How Huge the Night (23 page)

Let Us Be French! read the title on the editorial page.
Foreign
influences
have weakened our nation.
France had been defeated, the writer said, because it had slid into cultural weakness and decadence; as our good marshal put it, the spirit of enjoyment had trumped the spirit of sacrifice, and the French had abdicated responsibility, had been taken in by foreigners who claimed to have their good in mind—had let them take over important positions in the
government
, journalism, the arts … Why only a few short years ago, a Jew, Léon Blum, had been the prime minister of France! What other proof was needed, the writer wanted to know, of our nation’s criminal apathy or of the dangers of socialism, gateway to
international
communism? This movement, determined to break down all borders and wrest the land from those who had held it in sacred trust for generations, this movement, also led by Jews, had gained a foothold in France …

Julien folded the paper and tucked it under his arm with the bread and walked home slowly, even more slowly than before.

They were invited to dinner at the parsonage. Benjamin was home sick, which was just as well because suddenly the Alexandres were hosting a refugee family who’d just arrived. From the north.

They looked terrible. He was unshaven, a bruise on his cheek. There was mud in her wild hair. She was holding her baby like someone might steal it from her. A stunned-looking toddler sat on the floor.

Their names were Régis and Juliette Granjon. They were from Paris.

After supper, they told their story. They’d heard the Germans were coming, had packed their car, and gone. But the roads were jammed with cars and buses and people and carts, and they’d run out of gas. All the money in Régis’s wallet would hardly buy a liter—gas was worth its weight in gold, and that was the asking price. “So we left it by the road. Abandoned cars were everywhere—people like us thought they’d get away easy. Turned out farmers were the lucky ones with their hay carts and horses … We kept one
suitcase
and carried the children and started walking. Walked for a couple hours. It was getting hot—it was about noon—when they came.”

He stopped.

“They?” said Pastor Alex.

Monsieur Granjon nodded, looking straight ahead. He swallowed and spoke lower. “Planes. German planes. Over the road ahead of us, full of people—three planes flying low—” He looked up as if he could see them now; there was fear in his eyes.

“Michel. Go upstairs.” Madame Alexandre’s voice was sharp.

“But Mama!”

“
Now
.”

Michel dragged his feet up the stairs. When he was gone, Madame Alexandre leaned low over the table. “Monsieur Granjon,” she said in a low voice, “are you about to tell us that the Germans bombed those roads?”

Granjon looked into her eyes and nodded.

“God have no mercy on them,” she whispered.

Mama stood. “Excuse me.” Her face was white. She went into the bathroom and closed the door.

For a few moments, no one spoke. Then Pastor Alex said
quietly
, “We thank God that you have come to us safely.” Madame Alexandre said, “There’s only one bed—I hope it’s all right—” And then everyone was talking about rooms and beds and ration cards, and Mama came out of the bathroom pale and dry eyed and was asked if she could think of anyone in the church with houseroom. “The Bonnauds. That apartment his mother lived in, it must seem so empty to them now.” Julien didn’t know how she knew this stuff.

“You’re brilliant, Maria. Would you be so kind as to ask them for me?”

“Of course,” Mama said softly.

It was hot. The hills were baking in the sun. Under the pines, the air was still, without a breath of wind, and insects hummed over the forest floor, a carpet of tiny movement and sound. Benjamin sat down on the brown, springy needles, and Julien opened their lunch: lukewarm potatoes and goat cheese.
Well-aged
goat cheese. As the smell filled the clearing, Benjamin wrinkled his nose and said, “What died?”

He had spoken. He had made a joke. “Think we should give it a proper burial?” Julien asked.

“We can’t waste food.”

“Maybe there’s some other use. I would’ve thought bug repellent, but …” He waved his hand and scared up a cloud of gnats. “Maybe some sort of weapons application. Just think, Benjamin, if we’d had this cheese a few months ago—”

Benjamin gave a resounding—almost an echoing—snort. The look of surprise that passed across his face made Julien crack up completely. Suddenly, they were laughing helplessly, uproariously, as they hadn’t laughed in weeks, falling on the pine needles,
holding
their sides. It felt wildly good to let go, after weeks and months of defeat and hard work and not talking and
getting used
to it
. It was freedom, it was— Benjamin was gasping. Too loud.

