The pangs of hunger began to gnaw at the smallcaps belly of Paris. November passed and milk ran out. The massive herds of sheep and cattle that once filled the Bois de Boulogne and the Champs-Élysées were depleted. Private livestock was confiscated. Donkeys and mules disappeared. The dog population began to shrink, while cat carcasses were decorated with colored paper and hung in butcher shop windows above signs that proclaimed the delicate pleasures of the “gutter rabbits” for sale inside. Butter and cheese were only fond memories. For one franc a day men ventured into the neutral zone between French and Prussian lines, ducking bullets as they pulled roots and vegetables and stuffed them into sacks before scurrying back to safety. Goldfish in the ponds of the Luxembourg Gardens were caught and eaten. Women waited all night in food lines that stretched for blocks. Only wine was plentiful and still cheap, so that except for the well-to-do most of the city went to bed drunk and hungry.
On one of their Sunday morning explorations Paul and Moussa saw a crowd gathered around a vendor’s stall in the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville. The vendor had a patch over one eye and wore a seedy jacket. Before him were piled stacks of wooden cages full of red-eyed rats whirling madly around inside, desperate to escape, nipping at each other and working on the wood of the cages with long sharp teeth. The rats were fat and brown with pink ears and feet and tails. A bulldog lay on the sidewalk next to the cages, occasionally opening an eye to inspect the rats or the gawkers, but otherwise rock-still.
“What do you do with the rats?” Moussa asked.
“Eat them,” grumped the vendor.
“Why would you do that?” Paul asked in wonder.
“Because you are hungry, naturellement.” The man shrugged.
Moussa couldn’t imagine it. “How could you ever get that hungry?”
The vendor looked at the boys with their fine clothing and full faces. He was tempted to shoo them away, but they were just stupid children and meant no harm. He spat in the gutter. “By being born in this hellhole of a world,” he said. As he spoke a woman approached the stand. She was frail and gray. Two small children clung to her skirts. For a few moments she regarded the occupants of the cages. The rats quarreled and stared and turned in circles. She shivered and drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, unable to make up her mind. For a moment her resolve deserted her and she began to leave. She had gone only a few steps when she hesitated and then returned, a look of despair on her tortured face. At length she raised a bony hand and pointed. The man used a stick to goad her purchase through a little gate into a smaller cage. The bulldog stirred itself from its languor and sat up attentively, waiting to do its duty. The vendor opened one end of the little cage and tilted it at an angle toward the waiting dog. The rat turned and tried to run, but it was a poor uphill climber. The vendor shook the little cage, the rat slipping and clawing and scratching, and finally it fell out the end to the waiting animal, who caught it in powerful jaws before it hit the ground. With a quick motion the dog tossed it in the air and caught it by the head. The dog shook it once. The rat went suddenly limp, neck broken, body dangling from the dog’s mouth. Dutifully the dog dropped it at the feet of the vendor, and promptly plopped down again, bored. The boys watched in awe. They’d never seen a smarter dog. The vendor bent over and deftly picked the rat up by the tail, wrapped it in a piece of newspaper, and passed it to the woman. She paid him two francs and left. Paul was shocked.
“You mean people pay to eat them?”
The vendor smirked at his ignorance. “Oui, little master, as I will pay you. If you’ve the courage and the stomach for it, go hunt some and bring them to me. I’ll give you fifty centimes apiece.”
“Fifty centimes? That would be easy money,” Paul scoffed. “Gascon catches them all the time in the stables.” Gascon set out traps filled with glucose to attract the rats, which became trapped in pots. He drowned them and threw their bodies behind the woodshed, where the neighborhood cats finished them off. Sometimes Moussa assisted with his slingshot. He didn’t like the rats much, but he wasn’t afraid of them, either.
Moussa’s mind raced as he pondered the possibilities of becoming a rat magnate. “I know a place we could get more,” he said to Paul. “A lot more.”
“Where?”
“A place Sister Godrick showed me, without meaning to.”
The cellar of St. Paul’s was a dark and ancient place of stone that Moussa knew well. There was a basement beneath the crypt where they buried old dead bishops, and another basement below that, all of it built centuries earlier with huge stone blocks quarried from beneath the city. After the latrines it was Godrick’s favorite purgatory for him, down there in the dark where some penance or another with a broom and dust-cloth awaited him. When she wasn’t checking up on him or he was tired of the work, he spent the time exploring. There were boxes of old leather-bound books, their pages brown and crumbling with age, filled with illustrations that showed men with horns and animals with human heads. One book showed graphic pictures of men and women – saints, he guessed – who had haloes and were shown meeting various horrible deaths. They were gored and speared, drawn and quartered, beheaded and hung upside down. Riveted, he turned the pages, concluding it was a tough business being a saint.
There were stacks of old paintings leaning against the walls, covered with dust and tied together in bundles. Some were taller than he was. He cut them apart and found more gruesome pictures, oils that were cracked with age and depicted gargoyles and giant winged monsters being flown by men in armored suits. On the whole he liked them better than the portraits of cardinals and bishops that hung upstairs in the cathedral.
One day Moussa found a staircase made of stone that descended from the lower basement. The opening was almost completely obscured by a faded woolen tapestry that hung on the wall. Moussa discovered it by accident with his broom. He took a lantern from its wall stand and started cautiously down. His insides tingled and stirred. He kept the lantern up and his head down, fearing only that he might run into a colony of spiders who, when not working in the school latrines, hid there waiting for people to come downstairs. To his vast relief there were none at all, not even any old cobwebs. Too dark and damp, he guessed. He descended one flight, and then another, and another. At the bottom stood an old rough-hewn oak door, heavy and worn. He tried to push it open but it didn’t budge. He set the lantern down and heaved with all his might. At last it moved, its old iron hinges complaining with rust and neglect. When he had gotten it open a little he stopped and listened. He could hear a faint rustling noise. He picked the lantern up and put it through, past the door, and looked inside. A wide corridor stretched away in the distance to where the light was swallowed up by the blackness. The walls were made of rough stone. Along the floor were piles of dirt and rubble.
