Even on this blue-skied March day, the apartment on the Avenue de La Bourdonnais felt like a mausoleum. Dust covered every surface and layered the floor. Vianne went to the windows and tore the blackout shades down, letting light into this room for the first time in years.
It looked like no one had been in this apartment for some time. Probably not since that day Papa had left to save Isabelle.
Most of the paintings were still on the walls and the furniture was in place
—some of it had been hacked up for firewood and piled in the corner. An empty soup bowl and spoon sat on the dining room table. His volumes of self- published poetry lined the mantel. “It doesn’t look like she’s been here. We must try the Hôtel Lutetia.”
Vianne knew she should pack up her family’s things, claim these remnants of a different life, but she couldn’t do it now. She didn’t want to. Later.
She and Antoine and Sophie left the apartment. On the street outside, all around them were signs of recovery. Parisians were like moles, coming out into the sunshine after years in the dark. But still there were food lines everywhere and rationing and deprivation. The war might have been winding down—the Germans were retreating everywhere—but it wasn’t over yet.
They went to the Hôtel Lutetia, which had been home to the Abwehr under the occupation and was now a reception center for people returning from the camps.
Vianne stood in the elegant, crowded lobby. As she looked around, she felt sick to her stomach and grateful that she’d left Daniel with Mother Marie-
Therese. The reception area was filled with rail-thin, bald, vacant-eyed people dressed in rags. They looked like walking cadavers. Moving among them were doctors and Red Cross workers and journalists.
A man approached Vianne, stuck a faded black-and-white photograph in her face. “Have you seen her? Last we heard she was at Auschwitz.”
The photograph showed a lovely girl standing beside a bicycle, smiling brightly. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old.
“No,” Vianne said. “I’m sorry.”
The man was already walking away, looking as dazed as Vianne felt.
Everywhere Vianne looked she saw anxious families, photographs held in their shaking hands, begging for news of their loved ones. The wall to her right was covered with photographs and notes and names and addresses. The living looking for the lost. Antoine moved close to Vianne, put a hand on her shoulder. “We will find her, V.”
“Maman?” Sophie said. “Are you all right?”
She looked down at her daughter. “Perhaps we should have left you at home.”
“It’s too late to protect me,” Sophie said. “You must know that.”
Vianne hated that truth as much as any. She held on to her daughter’s hand and moved resolutely through the crowd, with Antoine beside her. In an area to the left, she saw a gathering of men in dirty striped pajamas who looked like skeletons. How were they still alive?
She didn’t even realize that she had stopped again until a woman appeared in front of her.
“Madame?” the woman—a Red Cross worker—said gently.
Vianne tore her gaze from the ragged survivors. “I have people I’m looking for … my sister, Isabelle Rossignol. She was arrested for aiding the enemy and deported. And my best friend, Rachel de Champlain, was deported. Her husband, Marc, was a prisoner of war. I … don’t know what happened to any of them or how to look for them. And … I have a list of Jewish children in Carriveau. I need to reunite them with their parents.”
The Red Cross worker, a thin, gray-haired woman, took out a piece of paper and wrote down the names Vianne had given her. “I will go to the records desk and check these names. As to the children, come with me.” She
led the three of them to a room down the hall, where an ancient-looking man with a long beard sat behind a desk piled with papers.
“M’sieur Montand,” the Red Cross worker said, “this woman has information on some Jewish children.”
The old man looked up at her through bloodshot eyes and made a flicking motion with his long, hair-tufted fingers. “Come in.”
The Red Cross worker left the room. The sudden quiet was disconcerting after so much noise and commotion.
Vianne approached the desk. Her hands were damp with perspiration. She rubbed them along the sides of her skirt. “I am Vianne Mauriac. From Carriveau.” She opened her handbag and withdrew the list she had compiled last night from the three lists she’d kept throughout the war. She set it on his desk. “These are some hidden Jewish children, M’sieur. They are in the Abbaye de la Trinité orphanage under the care of Mother Superior Marie- Therese. I don’t know how to reunite them with their parents. Except for the first name on the list. Ari de Champlain is with me. I am searching for his parents.”
“Nineteen children,” he said quietly. “It is not many, I know, but…”
He looked up at her as if she were a heroine instead of a scared survivor. “It is nineteen who would have died in the camps along with their parents, Madame.”
“Can you reunite them with their families?” she asked softly.