Benjamin was curled on the pine needles, breathing hard and fast, his gasps growing to great tearing sobs. His body convulsed, his hands curling like claws, his face distorted. Julien knelt by him staring, his stomach tight. What could he do? He put out a horribly awkward hand and laid it on the shaking shoulder. He could think of nothing to say. Except “It’s all right.”

But he knew better.

Benjamin was mad at him for days after that. Julien walked alone, kicking rocks. There was nothing he could have done. Except not be there at all. Not be there, not see him finally crack. There was nothing to be done about anything. Nothing but hoe rows of beans and potatoes till his arms hurt, and eat beans and potatoes, and do the dishes, and get up in the morning and do it all again.

He turned sixteen. He had Roland and Louis over and
celebrated
with wild blueberries and a goat
saucisson
they’d bought from Monsieur Rostin. He tried to invite Pierre too, but Pierre was gone.

He’d done a
fugue
, as they called it. Run off, just like Gilles said. Julien didn’t blame him. Lots of country boys did it, Grandpa said. “He’ll be up in the Tanières probably—lots of caves up there.”

“Tanières?”

“Those hills on the west side of the Tanne. Good place to hide.”

Julien stood on the bank of the Tanne and looked over at the western hills, a tumble of green and rocky places; then he took off his shoes and waded across and climbed into the most beautiful country he had ever seen.

Great jutting rocks and boulders, tilted ridges where lichen and moss grew on the layers of rock, and growing from every crack, tall southern pines with their papery bark that glowed rust red in the slanting sun. It stirred his blood. He climbed deer paths onto high outcroppings of rock; he slid down into a steep ravine with a tiny clear stream at the bottom and drank deep of the cold water. He ate his lunch on a small cliff, a fifteen-meter drop to the bushes, dangling his legs over the edge. This was the place. If the
boches
ever came here—if they ever got the chance to fight them here on their own ground—this was the place all right.

He went up to the Tanières every day he could get free. He was looking for Pierre; Monsieur Rostin badly needed him on the farm. But he was looking for something else too. At home, he would kneel by his bed and try to pray, and it was like pushing a boulder up a hill, like that guy in the Greek myth, all the time knowing it would just roll down again. War. Defeat. Work and waiting and nothing he could do. What had God changed about
anything
this year because Julien had prayed for it?

It was only here he could pray for Pierre. For Vincent. For Benjamin. Only here in the hills where all that weight lifted off him like a bird springing up into flight.

In Lyon, Niko learned to beg. There was no other way.

They searched for a hiding place and could not find one. The hiding places were full. Skinny kids, whole families with
shell-shocked
eyes, they were in the crumbling buildings around the train tracks, under bridges, on park benches. Standing in long lines on the streets with desperate faces. They found a place at nightfall under a bridge, crowded with bodies. Men, women, children who whimpered in the night. She was glad of their presence, the safety in their numbers. She slept.

When morning came, the numbers weren’t so safe.

Gustav went round to the back doors of restaurants, came back to her empty-handed, taught her the French for,
We have nothing. Go away
. There were too many hungry. Looking for help, looking for work. Gustav stood in line all day. When he got to the front, he tried Italian, Yiddish, Romany; the man behind the desk looked at him blankly. In desperation, he tried German. The man spoke sharply and gestured for him to go.

“I’m so stupid, Niko. They’ve gotta be from the north, the Germans invaded … Lorenzo told me France was in bad trouble, I don’t know why I didn’t put two and two together, Niko, I can’t believe I was so stupid. I’m sorry …”

“It’s not your fault,” Niko whispered. “It was my idea.”

Niko took their bundle and made herself a place on the steps of the cathedral, among the other beggars. Since there was nowhere to hide. She spread out the army blanket and knelt on it, held out her hand. She said what the other beggars were saying. “
S’il vous plait, monsieur, madame. Pour manger.
” Something about food, she thought. Most people looked away. Most people looked like they didn’t have food either.

