How Huge the Night (19 page)

Once. Twice. The third time, a great rotten piece of wood came away, and honeycomb came with it.

The rest was mad and sticky and golden; there was honey on their gloves and honey on their shirts; and in the buckets, there was beautiful, beautiful honeycomb to the brim; and they were licking it off their dirty gloves and laughing as they ran. They got to the road and looked back, and Julien held his bucket up and whooped. Benjamin’s face was smudged with black, and there was a bee sting by his eye; there were two on Julien’s neck and one on his stomach, and the boys were grinning wildly at each other.

The sun was setting by the time they made it home, tired, dirty, and very happy. They were late for supper. They didn’t care.

When they opened the door, they stopped. The power was on. No lights. But everyone huddled tightly around the radio.

They set the buckets among the dirty dishes on the table. No one turned to greet them. They began to take in what the newsreader was saying.

Thousands upon thousands of refugees choking the roads of France. The Germans were headed straight for Paris. Every soldier France still had was being rushed to stop them, but there was no hope. The government, from the prime minister on down, had fled south. Military sources said it was inevitable. Paris would fall.

The buckets sat forgotten on the table. Papa’s Bible lay forgotten on his lap. No one moved or spoke. They sat in silence, while
outside
the open window, the evening sky darkened slowly into night.

Gustav stood by the convent wall, waiting for his sister. For Niko.

He
hated
calling her Niko. Nina was his fierce-eyed sister, who had walked home one day on a shattered leg, her teeth gritted, not a single tear in her eyes. Who had said so fiercely, “We have to do everything he told us.” Who had made him cut her hair. But Niko—Niko was this strange, new, sad person. Niko was someone who lay on the floor with empty eyes, looking at something he could not see. Something that was eating her. Ever since the border. He knew. But he couldn’t make it stop.

They never talked about that night. He hated it. Hated that there was nothing he could do.

He’d tried so hard. He’d learned to split wood, milk goats; he’d learned rough Italian and the alleys of Trento to get food for her. He’d tried so hard to make her laugh. She’d laughed. Sometimes. And with the Gypsies, she’d been almost herself. But he’d never imagined
this
.

“Gustav,” Sister Theresa had told him, “you have to get your brother out of here. I went to Mother Superior about it, I told her I don’t believe he’s crazy—just frightened—but she wouldn’t listen. She keeps saying she saw with her own eyes—Gustav, she’s written to the bishop about sending him to some kind of ‘home’—I don’t know …”

He knew. He knew he had to get her out now.

They were letting her out once a day for a couple of hours; Sister Theresa had gotten that much. Soon. If they let her out soon enough, her chance was sitting in the driveway.

A delivery truck. Men unloading it, manhandling huge sacks of flour through the double kitchen doors. A truck that would be
driving
out the convent gate when it was done.

The far door opened, her door. He heard the click of her crutches on the stones. He stood waiting as she walked toward him, and when she reached him, he looked her in the eye. “Niko,” he said quietly, “do you want to get out of here? Now?”

She took a deep breath, standing a little taller. “Yes,” she said.

Niko woke when the truck stopped, her cheek on a hard bag of flour, her mouth open. It was almost pitch dark.

“Got your crutches?”

“Ready.”

He was peering out the tiny, side window. Beneath her, she felt the engine cut out.

“Now,” said Gustav. She heard him slide to the back and open the door. In the red glow of the taillights, she slid forward between the flour bags, set her crutches on the ground and swung down. Cold air met her. “Behind that rubbish heap,” whispered Gustav, and she followed him, quietly—they heard voices ahead, people standing far off in the light of the headlights, a low square building with lit windows—she ducked behind the heap and breathed quietly in the dark.

The sound of the engine again, the truck moving off toward the building. Then voices in Italian, the thump of the huge flour bags being unloaded. She looked around, but it was deep dark. Thick clouds hid the moon. Then the truck was coming back, and in the light of the headlights, she saw it and cried out. Gustav jumped to his feet as he saw it too: a tall gate swinging open, framed by high, chain-link fence topped with razor wire. In the red glow of the
taillights
they saw it swing shut; closed by two uniformed men.

