathérine, “Is that your child?”
It took her entire being not to shake and cry, but she said, “No. That is not my child.” Like her husband, she cast no last glance and shed no tears – the most difficult thing in her life.
The major withdrew his pistol from his holster and put it near Cathérine’s head. “Is he?” he asked.
“No.”
Then he fired.
Philippe’s heart burst with powerlessness and regret. Had he not been shot in turn, as he was, he might have died still. It was too much to live through.