How Huge the Night (28 page)

He was on his feet in an instant. “What is it?” He burst into the kitchen. “What? Please, what is happening?” For a moment they said nothing. Both their faces were white.

“Frau Alexandre,” he said in German, “what is happening?”

The tall woman looked at him and took a breath. “I am sorry, Gustav. I have made a very bad mistake. I thought that the mayor would help me get you ration cards. I was wrong.”

“The mayor?”

“I am sorry, Gustav. I thought—he has normally … listened to me.” Her face was strained. “He says that you and your brother should be taken to a refugee camp. He says he understands you might not want this, and so you are free to leave town on your own if you prefer.”

“A camp—he—Frau Alexandre, my brother—”

“Frau Losier told me. Even if she was a boy she’s not going to any camp. Those camps are not for refugees—they are for what those pigs in Vichy call undesirables, and they’re hellholes. My husband has seen them. Healthy people die in them.” The woman’s face was grim. “Gustav, I promise you this. You and your sister can stay here as long as you need. If we have to hide you, then we will.”

Gustav looked at her, and couldn’t speak. She was turning to Signora Losier, saying something in French.

The two women looked at each other and nodded.

Julien walked out the gate of the school, his heart light, behind Benjamin and Jean-Pierre. He had organized the first soccer game of the year today and then hadn’t even been there, and it had gone great. Dominique had scored two goals, and Gilles and Luc had each scored one, and they’d tied, which was perfect, and everyone wanted to do it again, and Antoine said he was in for tomorrow. And he had been at the station at just the right time to help Gustav and his brother and prevent Monsieur Bernard from running them off—
we’re winning
.
On every count
. He grinned. No matter how Nazi the rest of the country turned, Tanieux was going to be different. Henri and his father were going down.

“We should play with those same teams tomorrow,” said Roland. “And then mix ’em up the next day. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah. That’d be about right …” They were at the bridge. “
À
demain, alors
,” said Roland, and held out his hand; but as they shook, Roland began to watch something behind Julien’s back. He turned.

Mama was crossing the bridge. Her step was quick, her eyes flashed, and her face was very serious.

“
Bonjour
, Roland,” she said, coming up to them. “Will you tell your parents I’ll be down to their place in a few minutes? I have a favor to ask them. Don’t wait for me.”

“
Oui, madame
,” said Roland. “Um … see you soon then.” He turned onto the south road and cast a curious glance behind him as Mama bent toward Julien and spoke in a lower voice.

“Julien,” she said, “I need you to do something.”

Monsieur and Madame Rostin sat at a table strewn with spiky chestnut husks, splitting them open with knives and dropping the smooth dark chestnuts into a bowl. Julien sat across from them.

It was only the boy they were being asked to take, he explained. His sister needed to stay in town for the doctor. The boy wanted to work, but he was too weak yet, undernourished. He had no ration card. They were both
sans-papiers
, people without papers, without status, illegal aliens. That was why there had been a …
disagreement
with the mayor.

His heart was beating; he lowered his eyes to his hands and kept them there. When he raised them, they were both looking at him. Madame wore a fierce frown.

“I see,” said Monsieur Rostin.

“If I understand,” said Madame Rostin, “they’re asking us to take this boy and hide him from
Monsieur le maire
?”

Julien swallowed. “Yes.”

The Rostins looked at each other. Julien shifted on his bench. He’d ask Grandpa. Grandpa would—

“We’ll take him,” said Monsieur Rostin. Madame, unsmiling, was nodding vigorously.

“You will?”

“He’s in trouble,” said Madame Rostin. “He needs help.” Julien blinked and looked at her: the broad shapeless bulk of her
shoulders
, the forehead with the deep creases of a changeless frown, the brown eyes clear, simple, looking at him as if it were obvious. He swallowed again, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Night was falling outside, and the Alexandres’ house was crowded with people; dense with low voices, planning, tension. Nina slept upstairs, as she had slept for hours, not even waking when the
doctor
examined her. Gustav sat on the couch, twisting his fingers together, watching. Listening. Catching only a few words: walk, food, work. The Italian woman was there with a black-eyed girl who seemed to be her daughter; the pastor’s wife; the pastor
himself
, blue-eyed and intense; and the boy who had met them at the station, glancing over at him as he ran a hand nervously through his brown hair. Finally, Frau Alexandre beckoned Gustav over, and he jumped up and came to the table. She motioned him to sit.

