Flame in the Night Page 14

  “The Germans have surrendered at Stalingrad,” she said.

  Magali froze, her mouth open.

  “Surrendered?” Élise’s voice was calm and even, but in her eyes was a flame.

  “Hitler tried to make them fight to the last man. Win at any price. But the Russians would not give up their city. Sit down, class. I couldn’t possibly teach today. I’m going to read to you from the Iliad. Hector’s farewell. Yes. In their honor.”

  Julien watched Élise, wishing he could stay. Her eyes had turned dark at the word farewell, and she sat very still. She raised them, and they met his for a long moment, like the dark surface of an untouched well.

  “Clawing up to the heights,” quoted Mademoiselle Combe, “headlong pride crashes down the abyss—to its doom.”

  In Élise’s eyes the fire lit again.

  The Gestapo did not return.

  Duval came to church.

  He sat in the far-left side of a middle row, near one of the side doors. He had a notebook. He sat there twiddling his pen and burning a hole in Julien’s brain, as Pastor Alexandre proclaimed that the worshippers of force believed their power stronger than God’s, and that great would be their fall. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” he thundered, and Julien watched, out of the corner of his eye, the slightest sideways movement of Duval’s head. “How is this possible? Is it not clear that the world belongs to the strong? To those who have the biggest guns, and the ruthlessness to use them? And yet we have the witness of our Lord Himself to the contrary: the meek shall inherit the earth. Brethren, it is possible, by the power of God. And by the power of God,” his voice dropped, tightened, focused in quiet power, “it is sure.”

  Duval made a note.

  Julien went to Pastor Alexandre. It was the only thing he could think of. Going to Papa was no good.

  “I know,” said the pastor mildly. His blue eyes seemed to go right through Julien. “I’ve been told. To be frank I would be surprised if he didn’t take notes.”

  “What are you going to do about it, pastor?”

  “We cannot muzzle the Word of God on account of this man. God is faithful.”

  Julien looked down at the pastor’s scarred desk, and raised his head slowly. “Of course He’s faithful. What would make you say He isn’t? If you’re trying to say we’ll be all right, it doesn’t exactly follow.”

  “I know you are concerned for your father, Julien. We are being careful. There is a reason he hasn’t preached since August. At the same time, his administrative skills are desperately needed here.” The pastor’s blue eyes met Julien’s where they were this time instead of piercing to the back of his skull. “He has made his decision freely. I’m afraid that is all I can tell you.”

  The conversation seemed to be over. Julien felt small, shrunken; he studied the dry, chapped skin on the backs of his folded hands, then shifted finally in his chair and stood. “Thank you, monsieur le pasteur,” he said, his voice seeming to come from far away.

  He walked home in the bitter darkness, hunched in his scarf, the stars like holes in the cold black sky.

  Julien shoveled snow, brought in wood for Mama. In the mornings he whispered a quick Lord’s Prayer and fled downstairs to the fire. He watched the meek go by in the streets of Tanieux; he watched the meek get off the train and melt into the alleys in the cold half dusk, following some Scout with a sled. He watched the strong stride across the place in their uniforms—blue for Vichy or black for Hitler, they came, and they came again. He hid Benjamin in the attic and whisked the ladder away to hide it. He went back out and watched the strong walk the streets, and tried to tell himself what he believed, but his tongue tangled, and in his throat was silence.

  Benjamin came down when they were gone and shut himself in his room. Julien heard him chanting in Hebrew. His throat tightened and burned. He did not know why.

  Benjamin watched Mama. Showed up in the kitchen when she cooked, set the table for her, carried the soup pot. She gave him a rare smile as he set it on the table. Papa came out of his study and smiled back at her. “It smells delicious, Maria.”

  It did. Leeks and potatoes in real chicken broth. The sweet, hot steam of it rising into the evening light defied the dead world outside. With that warmth in their bellies they could, for a moment, look each other in the eyes.

