Part 19 (1/2)

Julien shrugged. Does he know about it? What a stupid question. But-honor and glory-fundamental values-foreign influences, corrupting foreign influences, purging foreigners out of the new Vichy government, was that what ”fundamental values” meant? Being French? French by blood?

The marshal, the beloved, heroic marshal, who sounded so n.o.ble on the radio, who wanted to give France a new birth of honor and virtue-he thought he could do it by throwing Benjamin out? Julien felt the bile rise in his throat.

”It's like your Grandpa said,” said Papa. ”Now we know.”

Above the place du centre, the swallows flew, crying, turning against the red sky. Julien watched them and felt a deep, sweet sadness rise in him. It had been a good summer. In spite of everything. He was still full-both heart and stomach full-from the meal they had just had with Roland's family. One of those meals where awkward conversation slowly gives way to loud talk and laughter, and by the end of the night, everyone is in a warm bubble together, the world outside forgotten for the circle of faces and the light in them. He'd never seen Benjamin so happy. They'd asked him so many questions. Julien had learned what the words meant that Benjamin had whispered on the night he ran away. Ribbono Shel Olom: Master of the Universe. G.o.d.

There were guys around the Tabac-Presse. Julien headed for them.

And saw too late who they were.

Henri, Lucien, and Gaston. ”That's why I put the sign up at the mairie,” Gaston was saying. ”The papers won't report it! The Jews own them all! The marshal can change the law, but someone's gotta ...”

Julien turned, walked casually across the place toward the mairie. A notice board stood there, gla.s.sed-in and locked. A paper was taped outside the gla.s.s.

Marchandeau Law Repealed. A law against racist and anti-Semitic speech in newspapers or on the radio. Repealed. By the beloved marshal, naturally.

He began to pick at the tape.

He heard them behind him, but he did not turn. He had one corner of the tape off when Henri spoke.

”h.e.l.lo.”

Julien turned. Henri was alone.

”Censors.h.i.+p?”

”This is an illegal notice.”

”Because there's a law against the truth?”

Julien looked Henri in the eye, took the corner of the notice, and pulled. It came off, and he held it up by its corner like the dirty rag it was.

”I'm proud of you, Julien. Striking a blow for liberty and justice. And free speech and truth.”

Julien almost couldn't speak. ”You think truth is what's gonna come of this?”

”Listen and see. The marshal just might know something you didn't know. How many Jews own radio stations in this country? Don't know? Hm. And you'd like for n.o.body to be allowed to tell you, right? How many Jews are Communists? How many of the Jews in this country are from Germany? Oh wait,” said Henri with a little smile. ”Maybe you know that one.”

Julien opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He was dizzy with rage.

”You don't want that thing, right?” Henri said, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper out of his hand. He turned toward his friends across the square and saluted; and Julien forgot the paper. Forgot everything.

It was a stiff-armed salute, hand pointing up into the evening sky. He'd seen it before in newsreels. They used it in Germany.

When they saluted Hitler.

His rage dropped away, fathoms and fathoms down, into the void of pure shock.

”Henri,” he said, almost breathless. ”Do you know what that salute means?” He couldn't know. Even Henri-especially Henri- ”It's the new salute of the National Revolution. It symbolizes strength and pride in our nation,” said Henri with calm pride.

”No it doesn't!” Julien half roared, his voice cracking. Henri stared at him. ”It's the salute they do in Germany! The n.a.z.i salute! Don't you understand, Henri?” He had to catch his breath. ”It's Petain, he's giving them what they want, they want to turn us into n.a.z.is! French n.a.z.is!” His eyes stung. The swallows wheeled and cried above them in the darkening sky.

Henri's little smile was back. ”Julien, Julien. Maybe you should go home and lie down. You've had a hard day. If we use the other salute, does it make us Brits? Or Americans? The Germans have one thing right, and that's pride. We could use some too. That's why we're supposed to salute the flag every morning at school now. Marshal's orders. And”-he snapped out the salute again-”That's how we're supposed to do it.”

Henri turned on his heel and walked away. ”And Julien,” he added over his shoulder, his voice growing colder, ”when you're in my presence, could you please refrain from calling the marshal a n.a.z.i?”

School would start in the morning, but Julien hardly slept at all.

Chapter 30.

Help Gustav stood on the main street of Lyon, between expensive shops and restaurants, looking around at the people: men in suits, women in beautiful dresses. The people who still ate.

He didn't want to do this. But he was so hungry. And Niko, every day by the cathedral, pleading with strangers-in three days getting maybe enough for a loaf of bread. Her collarbones stood out; there were hollows in her cheeks.

It scared him.

They had fallen to searching garbage cans, eating moldy bread, cracking bones for the marrow. Lying in wait on market day to find the smashed tomatoes and broken carrots when the merchants packed up their stalls. But even there, others were before them. Yesterday he had fought a man over half a cabbage. His ribs were bruised. He had come home empty-handed.

So he had to do this.

Lorenzo said purses were the easiest. Then wallets in back pockets. I know you're not the type, kid, but if it comes to life or death, I want you to live, okay? I want you to do what you gotta do. You got a brother to take care of, don't forget that.

He watched the people go past. They watched him. Women in fur coats, clutching them closed. Men's eyes darting round, back pockets empty. He watched for an hour and saw not a single chance. He dared not try for an inside pocket. He'd be arrested. Nina would die.

Even today he could bring her nothing.

”I saved you this, Gustav-a nun gave it to me. I ate half-and this man gave me fifty centimes, with another fifty we'll have enough for-”

”You eat it.”

”Gustav. It's for you.”

The woman came out of nowhere, before he could move, screaming. Her face distorted by rage. She grabbed Niko's crutch, and Niko fell. The woman swung wildly, caught Niko a hard crack on the ribs that made her cry out-Gustav grabbed for the crutch, grappled with her, but his grip broke, and she swung again, and sharp pain hit the side of his head. He heard his own wild voice yelling curses in Yiddish as he plunged toward her, and then someone grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms, and a male voice was shouting in French, and a big, bearded man had the wild-haired woman by the shoulders and was shouting in her face. Gustav went limp, and the arms released him. He fell to his knees beside Niko. She was moaning in pain. Gustav felt her ribs, gingerly. She cried out.

”Is he all right?” said a voice. Gustav looked up sharply. It was the bearded man.

He had spoken in German.

His name was Herr Buhle. A refugee from Alsace, near the German border. He carried Niko in his arms to the train station, where he and his wife lived until tomorrow. Tomorrow they were leaving for Valence, they'd bought the tickets with the last of their money, but his wife was a nurse, he said, and could at least examine the boy-he was sorry he could offer so little help- ”It's all right,” Gustav whispered.

The woman had thought they were German, Herr Buhle said. She'd heard their Yiddish and taken it for German-hardly more than a month ago the Germans had been here in Lyon, the swastika flying over the city, and they'd left so much anger behind. ”Please believe that this is not normal here. I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am.”

Gustav nodded. They were entering the station. Herr Buhle led the way to a dimly lit hallway by the bathrooms, where a tired-faced woman sat on a blanket.