CHARLOTTE
“I’d like you to meet him.” I knew it was crazy, but if I was going to run away with him, I’d like them to at least know I was running away with a good man.
Maman stared hard at me. “It’s not the right time, Charlotte.”
“I can’t change the time! I didn’t start this war!”
“Charlotte, that’s enough. We can’t have him for lunch. You know we barely have enough food for the three of us, let alone another.”
“That’s okay, Maman. He can come for a fake coffee in the afternoon; we can pretend it’s goûter.”
“Maybe he’ll bring something.” Papa turned around in his chair. “I bet he has contacts, a young lad like that, working at Drancy. He must know how to get hold of stuff.” The word “collabo” wasn’t mentioned, but it hung there, unspoken.
I’d known they wouldn’t want him for lunch and had wisely told Jean-Luc to come at four. No one ever had anything to do at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, and Clothilde didn’t work on Sundays. My invitation had surprised him, and after he’d accepted, it surprised me too. It was an impulsive idea, and I must admit I was beginning to question my motive. Was I trying to prove something to my parents? Show them that I was no longer their little girl? Or maybe I just wanted to annoy them by bringing home a railroad worker, knowing full well the importance they put on education and class.
“It would only be polite to bring something,” Papa continued, interrupting my thoughts. “I expect he’ll be wanting to impress us.”
All they ever thought about was food. Food. Food. Food. Weren’t there more important things at stake here? I turned my back on them both, wandering over to the kitchen sink, looking out the window into the courtyard.
“Why was he sent to a German hospital?” Maman spoke to my back.
“I don’t know.” I turned around. “Probably because he’s working at Drancy.”
Papa pursed his lips.
“I’m working at a German hospital, aren’t I? What’s the difference?”
“Less of that tone, Charlotte.” Maman looked at me with narrowed eyes.
Jean-Luc came on the dot at four o’clock, the buzzer making my heart race and my stomach churn. Papa opened the door, shaking hands formally. Maman stood there, her arms folded across her chest.
He held his hand out to her while I held my breath.
Slowly she unfolded her arms, extending a hand toward him. Then he turned to me, and I held my hand out before he could kiss me on the cheek. It felt ridiculously formal, but I didn’t want him to kiss me in front of my parents. I caught his smile and felt my cheeks redden as I smiled back.
For a few seconds we stood there as though we weren’t sure what we were supposed to do next. Then Jean-Luc opened his bag. “I’ve brought something.” He rummaged through it, finally lifting up a package wrapped in newspaper. “Saucisson.”
The atmosphere immediately lightened. The saucisson didn’t look so great to me—pinky gray and shriveled—but Maman’s eyes lit up as she took it from him, putting it away for later.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
Papa laughed loudly. “Coffee! It’s ground acorn, like it is for everyone else.” He turned toward Jean-Luc. “Let’s go and sit in the living room. Bring the coffee in, Béatrice.”
I followed them into the living room, leaving Maman to prepare the drink. Papa settled down into his armchair, while Jean-Luc and I sat on the couch. I dismissed the urge to take his hand, instead looking at Papa to see how he was going to start the conversation. But he leaned back in his armchair as though distancing himself. Jean-Luc leaned forward.
“Charlotte took great care of me in the hospital,” he said.
Papa took a moment to reply. “Yes. She told me you had an accident.” He paused. “At Drancy.”
“Coffee.” Maman walked into the room holding a tray with three cups and some kind of biscuit I didn’t know we had. I couldn’t help wondering why she wanted to impress him, but I decided to take it as a good sign.
“Merci, madame.” Jean-Luc took his cup and saucer and a thin biscuit. “Yes,” he continued. “I’ve been working at Drancy for… for two months now.” He looked down at his feet, his cup balanced on his leg. Slowly he took a sip, looking at me over the top of the cup.
“You’re a railroad worker.” Papa’s words sounded like an accusation rather than a question.
“Yes, and I’m a nursing assistant.” I blurted the words out before thinking, but I hated the thought of them making him feel inferior.
“We know that, Charlotte.” Maman’s voice was soft and quiet, as though she were talking to a child. “Everyone has to do what they can in times of war.” She turned to Jean-Luc. “How did the accident happen?”
“I was working on one of the lines when a crowbar flew up, hitting me in the face. And when I fell, I broke my leg.” He paused. “It was a stupid accident.”
Papa raised an eyebrow as if in agreement about that.
“Yes.” Maman looked at him. “That’s quite a scar you have there.”
His hand flew to it, touching its puckered edges. I imagined its roughness under my fingertips.
“How long have you been working for the SNCF?” Papa lifted his cup to his lips. I hoped he was going to be nice.
“Since I was fifteen.”
“You left school at fifteen then?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Before the baccalauréat?”
