JEAN-LUC
“Drancy. So tell us what you did there.” Jackson pulls out a chair and flops into it, his long legs stretching out in front of him. Jean-Luc studies him. His protruding forehead and thin nose give him a predatory air. And now it looks like he’s homing in on his prey.
“I was a railroad worker. I’d been working for the SNCF since I was fifteen.”
“The French national railway?”
“Yes.”
“Which was taken over by the Nazis.”
“Yes.”
“So you were working for the Nazis at Drancy.”
“Not exactly.” He pauses, scratching his head. Is this what they want from him—a confession that he was another Nazi whore? “I had no choice. I was sent there. None of us wanted to be there.”
“I bet!” Jackson leans forward, looking into his eyes. “I bet the Jews especially didn’t want to be there. Did you know they were taking them to a death camp?”
“No.”
Bradley sighs. “Had you heard the words ‘death camp’ before?”
“No! Never!” Jean-Luc takes a breath, giving himself a minute to prepare his answer. “Though it was clear to me that many of the prisoners would die on the train or once they arrived at their destination.”
“But you’re saying you didn’t know the prisoners were being sent to a death camp?”
He doesn’t blink or move a muscle. He’s trying to work out the difference between knowing and understanding. He puts his fingers against the space between his eyebrows, trying to ease the pounding in his head.
“Did you know Auschwitz was a death camp?” Jackson insists, his voice growing in volume.
“No! I didn’t know.”
They look at him coldly. He can tell they don’t believe him. They hate him without knowing him.
Jackson stands up abruptly. “Mr. Bow-Champ, is there something else you’d like to tell us?”
Jean-Luc’s pulse rate increases. What do they know? Jackson’s got his beady eye on him, but Jean-Luc concentrates on keeping his face blank.
“So, nothing to say.” Jackson turns to nod at Bradley. “Our investigation is still open. We have to ask you to remain in the state of California in case we need to call you in for further questioning. You are free to go for now.”
Jean-Luc’s heart beats fast and hard as they accompany him down the corridor, up the stairs, and out the double front doors. When they deposit him outside, he takes a deep breath, savoring the taste of freedom. Everything will be all right.
He wishes he’d asked if he could call Charlotte, get her to pick him up, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to think of such practicalities. Maybe a bus will come along soon. Impatience runs through his veins, telling him he’s done enough waiting. He decides to forget about the money and takes a cab, going straight to work. He’s already missed more than half a day.
He phones Charlotte from work in the early evening. She picks up straightaway, anxiety ringing out in her rushed way of talking. “Thank goodness it’s you. What happened? What did they want?”
“Don’t worry, I’m at work now, but I have to stay late to make up the time. Let’s talk when I get home.”
“When will you be back?”
“Not till about eight.”
“Okay. I’ll keep some dinner warm for you.”
When the cab drops him off outside his house at 8:30, he suppresses the urge to run up the path. Someone might be watching. Once the front door clicks shut behind him, he breathes a sigh of relief. He stands there for a minute savoring the smell of lemons and rosemary. Home.
Charlotte steps out of the living room. “What happened? What did they want?” The words leap from her mouth. She doesn’t even say hello.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!”
He looks at her, eyes aching with fatigue.
“But what did they say?” she goes on.
“Nothing really. They just asked me questions about what I was doing at Bobigny.”
“Nothing about…”
“No. Nothing.”
“But what will happen if they find out?”
“They won’t. It’s virtually impossible.”
“Virtually!” Putting her hands into her hair, she scrunches it up in tight fists, closing her eyes. Then suddenly they’re open again, pupils expanding into pools of black. “Virtually means it’s possible. Possible!” Her hushed shouting becomes louder.
He takes a step toward her, reaching out with his open hands, wanting to calm her. “Shh, Charlotte. Is Sam asleep?”
Looking toward the stairs, she nods.
“Come into the living room.” He puts an arm out for her.
She avoids his arm, but follows him into the living room.
He sees the tumbler sitting on top of the cupboard. “Did you have a drink?” It comes out like an accusation. He wishes he hadn’t said anything, and tries to defuse the tension. “I think I’ll have one too. Do you want another?”
“No!”
He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out the Southern Comfort. As he unscrews the lid, she stands behind him.
“We should have told them. We should have told them when we first got here. It’s all my fault.”
“Charlotte, please.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? We’ve had to live a lie. And now someone’s going to find out. I just know it.”
“Of course they won’t. Who’s going to be interested after all this time? Nine years later.”
The last thing he needs right now is an argument; his nerves are still raw. He sighs, taking a large gulp of his drink. When he looks up again, he sees Sam in the doorway. He looks so small, so vulnerable, standing there in his pajamas.
“Sam.” He holds out his hand.
“What’s the matter? Where were you?” Sam rubs his eyes.
“Everything’s okay. I just needed to help with an investigation. Come here.” Jean-Luc opens his arms.
But Sam remains where he is.
Walking over to him, Jean-Luc crouches down to his level, talking in a soft, calm voice. “It’s okay, Sam. The men who came this morning wanted to ask me some questions. That’s all.”
“But what about?”
“Just stuff that happened a long time ago.”
“What stuff?” It doesn’t look like Sam’s ready to drop the subject yet.
“About what happened before you were born, during the war.”
Sam frowns. “What happened?” There it was. The question. From his own child’s lips.
“You don’t need to know, Sam.” Jean-Luc pauses. “On ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur.”
“What, Daddy?”
“‘You only see well with the heart.’ It’s from Le Petit Prince—The Little Prince. You remember, that book we gave you last year, for your eighth birthday.”
“Can you read it to me? You didn’t read to me tonight.”
Jean-Luc nods, blinking back tears.