  “We had some good news today,” said Papa, scraping the bottom of his bowl. Then looked up quickly at the sound of boots on the stairs. Benjamin stood and vanished silently into Papa’s study. Mama gathered up his place setting in both hands and shoved it all into the icebox. Papa opened the door.

  A stranger in a blue police uniform stood on the stoop. His eyes were red. They fixed on Papa and did not leave him.

  No one moved or spoke. The air had become a thick, viscous thing Julien had to force into his lungs. It filled his chest painfully and hardened there. A second policeman came up behind the first. Mama’s eyes stood out black in her bloodless face. Papa was a statue, staring at the policeman.

  The stranger’s eyes dropped first. “I’m very sorry, monsieur. I’m under orders to arrest you.”

  If you’re sorry—if you’re sorry—The thought wouldn’t finish itself.

  “Do you need—” The man’s voice stuck in his throat. “To pack a bag?”

  Mama rose without a word and walked into the bedroom. She brought the suitcase out and gave it to Papa.

  “Where’re you taking him?” Magali was on her feet, hands flat on the table, leaning forward.

  The policeman dipped his head. “To headquarters in Le Puy, mademoiselle. Those are my orders.”

  “And then? And then where?”

  “I don’t know, mademoiselle.”

  Julien saw the muscles by his father’s jawline shift. Saw him swallow.

  The sound of voices in the stairwell. The policemen stepped aside. Madame Rostin entered in her worn gray dress, jaw set and eyes a little frightened, a newspaper-wrapped package in her hand. “We heard,” she said, and pressed it into Papa’s hands. “For you.”

  Mama was looking at Papa, dry-eyed. Her face seemed brittle somehow, her skin suddenly thin. Had the shape of her skull always been so visible?

  “They’re waiting,” murmured the second policeman. The first one gave Papa the slightest nod. “The car is down in the place,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  Julien stood. His father turned slightly; he could see his face working, as if not to collapse, as he looked from Mama to the policeman, to Magali, to Julien.

  To the door.

  “You must come,” said the policeman, his voice still soft, but with a certainty in it. He was sorry. But he had no plans to be a hero today.

  After all, heroes died like anyone else when they were—

  Julien’s fingernails bit into his palms. He could hear the swash of the blood beating in his ears, that stupid, primitive song: Run, run. Fight, fight. Useless, powerless, hopeless, in a time when the only safety was to hide or bow. My father. They’re taking my—

  “I’m so sorry, Maria,” Papa whispered. She was in his arms. Trembling. Then she was half out of them, giving him a long, gentle kiss. The policemen looked away. Julien’s heart turned over at the bright, painful vision that flashed through his mind, the image of his parents young and in love. One last kiss. Mama broke off. Turned away. Papa’s face was like a stranger’s. A man afraid for his life. He took Magali by the shoulders and kissed her four times. Then Julien, Papa’s rough cheek against his own, Papa’s hands gripping his shoulders, Papa still here with him in this kitchen for another moment, and another, and another. The last time I saw my father. Élise didn’t know where her parents had been taken, didn’t even know—Those are my orders.

  Papa bent his head, and stepped over the threshold. His hands trembled as he set down the suitcase and pulled on his coat. His hat, his scarf. So cold out there, so cold.

  Papa picked up the suitcase and started down the stairs.

  Chapter 14

  THE
MEEK

  THEY SANG “A Mighty Fortress” as the black police automobile pulled away.

  The people of Tanieux sang it together, their voices echoing thin yet strong against the housefronts as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the place watching their beloved Pastor Alexandre go. And two others. Julien hunched down in his coat to hide his unmoving lips, seeking only a last glimpse of his father’s face, his father’s hand, blurred through glass, eclipsed by the bulky form of the third man—Monsieur Astier, arrested for forgery—and then gone. The bright trail of the tail-lights vanishing round the corner lingered in Julien’s vision as the sure voices rose around him:

  The Prince of Darkness grim

  we tremble not for him …

  Mama’s eyes were like black pebbles in her face.