“Gustav, we’ve found you a place. But we need to talk to you about it.”

Gustav nodded.

“You’ll be staying on a farm outside of town, with a family from our church. Nina will stay in town, just a few doors down from here—”

Gustav was on his feet again, shaking his head. “No. No. Frau Alexandre, you don’t understand. We can’t be separated. She’ll die. Do you know what happened last time we were separated? She stopped eating. They fed her but she wouldn’t eat. You can’t—”

“She stopped eating?” asked Frau Alexandre.

“Yes. They thought—she doesn’t speak a word of French—”

Pastor Alexandre nodded. “Gustav, the woman who has agreed to lodge Nina speaks High German.”

“Oh,” said Gustav. He sat down, slowly.

“Gustav, we don’t think we can hide you both together. We must keep Nina close to the doctor, in a place where she can get nursing care—Fräulein Pinatel runs the bookstore, two doors down from the doctor, and she lives above it. And,” said Frau Alexandre
quietly
, “she has very few visitors.”

Gustav’s hand was over his mouth. Nina in a bed all day, all night, surrounded by the kindness of strangers. The kindest of strangers. He just didn’t know. He remembered the Gypsies,
remembered
watching her delirious, Marita pouring tea and soup down her throat. Like Signora Losier had done today. He was very tired.

“We have planned it this way so that you can both be hidden. We do not know any other way.”

Gustav nodded.

It was full dark, the moon hanging low in the eastern sky, when they set out on the road to the farm. They carried no light.

The brown-haired boy walked in front of him. His name was Julien, and Gustav was to follow him carefully because he was going to lead him by a way that would not pass the stationmaster’s house. Nina was safe, and sleeping in Fräulein Pinatel’s spare-room bed above the bookstore. They hadn’t let him carry her. She had stirred once and spoken to Father as they tucked her in. And she had gone back to sleep, watched by the tall, solemn Fräulein Pinatel, by the short, gentle-eyed Signora Losier. Watched by the kindest of strangers.

On the road by the thin light of the moon, he followed the son of Signora Losier.

They were at a fork in the road; the crest of the hill lay in front of them. Julien pointed over it and laid a finger on his lips. “
Le chef
de gare, il habite par là
,” he whispered. “
Tu comprends?
” He pointed down the road and shook his head violently. No.

Gustav nodded.
The something of the station lives … that way.
The road to the stationmaster’s house.

“
On prend la route du nord,
” said Julien, and took the left. Gustav followed.

They walked down the road toward shadow. Before them on their right, a high ridge rose, blocking the moon; on the other side, the ground fell away steeply, and far below was the sound of water. The train tracks joined them, two thin threads of silver under the moon, and were cut off sharply as they passed into the shadow.

Gustav watched the boy in front of him, a shadow among
shadows
, walking with a firm step, a boy on a dark road in his native land. A boy who went to school. Who came home to a family. He wondered if he could ever be in such a world again, if such a boy could be his friend.

He didn’t know why he was thinking this. All he had wanted yesterday was a chance to live. For Nina to live.

The bright double thread of the railroad was ahead of them again; down in the valley the singing river wavered and gleamed. Julien was turning to him again, beckoning him to follow, into the woods on their right, where a narrow path led off into dark dappled with dim silver. He followed him into the rustling silence of the woods. They walked. They walked till the woods broke open again on pasture. A field of oats, a barn; two apple trees, and a moonlit garden patch. A house with lighted windows, and an opening door.

“Why didn’t you come, Benjamin?” asked Julien.

“I said. I had too much homework.”

“No you didn’t. You do it twice as fast as me.”

“Look, I told you twice now, okay?”

