Part 21 (1/2)

”Gustav.”

”So help me I will.”

He wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't. He was beginning to cry. His eyes red, his mouth open, twisted, a wail without sound. She was doing this to him. But she couldn't. She couldn't. To turn around like that in an instant-and live ...

”Gustav, just give me time. I need ... a little time. I need to sleep ...”

His red eyes held her, hard. He was afraid she would die in the night. She slid down against the wall to the ground and lay on the blanket, exhausted. The room was getting dark. The last thing she saw was the peach. He had put it by her head.

The smell of it woke her in the night.

She opened her eyes, and it was there, filling her vision: one perfect peach, its deep red blush glowing like a jewel against the grimy floor beyond. It smelled like life. Her stomach cramped with a hunger she had forgotten.

Beyond the peach lay Gustav's sleeping face, his mouth open, slack with weariness. He was tired too. And here she was asking him to go on alone.

She'd just take a little bite.

Sweet. So sweet. She had forgotten, she had never known, that such sweetness existed; sweet as sunlight on gra.s.s, as a morning when you wake into the light knowing all is well. Sweet as everything she had lost.

She licked her fingers. Took another bite. Another. Her teeth met in the tender flesh, the richness of life in her mouth. She swallowed, and tears sprang to her eyes.

Words rose in her mind, words she had heard Uncle Yakov say at Shabbat dinners with the family: Blessed art thou, O G.o.d, who brings forth bread from the earth. And peaches, O G.o.d. Blessed art thou, O G.o.d, who brings forth peaches from the earth, who lets us lick the juice of life from our fingers in the hour before we die.

Chapter 33.

The Train Man Julien stood between the post office and station house, listening to the long whistle of la Galoche drawing closer, to the hiss and ring of her wheels on the track. Reading the postcard Mama had sent him to get. Preprinted: a s.p.a.ce for a name and then ”in good health/tired/slightly, seriously ill/wounded/killed.” And other options farther down. People were supposed to cross out the ones that weren't true.

It was the only mail allowed across the line.

Mama had sent one to Uncle Giovanni and Aunt Nadine a month ago. They hadn't written back yet.

Today he would lead his first soccer game. He had fourteen guys-seven-man teams, and now Luc was in too. At this rate, he'd have full teams by next week. Henri Quatre didn't even know. Too busy with his fascism. Julien felt the bulge of his soccer ball in his cartable and watched la Galoche pull in, bright steam rising from her in the sunny air. He watched the back of the train where the mailbags rode, imagined a postcard lying face down in the bottom of a bag, with in good health circled after all in Uncle Gino's messy scrawl. Or with other things circled. He put his hands in his pockets, watched Monsieur Bernard walk with his clipboard to the back of the train.

From the pa.s.senger car, a boy came down, neat dark hair and a suitcase, maybe fourteen. Julien glanced at him as he turned back to help a friend down out of the train.

Then he stared.

The boy's hair was a greasy mat on his head, his clothes stiff and s.h.i.+ny with old sweat. The crutches he rested on were encrusted with grime; the hands and wrists gripping them were sticks. You could see the shape of his skull through the face.

I thought I knew about hunger.

Julien watched, motionless, as a third boy descended, thin and tough and unbelievably dirty, quick black eyes darting around the moment he hit the pavement, like a wary animal's.

He looked at them and knew: n.o.body was meeting them. Even the one with the suitcase; there was fear in his eyes too.

They were helping the crippled one sit down on a crate, his crutches leaning against it; he sat and did not move. The other two began to walk toward the station house.

Monsieur Bernard stepped up to them. Julien froze.

He listened, not breathing, as the well-dressed boy spoke first.

”Sorry to bother you, monsieur. Could you direct us to the Ecole du Vivarais?”

Bernard's back was to Julien, but his voice sounded courteous. ”The new school? Oh, it's just about everywhere. Up the hill, down the hill ... are you enrolling?”

”Yes.”

”And,” said Bernard in a bland tone, ”your friends?”

The boy hesitated.

”Or maybe they're your brothers?”

”Friends,” the boy said firmly.

”How long have you known them?”

He hesitated again, looking away from Bernard. The black-eyed boy said something to him in a language that sounded strangely familiar. The other looked at Bernard again. ”Can you tell us the way to the school?”

”I can tell you the way to the school,” said Bernard quietly. ”But I have a question for your friend.” He turned to the black-eyed boy and said loudly, ”Are you enrolling in the Ecole du Vivarais?” The boy stared at him.

”He doesn't speak French, monsieur.”

”So it seems rather unlikely the answer is yes, doesn't it? I'd like you to translate something for him.” Julien looked at him, at the straight back in the blue uniform, and his hand went up to his mouth as Bernard continued. ”Tell him that if he heard this village takes in anybody who shows up on the doorstep, he heard wrong. Je regrette, but I'm telling you the truth. We are not rich. He'll find people are not willing to give to beggars here like they are in the city. He's made a mistake. But tell him this.” Julien bit down on his forefinger. ”Tell him I'm willing to help him correct it. They can both have a free ticket back to where they came from, on me.”

As the French boy translated, Julien watched the listener, saw his black eyes begin to burn. He snapped out something guttural to his friend, and the friend turned to Bernard and said in a firm, polite voice that didn't give an inch-to Bernard, from someone Magali's age-”Could you please tell me the way to the school?”

Julien watched, not moving a muscle, as the two looked Bernard in the eye-and in the black eyes hatred burned-and Bernard told them the way to Pastor Alex's house. He watched as the two boys walked back to their crippled friend. He watched as Bernard turned and walked into the station house, and picked up the phone.

Julien stood for a moment, feeling the bulge of the soccer ball in his cartable; thinking of the game. Then he stepped out from the shadow of the station house, into the sun.

”What did he say?” whispered Niko. She was light-headed. She could hardly stand.

”Gave us directions to the pastor's house.”

”Should-should we go ... find ourselves a place now?”

”What place?” asked Samuel frowning.

”Well,” said Niko, ”we usually ... usually ...”

”We usually look for an abandoned house or something like that,” said Gustav. There seemed to be something wrong with his face. She was so tired.

”No!” said Samuel. ”You're coming with me.”

”Bonjour,” said a voice from behind them. Niko turned. A boy her age with messy brown hair and worried eyes. Speaking a stream of French to Samuel-beckoning to her and Gustav-giving the station-house window quick, sidelong glances.