“I will try, Madame. But sadly, most of these children are indeed orphans now. The lists coming from the camps are all the same: mother dead, father dead, no relatives alive in France. And so few children survived.” He ran a hand through the thinning gray hair on his head. “I will forward your list to the OSE in Nice. They are trying to reunite families. Merci, Madame.”
Vianne waited a moment, but the man said no more. She rejoined her husband and daughter and they left the office and stepped back into the crowd of refugees and families and camp survivors.
“What do we do now?” Sophie asked.
“We wait to hear from the Red Cross worker,” Vianne said.
Antoine pointed to the wall of photographs and names of the missing. “We
should look for her there.”
A look passed between them, an acknowledgment of how much it would hurt to stand there, looking through the photographs of the missing. Still, they moved to the sea of pictures and notes and began to look through them, one by one.
They were there for nearly two hours before the Red Cross worker returned.
“Madame?” Vianne turned.
“I am sorry, Madame. Rachel and Marc de Champlain are listed among the deceased. And there is no record of an Isabelle Rossignol anywhere.”
Vianne heard deceased and felt an almost unbearable grief. She pushed the emotion aside resolutely. She would think of Rachel later, when she was alone. She would have a glass of champagne outside, beneath the yew tree, and talk to her friend. “What does that mean? No record of Isabelle? I saw them take her away.”
“Go home and wait for your sister’s return,” the Red Cross worker said. She touched Vianne’s arm. “Have hope. Not all of the camps have been liberated.”
Sophie looked up at her. “Maybe she made herself invisible.”
Vianne touched her daughter’s face, managed a small, sad smile. “You are so grown-up. It makes me proud and breaks my heart at the same time.”
“Come on,” Sophie said, tugging on her hand. Vianne allowed her daughter to lead her away. She felt more like the child than the parent as they made their way through the crowded lobby and out onto the brightly lit street. Hours later, when they were on the train bound for home, seated on a wooden banquette in the third-class carriage, Vianne stared out the window at the bombed-out countryside. Antoine sat sleeping beside her, his head resting
against the dirty window.
“How are you feeling?” Sophie asked.
Vianne placed a hand on her swollen abdomen. A tiny flutter—a kick— tapped against her palm. She reached for Sophie’s hand.
Sophie tried to pull away; Vianne gently insisted. She placed her daughter’s hand on her belly.
Sophie felt the flutter of movement and her eyes widened. She looked up at Vianne. “How can you…”
“We are all changed by this war, Soph. Daniel is your brother now that Rachel is … gone. Truly your brother. And this baby; he or she is innocent of … his or her creation.”
“It’s hard to forget,” she said quietly. “And I’ll never forgive.” “But love has to be stronger than hate, or there is no future for us.”
Sophie sighed. “I suppose,” she said, sounding too adult for a girl of her age.
Vianne placed a hand on top of her daughter’s. “We will remind each other, oui? On the dark days. We will be strong for each other.”
* * *
Roll call had been going on for hours. Isabelle dropped to her knees. The minute she hit the ground, she thought stay alive and clambered back up.
Guards patrolled the perimeter with their dogs, selecting women for the gas chamber. Word was that another march was coming. This one to Mauthausen, where thousands had already been worked to death: Soviet prisoners of war, Jews, Allied airmen, political prisoners. It was said that none who walked through its gates would ever walk out.
Isabelle coughed. Blood sprayed across her palm. She wiped it on her dirty dress quickly, before the guards could see.
Her throat burned, her head pulsed and ached. She was so focused on her agony that it took her a moment to notice the sound of engines.
“Do you hear that?” Micheline said.
Isabelle felt a commotion moving through the prisoners. It was hard to concentrate when she hurt so badly. Her lungs ached with every breath.
“They’re leaving,” she heard. “Isabelle, look!”
At first all she saw was bright blue sky and trees and prisoners. Then she noticed.
“The guards are gone,” she said in a hoarse, ragged voice.
The gates clattered open and a stream of American trucks drove through the gates; soldiers sat on the bonnets and hung out the back, their rifles held
across their chests.
Americans.
Isabelle’s knees gave out. “Mich … e … line,” she whispered, her voice as broken as her spirit. “We … made … it.”
* * *
That spring, the war began to end. General Eisenhower broadcast a demand for the German surrender. Americans crossed the Rhine and went into Germany; the Allies won one battle after another and began to liberate the camps. Hitler was living in a bunker.
And still, Isabelle didn’t come home.
Vianne let the letter box clang shut. “It’s as if she disappeared.”
