How Huge the Night (31 page)

“Yeah. I’ve seen him in action. A lot.” He could still see him
looking
at that newspaper, the look in his eyes for a moment—
he
knew
I was right
—then the narrow-eyed snarl … It wasn’t about truth. It was about winning. Always.

“Hm. That’s too bad,” said Mama. “I was starting to think— Julien, we’ve heard nothing from Monsieur Bernard, not a word. It’s not like him. Sylvie Alexandre expected him up at the
parsonage
yesterday demanding to know where they were. It’s almost as if he didn’t know.”

Julien stared at her.

“And I was wondering—the only explanation I can think of is if your friend Henri is having second thoughts. And hasn’t told him yet.”

Second thoughts—the king of France didn’t have second thoughts. Julien saw it again, that moment, that hesitation, that look in his eyes when they opened for a split second to the truth—and then his own voice, snarling
shame
. Shame.

“He’s not my friend.” His throat hurt. “And he doesn’t have
second
thoughts.”

“I wondered why he came to you about it before telling his father. He must have waited a whole day without telling his father, just so he could talk to—”

“He was giving me the chance to rat on them!” His heart was starting to race.

“Did he really think you would?”

“I don’t know.” There was broken glass in his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” His pulse pounded in his ears It was not
possible
. It was too late.

No one listens to his enemy.

Julien sat in church, not hearing what Pastor Alex said, aware of nothing but what he was not looking at: on the far side of the church, Henri and his father in their pew. Henri, who had not told his father for three whole days. Who was wondering what to do, wondering
what was right
. Was he really? Was it even possible? He had seen it—seen, for a moment, doubt in the ice blue eyes. And hadn’t even noticed the miracle.

And what had he expected, each with their guys lined up behind them, like—like one
warlord
against another?

He heard Gilles’s mocking voice:
Oh my word, you’re right.

He shut his eyes; there was darkness. And in the darkness there was God. He had been there all along. Lying in wait.

Julien shifted on his pew, wanting to stand, to run, to find a place where he could hide. There was no escape. From what he’d done.

It’s not about truth. It’s about winning. That’s true. About me.

He’d thought he was such a hero. Defender of the truth. He who’d asked God to teach him the weapons of love, so long ago by the Rostin’s fire—and who’d dropped it, like he’d dropped
carving
, and neither God nor Grandpa had ever said a word. Stupidity wasn’t enough. It wasn’t about stupidity at all.
We will resist with the weapons of the Spirit; without fear, without pride, and without hate.

He’d just liked his own weapons better. That’s all.

He turned his head and looked across the church at Henri. He’d picked him for his scapegoat. Acted like it was Henri who passed every vicious Vichy law, like it was Henri who tried to send Gustav and Nina away to die. And he had taken his revenge, oh, he’d
gotten
him good. He’d stolen his soccer games from under his nose, won over half his followers, laid siege to the palace, and claimed the throne. He was
winning
. Julien, the new king of France.

But God. Gustav and Nina. I thought I was defending them.

The organ began to play, deep echoing notes, but in Julien’s head there was silence. God did not answer. God didn’t need to.

You cannot attack with the weapons of love. You cannot defend with the weapons of hate
. What if he had done it right? What if he had done it like Jesus said, like God and Pierre had taught him in the white womb of the snowstorm: quietly, simply, with grace even for an enemy, even for a betrayer? What if he had pulled Henri quietly aside and spoken to him without pride and without hate; two boys in an empty hallway, speaking in low serious voices? The way Henri had spoken to
him
.

Oh, God.

He sat and looked across the church at his enemy, the brown hair and the thin face, his enemy singing
T
he darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide
. He sat and watched him, biting his lip until he tasted blood.

“Mama, I have to go do something. I—I might not be able to make it home for lunch. Mama”—he had never asked this before—“will you … will you pray for me?”

“Of course I will,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked away. He felt sick.

He left his parents and wove through the crowd at the church door. He had to talk to Henri. But he couldn’t do it yet; not without help. A hectic energy flowed through his body, almost equal to the weight that pressed on him: the knowledge of what he had to do, and that it would fail.