“Yes.” Jean-Luc looked away.
I felt embarrassed about Papa’s insinuation—leaving school before the baccalauréat meant one was condemned to a life of manual labor or menial work. An awkward silence filled the room.
“So.” Papa put his cup back down. “What do you do at Drancy?”
I cringed and glanced over at Jean-Luc. His face reddened.
“I help maintain the lines.”
Papa coughed and Maman looked down at her drink. More silence followed. I searched in my head for a way to break it.
“Jean-Luc says there are lots of trains leaving from Drancy.” I looked at Papa. He raised an eyebrow. “They’re deporting the prisoners from there,” I continued.
Papa stared at me with stony eyes. Maman froze, her cup midair, and Jean-Luc shunted along the couch toward me. The atmosphere grew thick.
“Charlotte is right.” Jean-Luc broke the silence. “Many trains are leaving now. Sometimes with a thousand prisoners on board.”
“A thousand?” Papa paused. “On one train?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“How can they possibly get a thousand on one train?”
Jean-Luc shrugged his shoulder. “They must pack them in.”
Maman continued to look down at her fake coffee. I knew only too well how she hated this kind of conversation.
“Where are they taking them?”
“Somewhere in the east, I think.”
Papa blinked. “Well, they’ve been arresting thousands, and they must be deporting them somewhere. The east would make sense. Poland, I imagine.”
“Yes, most likely.” Jean-Luc glanced at me. “But what happens to them?”
“What happens to them?” Papa frowned.
“Yes. I know they are crammed in cattle cars, standing room only.” Jean-Luc’s voice took on a more assertive tone, and I felt anxious about the direction the conversation was turning so quickly. “And I’ve seen… I’ve seen the platform after the trains have left. It’s… it’s a mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are things… things that belonged to them—books, hats, suitcases, children’s toys. I think they must have to force them onto the trains—”
“Children’s toys?” Papa interrupted.
Maman frowned at him. “You know they’re taking the children too.” She paused, looking at me. “Remember the huge round-up when they took whole families to the Vélodrome d’Hiver, nearly two years ago now?”
Papa put his cup down on the tray and leaned back in his chair again. I looked over at Jean-Luc, hoping to make eye contact, but he was staring down.
“Bien,” Maman started. “I hope this winter will be over soon.”
Jean-Luc looked up with his cup halfway to his mouth. “It’s an awful job.” He put the cup back into its saucer. “I don’t know if I can keep doing it.”
My heart beat hard against my ribs. I hadn’t wanted him to be that honest—that direct with them.
Papa whispered, “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m aiding the Boches in their work, aren’t I? I’m helping them deport people to God knows where, just because they’re Jewish.”
“Why? Why did they make it a crime?” I blurted out, wanting to break the tension.
Papa looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “They’ve been taking jobs from French citizens. And they tried to control our economy, just like they did in Germany.”
“That’s not even true!” Jean-Luc put his cup on the table with a thud, brown liquid sloshing up. “It’s all propaganda.”
“Who are we to know? Are you a politician? Do you understand economics?” Papa paused, staring coldly at Jean-Luc. “You’re just a laborer.”
“I know wrong when I see it.” Jean-Luc glared back at him.
“Do you? And what are you going to do about it then, young man?”
“I have a few ideas.”
Papa sat up straight. “Listen, lad.” His tone was firm. “You just have to knuckle down and get on with it. You have no choice. None of us do.”
Maman reached out, touching Papa’s elbow, a sign that he should calm down.
“Don’t we?” Jean-Luc glanced at me. “I think we always have a choice. It’s just that it’s a difficult one sometimes.”
“Don’t give me that. Right now, we have no choice. We’re trapped. But this war won’t last forever. It’s not going well for Germany. Just keep doing what you’re told to do.”
“Is that what I should do?” He stood up. “Do you think I should just stick it out, while they deport and probably murder thousands of our compatriots?” His voice grew louder. “Do you think that’s what I should do?”
Papa stood too, his face turning red. “That’s enough! I don’t like your tone.”
My heart froze. He had totally alienated them.
“Well, I don’t like what’s going on. And I don’t like sitting back doing nothing, just grateful that I’m not Jewish.” He paused, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry you don’t agree with what I have to say.”
Papa faced him, drawing his shoulders back. “I think you’d better leave now.”
My heart pounded as though it were the only functioning organ in my body. Terrified that this would be it, that I would never see him again, I stood up too, my knees trembling. I threw my arms around his neck, afraid that if I let go, I would tumble down.
“Charlotte!” Maman shouted.
Quickly I whispered in his ear, “Don’t go anywhere without me.”
Papa’s hand landed on my shoulder, pulling me away from him.
I watched in silence as Jean-Luc left. He hadn’t answered me.