Antoine said nothing. For weeks they had been searching for Isabelle. Vianne stood in queues for hours to make telephone calls and sent countless letters to agencies and hospitals. Last week they visited more displaced- person camps, but to no avail. There was no record of Isabelle Rossignol anywhere. It was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth—along with hundreds of thousands of others.
Maybe Isabelle had survived the camps, only to be shot a day before the Allies arrived. Supposedly in one of the camps, a place called Bergen-Belsen, the Allies had found heaps of still-warm bodies at liberation.
Why?
So they wouldn’t talk.
“Come with me,” Antoine said, taking her by the hand. She no longer stiffened at his touch, or flinched, but she couldn’t seem to relax into it, either. In the months since Antoine’s return, they were playacting at love and both of them knew it. He said he didn’t make love to her because of the baby, and she agreed that it was for the best, but they knew.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, leading her into the backyard.
The sky was a bright cerulean beneath which the yew tree provided a patch of cool brown shade. In the pergola, the few chickens that were left pecked at the dirt, clucking and flapping.
An old bedsheet had been stretched between a branch of the yew tree and an iron hat rack that Antoine must have found in the barn. He led her to one
of the chairs set on the stone patio. In the years of his absence, the moss and grass had begun to overtake this part of the yard, so her chair sat unsteadily on the uneven surface. She sat down carefully; she was unwieldy these days. The smile her husband gave her was both dazzling in its joy and startling in its intimacy. “The kids and I have been working on this all day. It’s for you.”
The kids and I.
Antoine took his place in front of the sagging sheet and lifted his good arm in a sweeping gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, children and scrawny rabbits and chickens who smell like shit—”
Behind the curtain, Daniel giggled and Sophie shushed him.
“In the rich tradition of Madelaine in Paris, which was Mademoiselle Mauriac’s first starring role, I give you the Le Jardin singers.” With a flourish, he unsnapped one side of the sheet-curtain and swept it aside to reveal a wooden platform set upon the grass at a not-quite-level slant. On it, Sophie stood beside Daniel. Both wore blankets as capes, with a sprig of apple blossoms at the throat and crowns made of some shiny metal, onto which they had glued pretty rocks and bits of colored glass.
“Hi, Maman!” Daniel said, waving furiously. “Shhh,” Sophie said to him. “Remember?” Daniel nodded seriously.
They turned carefully—the plank floor teetered beneath them—and held hands, facing Vianne.
Antoine brought a silver harmonica to his mouth and let out a mournful note. It hung in the air for a long time, vibrating in invitation, and then he started to play.
Sophie began to sing in a high, pure voice. “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques…”
She squatted down and Daniel popped up, singing, “Dormez-vous?
Dormez-vous?”
Vianne clamped her hand over her mouth but not before a little laughter slipped out.
Onstage, the song went on. She could see how happy Sophie was to do this once-ordinary thing, this little performance for her parents, and how hard Daniel was concentrating to do his part well.
It felt both profoundly magical and beautifully ordinary. A moment from the life they’d had before.
Vianne felt joy open up inside of her.
We’re going to be all right, she thought, looking at Antoine. In the shade cast by the tree her great-grandfather had planted, with their children’s voices in the air, she saw her other half, thought again: We’re going to be all right.
“… ding … dang … dong…”
When the song ended, Vianne clapped wildly. The children bowed majestically. Daniel tripped on his bedspread cape and tumbled to the grass and came up laughing. Vianne waddled to the stage and smothered her children with kisses and compliments.
“What a lovely idea,” she said to Sophie, her eyes shining with love and pride.
“I was concentrating, Maman,” Daniel said proudly.
Vianne couldn’t let them go. This future she’d glimpsed filled her soul with joy.
“I planned with Papa,” Sophie said. “Just like before, Maman.” “I planned it, too,” Daniel said, puffing out his little chest.
She laughed. “How grand you both were at singing. And—” “Vianne?” Antoine said from behind her.
She couldn’t look away from Daniel’s smile. “How long did it take you to learn your part?”
“Maman,” Sophie said quietly. “Someone is here.” Vianne turned to look behind her.
Antoine was standing near the back door with two men; both wore threadbare black suits and black berets. One carried a tattered briefcase.
“Sophie, take care of your brother for a minute,” Antoine said to the children. “We have something to discuss with these men.” He moved in beside Vianne, placing a hand at the small of her back, helping her to her feet, urging her forward. They filed into the house in a silent line.
