“We’re just talking,” he says, his voice challenging. “What harm can that do?”
Luc climbs up to the loft then and helps me, fingers moist on my wrist. It is a small rectangular area, maybe two meters by three, close to the sloped A-frame roof of the barn. Rough wood boards are covered in hay that tickles my legs beneath my skirt. Luc slides back a slatted wood window panel to reveal the rolling hills that lead to the village, patchwork fields broken by mossy farmhouse roofs. Lights sparkle in some of the windows before blackout curtains fall, seeming to snuff them out like candles. It is peaceful—and so pristine, it is almost possible for a moment to forget about the war.
Luc points out at a small steeple on the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun. “I went to école there,” he says and I smile, picturing him as a young boy. He had lived his whole life right in this village, much as I might have back home had things been different. He goes on, “I have two older sisters, both married and living in towns not far away. My grandparents lived with us, too, when I was a child. There was always so much laughter and noise.” There is a longing note to his voice that makes clear those times are far gone.
He reaches under a pile of hay and produces a darkened glass bottle, half-empty. “A bit of Chablis from my father’s cellar,” he says, grinning wickedly. He passes it to me and I take a sip from the bottle. Though I know nothing about wine, I can tell that it is a good vintage, the taste layered, spicy and deep.
In the corner where he had hidden the wine, I notice something still half-hidden beneath the hay. Curious, I move closer. There is a thick tablet and a set of paints. “You’re an artist,” I remark.
He laughs, wrapping his arms around his knees. “That’s a big word for it. I sketch, when I can get paper. I paint, though not so much anymore. My mother loved art and was forever taking me to galleries wherever we went on holiday. Once I wanted to go to Paris and study at the Sorbonne.” His eyes are animated as he speaks of art and his childhood.
“Is it far? Paris, I mean.” I am embarrassed not to have a better sense of geography.
“About four hours by train these days with all of the stoppages. I went with my mother to see the museums. She loved art.” There is a note of sadness to his voice now.
“You still live with your parents?” I ask.
“Just my father. My mother died when I was eleven.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. Though my own parents are still alive, his loss seems to echo my own, strengthening the ache I have worked so hard to bury. I want to touch his arm in comfort, but it seems I do not know him well enough. “Do you still plan to study art?” I ask instead.
“It doesn’t seem possible anymore.” He gestures to the countryside below with long tapered fingers.
“But you still want it,” I press.
“Painting seems so frivolous now,” he replies. “I don’t know what to do—I don’t want to just sit here. Papa wants me to join the LVF, but I don’t want to fight for the Germans. He says it doesn’t look right for the mayor’s son not to go, and I can only hold him off for so long. I’d run away, but I don’t want to leave Papa alone.”
“There has to be another way,” I offer, though I’m not sure I believe it.
“It’s just this damned war,” he says, his voice rattling with frustration. I am surprised to hear him swear. “It’s turned everything on its head.” He turns away. “What happened at the show the other day with the man and the girl, it isn’t the first time. There were Jewish families in Thiers who had been here my whole life. They lived over on the east side of town, just past the market. One of the boys, Marcel, was a friend of mine at école.”
“Your father, he orders the police to round them up?” I ask.
“No!” he snaps, then quickly recovers. “My father follows orders. He maintains a pretense of support in order to protect the village.”
“And to protect himself,” I blurt out, unable to hold back. “How can you stand it?”
“Really, he isn’t like that,” Luc continues, calmer now, his voice pleading. “Papa was different before my mother died. He once gave a family a house for an entire year rent-free.” Luc needs to believe that his father is a good man, and he is asking me to believe it, too. I had done the same. After my own father had kicked me out, I still remembered the mornings when we’d walk into town for fresh bread, just the two of us, him whistling as we went. He had bought me an extra croissant. I was still that girl, though. What had changed?
Luc continues, “I begged my father to at least help Marcel’s family. But he said there was nothing to be done.” His words pour out in a tumble as though he has not until this very moment been able to share with another the things that he has seen.
“It’s hard when the people we love do awful things,” I offer.
We both sit silently then, the now-dark sky causing the light in the loft to dim. I notice that his jaw is square and strong, a faint late-day stubble pressing through.
“Where are you from?” he asks, changing the subject.
I shift uneasily. Until now, I have managed not to say much about myself. “The Dutch coast. Our village was so close to the sea you could walk down to the end of the road and catch your dinner.” It seems so strange to be talking about the life I’d lost. I want to tell him everything, about how my parents cast me out and how I found Theo. But of course I cannot.
“Why did you leave?” Luc asks abruptly.
No matter how many times I am asked that question, I am still ill-prepared to answer it. “My father was very cruel, so when my mother died I took my brother and fled,” I say, repeating the now-familiar tale. I am not ready to tell him the truth.
“It’s hard not having your mother,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes. I hate myself for the lies I’ve told. But right now, even though my mother is not dead, losing her feels more real and painful than ever. “And then you joined the circus?” he asks.
“Yes. Just a few months ago.” I pray he will not ask about the time between.
“It’s remarkable that you learned to do all of those tricks so quickly.” His voice is full with admiration and wonder.
“Astrid trained me,” I say.
“That angry older woman?” I struggle not to laugh at his perception of Astrid.
At the same time I am defensive of an outsider criticizing her. “She’s amazing,” I say.