Saint-Sauveur-de-Montagut
August 20, 1944
Rachel had been with the Merlands in Saint-Sauveur-de-Montagut for nearly two years. Time seemed to have made the wounds of the summer of 1942 disappear, though the girl still missed her mother, her stepmother, and, most of all, her father. Her new adoptive family and other members of the Resistance had taken good care of her. Yet there was a lonely ache in her soul that never left her. Rachel often dreamed of being back in the old Roman theater in Alba-la-Romaine. Those millennial rocks seemed to understand her more than anyone around her. As often as she could, Rachel would go to a quiet park in Saint-Sauveur-de-Montagut where she could imagine being back in the theater. She would take out her violin and prop it between her chin and shoulder, teasing from its strings the saddest notes in the world. Rachel would play for at least an hour, letting the music carry her far away until her fingers hurt and her heart calmed down. Then she would sit in silence, watching the play of the sun and shadows in the trees all around.
That day was different. Rachel was finishing her improvised concert when someone came up behind her and stopped to listen. Rachel was unaware of the presence; all of her senses were concentrated on the music, her true liberator. When the wind carried the final note out of the park, she heard a familiar voice.
“Rachel.”
At first she stood paralyzed. Had she imagined it?
“Rachel.”
The second time her name soared through the air, the girl turned and gazed at the woman standing in front of her. She dared not move for fear that the figure would vanish like a ghost.
“Mama?” she asked. When the figure nodded, Rachel yelled her mother’s name aloud again through tears, placed her violin down, and threw herself into the woman’s arms.
They said nothing for some time. Interlocked arms and faces pressed together, their skin nearly burning. That was enough. Then Chaja knelt to be on Rachel’s level. Both of their eyes were flooded with tears.
“Oh, my daughter, you’re here, you’re alive, you’re all right. It’s a miracle. My goodness, how you’ve grown. But why are you so thin?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” the child answered, happily letting her mother correct the mismatched buttons of her blouse and wipe a few stains from her face.
Chaja stood back and stared into Rachel’s eyes, which were Zelman’s. Chaja knew Zelman would never return. Her little girl no longer had a father. Chaja started crying all over again. Her ex-husband had been a good man. He was hardworking and honorable. He had not deserved to die like a despicable criminal.
The two of them walked hand in hand to the Merlands’ home. As soon as Mrs. Merland saw Chaja, she knew what was going to happen. She had known this day might come and was glad for Rachel’s sake, but Paulette would have loved for Rachel to stay with them forever.
“Thank you,” were the first words that Chaja said to the woman who had helped save her daughter’s life.
Paulette dried her hands, still soapy from washing dishes, on her apron and said, “Any woman would have done the same.”
Chaja climbed the stairs to the front door and held out her hands. Paulette took them and could not help but notice how dry and rough they were. Chaja’s hands had seen much harder work than what raising one daughter required.
“Thank you,” Chaja repeated.
Something between the two women broke open. In different ways, they were both mother to the same sweet, affectionate girl they loved so dearly. Rachel hugged them both at once. In that embrace, time slowed down and ceased its lurching. From then on for Rachel, minutes flowed into hours with the harmonious, rhythmic cadence life was meant to have: time in motion seasoned by love and peace.