And amid the dirt and the rubble he had seen the light of the lantern reflected in a thousand tiny eyes, eyes that were now bringing fifty centimes a pair on the street. A perfect hunting ground. He hadn’t finished describing it to Paul before their decision to go hunting was made.
“I don’t want it to be dark,” Paul said nervously as they gathered up what they needed. “I want to be able to see what I’m doing. We’ll catch more that way.” He wondered whether Moussa could read the fear in his voice, whether he knew Paul was afraid of the dark. Probably not, because when Moussa suspected such things he said so, just before gleefully rubbing it in. Paul had no idea of the terror lurking in Moussa’s soul about spiders, for of course Moussa never revealed it. Paul thought Moussa was absolutely fearless.
“It won’t be dark,” Moussa said. “We’ll have a lantern.” Paul wasn’t as sure as Moussa sounded, but then he rarely was. Still, it seemed easy enough, if the rats were as plentiful as Moussa promised. They’d have quite a treasury by dark. They had glucose and tins and burlap sacks for their catch. Moussa brought his slingshot and a bag of pebbles, “in case the hunting gets too good for the traps.” They slipped into the cathedral through one of the side doors. No one paid any attention to them. They hurried through the hallways and toward the basement. It was all territory that Moussa knew well. Down the stairs they went, then down some more, until they were in the room with the tapestry. Paul’s heart beat a little faster, and he wondered if it was time to get a stomach ache or something. But so far Moussa was right – there was plenty of light, and Paul figured at least the tunnel wouldn’t have Prussians in it or, worse, trigger-happy French guards. He decided to keep going.
They slipped behind the tapestry and descended the stairs, one flight after another, Moussa leading the way and Paul right behind. It got colder and damper as they went down, the stone walls seeming to weep with the ages. The stones were smooth and felt slimy to the touch. Their shoes made little noise on the solid steps. At last they reached the old door.
“Push it back,” Moussa whispered. His voice sounded loud in the confined space. Paul set his lantern and sack down and pushed. The door gave way with a creak. They stepped through the opening into the blackness, the air musty and still and cold on their necks. Paul closed the door again behind them, taking care not to let it go all the way. He was afraid the latch would catch and trap them there forever, in a lonely dungeon filled with devils and dread.
“This is it,” Moussa said. He lifted his lantern, which cast a dim glow over the shadowy realm of mystery and the rats. “And they’re still here.” Paul saw them everywhere, little red eyes shining among the piles of dirt, eyes cautiously surveying the intruders. They stayed back out of the way, hiding at the farthest edges of the light.
Waiting.
The boys ventured farther into the room and busied themselves setting out the traps. It helped to be moving around, as if the noise they made might banish the demons of the darkness. They set the lantern on a ledge while they worked. Paul scooped out hollows between stones on the floor where they could set the tin traps, into which Moussa then poured glucose. When they were done they surveyed their work with satisfaction.
“Two hours and I guess they’ll be filled up. We ought to get about a hundred,” Moussa said. He looked around. The area they were in was a room that narrowed into a corridor. “I wonder what’s down that way.”
Paul didn’t share his curiosity. “I don’t know. But I’ll be all right just waiting here.”
“You can’t wait here. The rats won’t just jump in the traps while you’re staring at them. You’ve got to give them some room.”
“Then we can go upstairs.”
Moussa replied using his long-perfected tone of voice that made Paul feel small and gutless. “You go upstairs if you want. I’m going exploring.”
Paul groaned inwardly. It always went this way. Moussa would have an idea, Paul an objection. Moussa would argue, Paul would give in. After they had done it and it was all over Moussa would agree what a stupid idea it was in the first place. The ideas never got any better, yet the pattern never changed. Paul’s dread of dark places was not as great as his concern over Moussa’s disapproval, even though Moussa never openly belittled him. He didn’t need to, since Paul always caved in before it got that far. Sure enough, Paul felt his resolve dying along with his objections. He cursed himself for going along, and then did.
“Oh, d’accord, I’m coming with you.”
Moussa held the lantern high. They made their way down the blackness of the corridor, tentatively at first. The ceiling was arched and quite high enough for their passage, but the darkness made them want to duck as they walked, as if something might suddenly appear from out of the gloom and hit them on the head. A cloak of cold and silence settled over them as they crept along, their senses fully alert. They tried not to make any noise, even though the tunnels were deserted and there seemed no need for silence.
They walked for a long time. They passed through mid-sized rooms, then great galleries where vast quantities of stone had been mined. In some places the walls were smooth and perfectly straight as if cut with a razor, while others were scalloped, as if scooped with a spoon. They found old rusty tools, chisels and parts of saws, and wood handles that were worn smooth with use by long-dead craftsmen. Cart wheel tracks were ground into some parts of the stone. Planks from the carts were scattered among iron casings for wheel spokes. It had been a city beneath a city, the tools and wheels silent testament to the activity that had taken place there.
Sometimes corridors branched off, or rough stairways disappeared up into nothingness. Some were blocked off with piles of stone. They passed through a junction where six corridors departed like points of a star from the one in which they were walking. They decided to keep going straight through. “If we don’t turn,” Moussa said, “we won’t get lost.” Once when they stopped they heard water rushing in the distance, but they couldn’t find it. There were other sounds, nondescript noises of the dark that their imaginations magnified a thousand times. Their eyes played tricks on them too as they walked. They’d look at the lantern, and then little floating lights of different shapes would dance around them as their eyes darted through the blackness, shapes of heads and bodies, Moussa’s spiders and Paul’s demons, things that wouldn’t go away when they shut their eyes. But they stayed close to each other and touched a lot and got used to it after a while, although their step was a little quicker than usual.