  The walk home. The people surrounding his family, protecting them, too late. His mother shaking her head rigidly at their offers of help. Benjamin at the door. Julien didn’t know what he said to him, whether he spoke. Mama gathering them all up suddenly, shaking like a piece of clockwork wound too tight, saying, “I can’t.” Then she was gone into the bedroom, locking the door.

  The table with the dirty dishes still on it. One spoonful of soup still in Papa’s bowl.

  The silence, worse than sound, from Mama’s room.

  Magali running the dishwater, the good plashing sound of it in the basin, the home sound. Magali’s half whisper, telling them where to put the plates away, and the breadboard—Julien heaping precious wood on the fire, anything to keep the cold and the dark at bay. The lost eyes in the others’ faces, watching that fire dance its hardest, watching it believe and believe: a flame of hope against the night, flaring and living and warming its world. Flickering. Falling.

  Going out.

  The hours in the dark with the cold seeping in. The pictures his mind could not keep out, any more than his thin bedroom windows could keep out the frost. His thoughts turning in circles, like a wolf pacing its cage. Fools. The meek shall inherit the earth. The meek shall inherit the scorched, frozen earth, ringed with barbed wire. The strong shall inherit the guard towers.

  The slow, disconsolate creeping of the pale morning light.

  He dressed slowly, letting the cold take bites out of his flesh. He took the stairs down to the back door and brought up wood, found Magali ahead of him, lighting the fire. “Thanks,” she whispered as he set his load on hers. Mama’s bedroom door was still closed. “You could go down to the boulangerie.”

  Papa had bought the bread every morning since they moved to Tanieux. Julien nodded and went to put on his coat.

  The boulanger gave him his bread for free.

  Mama did not come out. They ate a hushed breakfast and left the dishes in the sink. Built the fire high and went out together into the icy wind.

  At school there was a prayer meeting. Voluntary, but the Jewish kids stayed. They sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” again:

  But still our ancient foe

  doth seek to work us woe;

  his craft and power are great,

  and armed with cruel hate,

  on earth is not his equal.

  The cold had crept in behind Julien’s eyes and made a numbness there, a dim and cloudy space. His friends came around him, but he couldn’t quite make out their words.

  When they came home Mama was putting lunch on the table. Potato galette and cooked carrots. She laid five place settings, then took one away. They sat and looked at each other.

  Papa had always said grace.

  Finally Julien cleared his throat. “We could sing ‘Pour ce repas, pour toute joie.’”

  Mama opened her mouth, but her voice was inaudible. Without her they limped through the song. They ate, the scrape of forks loud on their plates, till Mama spoke.

  “Your grandfather.”

  “Yes?” asked Magali after a pause.

  “Monsieur Raissac said he’d tell him. He should have come.” Mama rubbed her thumb along the edge of her plate. “I don’t.”

  A longer pause.

  “You don’t what?” said Magali, tilting her head.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Do you want me to go get him this afternoon?” said Julien.

  “No. Go to school. That’s what your father wants.”

  “Are you sure, Mama?”

  “You should do what your father wants.” Her voice was harsh.

  He went to school.

  It was when he came home that he understood.

  They came in from the landing together, Julien and Benjamin, taking off their snow-dusted boots. Magali had stopped at the café where her friend Rosa worked. Mama’s door was open.

  On the bed lay a suitcase, half packed.

  Mama turned from the closet and laid hard, determined eyes on them. “There you are. I’m going. I’m sorry. Your grandfather can help you with your meals and all. I’ve got to take the five-thirty train.”

  “Mama?”

  “It must be illegal. She’s not even of age. I’ll stay with Madame Astier’s cousin in Le Puy and I won’t come home till they release her. Pastor Alexandre would know who to talk to. But he’s gone. We can’t rely on Pastor Alexandre anymore.” She put two skirts in the suitcase. “I won’t let them have her.”

  “Have who?”

  She stared at him, aghast, then spoke in a harsh, clipped voice as if he’d committed an unforgivable fault. “Your sister, Julien.”

  “Mama—what?”

  Benjamin had turned pale. “Madame Losier,” he said carefully, “Magali is at the café.”

