CHARLOTTE
Gare Montparnasse is in a state of chaos. Soldiers and gendarmes swarm around, stopping people, checking papers, and shouting orders. Adults look anxiously toward the platforms from which trains are departing, while pale, tired children, past the time for tears, stand numbly by. And all the time people are being turned back from the trains.
“The police are everywhere, Charlotte!”
Only too well aware of this fact, I grip the baby tightly against my chest, glancing around.
“Don’t look! Just act natural.”
Jean-Luc’s so jittery, it’s scaring me. If he doesn’t calm down, he’ll draw unwanted attention to us. I stop for a minute, looking into his wild eyes. My heart thumps hard against my ribs and my palms feel sweaty, but I remind myself who we’re pretending to be—lovers eloping with their illegitimate child. What would lovers do?
I stand on my tiptoes, draping an arm around Jean-Luc’s neck, the baby between us. I pull him toward me, lifting my face to meet his. “Kiss me,” I whisper in his ear.
At first his lips feel rigid and cold, but as mine linger on them, I feel them begin to soften, welcoming me. The noises around us fade into the background. From a distance I hear whistles blowing, children crying, men shouting, while we stand there breathing into each other. My heart lifts. It’s going to be all right. I know it is.
Then he draws back. “Let’s go. Platform fifteen.”
He takes my arm, pulling me after him. Together we make our way to the soldier who’s checking tickets and papers before letting people onto the platform. Giving Jean-Luc’s fake papers a cursory glance, he tilts his head toward his leg. “How did you get injured?” he asks in a German accent.
“An accident at work.” Jean-Luc’s face is blank and his tone flat.
People are piling up behind us, but the soldier doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. He looks at Jean-Luc’s ID, then back up at him, then at the ID again. Does he see something that doesn’t fit? Maman did have to hurry, cutting his hair roughly to the same style as the photo.
“Michel Cevanne?”
“Yes.” Jean-Luc manages to keep his voice steady.
“Date of birth?”
“Fifth of July 1922.”
The soldier turns to me. “What is your relationship with this man?”
“I’m… We’re… we’re friends.”
“Friends? Your papers, mademoiselle.”
I pass them to him.
“Is that a baby?” He doesn’t look at the papers, but stares at the baby in my arms.
“Yes.”
He stretches out a hand, lifting back the blanket with long, slender fingers. “Do you have the birth certificate?”
“I… We… we haven’t had time to get one yet.”
“All births need to be registered within three days of birth.”
My nerves contract until it feels like they’ll snap. I don’t know what to say.
Then a policeman appears and whispers something in the soldier’s ear. They enter into an urgent-sounding, hushed conversation. Jean-Luc glances over at me. I know what he’s thinking. Now is our moment.
He grabs my hand, and we run down the platform without looking back. We jump on board at the first door, finding ourselves in an empty carriage for eight. Jean-Luc shuts the door behind us. “Sit down. Act natural.”
I sit next to the window, the baby on my lap. Jean-Luc sits next to me. My breath comes fast but my lungs don’t seem to fill up. My head starts to spin.
Abruptly the door is pushed open. A guard peers in. “In here!” he shouts behind him.
I grab Jean-Luc’s hand. I can’t breathe. I watch in terror as the guard holds the door open.
A man carrying a large suitcase squeezes his way in, followed by a woman and three small boys. Jean-Luc pulls his hand out of mine. I let my breath out. Tipping his hat at us, the man sits down opposite, his wife next to him. Their children fight for the two remaining places next to their parents, leaving the last and smallest one standing awkwardly.
“Don’t be so silly, Henri. Sit down,” the father reprimands the boy.
The boy sits down without a word, on the opposite side to the rest of his family, next to Jean-Luc. Pouting, he starts to pick at the dry scab on his knee.
Nobody speaks. Everybody has secrets. When the train pulls out, the two older boys start wriggling, prodding and poking each other.
“Shh, be quiet. Try and go to sleep.” Their mother fixes them with a glare, but the boys continue to pinch each other’s knees. “Tell them, Georges.”
“Be quiet, boys. Try and rest.” Their father looks up, barely focusing on them.
“Papa, I’m hungry. We didn’t have any breakfast.”
“Be quiet!”
The boy stares out the window. I follow his gaze, out over the gray buildings against a blue sky. Please, God, I whisper in my head. Please, God, let us make it to Bayonne.
Suddenly the carriage door slides open, and a tired-looking gendarme steps in. “Papers,” he states, looking at the family, then at us. My heart picks up pace again.
Reaching into his inside pocket, Jean-Luc produces his papers. His hands are steady and his face maintains its cool, amicable regard. I hold mine out with trembling fingers, squirming in my seat but wearing my sweetest smile to compensate.
“Monsieur Cevanne and Mademoiselle de la Ville, traveling with a baby.” The gendarme raises an eyebrow.
“We’re going to Biarritz to get married,” Jean-Luc blurts out.
My fake smile stretches farther across my face.
The guard looks from me to Jean-Luc and back again, his frown growing deeper. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
“It’s for the baby’s sake,” I say. “My father was going to kill me if I’d stayed. And the baby.” Now I let the tears fall. I’m aware of the shocked faces of the family. This has added another dimension to their journey.
Silence fills the carriage.
“You’re eloping!” The guard lets out a loud dirty laugh. “I think you’d better step outside, monsieur. We need to have a word.”
Jean-Luc pats my hand as he reaches for his satchel. “Of course, monsieur.”
I watch him leave the compartment, then look across at the father of the family, sitting opposite. He turns away, looking out the window.
Please, God, please, please. I bite on my bottom lip as seconds turn to minutes.
After what feels like an eternity, Jean-Luc comes back in and sits down. Relief washes over me like a welcome wave. I breathe again. He leans toward me, whispering in my ear. “He wanted money. He thinks he knows our secret and he wanted money to keep quiet. One secret to hide another.” He touches my knee, looking into my eyes. “A lie that is half the truth is the best lie.”