At length they arrived at a set of rough stairs. They weren’t evenly carved like the ones that descended from the cathedral. They might not even be stairs for all the boys could tell, but they looked like they went somewhere. They climbed up easily at first, but then had to take turns holding the lantern while they pulled themselves up over ledges that grew steeper and farther apart. They had gotten quite high when their way was blocked abruptly by a stone wall.
Paul had had enough. “Let’s go back,” he suggested after they’d climbed back down. “The traps are probably full by now.”
“Just a little farther,” Moussa urged, and they continued down the corridor. They passed through an area where the floor was rough and uneven, their footing uncertain. Paul tripped over something and fell to the ground. Whatever it was rolled a little way, like a light stone.
“What was that?”
Moussa raised his lantern and looked down at the floor. At first they couldn’t tell what it was. But then Moussa gave a little squeak of fright. It was a human skull, smirking at them from the place where it had come to rest in its soft bed of dust. In a flash of panic they looked around, wondering if there were other parts, or killers with long silent blades and blood in their eyes. But there was nothing. No one else, no stray arms or legs or ribs. Just a skull in the dirt, disembodied and alone. Moussa moved closer.
“Don’t touch it!” Paul hissed.
“Why not? It’s just some old bones.” Carefully, delicately, Moussa nudged it with the toe of his boot. It toppled over and the boys jumped back. The skull regarded them sideways.
Satisfied that it wasn’t going to move on its own, Moussa knelt next to it and held the lantern near. The light cast deep shadows. They could see through one eye into the empty interior, and the little zigzag lines on top where the bone was fused together. The nose was a gaping hole, the teeth intact. The skull had a quizzical, friendly expression. Moussa decided it was harmless. He set the lantern on the ground and gingerly picked up the skull. It was dry and lighter than he expected. He briefly wondered if he was committing a sin somehow, just by touching it. Fooling around with what used to be someone’s head was probably near the line. But he turned it over and over in his hands, and decided it wasn’t any different than a piece of old cow bone. Whoever had lived in it was long gone and probably wasn’t even Catholic.
“I’m taking him with us,” he announced. “We can get him a hat and keep him in the tree house. We can call him Napoléon the Next.”
Paul came closer, his initial queasiness melting before his curiosity. He was not amused by Moussa’s choice of names. Napoléon had caused enough trouble. “How about Fritz? We can say he was a Prussian we killed.” Moussa giggled. It was perfect. “Trés bien.” He held him up at eye level. “Fritz, je m’appelle Moussa, et voilà Paul.” He bowed politely, from the waist, and took Fritz in his hands. He tossed him lightly in the air. Fritz grinned. Paul decided Moussa’s idea to explore hadn’t been so bad after all.
Their attention shifted back to the passageway. It was getting late and they needed to keep moving. A little farther along there was another widening, and then a huge cavern that must have been a major collection point for the quarry. They could tell the room was large only by the way sound echoed in it, because the light from their lantern was lost in the gloom long before it lit the ceiling or the other side. Near where they stood another set of ledges resembled a steep set of stairs. Old fragments of rope were wound together in huge braids that cascaded down the ledges like cotton waterfalls, and were still attached to slings of dried leather from old stone harnesses. From the size of the room and the ropes it was obvious they had come to a station where stone had been hoisted to the surface. Moussa set the lantern down and peered up, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
“Look!” he said. “Light!” At first Paul couldn’t see it, but he waited and saw it too, a diffuse glow that barely lit the walls above them. They set Fritz down next to the lantern and began climbing up, eager to discover where their secret passage had brought them. The ropes made it easy to climb, and they ascended more quickly than before. They had gone up a considerable distance when they heard a piece of metal striking another. They stopped and listened, hardly daring to breathe. They heard it again, and then other noises, lower and indistinct – a voice, a man’s voice, although they couldn’t make out anything he was saying. He laughed. They looked at each other. Careful not to make any noise of their own, they crawled up. The climbing was growing easier, the steps closer together than before, and the ledges were covered with dust that muffled their passage. The voice became more distinct, and then they made out others, four or five altogether. Moussa could tell from the light that they were just below the top. He put his hand on Paul’s shoulder and they stopped. He could hear more clearly now, and what he heard brought a flicker of recognition. At once it came to him, and he knew what he was hearing as certainly as he knew his own name. He saw from the look on Paul’s face that he knew it too.
The voices were speaking German.
Cautiously they worked their way up, sliding up on top of each step, then moving again, being careful not to dislodge any rocks or stir up the dust. Their hearts were pounding. The stairs grew less distinct until they became a ramp, and they were at the top. Moussa raised his head to look. They had arrived at the edge of an alcove that was the size of a large parlor. The room was empty. Two sides were natural stone. The third, from which the light was coming, was a wall made of stone blocks, carved and stacked nearly twenty feet high to the ceiling. The stones at the bottom of the wall were quite large, with smaller ones higher up. Daylight filtered through gaps in the wall. Someone had intentionally blocked off the entrance to the quarry a long time earlier. The boys were in the back half of the entrance to the quarry. The voices were coming from the front half, on the other side of the wall.
When Moussa realized they couldn’t be seen, he motioned to Paul to follow him, and they crawled into the alcove. They waited to be sure no one heard. There was no break in the conversation. They could smell the smoke from a fire and the aroma of cooking food. Hair standing on end, they crawled on hands and knees to the wall of stone and peered through one of the cracks. On the other side, not ten feet away from them, six Prussian soldiers were gathered around a small fire. They were sitting under an overhang of what resembled a cave, which was the outer opening of the old quarry. They had removed their boots and were laughing and smoking. They drank liquor straight out of a bottle they passed among themselves. Two of them played a card game. One of the soldiers tended to the food cooking in a tin pot that balanced on the stones at the fire. It was a comfortable, peaceful scene, the men sheltered from the chill fall wind, the siege momentarily forgotten.
