Part 8 (1/2)
Julien turned on him. ”You liar,” he said. ”You've had it in for us since the day we got here, you and Henri. You think I don't know who stole Benjamin's book?”
”Slow down,” Monsieur Astier's deep voice cut in. ”First,” he glared at them, ”do not start this fight again in my office if you know what's good for you. And second, if there has been a theft at my school, I'd like to know why I wasn't informed.” He turned a sharp eye on Julien, who swallowed.
”It was returned, monsieur. Someone left it on his desk.”
Astier nodded heavily. ”And are you certain that Monsieur Rostin here stole it?”
Julien hesitated. ”No,” he said finally, and hung his head. ”I didn't see.”
Astier sighed. ”Well.” He gave them a hard stare. ”I'm going to have to find a detention room for each of you for the rest of the school day. During which time, I want each of you to do some thinking.”
He turned first to Julien. ”Monsieur Losier, you will think on this. You have attributed to Monsieur Rostin a cowardly and premeditated cruelty which I personally doubt his capacity for.” Pierre looked up. ”Though today's callous stupidity, I don't find surprising at all,” Astier added drily. ”You have also for some reason decided without direct evidence that he is a thief. Think about how you would feel were such a.s.sumptions made about you.
”And Monsieur Rostin.” He turned to Pierre, who shrank back a little at the stony gaze. ”Here is what I want you to consider.” His voice grew even heavier.
”At our school, we do not tolerate insults that relate to a person's race or nationality.” His eyes flashed. ”Not even if that person's nation is at war with us. I am going to notify the teachers to be on their guard, and if I ever hear of such a word applied to young Monsieur Keller or anyone else-” He broke off, taking a deep angry breath. ”If I hear of any student being treated differently from others on the basis of race, nationality, or religion, in any way, believe me: the offender will be punished.”
He puffed out the rest of his breath and looked at the thoroughly cowed Pierre. ”I am sorry,” he said. ”That is not exactly what I want you to meditate on. You were in church last Sunday. If you were listening, you may recall that G.o.d instructed the Israelites settling into the Promised Land to be kind to the foreigners among them, remembering that they, too, were once strangers in a strange land. You will think,” he said, ”about the meaning of that command.”
Julien sat at a dusty desk in the storage room Astier had stuck him in, a cluttered place with one pane of window golden from the high sun. There was blood on his knuckles, and he didn't know whose; his eye hurt, his head hurt with the pressure of trying not to weep. What else could I have done? The tears grew in his eyes and escaped. He laid his head down.
He cried a long time, silently; then lay, not moving, his cheek on his wet sweater sleeve. Feeling empty. Washed. The window was bright above him. It was still there when he closed his eyes, a shadow of light.
He woke when the bell rang for break. The sun was lower and streaming in, turning the dusty air golden, full of drifting motes. He watched them, their slow unhurried play.
”G.o.d,” Julien whispered.
G.o.d, why did he keep s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up?
It wasn't right; it wasn't fair; it was so confusing. The way you could mess up everything with a word, without meaning to, one little word, and when you tried to fix it, that was wrong too. And the way you thought it was turned out not to be the way it was at all. His face ... how was he supposed to know, he didn't know, G.o.d. They broke his uncle's hands. Did they really? In the twentieth century? ”I didn't know, G.o.d, I swear. I didn't know boche would make him look like that. Oh, G.o.d. I'm ... sorry ...”
”That's the one thing Alex doesn't understand, really,” Papa had said. ”Stupidity.”
Oh G.o.d. Do you understand stupidity?
He really hadn't known, but did that make it any better? Had Pierre known? Oh G.o.d, forgive me. Please.
Forgive me.
He sat with his head in his hands. The dust drifted in the light, dancing in slow patterns, unknown and unknowable, golden and silent as G.o.d. He watched it dance, sitting motionless; he watched, and thought nothing as the bar of sunlight narrowed and bent toward him, infinitely slow, in the gathering of the early winter night.
When the bell rang, he did not move. He was so tired. His mind was so ... still. He hardly lifted his head at the sound of the door opening.
”Hey.” It was Pierre's voice.
Julien looked up.
”You okay?”
He started to nod, but it hurt. ”Yeah.” The crack in Pierre's swollen lip was reddish brown with dried blood.
”You were pretty good,” Pierre said. ”For a Parisian.”
Julien let out a laugh. That hurt too. ”So were you.” There was a pause. ”How bad do I look?”
Pierre grinned. ”Awful. That's the biggest s.h.i.+ner I've ever seen.”
”Great.”
”Hey, uh ...” Pierre looked out the window. ”Thanks for not saying I stole that book.”
”Sure. I mean it was true. I didn't see who did it.”
Pierre huffed. ”Not me. I was playing with the coat, remember?”
”Yeah. I remember.”
”Hm. Well.” Pierre looked away, then at him again. ”Hey,” he said. ”I really wasn't aiming for him, okay?” He was looking straight at Julien, his light green eyes serious. Julien had never seen that look on him. After a moment, Julien nodded and held out his hand.
They shook. Julien stood. ”Something I should tell you, though.” How should he put it? Some way that would make Benjamin look good. ”I think it would be good not to call Benjamin a German.” Pierre was giving him a puzzled frown. ”It's not about being called boche, it's-he hates Germany. They did some really awful things to his family. Because they're Jewish. I didn't know that ... before.”
”Oh,” said Pierre.
Benjamin was waiting for him on the bridge. ”How's your eye?”
”I guess I'll have to put something on it.” It hurt bad. Benjamin was giving him a rueful smile; last time he'd seen him, he suddenly remembered, he'd been blinking compulsively in pain. ”How're your eyes?”
”They're all right. They felt better after five minutes,” Benjamin said. ”That was weird. I just couldn't stop blinking. I knew you guys were fighting, but I couldn't even see what was going on.” He paused for a moment. ”Uh-who won?”
Julien snorted. ”I have no idea,” he said.
As they climbed the steps they heard voices upstairs. Julien thought nothing of it. Not till he'd stepped full in the door did he realize.
The entire sewing circle was in the living room. Including Madame Rostin.
He made to close the door again, quickly, and slip on up the stairwell. Mama had seen him.
”Boys, your gouter is in-mamma mia, Julien! What happened to your eye?”
”I'm fine-” Julien started, but at the same moment Benjamin said, ”Pierre-”
Julien motioned wildly at him; too late. Madame Rostin was rising from her seat, all the ominous gray-clad bulk of her, looking like she was about to blacken his other eye.
”Did my Pierre,” she said slowly and savagely, ”do that to you?”
”Um. Ye-e-es ...”
”That. Boy.” She s.n.a.t.c.hed her coat from her chair back and slung it over her arm. ”He will regret this.”
”But ... but ...” Julien stammered as she pushed past him. ”It wasn't like that. It was a misunderstanding-he didn't even start it! I hit him too! Hard!”