How Huge the Night (30 page)

“C’min,” he mumbled sleepily. Benjamin came in. Julien sat up, suddenly awake.

“Hey. You missed breakfast. I wanted to say … y’know. Sorry.”

“Uh. Yeah. I’m sorry too.”

“Your father told me about the citizenship thing.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. And there’s another thing. Not in the papers, Pastor Alexandre told us this morning. The
préfet
—” he broke off and
swallowed
. “The
préfet
of each region now has power to arrest any
foreign
Jews he thinks are a problem and send them to an internment camp.”

“Oh,” Julien breathed.

“I’m okay. For now. But Gustav and Nina, see … I thought you should know. And I’m sorry I didn’t go down with you to see them. I … I think I was … scared of them. Because … I’m like them.”

Julien blinked. “But your parents aren’t—”

Benjamin said in a hard, flat voice, “My parents are dead.” Julien stared at him.

“No—”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know they bombed the roads. My
parents
wouldn’t have stayed in Paris for the world, they were on those roads. And they never got here. They’re dead.” He was looking straight ahead, out the window.

“Benjamin—”

“Anyway, just wanted to tell you I’ll come with you Saturday night,” said Benjamin abruptly. He got up off the bed and walked out the door.

The flag ceremony was rained out. Everyone huddled under the
préau
together, voices echoing against the concrete, looking out at the driving rain.

“Julien.” A hand on his shoulder. It was Henri Quatre, frowning deeply, beckoning. Julien followed, away from the voices and the scrape of shoes on the concrete floor, into the near-silence of an empty hallway. “Yeah?”

“Julien, I have a question for you.”

“Sure,” said Julien, squaring his shoulders.

“Who was that you were with on Wednesday night?”

The hallway was tilting. The hollow voices echoed in his head. He tried to catch his breath.

“Wednesday night?” he managed.

“You were with this kid. Black hair, skinny, spoke bad French with a German accent. Weren’t you?” Henri looked him in the eye. Julien’s stomach cramped as he opened his mouth.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you’re not a liar. I saw you. From the window of my aunt’s house. You were being kinda careful about staying in the shadows.”

Lord God
, he prayed.
Oh Lord God
…

“He looked a lot like my father’s description of that guy the mayor
requested
to leave town. You know who I mean? The two
sans-papiers
?”

Julien closed his mouth.

“Where are they staying?”

He didn’t know. Thank God. “Henri,” said Julien, without
meaning
to, desperately, “have you told your father?”

“No,” said Henri. “Not yet.”

“Henri,” said Julien, his mouth dry, “please don’t tell your father.”

“Where are they staying?”

“Please.”

“This kind of thing is supposed to be taken care of the right way. There are camps—”

“Camps?” Julien was breathless, he could barely speak; in a
bitter
rush he imagined how Henri’s throat would feel between his hands. “They can’t go to a camp. The sister is sick—”

“What sister?” Henri frowned.

“One of them’s a girl.”

“A girl? Are you saying they lied to my father?”

“She was dressed as a boy, that’s all—”

“Don’t you realize you have no idea who they are?”

“Neither do you,” said Julien. “I—” Léon Barre stepped into the hall, and Julien snapped his mouth shut. Léon jogged past them toward the toilets, and Henri shot Julien a look of contempt.

“Look,” said Henri. “I’m not asking your advice; I’m asking you where they’re staying. If you’re not going to do the right thing—” He shrugged and looked away.

Julien’s knees were weak. He had to warn them— “Henri. Listen to me. The girl is very sick. If she gets sent to a camp, she’s going to die.”

“Let me make this as simple for you as I can, Julien,” said Henri. “I don’t believe it.” And he walked away. Julien watched him go, feeling sick to his stomach.

Henri disappeared out the door to the
préau
. Julien turned and ran.

“Henri knows about Gustav and Nina.”

Papa stared at him. “Does his father know?”

“Not yet. That’s what he said. ‘Not yet.’”

“Go, Julien. Take my umbrella. Go tell your mother, and then do whatever she says. I’ll tell your teachers she needed you home.”