It took a few moments of silent observation for the enormity of their circumstances to sink in. They were in a cave with Prussian troops! Prussians! After the shock passed and the realization set in, Paul stared intently at the faces of the ones he could see. He had never seen Prussian soldiers, not up close. He was surprised by their common features and simple bearing. He didn’t expect them to look so normal. One was an old man with snow white hair and kindly eyes, who smoked a pipe and reminded Paul of a portrait of his great-grandfather. Another, a baby-faced youth with bright pink cheeks, the one tending the fire, might have been his grandson. But Paul was not fooled by their simple look. He knew theirs was a clever disguise.
These were the men who were at least partly responsible for what had happened to his father, men who had brought war to his country and nearly destroyed it.
These were the men who were now choking his city, who would first starve it, and then plunder it to rubble. These were the very men who people said ate babies and raped women. He had no idea what rape was, but it sounded awful and thoroughly Prussian. No, he told himself, as ordinary as they might pretend to be, theirs were the faces of evil.
As Paul’s hatred simmered, Moussa peered out past the opening, trying to determine where they were. His range of vision was limited by the mouth of the cave and there were no visible landmarks. From the position of the sun he could tell only that he was looking to the south. He could see down the slope of a long gentle hill. Beyond that the roofs of small farmhouses were scattered among the trees, with smoke blowing sideways from their chimneys in the strong winds. There was a road in the distance. It wasn’t enough. They could be anywhere. The only thing he knew for certain was that the tunnels ran all over the place. There were miles and miles of them, and they ran underground all the way from St. Paul’s to tbe enemy positions encircling the city.
He looked at Paul and saw his intent expression. He tugged on his sleeve and motioned that they ought to leave. Moussa had no desire to toy with a bunch of Prussian soldiers. The longer they stayed the greater the chance they would be detected. The memory of their close call at the hands of French troops still made his insides flutter. It was time to go. He thought Paul would be eager to leave, but Paul shook his head stubbornly and gestured at Moussa’s back pocket. Puzzled, Moussa looked around. The band of his slingshot was hanging from one pocket, a sack of pebbles bulging in another. The color drained from his face. Could Paul actually be thinking that? A slingshot? Against a half-dozen Prussian soldiers?
Angrily he shook his head and turned to crawl away. Paul grabbed him by the sleeve, and drew his face up close. “If you won’t do it then give it to me!”
“Do what? Merde, it’s a slingshot, not a gun!”
“We have to at least hit one with it!”
“You’re crazy!”
“Well, you’re a coward.” The word struck Moussa like a blow. He didn’t know what had gotten into his cousin. Paul’s face was red, his look deadly earnest. Paul had never, ever called him that before. Moussa was bigger and bolder, always the one in front. He was not the one who usually needed persuading, even though just now he thought it wise to gather up Fritz and be gone, while Paul had some notion about taking on Bismarck’s infantry. Although he wasn’t about to admit it, Moussa had realized something as he peered through the stones. Up close, the Prussian soldiers scared him to death. But there was no way he’d let Paul think him afraid.
“I am not a coward,” he hissed, “and you know it!”
“Then do it!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just hit one in the eye with it,” Paul whispered.
“Just hit one in the eye?”
Paul nodded eagerly. “Oui. That will be enough. Then he’ll have to go home.”
Frustrated, Moussa looked around. He couldn’t let Paul do it. They both knew he was a lousy shot. He’d bungle the job and get them both caught. He looked at the wall again. It would protect them for a long time, even if the Prussians decided to give chase. They’d have to tear the wall partly down, and the boys would be gone long before that. Still, the whole idea was insane, even for Moussa. Yet his choices were limited. His cousin was determined, and now his own honor was at stake. At last Moussa gave in. “D’accord,” he said, “but just one try. If I miss we get out of here anyway.”
“All right,” Paul agreed. “But don’t miss.”
Together they crawled back to the wall, their knees stirring the heavy dust on the floor of the quarry. Moussa fished for his slingshot and drew a few pebbles from his pouch. He chose a rose quartz with a jagged edge. A sure killer, he thought. Carefully he loaded it into the leather sling, feeling the edges and moving the rock around until it nestled just right between his fingers, the fat part in back for a good grip. He’d done it a thousand times without looking, but this time he looked anyway, to be absolutely certain. Satisfied, he stood up and rested his elbows against the stone. He could see the heads of a couple of the soldiers. He stepped to the left a little, to find an opening big enough. He was thankful for the blustery fall wind that blew outside the mouth of the quarry. He could hear it whipping the branches of the trees. It would mask any noise he might make.
He chose his target, the soldier with the baby face. As he did he flushed hot. He was actually going to do it. Slowly he drew the sling back until it was stretched taut next to his ear, all the way to the breaking point, farther than he had ever pulled it. He squinted and framed the face of the soldier between the posts of the slingshot, judging the range carefully, measuring, moving his hand a little up, then a little down until he was sure he had it right, and his eye had the other, dead-on. The soldier was perched on a stone with his back to one wall, his profile exposed to Moussa. He held a big spoon in one hand and gazed blankly into the cook pot, his expression lost in reverie. At last Moussa was ready.
He swallowed hard and held his breath, and let go.
The stone streaked through the opening in the wall and found its mark, striking the soldier in the cheekbone just below his right eye. Startled, he brought one hand to his face and jumped to his feet. His spoon flew from his hand and clattered on the rocks.
“Gott in Himmel!” he bellowed in rage, blood gushing from the wound. “I’ve been shot!” He spun around and staggered toward the opening of the cave as the others sprang to their feet in a panic, scrambling for their weapons and helmets. Moussa and Paul kept looking just long enough to see the blood, and then dropped to the floor and fled, terrified, on hands and knees. They slithered over the edge and down the stairs into the dark protection of the deep quarry, and were gone.