Gustav sank to his knees. “Oh, Niko,” he whispered.

Niko said nothing. There was nothing to say.

When Julien woke, he had a moment of peace, watching the
sunlight
sift through his white curtains, before he remembered Paris.

He knelt by his bed and tried to pray, but he had no words. Only pictures, only memories and names: Vincent and his sisters, Uncle Giovanni and Aunt Nadine; the Kellers; his friends, Renaud and Mathieu and Gaëtan. He knelt and said nothing, thought nothing, felt nothing, only saw them. He hoped God understood.

For breakfast, there was real bread with honey. He had never tasted anything so good in his life. They ate ravenously. The power was out again. None of them spoke.

Benjamin went up to his room, and Julien walked alone. He walked between pastures, between brambles thick with hard green blackberries, not seeing the hills. Green as they were, and solid, they could not change news from the north.

They were probably bombing right now.

Papa had a new radio someone had given him. A shortwave. Benjamin and Julien helped him carry it into his study to hide it from Mama. He said he wanted the BBC.

You boys know what really happened up on the Belgian coast?”

He knew. He knew the
boches
had captured forty thousand French soldiers.

“Three hundred forty thousand of our guys got away, that’s what.”

Julien blinked. “To where?”

“England. Don’t look at me like that. They’re still free. As long as England stands, there’s a chance for us.” He told them the story: the troops huddled on the beach like the Israelites by the Red Sea, the boats on the horizon. Every boat England had: yachts, fishing boats, rowboats. And the rear guard holding the Germans off—the rear guard, who would go down in history too. Papa swallowed. “Um. Benjamin. Something I’ve been meaning to tell you. No, stay, Julien.”

Benjamin’s eyes were on the floor.

“Benjamin. Look up. Benjamin, Maria and I want you to know that we consider you part of our family. We’re counting on your staying here for the summer and the next school year and as long as you need.”

Benjamin swallowed, looked at the window, at Julien, at the
history
books on Papa’s shelf. He swallowed again. “But. But I can’t pay my room and board. There’s no word from my parents and I don’t know when they’ll be able to send money. I’ve been saving what’s left of my allowance but it’s not nearly—” Papa was shaking his head.

“No, Benjamin. That’s what I mean when I say you are part of the family,” he said firmly. “We don’t ask Julien for room and board, and we will not ask you either.”

“But … but it’s not fair to you. You’re
hungry
—”

“Benjamin. Look at me, please.” Papa’s voice was commanding. “If we are hungry, we will be hungry together. But until your
parents
are able to take you back in peace and safety, you are staying. Please tell me you understand that.”

Papa and Benjamin stared at each other, a very long moment.

“Yes, sir,” said Benjamin, and lowered his eyes.

Thursday the power came back on. They sat in the living room, around the radio that crackled with static; they looked at each other, and then away. The room grew quiet as the announcer began to speak.

“Since Mussolini’s declaration of war on France two days ago, Italian troops are pushing west—”

Mama was on her feet. “The thief!” she hissed. “The
backstabber
, the
coward!
” Her face was red. Everyone was staring. She sat down.

Papa looked at her. “Saw his chance, I guess.”

“He’s a shame to his nation,” Mama snapped. Then they heard the shift in the announcer’s voice and turned sharply to the radio.

“German troops are approaching Paris at a rapid pace. As we speak, the vanguard is reported to be fifteen kilometers from Versailles. This will be our last broadcast for a while.”

They did not look at each other. The silence was total.

“Today Paris has been declared an ‘open city.’ Our military will not defend it. This decision was made to avoid bombardment and the great destruction and loss of life that it entails …”

Julien realized he had not been breathing. It was an amazing thing, breathing. Tears shone in Mama’s eyes.

“They won’t bomb Paris,” said Papa quietly.