“He’ll know why I left school.”

“What do you think he expects you to do? What difference do you think it’ll make? Julien, go.”

He pounded up the stairs and threw open the door. “Mama! They know about Gustav and Nina!” He stood, breathing hard, his wet shoes dripping on the floor.

“Who? Who knows?”

“Henri Bernard.”
Henri, that swine, that Vichy-loving
—

“He saw me and Gustav Wednesday night. He says they should be ‘taken care of’ and sent to a camp. I tried to tell him, Mama—he wouldn’t—”

Mama held onto the doorframe. Her face was pale. “Does he know where they are?”

“No. He tried to get me to tell him.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Julien. Here’s what you’re going to do. Go tell Sylvie Alexandre. Then do my shopping, and tell the grocer I’m not well. Which is true. Then go back to school and tell Roland Thibaud. Discreetly.” He was opening his mouth but she went on. “Where you are not going is anywhere near Gustav and Nina, not now during school hours when anyone who sees is bound to notice. You’ll go see your Grandpa after school and drop by the Rostins’ on the way home. With Benjamin along to
translate
. Whether he likes it or not.”

“He said he wanted to go with me. Next time I went.”

“Good,” said Mama. “Now go.”

Outside Gustav’s window, the moon was setting; pale shreds of cloud passed over it, driven by the wind. Benjamin was asleep in the next room, the room that belonged to André, the prisoner of war. Benjamin, who’d chosen to stay the night and skip school to be with him. Why didn’t these people tell him anything? A German Jew his own age with fluent Yiddish living with Julien, and they’d never told him. Even if Benjamin was in hiding too—but he wasn’t, he’d said.

Benjamin didn’t need to hide.

Gustav closed his eyes. He had failed her. He had been stupid, he had grown confident, he had spoken to Julien in the dark street; and now Nina would die. They would be taken to a camp, and separated, and there she would finish what she had started. She would die. It was his fault. If he hadn’t urged her to tell the truth—if he hadn’t insisted on calling her Nina every chance he got—they would at least be together in the camp. If he hadn’t spoken in the street. He imagined the stationmaster’s son, a peering face behind a thin curtain, and the taste of vomit rose in his mouth.

And he couldn’t even go to her.

But why? Why couldn’t he? They thought he should stay hidden here like a mouse in a hole—why? Because the authorities might only find one of them? If they took her, she would die. That was all that mattered. If they took her, let them take him too.

Nina. We came so far. Nina, you’ve got to hold on.
Was he praying? He didn’t even know. Could God really let it end like this? Was there a God?

He didn’t even know.

He paced and listened to Benjamin’s deep breathing and thought of the things Benjamin had said.
You can’t go. This is the worst time for you to go
. He didn’t care. Fräulein Pinatel would take him; he’d sleep on the bare kitchen floor, he’d clean the whole apartment every day, and she’d take him in because she knew it. Because she was a good woman. And at least they wouldn’t come and find Nina there alone—in her bed, asleep, her eyes opening to the sight of men in uniforms—

No.

And so he knew; there was one thing he knew.

At least they would find them together.

For what was left of the night, Gustav slept.

Benjamin translated. Everything Gustav had turned over in his mind, in the dark. Monsieur Rostin didn’t wait for him to finish. He held up a hand. “
Oui. Oui. Va voir Nina.
”

The Rostins went outside, left Gustav with Benjamin. They sat across the table from each other, Benjamin turning and turning his water glass, looking down. His parents used to live in Paris. He’d said that last night. Now Paris was taken. He didn’t know where they were.

“Benjamin,” said Gustav; Benjamin looked up quickly. “Will you—teach me a little French?”

They sat there all morning, heads bent together over three pages of paper, writing. Practicing.
My sister is very sick. My sister does not speak French. Please do not separate us
.

He could hardly keep his head upright. They ate lunch with the Rostins. Benjamin left. Madame Rostin ordered Gustav to bed, and he slept.

Julien woke Saturday morning, certain they had been taken away. They hadn’t.