In the front of the cave the wounded soldier danced and hollered in pain, the skin of his cheek laid clean away from the bone. The others looked around uncertainly. There had been no gunfire, no sounds of assault. No one had seen the stone or heard it drop to the ground, where it fell among a score of others. They peered out the opening of the cave, in the opposite direction from which the stone had come, none of them with the slightest idea what they were looking for. The hillside below the cave was deserted. They looked up, wondering whether something might have dropped from the ceiling of the cave. Nothing. Shrugs met puzzled looks. One of the soldiers walked around the perimeter of the cave, stopping at the wall where the stones were piled up. He climbed up on one and peered through an opening. Looking in that direction, with the light behind him, he could barely make out the void behind the wall. Empty.
Nichts, he decided. Nothing there. He climbed back down.
The old man examined the boy’s injury. “It’s not a bullet wound,” he said. “Quit whining. Your eye is all right. You probably stabbed yourself with the spoon.” The boy groaned. The others laughed and sat back down, the excitement forgotten.
Moussa and Paul heard nothing. They moved as if the entire Prussian army were at their heels. They fairly flew down the ledges, slipping and sliding, bumping and scraping, desperate to reach the corridor that would lead them to the safety of St. Paul’s. They clung to the ropes, flaying elbows and skinning knees in their mad descent. They listened for footsteps or shouts, gunshots or cannons, and heard nothing but the clatter of their own escape echoing around them. When they hit bottom Paul tripped and fell to his stomach, letting out a cry as he hit the ground. The lantern glass rattled loudly, filling them with dread that now they’d been heard for sure. Paul struggled to his feet and snatched up the light, which luckily hadn’t broken. Moussa picked up Fritz and carried him under his arm like a kick ball, and they ran as fast as their limited light permitted. On and on they plunged through the corridors, straight through past the widenings and the yawning black holes of other corridors that departed for places unknown. For twenty minutes they kept up their headlong pace, never slacking. They abandoned their efforts at running in silence, and as each moment passed with no sign of a pursuit their fright turned to ecstasy as they decided they’d gotten away with it.
“Did you see him? Did you see?” Moussa gasped when they stopped to catch their breath. They were laughing as quietly as they could, their chests heaving from their flight, their slight bodies trembling all over in ecstasy mingled with fear. They’d both forgotten the accusation of cowardice, the tension in the cave. Everything had melted away except the vision of the little rose quartz flying through the air and striking its mark. There was no mistaking their success. They had blooded the enemy.
“You got him! Right in the eye!” Paul whooped. He was filled with pride, happier than he’d ever been. He realized he’d done something brave, or rather that he’d made Moussa do it; but it amounted to the same thing, he thought. That’s what officers did, they got busy thinking things up and then appointed someone else to actually do the work, afterward keeping most of the credit. He didn’t mind sharing the credit, because he knew that some was legitimately his too. For as long as he could remember he’d been afraid, often of the most trivial things, desperately wanting to do the brave things that seemed to come so easily to Moussa, but then always backing out at the last moment, or cringing the whole way through. But this had been different, and he knew it. It was like the day of the boar, a day in which there had been no time for fear. He felt strong and savage and utterly invincible.
When they’d listened for a while and knew for sure that no one was chasing them, they relaxed and sauntered down the corridor again, Moussa and Paul taking turns explaining the battle to Fritz. Paul announced he was fairly certain he’d seen the soldier’s eye popping out and rolling around on the floor like a marble. Moussa said the man would probably die soon from his wounds, if he hadn’t already. Fritz listened attentively and smiled appreciatively and didn’t argue their claims.
They talked about whether they should tell anyone. They knew in the instinctive way that boys do that none of the adults were likely to share in their enthusiasm for what they’d done. Gascon would understand, and might even secretly approve, but they figured that after he was done congratulating them he’d probably get out the cane. In the end they decided it was wiser to add the afternoon to their long list of secrets.
When they arrived back at their hunting grounds beneath St. Paul’s, they were delighted to discover that the rat business had been brisk. They heard their catch before they saw it, mad claws scratching against tin pots. By the dim light they saw the traps all full and swarming. Scores of trapped eyes regarded them with malevolence and fear. Carefully they lifted them by their tails to avoid the long slender teeth that nipped and flashed, and dropped them into the burlap bags. When they had two sacks full, and the sacks were as heavy as they could carry, they lugged them back up the basement stairs.
On the way Moussa stopped and pulled some cloth out of a box in one of the storerooms. He made a wrapper for Fritz, and they emerged into the daylight. It was late and the afternoon had grown bitter cold. They had no jackets and shivered as they walked. The rats in the sacks made a terrible commotion, squealing and flopping around inside. All the movement and the teeth and claws that occasionally poked through the sides made progress slow and difficult. People they passed on the streets regarded the two urchins with looks of puzzlement and disdain. As they arrived at the Place de l’Hôtel, dusk was forcing the rat vendor to begin packing up. At first he didn’t recognize the boys, all bloody and torn.
“We brought your rats,” Paul told him proudly, and suddenly the vendor remembered. “Ah, the noble hunters.” He looked at their wounds and assumed they’d gotten them catching the rats. He shook his head in pity for the hapless children of the bourgeoisie, who could manage to make a hundred francs of trouble out of a fifty-sou problem. And from what he could see, they hadn’t even gotten it right.
“But look here,” he said, “why have you kept them together like that, in those sacks? Don’t you see what they’ve done?” He pointed at the burlap, which was covered with dark stains. The boys hadn’t noticed. They loosened the drawstrings and looked inside to find a terrible mess of fur and blood. Jumbled together and panicked to escape, the rats had attacked one another. Nearly all of them were wounded, or dead.
“I can’t sell them that way,” he told them, aware of what they must have gone through to fill the sacks, but certain that no one would buy a damaged animal. “Next time don’t put so many in the same bag. No more than six, do you hear?”
When they had finished separating out the rats that were still healthy, the vendor counted out their pay. Moussa and Paul looked at the little pile of centimes and their hearts sank. The rat business was tougher than they’d thought. Yet they’d found Fritz and whipped the Prussians.