They were going through Lorenzo’s money as slowly as they could. One loaf of bread was food for a whole day. But the money would be gone soon.

They had to get out of here.

They talked about going on the road again. But there were so many refugees. They might walk days and find themselves somewhere just the same, or worse … They went back to the railroad yard where their boxcar had come in. It was their only chance.

Gustav climbed the chain-link fence, quietly, in the dark; he was hoisting Niko up when hoarse yelling broke out of the shadows, and she fell, landing on both feet with a cry of pain. A guard shouting, striking out with his club—Gustav scrambling—the nightstick clashed against the fence as he jumped down.

They limped home to their bridge. Niko felt tears clogging her throat. “It’s all right, Niko,” Gustav whispered. “We’ll try again.”

When they tried, two nights later, there was a dog. A wiry German shepherd, spine bristling, growl heavy with menace.

They stayed in Lyon.

“Good news,” said Papa. “Monsieur Gautier’s renting us that place of his, after all. Apparently he needs the money. Now we’ve got exactly a month to fix it up.”

Julien looked up from his beans. “
Le père Gautier
? The one who wouldn’t rent to you after that … meeting?”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll need a lot of help. There’s a call out for volunteers. Your grandpa says he can let you and Benjamin go from the farm. If you’d like.”

Julien looked out the window at the sun on the rooftops. “Yeah. I think I would.”

“Hey Julien,” Louis said out of the corner of his mouth as they scrubbed blackened baseboards. “Y’hear the one about the toilet paper?”

“No …”

“Well the
boche
says, ‘You French and all the lies you print about our führer, you wanna know what we use your newspapers for? Toilet paper!’ And the French guy says, ‘Hey, I don’t mind, but I’d be careful with that if I were you. You don’t want your butt ending up smarter than your head.’”

Julien snorted, and Roland and Jean-Pierre roared with laughter. Even Benjamin cracked a smile.

The work at the Gautier place was hard and hot, but it had its compensations. Julien still went to the hills on Sundays, but the rest of the week, he threw his strength and his heart into the work. He sweated, scraping ancient grease off floors; he scrubbed behind toilets. It was something he could do. In the fresh mornings, they laughed and told stories or sang songs; Gilles and Roland taught him old Huguenot songs from
le désert: “We have nowhere now to say our prayers, only a little wood behind Les Ollieres
…” But mostly they talked about food. What they’d like to have, what they did have, where they got it.

Roland had caught a rabbit in a snare.

“A snare?” Julien leaned forward, and Jean-Pierre did too. “How d’you make those?”

“Well, wire’s best,” Roland said, his eyes lighting a little, “or you can get a strong piece of string and wax it and then grease it …” Julien paid attention. This was good.

It was August, the height of summer’s heat; they showed up at seven and broke for lunch at eleven. Baskets and old blankets covered the grass; everyone shared their potatoes and cheeses and melons. Like a huge, rotating village picnic, everyone was there: Pastor and Madame Alexandre, the Raissacs and the Bonnauds, the Astiers, Monsieur Barre, Madame Laubrac, Madame Rostin, the Michels—with two beautiful college-student daughters that Julien tried not to stare at—the Souliers, from the Fellowship, and sometimes Madame Thibaud, Roland’s mother. And Régis Granjon, who was going to teach math at the new school, talking calculus with Benjamin.

And the guys. They’d have lunch together, all of them: Julien, Roland, Louis, Gilles, Jean-Pierre, and Benjamin—sometimes Jérémie or Antoine—then a swim in the river in their shorts,
splashing
and wrestling in the water, in the sun, seeing who could stay under longest. The only thing that could have made it better was Pierre. But Pierre wasn’t there. Nor Henri. Nor his father.
Count your blessings
, thought Julien.

La France nouvelle!
said Marshal Pétain on the radio. A new France would emerge from this defeat, returned to her roots and her
values
, her honor restored. Political parties had promised disaster if they were not elected, and heaven on earth if they were—how empty all those words seemed, he said, now that true disaster had come upon them.