Julien turned away. It was no use talking to Benjamin when he didn’t want to talk.

At school, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Monsieur Matthias, in the background, went on about Racine, and Julien thought of
yesterday
. Of the girl Nina, the stick-thin hands grasping her crutches as she climbed down out of the train; of her still form in the bed, seeming not even to breathe. And the brother, the way he’d held himself, even in the Alexandres’ living room—tense, ready, his eyes flicking from person to person. They said he was fourteen.

And the strange moonlit walk; how he’d wished for Benjamin. He’d started out feeling like a commando—hiding a fugitive from the enemy—but the night was so huge and the two of them so small, in the dark of the woods, Gustav’s quiet eyes on him whenever he turned around.
Are you okay?
he wanted to ask, but couldn’t.
Are you scared? Can I help? Don’t ever go down that road. There’s a farm down there with an apple orchard, where your enemies live.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Monsieur Bernard’s voice cracking like a whip: “
Je regrette
, but I’m telling you the truth.”
Liar. Liar. You filthy liar.

During break Julien wandered away from the group, hands in his pockets, kicking at stones.

“
Ça va?
” said Roland’s voice behind him. He grunted. “Fine.”

“Heard you did good yesterday. Why didn’t you tell us why you missed the game?”

“Um. I dunno.” He didn’t know. He’d wanted to savor it a little while first—oh, good thing he hadn’t blabbed it everywhere—“Who told you?”

“My father. We’re sending food up to Mademoiselle Pinatel for the girl. Your mother asked us.”

“Food?” His stomach churned, as if it was for him.

“Yeah. Want to come? I’m going up there after school.”

“Sure,” said Julien. His heart was lifting; there was one person, one friend, he didn’t have to keep the secret from. “You know we’re supposed to be careful, right?”

“She told us.”

“I took the brother to Pierre’s place last night. Had to take the north road and cut through the woods so we wouldn’t go past Henri’s farm.”

Roland shook his head. “It’s weird. It’s so weird.”

“It’s
stupid
,” said Julien, kicking at a stone.

“Yeah,” said Roland. “It is.”

It was stupid being at school too. There was no
point
. Julien stared out the window at the hills and the flat blue sky, hearing Ricot buzz on about velocity, or Papa about the Revolution, and wondered: Didn’t they know? That
now
was more urgent than the Revolution, that the sons of saints and murderers were sitting in their
classrooms
taking notes?

“One day,” said Papa, “there will be boys like you, sitting in a classroom learning about the defeat of France and what came after it. And
they’ll
be fidgeting too.” The class groaned.

He walked with Roland to Mademoiselle Pinatel’s shop, browsed the bookshelves until the other customers were gone and he and Roland could slip upstairs with their delivery. Nina wasn’t well enough to see anyone, Mademoiselle Pinatel said. But thank you. Tell your parents thank you very much.

At home, he sat down with Mama over a
goûter
of unsweetened mint tea, and she asked him if he would be a guide again, for Gustav to visit Nina sometimes. He sat up straighter.

On Wednesday after lunch, they had their third soccer game; it was catching on quick, really quick; they had Léon and
Jean-Michel
and
Antoine now, and the score was tied one-to-one. Julien was hammering away at it, driving down the field for a clear shot at Dominique’s goal, when he heard a clear, scornful voice from beyond the touchline. “Call
that
a soccer ball?”

Someone else had showed up too.

Julien didn’t look; but he could see Henri’s face anyway. The next moment Philippe had stolen the ball. And Julien played and played and ignored Henri there on the touchline with his arms folded, and missed three more shots. But as they walked off the field, Philippe slapped Henri Quatre on the shoulder and suggested that he join the new soccer games.

Julien saw his back stiffen. “What’s so new about them?” asked Henri. “Using an old volleyball to play soccer with?”

“We’re switching the teams around now,” said Dominique. “Every other game. It’s great.”

“Well, it’s good there’s still some kind of soccer game,” said Henri. “For those who’re still interested in that, with everything that’s happening.”