It hadn’t been such a bad day after all.
“Uh oh,” Moussa said as they approached the château. “It’s your father.” He could see him there in the drive, near the kitchen door. If it wasn’t late enough at night to use their rooftop approach, it was the way they slipped into the house when their appearance might land them in trouble, as at the moment. Madame LeHavre, the cook, would cast them a disapproving glance, but she never told on them, and let them creep up the back stairs to clean up. But this time it wouldn’t work. Jules was sitting outdoors in a chair, trying to light a pipe.
They approached the colonel as inconspicuously as they knew how, hoping he would ignore them. There was a time when he would have, but no longer. Paul looked on the ground next to where the colonel sat, hoping he wouldn’t see it, not this time. His heart sank when he saw the bottle, and he knew it was trouble. His father was drunk.
“Where’ve you been?” The colonel’s voice was cross.
The boys hung their heads and shuffled near. Jules was slumped in his chair, draped in it almost. It was cold but he sat without a coat, seeming not to notice. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. The alcohol thickened his tongue and mangled his speech.
“Just out, Father. No place special.”
“Just out? Looking like that? You look like pigs, filthy pigs! How dare you come home that way? You’re bloody and crude! Don’t you have any pride? Speak up, Paul, and look at me when I talk to you. I asked you a question.”
Paul avoided his eyes, and stared at the ground. He hated it when his father got this way. Lately he had to hate it all the time, because Jules had been drunk for a month, and it was getting worse. His temper was foul, and sometimes he drank so much he passed out in his plate of food, right at the table in front of Uncle Henri and Aunt Serena.
Once he had disappeared for three whole days. Henri and Gascon took a carriage and went looking for him in the city. It was late when they brought him home. Paul woke up and watched from the top of the stairs as they tried to get the colonel to his room. The smell of vomit filled the house.
Jules snapped at everyone in the château, and even had Madame LeHavre in tears, which was nearly impossible to do, because the cook was tough as a mule and accepted trouble from no one. But Colonel deVries could deliver a devastating tongue-whipping, and his cruelty flashed bright and often. It was a side of him no one had ever seen, and it frightened Paul to death.
Lately he had taken to slapping Paul if the boy didn’t move quickly enough. It took only the slightest offense to provoke him, like forgetting to comb his hair. Jules would lash out with the back of his hand and slur something, and then he would turn red and get quiet and walk away. But he never said he was sorry. The first time it happened the shock of it was so great Paul burst out crying, even though he wasn’t hurt. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” he said, although he hadn’t done anything at all. Once when Jules slapped him, Henri saw it. The count’s face darkened and he moved to intervene, but then he checked himself. Later Paul heard them arguing. Their voices were loud and some glass broke, but all the details were muffled behind closed doors.
After the first few times Paul learned that avoiding him altogether was best. Paul didn’t know what to make of it all. The transformation had been so fast, so complete. His father had taken to drink just as quickly as he’d set off for war, with the same vigor and drive for vengeance. He watched his father grow cold and hard, and from the way Jules snapped at him he was certain he’d done something to cause it.
“It will pass,” the adults told him, trying to cheer him up, but they really didn’t know what to say to the boy. “He’s a tough man, the colonel,” Gascon told him. “He’ll get over it.” Serena seethed, and once tried to talk to Jules about Paul. Her timing was terrible; he was drunk. “Go back to where you belong,” Jules thundered at her. “Go meddle in some camel shit. Something you understand.” She slapped him so hard that it hurt her hand, but he laughed and staggered away. No one else saw it. Serena wept alone. She dared not tell the count. The next day Jules didn’t remember. “He doesn’t mean it,” she told Paul. “He isn’t mad at you. He’s ill.”
Elisabeth was almost never home, getting in late at night if at all. Paul didn’t know for sure, but he thought his parents weren’t sleeping in the same room anymore. Elisabeth watched Jules deteriorate and felt she had to say something to Paul, struggling to find an explanation. “It’s those articles,” she told him.
The Paris press had treated Jules viciously, and had not let him alone for a moment since the trial, when they trumpeted their charges of influence and bribery and corruption in the infamous case of the colonel who ran. They excoriated him on the front pages. They got hold of the Delescluze letter, which they printed in its entirety with no rebuttals. The prosecutor fed them details that were richly embellished before they ran.
Jules’s likeness appeared in nearly every edition until his face was as well-known as that of Gambetta or Trochu. He was recognized readily in the street and run off like a mad dog. Interest in his story was heightened by another, about a simple sergeant named Ignatius Hoff, who sneaked out of the city at night to the enemy lines, where he cut the throats of German sentries and returned with their helmets as trophies. His kills were counted carefully, nearly thirty in the month of November alone. His exploits were legend, the contrast irresistible.
Within ten days of his release Jules began attacking the bottle. He’d returned to the château after trying for the fifth or sixth time to volunteer his services to the forces defending Paris. The brigades were ill-trained and poorly organized and needed officers like Jules. “They didn’t want me,” was all he said when he came home. “Didn’t want me, and wouldn’t have me,” and he would clean off whatever mess had been thrown onto his uniform, eggs or worse, by the proud men of the defense forces. And he retreated into his rum.
Paul did his best to shut it all out, to pretend that it wasn’t happening, and his mind clung to the hope it would be over soon. He’d seen his mother come out of her own shell when Jules had been in prison, and expected the same thing would happen with his father. In the mornings when he woke up he started fresh, anxious to see his father, to see whether his storm had passed, and if he could polish Jules’s sword again or do him some favor. But the first look of the morning from Jules would kill the hope quickly, as Paul could see from the angry eyes that nothing would be different that day than the day before, and the day before that.
But now it was the early evening, the dreaded time when the colonel’s furies were strongest, and Jules was building a rage against him for being late, for coming home bedraggled and torn.
