Part 13 (1/2)
Benjamin sat through supper, looking at his plate. Not even pretending to eat. When Mama stood to clear the table, he looked up and spoke.
”I can't wait till Sat.u.r.day. I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow. Can I leave my books and winter clothes here?”
For a moment no one moved. Then Mama put down her plate and said flatly, ”No. You cannot go to Paris. The Germans could be there before you.”
”I know,” said Benjamin in a low voice, ”but I've got to try.”
”I guess you've been thinking about this for a while,” said Papa carefully. ”Tell me how you're going to do this.”
”Catch the morning train to Saint-Etienne. Find out what's running north.”
”How do you know there's anything running north?” Papa asked.
”They haven't shut down all the trains!”
”You don't know that any more than I do.” Papa's voice was firmer now. ”There may be a few running-troop transports. You might get as far as Lyon. Maybe even Dijon. After that ...”
”I've got to try,” said Benjamin, looking at the wall behind Papa.
”And when the trains won't take you any farther, then walk? The Germans are bound to beat you there at that rate. And when you get there?”
Julien held his breath. Papa was looking Benjamin straight in the eye.
Finally Benjamin dropped his head. ”I don't know, sir. But I've got to try. Don't I have to try?” He looked up, as if pleading for Papa to agree.
”What would your parents tell you to do?” Papa asked.
”Stay.” Benjamin's voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper.
”Then stay,” said Papa. ”Try to think. What happens if they've already left Paris? What happens when they send word for you to join them somewhere else, and I have to say, 'He left for Paris'? How could I face your father if I let that happen?”
Benjamin stared at his plate. Picked up his fork, put it down again. He looked up at Mama. ”May I be excused? I'm sorry-it's good-I'm just not hungry.”
”Of course,” said Mama, giving Benjamin a long look.
”Wait.” Papa laid his hand on Benjamin's arm. ”I want to hear you say you're not leaving tomorrow.”
”I'm not leaving tomorrow,” Benjamin said in a low voice.
Julien saw Papa's hand tighten on Benjamin's arm. ”Believe me. It's the best thing you could do for them.”
”Right,” said Benjamin, and got to his feet.
When he was gone, Papa sat back, shaking his head, and murmured, ”Lord preserve us.” His hands on the table in front of him were clenched, one inside the other. ”Did you-have any idea about this, Julien?”
”He hasn't said two words to me all week,” Julien said, suddenly beginning to breathe again.
”Look out for him, Julien. Please. If you can.” Papa pressed his hands against his eyes. Julien s.h.i.+vered, although it was not cold.
In the morning when Mama sent Julien down for the bread, the door of the little boulangerie was locked. A handwritten sign on the door said, No Flour, and underneath that, s.h.i.+pment Delayed, and underneath that, each word underlined by a forceful hand, That's All We Know. Julien couldn't help but smile.
But when he looked again, the smile dropped. Through the window, he could see the bread racks, tall metal baskets with open fronts that covered the whole back wall of the boulangerie. Every morning, those racks were filled with loaves, bushels of tall brown and golden loaves stacked upright and leaning, a whole golden wall of bread. But not today.
Today that wall was completely bare. The racks hung like empty cages, and the chipped white paint behind showed through. He had never seen them empty. They looked so strange.
Chapter 20.
Wrong Gustav looked around the convent courtyard. Chimney smoke rose in the morning air; sheets billowed on the clotheslines in the warm spring wind, s.h.i.+ning pure white against the sky. Workmen repairing the courtyard wall joked with the nuns as they pa.s.sed by.
Maybe his luck was changing.
He had been scared, these last two weeks. Turned away from one farm, then another. After a day without food, he'd stolen three eggs from a henhouse and almost been caught by the most savage farm dog he'd ever seen. Then it started raining. He'd found Niko a goat shed outside Menaggio; but he could find no work.
He'd been begging in front of the church when the nun had found him. Sister Theresa. She'd promised a hot meal at the least for him and his brother, and maybe she could talk to the Mother Superior and see about more.
A convent. Niko was smiling. It was beautiful to see.
Sister Theresa vanished into the broad stone building. Another nun lugged a bucket of water across the yard; a second brought out a chair and beckoned Gustav to sit down.
”I cut your hair,” she told him. ”Mother Superior doesn't want pidocchi.” She scratched her head, and he laughed.
”But signorina, I will miss them. The pidocchi and I, we have been friends for so long!”
She laughed, throwing her head back. She pulled off his s.h.i.+rt and began to cut; the scissors were cold against his head. Niko sat on the bench, gazing at the blossoming trees. Gustav's bare head was wiped with a rag that smelled of turpentine, and stung. This Mother Superior knew what she didn't want, all right.
The other nun took Gustav's hand and led him to a shed with a tub of water in it, soap, and clean folded clothes. He went in and shut the door and began to undress.
He was just putting his foot in the water when he heard the scream.
He lunged for the door, fell back, and jerked his pants on, grabbed the handle, and bashed his head against the door. He turned the handle one way, the other way, jerking the door back and forward- it was locked. Locked! He pounded on it, yelling, but there were so many voices crying outside-a flurry of shouts, Nina's voice rising in shrill, panicked Yiddish-”Get your hands off me, get your hands off me, no!” Oh no, Nina.
They took off her s.h.i.+rt.
He was screaming, pounding on the door, but no one heard him. I didn't think-why didn't I think-they took off her s.h.i.+rt, in front of the men-he could hear through his cries a loud voice shouting orders, and Nina's high-pitched sobs. He pounded till the door shook on its hinges. But no one came.
Outside, the shouting died into silence.
Niko lay in the dark, weeping.
She had thrown herself at the door and shaken it, but it hadn't budged. She had beaten on the shutters, run her fingers over the walls for a light switch, but there was none; she had found the bowl of soup on the desk and thrown it against the wall. She had slumped on the floor, wanting to scream, wanting to rip her fingernails into that woman's face. They had tied her up, tied her to a chair and shaved her head, they had locked her in the dark, and all without a word to her, like an animal, like a-she knew, she knew what they thought- Crazy.
Crazy, said Uncle Yakov. Nina, your father has never been the most sensible of men, and I think you know that; but now he is very, very sick. He's not thinking right.
She screamed.