“They won’t bomb Paris,” Mama whispered.

Benjamin stood, his face very still. He walked slowly to the door and took the stairs.

Julien waited, breathing, seeing Paris; seeing Vincent and his mother look up out of their second-floor window at a clear blue sky. He waited until the news ended, until they had read a psalm that said
The Lord has delivered.

Then he followed Benjamin.

Benjamin’s door was closed. Julien hesitated, biting his lip, and went into his own room.

He looked out the window in the fading light. They wouldn’t defend it. This was it, then. What Pastor Alex said was true. German tanks would roll down the Champs-Elysées for real in just a couple days. Then the
boches
would come here. And they would stay.

He pulled Vincent’s last letter out from under his nightstand.
I can’t believe you almost died
, it said.
That’s crazy.
He got up, and went and knocked on Benjamin’s door.

No answer.

“Benjamin? You all right?”

“Fine.”

Julien opened the door. Benjamin turned quickly, scowling.

“Did I say you could come in?”

“Well
sorry
,” Julien growled.
How am I supposed to help when he’s like this?
“Just wanted to say good night.”

“Good night then.”

“Look, it’s not as bad as it could have been, okay? They could have bombed the place to shreds like Ro—” He bit his tongue.

“You’re right,” said Benjamin, looking away. “That’s good for your relatives. I’m glad.”

“And your parents!”

“Nothing’s good for my parents.” His voice was toneless. “Look, Julien, we can talk about this in the morning. I need to go to bed.”

Julien knew when to quit. He turned away. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

But he couldn’t. He turned and turned in his bed, twisting the sheets.

He got up and looked out at the crescent moon and the stars high over Tanieux, so white, so far, always the same; they would still be there when the Germans were here; they would still be there all his life. They were still there over Rotterdam too. It didn’t make any difference.

When he finally slept, he dreamed: Paris on the fourteenth of July, the fireworks, bursts of blue, of gold, of red above the city. A whirling rocket going up with a hiss and a bang. Then a louder bang. Then a bang that threw up a great shower of dirt and stones, and people screaming, people running as the shells began to fall—

He woke, and lay shivering. He got up to close the window. The stars shone down like cold eyes.

He heard a faint scratching. Mice maybe. A floorboard creaked. He listened.

And he heard it. Very slow, stealthy footsteps going down the stairs.

He sat up slowly. Magali or Benjamin. Tiptoeing down the stairs to the kitchen, wishing there was something to eat … He got out of bed and leaned out the window, watching for the faint light that would come through from the kitchen. No light came.

But on the ground floor, the heavy front door opened, and a dark shape slipped out into the street. A shadow with a suitcase in its hand.

He ran across the hall and threw open Benjamin’s door. A neatly made bed, a letter on the pillow. He grabbed it, ran back to his room, jerked his pants on over his pajamas, and ran downstairs in his socks. He’d catch him. Benjamin was on foot. He had to catch him. He scrawled on the flip side of the note,
I’ve gone after him,
pulled on his shoes and jacket, and flew down the stairs and into the dark.

He raced down the shadowed street and stopped at the corner, heart pounding, looking both ways. North, over the hill: the road to Saint-Etienne. A train to Paris, like he’d said? There were no trains now. Or south—south to where?
Oh Lord, help, if I choose wrong I’ll never find him.

Think.
What would he do if it were him? He’d go south—north was suicide, but—he didn’t know, he didn’t
know
Benjamin. Who did? Nothing is good for my parents, he’d said—he didn’t seem to even care that Paris wouldn’t be bombed—

Because his parents weren’t in Paris.

Julien turned, suddenly sure, and ran.

The Kellers had left Germany because of Hitler and his people. Would they stay in Paris and
wait
for them? “Let’s walk south,” Benjamin had said—and that stupid
map
—he should have guessed.

He ran, breathing hard, his eyes on the dark road ahead.
Oh God. Oh Jesus. Don’t let me miss him please—please—