He would go first to Roland’s farm. If anyone could help, Roland could.

The sun was riding high and cold in the sky as he took the south road from the bridge; shreds of cloud were blowing swiftly across the hills. He pulled his jacket close around him, walking fast,
hoping
, afraid. The clouds had covered the sun by the time he reached Roland’s farm.

Roland was not there.

Julien shivered in the wind. He was going to face Henri alone, not knowing what to say. Knowing what Henri would say back. Could he stand there and take Henri’s scorn and give back simple truth—and after weeks of hating, not hate?
Oh God, send somebody else.
But there was nobody.
Almost
nobody—

He stopped at Gilles’s house. Gilles wasn’t there.

It just had to be done, and done now. He walked quickly through the
place du centre
and took the uphill street, thinking of what to say to Henri. Protestants. Talk about Protestants.

He passed the crest of the hill, not seeing the hills and the woods bright with autumn against the blue sky; only the apple orchard, down there, and the black stone house. The wrought iron gate was shut. The house had a look of silence. Only the wind in the apple trees moving, and a solitary chicken scratching in the dirt. His heart sank.

“Hello?” he called, but his voice died away in the stillness. “Hello!
Hello!
Is anyone there? Henri!” Frail echoes shivered back from the surrounding hills, and died. The gate was locked with a chain and padlock. He took hold of it and shook, hard; then stopped and looked quickly around. But there was no one. Just the blank blue sky looking down on him, and the cold wind.

He could almost hear God laughing.

He stood, looking back up the hill toward home. Tears stung behind his eyes. He crouched down on the road, shivering, and the wind whipped the dead leaves past him. He watched them skitter away down the road north to Grandpa’s.

After a minute, he stood and followed them.

Grandpa’s kitchen was warm, the woodstove glowing. Grandpa
welcomed
Julien with a
bise
on both cheeks and sat him down at the table. Julien was shaking. “Are you all right, Julien?”

He shook his head.

Grandpa put the kettle on the woodstove and sat down. He gave Julien that look, that quiet, open face that meant Julien could talk, there was no hurry, he was listening. He would hear and would not judge.

But this
deserved
judging.

“Grandpa. I’ve done something very bad.”

Grandpa listened.

“I … I … Henri … Grandpa, I hate him. I really do. Him and his father.”

“I don’t think that’s too surprising,” said Grandpa quietly.

“But he hasn’t told his father yet. And it’s been three days. Mama thinks he could be having second thoughts. And I’m just about the only one who could go talk to him—try to make him understand the truth about them—but he won’t listen to me.” His fingers dug into his palms. “He knows I hate him, and he hates me too. I’ve given him lots of reasons to. Good ones.”

He risked a look into Grandpa’s eyes. They were sober.

“I took over his soccer games that he used to lead. I’ve practically taken over the class. I mean I am
it
at school right now,” he said bitterly. “I’m the latest thing. And then last week, I put him down in front of everybody—his friends, my friends—I almost got him to punch me. He’s always the one standing there cool as a cat while you get madder and madder and you look dumb, and I beat him at his own game. Except”—he looked Grandpa in the eye—“it was the wrong game.”

Grandpa nodded.

“Do you see? Do you see where this is going? If I hadn’t been a hateful, arrogant …
fool
, Gustav and Nina could be safe right now. If they arrest her and she dies in some camp, it’s my fault.”

Grandpa’s eyebrows rose very high. He sat back. “Julien,” he
murmured
, “do you really believe that?”

“Don’t you?”

Grandpa looked at him for a long moment, then away. “It’s impossible to know what would have happened, Julien. There are others whose responsibility is far greater than yours.”

They sat not looking at each other for a moment. The kettle began to whistle in the silence.

“Julien, have you talked to God about this?”

He shook his head mutely.

“It might help.”

He stared at the table. The kettle began to scream.

