SARAH
In her soul, she’s always known her child was alive somewhere. A mother can feel these things.
The moment she pushed her baby into the arms of the railroad worker has remained etched on her mind. Time and time again she’s replayed it in her imagination, locking away in her memory the exact form of the scar cutting into the side of his face. And when he wrapped his arms around Samuel, she saw he only had one finger and a thumb on his left hand. She knew then that he would take care of her son, just as the rabbi on the Métro said—he would keep him safe. She knew she would find him again. She just hadn’t realized how long it would take.
She rolls over, trying to find a comfortable position on her pillow, but really she’s too excited to sleep. Tomorrow is the day she hardly dared believe would ever come. Pure joy races through her veins, an emotion she barely recognizes. It makes her realize just how numb she’s been, how she’s only been going through the motions of living during the last nine years. For the first time since she gave him up, she feels alive. Grateful to be alive. “Thank you, God,” she whispers into the pillow.
Of course, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s already nine years old, and a fine-looking boy, judging from the photos they’ve been shown. She peered at the pictures, looking deep into his eyes, and recognized her family. Her father’s gaze shone out from Samuel’s dark, intelligent eyes, sparkling with curiosity, and he had her mother’s fine nose. David was present too, in the way he held himself, proudly sticking out his chin. The only likeness she couldn’t see was the one to her.
She knows it won’t be easy. He doesn’t speak French, and they’ll have to find a way to communicate, but their connection will be deeper than language. This makes her wonder, once again, about the Beauchamps’ bond with her son. She doesn’t like to dwell on this thought, as it leaves her with a feeling of disquiet to contemplate the relationship her child has established with the people he believed to be his parents. Worst of all is the thought of Samuel loving another woman as his mother. The strength of that bond terrifies her.
She likes to imagine that he’s closer to the man than to the woman. This makes sense in her mind, as it was he who took Samuel. Maybe the woman didn’t even want to take on someone else’s child. That would help explain why she never spoke French to Samuel, her own mother tongue. How could she not have sung him the songs she learned herself in her own mother’s arms?
Enough. She must stop churning up the past. It’s over now. She needs to plan for the next stage. The psychologist told them that Samuel should be fluent in French in about six months, as long as they stuck to the immersion method, meaning total exposure to French with no interference or translation from his first language; she can’t bring herself to call it his mother tongue. So they are never to revert to English—not that they could if they wanted to—and he is to have no contact with the parents who brought him up, not even by letter.
She’s been fretting all day, getting his bedroom ready, buying food that she imagines nine-year-old boys like. First she made her own challah bread, adding raisins for a special treat. Then she bought a large bag of potatoes, because a friend told her that they ate potatoes all the time in America, with everything, even breakfast. Imagine that! She could make potato latkes for a starter, then gratin dauphinois to go with the lamb kibbeh. Or would that be overdoing it? For dessert, she’ll make apple cake with honey. She usually saves this recipe for New Year’s, but she wants to make it now to mark a new beginning, repentance and forgiveness going hand in hand. She can’t wait for mother, father, and son to sit down to a meal together, to break bread together. It’s all she wants, and the thought of it makes her heart beat faster in anticipation.
David turns away from her in his sleep. She puts her arms around him, burying her head into his neck. “Are you awake?” she whispers.
“No,” he mumbles.
She lies there feeling restless. David turns back around, reaching for her hand under the covers.
“Everything will be all right, won’t it, David?”
“Our son is coming home, Sarah. We will be able to live again.”
“I wish… I just wish Beauchamp hadn’t got that two-year sentence, though. It seems too harsh. He did save Samuel’s life.”
“I know. I know. But the decision was out of our hands. And we mustn’t forget, he did keep him hidden from us all these years.”
She squeezes his hand. “Yes, I know. Remember when he was born?”
“How could I forget?”
“You were so brave, delivering him on your own.”
“I think you were the brave one.”
She smiles in the dark. “I trusted you, and I knew you knew what you were doing.”
“Yes, being a research biologist has its uses, doesn’t it?”
“I was glad I had him at home, but it was hard having to leave so soon after the birth.” She snuggles into him, remembering how they had run to the safe house.
They stop there. Neither of them can talk about the following night, though they both think about it. Sarah knows David blames himself for what happened. He couldn’t protect her and their son as he’d promised to. He held on to her as she held on to their baby, the army truck they’d been shoved into speeding through the dark, empty streets of Paris.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m sorry.” He put his jacket around her, and she knew he wanted to give her everything. He would have given her the shirt off his back and sat there naked if he thought it would help her.
When they got to Drancy and the men were separated from the women, he clung to her, taking blows from the guards. In the end, she had to beg him to let go. “Live,” she told him. “Stay alive for me and Samuel.”
And she knew he would.