But they would be.

It was torture. The waiting, the knowing, the going to school and pretending it was fine. The flag salute, even though he was
deliberately
late to avoid it. He’d almost liked it before, he realized:
standing
there with his friends ignoring, mocking it, being mad at it.

Now the thought of it made him physically sick.

He did not hear a word that any teacher said. He didn’t see Henri, either, because whenever the particular shade of blue that was Henri’s jacket came into the corner of his eye, he turned his whole head away.

Gilles came to him and asked him why he’d been late and informed him that there were only five flag saluters. “I guess we convinced some of ’em the other day. Don’t think it worked on Henri though. I don’t know what we expected, you wave a
newspaper
in that guy’s face and he’s not gonna go”—Gilles did a mock double take—“‘Oh my word, you’re
right!
’” He looked at Julien. Finally. “Hey Julien, you okay?”

“Fine,” said Julien.

At night, he lay staring into the dark, reliving the scene: him and Gustav on the dark street; Henri at some unseen window. He’d revise it, make them walk tall as if they had a right to be there, make Gustav shut up with his accent. Make it unhappen. Uselessly. Again and again.

He couldn’t pray. He tried.

They were not taken that day. But it didn’t mean anything. There was day after day after day. There was no knowing which would be the one.

It was night when Gustav woke. His mind was heavy, full of sleep. He crawled out of bed, dressed slowly by the moonlight through his window. Made a bundle of the blankets and sweaters Madame Rostin had given him. Winter was coming. He crept quietly through the house and out the door.

The moon was still high and almost full; the garden, the apple trees, the barn were laid out clear as day in the silver light. He couldn’t go yet. It was by moonlight that he’d been seen.

He went into the barn and looked up the hayloft ladder. From there, he’d see everything. The silvery hay field, the dark woods he would walk through soon. He set his bundle at the foot of the
ladder
and climbed up.

As he began to crawl into the hay, his hand touched something solid—it gave a loud grunt—he reared back and scuttled backward in the dark. “
Mais t’es qui, toi?
” said a voice, deep, sleepy, and angry. “
Mais va-t’en, merde, fous l’camp, c’est ma grange ici!
”

Gustav retreated farther, wishing he’d had Benjamin teach him threats and swearwords. Trying to remember his French. “Who—you?”

“
C’est chez moi, ici
,” said the shadow. “
T’es qui, toi?” Chez moi.
“My home!” The farm was his home? Was he nuts?

“I am Gustav,” he said calmly. “I work for Rostins. I sleep here.”

“
Pas possible
,” said the voice. He could make out his outline now—broad shoulders and a heavy face—he looked a little like—

“
Dis pas à mes parents, hein, sinon
…” That meant,
Don’t tell my parents
…

That
was who he looked like.

“They … they say you gone—”

“Well I’m not, am I?”

Gustav shook his head, trying to gather enough French to tell this guy to wise up. Living in the hayloft while a stranger slept in his bed. “Your parents are good,” he started.

“Oh, shut—” said Pierre, but Gustav cut across his words,
leaning
forward in the dark. “My parents are dead,” he said loudly and clearly. “I have no home. You have parents.” What was French for
stop being an ungrateful blockhead?
“I go away now, to the town. I am not in your bed now. Go. Go sleep in your bed.
Va chez toi.
”

“
Va t’faire
…” said Pierre, weakly.

“
Au revoir
,” said Gustav, and climbed down the ladder.

An hour later when the moon had set, he took up his bundle in the pitch black night and started down the little path into the woods, south toward the town, toward Nina, toward whatever would come.

Sunday morning after breakfast, Mama beckoned Julien into the kitchen to dry the dishes she was washing. She turned and looked at him intently, her hands in soapy water, and asked, “Julien, will you tell me what you know about Henri Bernard?”

Julien looked at the cup he was drying. “He’s a lot like his father.”

“How?”

“He’s arrogant. What he wants out of life is everybody obeying him. And he talks big about honor. Like Vichy. He’s into Vichy.”

Mama looked sober. “You’re sure about this?”