SARAH
Samuel cries softly in his sleep. Sarah would love to roll over and fall back into a deep slumber. The healing power of sleep seems to have soothed her stomach cramps. But she knows her baby must be getting hungry, and she wants to feed him before his soft cries get any louder. It’s important that they make as little noise as possible, but it’s not only that. She can’t bear the thought of him crying. Suffering. It’s what scares her the most. She tries not to think about it, but she’s seen it happen. Babies, children wrenched from their mothers.
In the pitch black of the tiny room, she picks him up, shuffling herself into a sitting position. It’s so warm, she’s slept naked. With her finger she parts his lips, helping him find her nipple. He doesn’t latch on straightaway, but starts and stops, squirming, as though he’s frustrated. She’s still worried she doesn’t have enough milk.
How lucky she was to have a straightforward birth; only the pain was a shock. But how long will their luck last? They should have been safe in their apartment in the affluent residential 16th arrondissement. For goodness’ sake, no one even knew they were Jewish till they had to wear that damned yellow star, like a gaping wound, or a target. In retrospect, she wishes she hadn’t conformed, wishes she hadn’t worn it, but in some perverse way it would have felt like cowardice not to wear it. After all, she isn’t ashamed to be Jewish; it’s her heritage—where she came from. No one will ever be able to make her feel ashamed of that. So she sewed it on as ordered, and went out, her head held high. How naive she was. It immediately changed who she was. People looked at the star, and then at her.
The first time she took the Métro after the star had become obligatory, the controller spoke harshly to her. “Last carriage, mademoiselle.” So she got off at the next stop, moving back to the final carriage, swallowing the hard lump of self-pity in her throat.
A week later, her father was arrested for having stapled his star on instead of sewing it. He thought it would be easier to transfer it to other clothes that way. He was spotted by a soldier and sent straight to Drancy—no trial, no inquest, no chance of appeal. They received letters for the next six months, and they lovingly sent packages of food and words of support. Then nothing, and there was no trace of him, as though he’d never existed. She blinks back the tears that spring to her eyes every time she thinks of him.
Next to her, David doesn’t stir. He must be exhausted. But she’s so thirsty, and hungry too. Maybe that’s what’s stopping her milk from coming. “David,” she whispers. “David, are you awake?”
“No. Why?”
“Can you get me some water, please?”
“How’s Samuel?” he mumbles.
“He’s hungry, but I don’t think I’ve got enough milk.”
“Don’t worry. You will.” She feels him sit up. “I’ll get some water.”
“Thank you. I’m so thirsty.”
He takes the flashlight and leaves their little room.
Sarah feels like weeping as the baby squirms and moans, latching on one minute, coming off the next. What if she can’t feed him properly?
David comes back a few minutes later, handing her a large glass of water. “It’s three in the morning, you know. Our little boy has slept five hours. That’s pretty good for a newborn. The other good news is that they didn’t break all the glasses. Drink this while I go and have a little scavenge.”
Gratefully she gulps the water. She was so thirsty. That must have been what was wrong. Surely her milk will start coming in now.
While David is gone, she tries her best to relax, telling herself that they will be safe here, that this madness will be over soon, that one day life will return to normal. They just have to hang on a little longer.
David comes back and she hears the excitement in his voice. “Guess what I found?”
“What?”
“They had food stashed in the toilet tank.”
“Is it safe to eat?”
“Yes. It’s all conserves. Black currant jam, tuna, olives, pickled peppers.” He pauses, then, like a magician, produces a plate covered in food.
Together they share the odd assortment. “I love tuna with black currant jam.” Sarah squeezes his hand. “Thank you. I don’t know why we never tried it before.”
While she tucks into the food, she holds the baby on her nipple with one hand, but she stops worrying about him feeding. After a while, she realizes he’s stopped squirming, and she can tell he’s swallowing. He’s drinking. Leaning back against the wall, she enjoys this new sensation as she feels her milk coming in. Everything is going to be all right.
Later, she dozes off, fully content and with a full stomach for a change.
She must be in a deep sleep, because she dreams someone is tapping at the window, begging to be let in. She’s just about to open the window when she wakes up.
There is a tapping. But it’s not coming from the window. Her pulse jumps. It’s coming from the cupboard wall.
“David!” she whispers urgently, shaking him awake.
“What is it?”
“Shh. Listen. Someone’s out there.”
He goes silent. Sarah can almost see his ears prick up.
She squeezes his arm tight. There it is again. A soft tapping. Three short taps, followed by one longer one.
“It’s Jacques.” David reaches out to open the door, while Sarah lets out the breath she’s been holding.
“It’s okay,” Jacques whispers. “The coast is clear. You can come out.”
Jacques has brought them supplies; mostly food, a few undergarments for the baby, and some diapers. “My wife wanted me to bring more, but I couldn’t carry too much in case I was stopped.” He pauses. “You’ll have to move again tomorrow.”
“Why?” David frowns. “It would be good for Sarah to rest for a few days.”
“I know, but it’s too risky. I’m worried we have a traitor among our group. The Boches are finding our safe houses too quickly, too easily. I can’t help thinking someone’s giving them tip-offs. Only myself and two other people I trust know that you’re here, so you should be all right. But it’s safer for you to move.” He smiles. “And this time, I have a house for you in the country. It’s out in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Not too far, but you’ll have to go by car. I’m getting it organized. You just need to be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon.”
David puts his hand on Jacques’ shoulder. “Thank you, Jacques. We’ll never forget what you’ve done for us.”
Jacques doesn’t say a word; he just covers David’s hand with his own.