When the door closed behind them, the men turned to face Vianne.
“I am Nathaniel Lerner,” said the older of the two men. He had gray hair and skin the color of tea-stained linen. Age spots discolored large patches of his cheeks.
“And I am Phillipe Horowitz,” said the other man. “We are from the OSE.”
“Why are you here?” Vianne asked.
“We are here for Ari de Champlain,” Phillipe said in a gentle voice. “He has relatives in America—Boston, in fact—and they have contacted us.”
Vianne might have collapsed if Antoine had not held her steady.
“We understand you rescued nineteen Jewish children all by yourself. And with German officers billeted in your home. That’s impressive, Madame.”
“Heroic,” Nathaniel added.
Antoine placed his hand on her shoulder and at that, his touch, she realized how long she’d been silent. “Rachel was my best friend,” she said quietly. “I tried to help her sneak into the Free Zone before the deportation, but…”
“Her daughter was killed,” Lerner said. “How do you know that?”
“It is our job to collect stories and to reunite families,” he answered. “We have spoken to several women who were in Auschwitz with Rachel. Sadly, she lived less than a month there. Her husband, Marc, was killed in Stalag 13A. He was not as lucky as your husband.”
Vianne said nothing. She knew the men were giving her time and she both appreciated and hated it. She didn’t want to accept any of this. “Daniel—Ari
—was born a week before Marc left for the war. He has no memory of either of his parents. It was the safest way—to let him believe he was my son.”
“But he is not your son, Madame.” Lerner’s voice was gentle but the words were like the lash of a whip.
“I promised Rachel I would keep him safe,” she said.
“And you have. But now it is time for Ari to return to his family. To his people.”
“He won’t understand,” she said. “Perhaps not,” Lerner said. “Still.”
Vianne looked at Antoine for help. “We love him. He’s part of our family.
He should stay with us. You want him to stay, don’t you, Antoine?” Her husband nodded solemnly.
She turned to the men. “We could adopt him, raise him as our own. But
Jewish, of course. We will tell him who he is and take him to synagogue and
—”
“Madame,” Lerner said with a sigh.
Phillipe approached Vianne, took her hands in his. “We know you love him and he loves you. We know that Ari is too young to understand and that he will cry and miss you—perhaps for years.”
“But you want to take him anyway.”
“You look at the heartbreak of one boy. I am here because of the heartbreak of my people. You understand?” His face sagged, his mouth curved into a small frown. “Millions of Jews were killed in this war, Madame. Millions.” He let that sink in. “An entire generation is gone. We need to band together now, those few of us who are left; we need to rebuild. One boy with no memory of who he was may seem a small thing to lose, but to us, he is the future. We cannot let you raise him in a religion that is not yours and take him to synagogue when you remember. Ari needs to be who he is, and to be with his people. Surely his mother would want that.”
Vianne thought of the people she’d seen at the Hôtel Lutetia, those walking skeletons with their haunted eyes, and the endless wall of photographs.
Millions had been killed. A generation lost.
How could she keep Ari from his people, his family? She would fight to the death for either of her children, but there was no opponent for her to fight, just loss on both sides.
“Who is taking him?” she said, not caring that her voice cracked on the question.
“His mother’s first cousin. She has an eleven-year-old girl and a six-year- old son. They will love Ari as their own.”
Vianne couldn’t find the strength even to nod, or wipe the tears from her eyes. “Maybe they will send me pictures?”
Phillipe gazed at her. “He will need to forget you, Madame, to start a new life.”
How keenly Vianne knew the truth of that. “When will you take him?” “Now,” Lerner said.
Now.
“We cannot change this?” Antoine asked.
“No, M’sieur,” Phillipe said. “It is the right thing for Ari to return to his people. He is one of the lucky ones—he still has family living.”
Vianne felt Antoine take her hand in his. He led her to the stairs, tugging more than once to keep her moving. She climbed the wooden steps on legs that felt leaden and unresponsive.
In her son’s bedroom (no, not her son’s), she moved like a sleepwalker, gathering his few clothes and belongings. A threadbare stuffed monkey with its eyes loved off, a piece of petrified wood he’d found by the river last summer, and the quilt Vianne had made from scraps of clothes he’d outgrown. On its back, she had embroidered: “To Our Daniel, love Maman, Papa, and Sophie.”
She remembered when he first read it and asked, “Is Papa coming back?” She had nodded and assured him that families had a way of finding their way home.