  Mama lowered her hands, staring. “They arrested her last night.”

  Julien’s body went slack. There was such assurance in her angry face. She really thought—could she be—? How could he imagine such a thing of his mother? It was him, it was him that was going …

  Mad.

  “Madame,” Benjamin was saying, “they arrested your husband—”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” snapped Mama, turning red. “What’s happened to you two? If he was here I’d ask him to do it! But he’s not. I don’t know how to talk to those men, I may be nothing but a paysanne with no education, but I’m not going to sit here and let them have my baby—” a sharp sob wrenched out of her, and she put her face in her hands and wept.

  Julien broke from his paralysis and murmured to Benjamin, “Run and get her.”

  Benjamin ran.

  Julien took one step closer to his mother. Then he turned back as Benjamin reached the door, and cried out suddenly in a voice he hardly recognized, it was so high, so nakedly afraid: “And don’t tell anyone!”

  Benjamin shook his head, his face gone pale. The door closed behind him.

  Julien took another step toward his mother, then another. “She’s coming home,” he said softly. “She’ll be here in a few minutes, you’ll see.”

  Mama raised a tear-wet face. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s—she’s at the café, Mama. She’s coming—”

  “What is this nonsense?” She blazed with anger. She was like she had been when he was small, when Magali pulled his hair and he hit her—he felt six years old, looking into those righteous black eyes. “I saw them take her away with my own eyes, Julien! I don’t have time for this—whatever this is.” She wiped her tears away and slid the suitcase off the bed. “It’s five ten.”

  Julien swallowed and squared his shoulders in the doorway. “Please wait just—”

  She was coming toward him. His soul cringed back from her, but he didn’t move. She came up almost against him, the top of her head level with his nose, and looked up at him, her eyes terrible in her livid face. Her voice dropped to a harsh, trembling whisper that chilled him to the bone. “Get out of my way.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama—”

  “Get out of my way this instant!” she shouted into his face, and he recoiled, sharp pain starting in his chest and throat.

  He put up a shaking hand as she blazed at him
, and his voice cracked: “She’s at the café! I swear she is!” He grabbed the doorframe with both hands as she pushed at him. “It’s not real, she’s at the café, she’s coming, just wait two minutes and you’ll see, she’s at the café, Mama, she’s at—”

  She pushed him again, and he staggered. Her dark betrayed eyes were centimeters from his. “Please trust me, Mama,” he whispered, and saw her lips part and her teeth bare in fury.

  Behind him he heard footsteps on the stairs.

  He heard the door open. Mama’s eyes went wide. The joy in her face hurt to see.

  He stepped aside, and she ran to her daughter.

  Julien slumped against the doorframe as Mama wept on Magali. Magali gave him a hunted, pleading look.

  He backed away to where Benjamin stood, his heart hammering as if he’d just faced a gun.

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” Benjamin whispered. “Is your grandfather coming?”

  Night was falling deep blue outside the window. Surely he’d have started as soon as he heard. “I don’t know.”

  It was not over.

  Grandpa didn’t come. Mama didn’t cook. She started to lay a fire in the stove then walked away from it. Julien found her in the bedroom, packing again.

  There was a tip-off from Monsieur Faure this time. So she said. A man from some Resistance or Maquis group had warned him their whole family was in danger. They would take the train to Saint-Agrève and then walk into the Ardèche. She was sorry she had let her fear for Magali confuse her. Julien listened to this last with his mouth open, then asked when Monsieur Faure had spoken to her.

  “Julien, you were standing right there.”

  “I must not have heard,” he mumbled, and fled.

  Ten minutes later she came out of the bedroom believing Magali had been arrested.

  The lost look on Mama’s face, as she wept and held her daughter’s rigid shoulders, was too much for Julien. He fled into the kitchen and found Benjamin there sitting in the dark. It was deep night outside, and none of them had eaten. He stepped back into the living room, and quailed as Mama snapped, “Of course he did! Julien! Tell her!”