“Julien. I want to tell you a story.” Grandpa jerked the kettle off the stove and sat back down. “I was in Le Puy, serving my
apprenticeship
. Or trying to. The son of the people I lived with was my age, and he was a mocker. My clothes, my shoes, the way I talked, everything was ridiculous. I wanted to hide.” Grandpa looked away, and swallowed. “He … he had a fiancée. She and I talked
sometimes
. I thought he didn’t deserve her. I hated him so much, Julien. I … told her something about him. Part of it was true. Part was a lie. She left him.”

Julien looked up. Grandpa was looking out the window. He could see the lines etched deep in his face.

“And I went home to my beautiful Régine. Your grandmother. And I had no idea what I’d done until I took her in my arms and felt what it would be to lose her.” Grandpa turned and looked him in the eye. “Julien, I did a terrible thing.”

Julien swallowed. Outside the window, the trees were swaying in the wind.

“Sin is for real, Julien. In you, in me, in Victor Bernard. We are bad people.” Grandpa was looking at him, his eyes deep with
sorrow
. Julien watched the wind whip the trees.

“Tell me what you believe about Jesus, Julien. What he did.”

“He …” His voice was a whisper. “He died for our sins.”

“Do you believe that?”

Did he?
Jesus died. Jesus died for what I’ve done.

“It’s true.”

It’s true.

“He meant to, Julien. Nobody made him do it. He did it for what he wanted the most—for you and me to be able to come to him. After what we’ve done. It was worth that to him. That’s what he wants. Us. To welcome us back.”

Behind his eyes, it felt strangely open, as if tears were ready to come; but they did not. “Grandpa,” he said quickly. “Grandpa, the Gautier place was my fault too. When the school lost the rental because Monsieur Bernard made this big deal about Benjamin being German?
I
started that. I told Henri. To make him
understand
the difference between me and Benjamin. He probably went straight home and told his father.”

Grandpa looked at him, eyes bright in the weathered face. “Julien,” he said, “he forgives you that too.”

Outside the window, the trees danced, the wild wind filled the sky with its fierce joy, and they bent and bowed to it, green and supple and free. The knot in his chest was loosening. Desire surged up in him like a sudden spring: he wanted to jump up and dash out into that wind. He almost laughed.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah. I know.”

The sun was making great ribbons of scarlet and flaming pink in the west, fading at the edges into cool rose and gray. Julien had eaten: potatoes and cheese, bread and honey and apples, more food than he had had in a month. It felt wonderful. Never try to do a brave deed on an empty stomach, Grandpa had told him; not unless you have to. And he should try to get some sleep too, before he did what he had to do.

What he had to do.

“Julien, it’s very, very difficult. To love your enemy.”

Julien nodded.

“I think the only reason Jesus asks it is that he loves your enemy too.”

Julien looked up.

“Do you see, Julien? He has welcomed you back today. He wants desperately to welcome back Victor Bernard and his son.”

Julien sat very straight and looked out the window. Wild red glory hung above the western hills, and the sky was blue and deep above it, and huge. So huge. God probably loved Hitler too. How could God do it and not be torn apart?

Maybe he was.

“I’m going to apologize to Henri.”

Grandpa nodded. “That’s good.”

“What … else should I do, Grandpa? I’m not good at this. I’m
terrible
at this.”

“That’s good, Julien.” Julien gave him a look. “No, I mean that. If you thought you were good at this, I’d be worried. I’ll tell you what you can do. First, pray for him.”

“Pray what?” He’d screwed that one up already with Pierre.

“That God’s will be done in him. That’s something you can pray without pretending you know what to do about someone else’s life. And pray that God will show you what good there is in him. Because it’s there, and that good will help you, Julien. That good may save us all.”

Julien swallowed.

“And one other thing, Julien. Believe he can change.”

Julien said nothing. He looked out at the darkening blue sky.

“You are not God. You cannot change him, and you are not responsible for what you cannot do. Do these things, Julien, and leave him in God’s hands. Apologize, know he can change, and tell him the truth as if he wants to know. And then trust God. Because God loves him, and God loves you.”