“I’m sorry Father,” Paul said. “We were playing in some—”
“Shut up! I don’t want to hear about your amusements! The city surrounded by Prussians, people beginning to starve, and you’re playing! Playing! Where is your sense of respect? Where is your honor?” For long hot moments Paul withstood his withering scorn. Moussa stood helplessly by, wishing he could either leave or do something to help. Now he knew how Paul felt, having to sit there while Sister Godrick worked on Moussa. Nuns and colonels learned how to address people from the same books, he thought.
Paul forgot himself then, and tried to ease his father’s harsh impression of their activities. He broke his promise to Moussa about the secrets of the afternoon. “Wait, Father,” he said, “you don’t understand. We were in the tunnels below the city. We saw some Prussians, in a cave. We hit one of them in the eye and hurt him. Hurt him bad. He’ll have to go home, Father! He’ll have to go back to Germany! We were helping, really we were!”
The colonel absorbed some of it and rose from his chair on shaky legs. His face was reddening as he listened to the tale, his eyes narrowing, his teeth clenching. His hands were shaking and he dropped his pipe to the ground.
“You too?” he said. “You would humiliate me? My own son wishes to show me how a man fights Prussians? And with a wild tale like that? A ten-year-old who does what the colonel did not? How – dare – you—” He was out of words, his mouth working in silent rage. “You little bastard!” he finally said. He lashed out with his hand and caught Paul on his cheek and knocked him to the ground. Paul raised his hands as if to ward off another blow. His cheek was bright red where Jules had struck him. “No Father, please, that’s not it. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s not a lie! Ask Moussa. We did it, we really did! I thought you’d be proud!”
Jules wasn’t listening. His eyes were on the cloth wrapping Paul dropped when he fell. The cloth had fallen away, exposing some of the skull inside. Jules bent over unsteadily and picked it up. “And I suppose this is the one you killed?” he said, lifting it out of its wrapping. “My God, Paul, what have you boys been doing? When did you begin stealing from graves?” And with that he flung the skull away. Moussa and Paul watched, helpless and sad, as Fritz hit the stones on the side of the house. He was old and dry and shattered into a thousand pieces. Only the jaw was left intact, and it came to rest in the dirt.
Fritz was still smiling.
After three months of Sister Godrick and the fourth form, Moussa was learning to live with his hell in class. His existence was about the same, he guessed, as being a soldier on the fortifications, dodging bullets and eating grapeshot. He thought he had an understanding of the nun, with whom he had settled into an uneasy coexistence. Their relationship was still full of fireworks and friction and tests of will, but he thought he gave as good as he got, and sometimes, in little ways, he even thought he won. He knew he would flunk the class in the end, because she still refused to mark the papers on which he wrote “Moussa,” which was all of them; but he decided that he would talk his father into letting him quit school altogether. They were rich, he knew, very rich, and there didn’t seem much point in his continuing at St. Paul’s. He could buy a school, and hire the teachers he wanted. There were some details to work out with the words and the logic he’d use on the count, but he was sure they would come. Time was growing short. In another month class reports would be issued, and his day of reckoning with the count would arrive.
Except for Pierre, the other boys in class had left him alone after his beating for the snake. They hated and shunned him, but gave him grudging respect for the way he had handled his punishment, and the way he stood up to Sister Godrick. They knew they couldn’t have done as well; and more important, perhaps, they knew he could still whip them.
Aside from the certainty of his flunking, therefore, he saw the year working out pretty much like any other year in school. He knew he’d make it through, and as the weeks passed he even grew somewhat complacent. But then Sister Godrick saw the amulet.
She was leading the class in daily prayer, beseeching the Almighty first to watch out for the young souls of St. Paul’s, and second to slay the Prussians besieging the city gates. It was a good prayer, Moussa thought, although he felt that if her connections were as good as she made out, the enemy ought to have keeled over by now. As she prayed his head was bowed but his eyes were open as always. It was one of his little victories, and one of hers. If he did not close his eyes but did bow his head, she felt as if adequate respect had been shown the Lord, and he felt as if adequate liberty had been granted. They hadn’t discussed it, but instead had settled into the compromise.
Moussa had gotten dressed hurriedly that morning, and the amulet was hanging outside his shirt. During the prayer he was absently playing with it.
Whack!
He jumped, his reverie shattered. Her paddle still carried the shock of thunder when she used it.
“And what is that you toy with during prayer, Michel?” Sister Godrick asked him. She nudged the amulet with the end of her paddle.
Moussa pulled away. She had no right to touch it. “It’s nothing, Sister,” he said, and he quickly started to slip it back under his shirt, but she caught the cord near the back of his neck, and pulled on it so he couldn’t.
“It is not ‘nothing,’ Michel. I am not a fool, and by the grace of God have not gone blind. I can see it clearly enough. I asked you what it is, and you shall tell me.”
“It is my amulet, Sister.”
“Ah, une amulette! A trinket for unbelievers. And what evil is deterred with this amulet, Michel?”
“I – I don’t know, Sister. It’s lucky, that’s all.”
“Lucky!” Her voice was full of scorn. “Give it to me.”
Moussa’s face flushed and his heart raced. Why hadn’t he put it where it belonged? Why did she care, anyway? “It’s mine, Sister. It belongs to me. I need it. I don’t take it off, ever. It saved my life.”
“Did it, indeed! So this remarkable amulet has God-like powers!”
“It saved my life, Sister.”
“Give it to me.”
“I won’t!” He couldn’t believe this was happening. Anything but the amulet. He jumped up from his desk and broke for the door, but she caught him by the shoulder and pushed him down roughly. She set her paddle down and with her free hand lifted the amulet from around his neck. Moussa was squirming, his face red with anguish. He clutched it tightly as she pulled, but then let go for fear she would break it.
Sister Godrick held it up for the class to see. It dangled from her hand, a dark leather cord with a pouch at the end that was sewn around the edges, its contents hidden. It was to her a tool of devil worship, a heathen offering to false gods, an adornment of evil that belonged with voodoo rituals and savage sacrifices. Worst of all, it was a direct denial of the power of the Almighty.