“I don’t want to lose him. I can’t…”
Antoine held her close, letting her cry. When she finally stilled, he murmured against her ear, “You’re strong. We have to be. We love him, but he’s not ours.”
She was so tired of being strong. How many losses could she bear? “Do you want me to tell him?” Antoine asked.
She wanted him to do it, wanted it more than anything, but this was a mother’s job.
With shaking hands, she packed Daniel’s—Ari’s—belongings into a ragged canvas rucksack. She walked out of the room, only realizing a second too late that she had left Antoine behind. It took everything she had to keep breathing, keep moving. She opened the door to her bedroom and rummaged through her armoire until she found a small framed photograph of herself and Rachel. It was the only picture she had of Rachel, taken ten or twelve years ago. She wrote their names on the back, shoved it into the pocket of the rucksack, and left the room. Ignoring the men downstairs, she went out to the backyard, where the children—still in capes and crowns—were playing on the makeshift stage.
The three men followed her.
Sophie looked at all of them. “Maman?”
Daniel laughed. How long would she remember exactly that sound? Not long enough. She knew that now. Memories—even the best of them—faded.
“Daniel?” She had to clear her throat and try again. “Daniel? Could you come here?”
“What’s wrong, Maman?” Sophie said. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
She moved forward, clutching the rucksack to her side. “Daniel?”
He grinned up at her. “You want us to sing it again, Maman?” he asked, righting the crown as it slipped to one side of his head.
“Can you come here, Daniel?” she asked it twice, just to be sure. She was afraid too much of this was happening in her head.
He padded toward her, yanking his cape sideways so he didn’t trip over it. She knelt in the grass and took his hands in hers. “There’s no way to make you understand this.” Her voice caught. “In time, I would have told you everything. When you were older. We would have gone to your old house,
even. But time’s up, Captain Dan.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know how much we love you,” she said. “Oui, Maman,” Daniel said.
“We love you, Daniel, and we have from the moment you came into our lives, but you belonged to another family first. You had another maman and another papa, and they loved you, too.”
Daniel frowned. “I had another maman?” Behind her, Sophie said, “Oh, no…”
“Her name was Rachel de Champlain, and she loved you with all her heart. And your papa was a brave man named Marc. I wish I could be the one to tell you their stories, but I can’t”—she dashed tears from her eyes
—“because your maman’s cousin loves you, too, and she wants you to come live with them in America, where people have plenty to eat and lots of toys to play with.”
Tears filled his eyes. “But you’re my maman. I don’t want to go.”
She wanted to say “I don’t want you to go,” but that would only frighten
him more, and her last job as his mother was to make him feel safe. “I know,” she said quietly, “but you are going to love it, Captain Dan, and your new family will love and adore you. Maybe they will even have a puppy, like you’ve always wanted.”
He started to cry, and she pulled him into her arms. It took perhaps the greatest courage of her life to let go of him. She stood. The two men immediately appeared at her side.
“Hello, young man,” Phillipe said to Daniel, giving him an earnest smile. Daniel wailed.
Vianne took Daniel’s hand and led him through the house and into the front yard, past the dead apple tree littered with remembrance ribbons and through the broken gate to the blue Peugeot parked on the side of the road.
Lerner got into the driver’s seat while Phillipe waited near the back fender. The engine fired up; smoke puffed out from the rear exhaust.
Phillipe opened the back door. Giving Vianne one last sad look, he slid into the seat, leaving the car door open.
Sophie and Antoine came up beside her, and bent down together to hug Daniel.
“We will always love you, Daniel,” Sophie said. “I hope you remember us.”
Vianne knew that only she could get Daniel into the automobile. He would trust only her.
Of all the heartbreaking, terrible things she’d done in this war, none hurt as badly as this: She took Daniel by the hand and led him into the automobile that would take him away from her. He climbed into the backseat.
He stared at her through teary, confused eyes. “Maman?”
Sophie said, “Just a minute!” and ran back to the house. She returned a moment later with Bébé and thrust the stuffed rabbit at Daniel.
Vianne bent down to look him in the eye. “You need to go now, Daniel.
Trust Maman.”
His lower lip trembled. He clutched the toy to his chest. “Oui, Maman.” “Be a good boy.”
Phillipe leaned over and shut the door.
Daniel launched himself at the window, pressing his palms to the glass.
He was crying now, yelling, “Maman! Maman!” They could hear his screams for minutes after the automobile was gone.
Vianne said quietly, “Have a good life, Ari de Champlain.”