“This is an abomination under God,” she said, her voice rising. “It is a violation of His commandments. It is a sacrilege. There is only one Church and one true God, and this” – she shook it in her fist – “this is not His sacrament. Michel has jeopardized his eternal soul by wearing it, and by ascribing to it false powers, and by bringing it among us.” Moussa’s eyes were riveted on her fist, desperately afraid of what she might do.
Unlike Moussa, Sister Godrick was not resigned to letting things continue along as they had been. If there had been lengthening moments of peace between them, she knew the boy was far from broken. He was still the lamb of God with a disease that could infect her entire flock. He was poisoned by an independent streak that remained as noxious to her as the breath of the devil himself. She had been ready to destroy the amulet right there, to take scissors to it and shear it to pieces in front of the class. But she read the expression on Moussa’s face and instantly understood that she held in her hand the instrument of his submission to her will. His eyes were vulnerable as they had never been under punishment or threat. She could see the amulet meant everything to him. She let him go, and walked to her. She found paper and hastily drew a picture. She turned and walked to the lesson board, where there were nails for displays. She spiked the picture on the nail. It was a crude likeness of Satan, and the nail poked through his forehead. Then she hung the amulet over it, and it appeared to hang around the devil’s neck. Satisfied with her handiwork, she turned to the class.
“The coin that does not bear the image of the Prince of Heaven has no place in His Kingdom,” she said gravely. “The works of man that do not have the love of God stamped upon them, have no value in Heaven. This is a work of blasphemy, of magic and sorcery, and has no place in this life. It is a sign of weakness, of submission to evil. You will see it hang there on the proper neck, and you will remember that they belong together. Over the weeks as it hangs there you will observe Michel, and see that he does not need it for luck as he believes. One has no need of luck when one has the Lord.”
She opened her desk drawer. Looking carefully before she reached in, as she now did every time she opened it, she withdrew a small rosary. She took it to Moussa and held it out to him. “Idle hands that have need of occupation can do no better than this, Michel. You will leam that lesson and one day bless the Lord for His light.” He made no move to take it from her. She set it on his desk and turned her back on him. It was time for the day’s other lessons.
Sister Godrick could not have stricken more directly at Moussa with a spear to his heart. For the rest of the day he sat dumbly in his seat, devastated and in shock. She had taken from him his protection, his shield against a hostile world. It had saved him from the boar and from French bullets, from fevers and accidents and he didn’t know what else. It held the spirit and goodwill of his uncle, a man he had never seen. His mother had told him about the amenokal, and Moussa saw him as a great and powerful man, just and wise. Such a man would never have given him the amulet without being certain of its effectiveness. Moussa believed in its power as surely as he knew the sun rose in the morning.
At recess he sat at his desk, refusing to go outside until she made him leave, and then he stayed just outside the room. He didn’t want to go where the other boys were. He felt naked. He looked to be sure it was still hanging there. He was desperately afraid she’d throw it away while he wasn’t looking, and that it would be gone and he wouldn’t know where. He paid no attention during lessons. She spoke and he heard nothing. She gave instructions and Paul had to nudge him to comply. The amulet hung on its devil, and Moussa tried to think of what to do.
After school he waited until the other students had left, and in one of the hardest moments he could remember approached Sister Godrick, who was writing at her desk.
“Yes, Michel?” she asked without looking up. “What is it?”
“Sister, I’m sorry I brought the amulet to school.”
“As am I.” The words were delivered sharply.
“Sister, if you will just let me take it home, I promise I won’t wear it, and that I won’t bring it back—” There was pleading in his voice, a desperate tone she had never heard. She was pleased. Her assessment had been correct. His weakness was within her grasp.
“Get to your knees, Michel,” she directed. “Bow your head. And close your eyes.”
He had guessed she would do something like this. He told himself she would soften if he complied. He hesitated for a moment, to make it look to her as if he was deciding, but his decision had already been made. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes. He rested his elbows on her desk and clasped his hands.
“Let us pray.” She led him through the Lord’s Prayer, and after that an act of contrition. He repeated the words after her, with the promise to sin no more. Then she told him to say a prayer out loud, a prayer of his own making. He felt awkward and struggled to find the words. He hadn’t made up a prayer since he stopped praying, and he’d never made one up for someone else to hear.
“Father, forgive me for my sins,” he began. Those were easy words, that started many prayers. “I know it was wrong to bring the amulet to class. To St. Paul’s, I mean. I know it is Your house and I meant no harm by it. I’ve learned my lesson, God, I promise, and I won’t do it again…” He didn’t say, “if You’ll just make her give it back.” After all, she wasn’t stupid. She was just a nun.
When he finished he almost forgot. “In Jesus’ name, Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” Sister Godrick repeated. He opened his eyes. They were filled with hope that all had been rectified.
“May I take it now, Sister?”
“You have a great distance to travel, Michel, on the road to God’s salvation. I find your words self-serving and your motives transparent. You value your pride more than your soul, which stands in mortal peril.” She rose and dismissed him with an icy wave. “The amulet will stay where it is.”
“Sister, please,” he beseeched her, his voice trembling. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
“It is not what I ask of you, Michel, it is what the Lord asks. When you understand that, when you truly believe it, then I will know. And I will give the amulet back to you, and you will destroy it yourself. Go now. I am busy.”
He shook his head and tried to absorb it all. He felt betrayed and full of hatred. He got to his feet, shaking with anger. “You tricked me! You’re worse than the devil! I hate you! I hate you!” She didn’t flinch. Her eyes were penetrating and cold and steady, and she knew she had him. He would not be long now, coming to the ways of the Lord.
Moussa ran from the room, blind with tears and rage, alternating with promises to himself that he’d kill her, that he’d steal the amulet back, that he’d burn the cathedral to the ground if he had to. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to die.