CHARLOTTE
“Who’s ringing like that?” Maman looks over at me.
“I’ll go.” Turning away from the sink, I wipe my hands on the towel. The buzzer goes again and I hurry to the front door. The sound of a baby crying reaches my ears. I pause for a second before pulling the door open.
It’s Jean-Luc. Standing there in a Boche uniform. Holding a baby. My hand drops from the handle. I feel the blood drain from my face as my stomach lurches in disappointment. A baby! It must be his.
He pushes past me, closing the door behind him. “Charlotte, you have to help me!”
I stand there gaping. I don’t know how to ask him all the questions charging through my mind. Whose baby is it?
“It needs feeding!” His eyes dart around.
My tongue feels fat and heavy in my mouth. I will it to move, but no words form. Then I sense Maman bustling behind me.
“What’s going on?” She stares at Jean-Luc. “What are you doing here?”
He takes a step farther into our apartment, the baby crying more loudly now. “A woman at Drancy made me take her child. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Maman raises her voice. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“Please! It needs feeding. I had nowhere else to go.”
Maman turns to me, her voice brusque and businesslike. “Charlotte, run upstairs to Madame Deschamps on the fifth floor. She’s just had another baby. Ask her if she’ll feed this one.” She grabs my arm before I can move. “Don’t tell her about Drancy. Just say we found it on the steps of the old boulangerie.”
As I leave, I see her take the baby out of Jean-Luc’s arms. “Hide in the bedroom. She mustn’t see you.”
I hurry out through the door, my mind whirring away. He took a baby!
Breathless, I ring Madame Deschamps’ bell. Her small son opens the door.
“Is your mother home?”
He turns around, shouting, “Maman!”
“Oui,” I hear from the living room. “Who is it?”
He looks at me, a deep frown appearing on his little face.
“Just tell her it’s Charlotte from the third floor.” I don’t wait for him; instead I hurry straight through to the living room.
“Madame…”
“Hello, Charlotte.” She smiles at me from where she’s sitting in a large armchair, a baby asleep at her breast. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, not since you started working at the hospital. How are you?”
“I… I… We need your help. There’s a baby… It’s starving hungry. Can you feed it? Please?”
“What? What baby?”
“It was abandoned. In front of the old boulangerie.”
“I don’t know. It’s hard enough to feed the one I have.”
“We can give you our rations,” I say recklessly. “Please!”
“Okay, okay. Give me five minutes.”
I watch as she gently eases her own sleeping baby off her nipple and lays it down on the couch. “Laurent,” she says to her young son. “Keep an eye on your sister, will you?”
The boy nods solemnly, sitting down next to the infant.
I wait while Madame Deschamps buttons her blouse up. As we hurry down the stairs, we hear the baby wailing.
“Sounds very hungry to me. I hope I have enough milk.” She cups her breasts as though measuring their content. They don’t look very big to me, and I wonder how she’s going to manage it.
Maman comes out from the living room, the baby screaming in her arms. “Micheline. Merci. Can you help?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know if I have enough milk. I’ve just fed mine and I haven’t eaten yet today.”
“Charlotte, go and get some bread and that saucisson. Bring some water, too.”
When I come back with the supplies, Madame Deschamps is in Papa’s armchair, undoing her buttons. Maman passes her the baby. I stare as Madame Deschamps pushes its head inside her half-open blouse. But the crying continues, amid much squirming and struggling. She takes the baby away from her breast and looks at its shiny red face screwed up in anger. Then she lifts her breast up and pushes her nipple into its mouth. But the baby pulls away, screaming louder. Madame Deschamps sighs, looking at Maman with a raised eyebrow. “A right stubborn one you’ve got here,” she says.
“Please try again.” Maman’s voice trembles with anxiety.
I’m scared too. What if we can’t feed it? Will it die?
Madame Deschamps rocks the baby from side to side and I think she’s going to give up. Then humming softly this time, she tries again. Gradually the crying fades away, replaced by tiny sucking sounds. Relief washes over me; I turn to smile at Maman, but her eyes are fixed on the baby, her lips pursed. I can tell she’s trying to decide what to do next.
“Maman,” I whisper. “I said we’d give her our ration coupons.”
Sighing, she walks over to the desk, taking out the envelope we keep in the top drawer. She pulls out our tickets and hands them to Madame Deschamps.
“Poor little thing. I guess its parents were rounded up.” Madame Deschamps looks at Maman.
“I don’t know. We found it outside, on the doorstep of the old boulangerie.”
She tuts. “The things people are forced to do these days. It’s terrible.”
Maman nods, her eyes locking onto Madame Deschamps’. “Can you take him… her? I don’t even know what it is. Can you take the baby?”
“No!” Her tone is harsh. “I can’t take the risk, not with four of my own at home.” Her voice softens. “What if they’re looking for it?”
“A baby?” Maman frowns at her. “Why would they bother with a baby?”
Madame Deschamps lowers her voice. “What if it’s Jewish?” Then she pats the baby’s bottom. “I don’t think it’s been changed for a while. It’s wet through. And the poor thing has stopped feeding already. It’s asleep, but I don’t think it’s taken much.”
Maman looks over at me. “Charlotte, get a tea towel. I’ll change the diaper.”
“A tea towel?”
“Yes, it should do.”
When I come back with the tea towel, I see Maman sitting on the couch, leaning forward, talking in low tones to Madame Deschamps. I watch as she carefully takes the baby from her, laying it down on the floor. She pulls back the layers of wool that it’s wrapped in. It’s wearing a gray undergarment underneath. She undoes the buttons, peeling it back. Underneath, the skin appears almost translucent—lines of ribs shining through.
“God, he’s filthy. We’ll have to bathe him.” She pauses, wiping away the gooey yellow mess from around his private parts. “He hasn’t been circumcised.” She turns back toward Madame Deschamps. “Won’t you take him? Please. We could help you out.”
“No. I told you I can’t.” She pauses. “Why don’t you take him? Charlotte can help you.”
“We can’t!” Maman is abrupt.
“But Maman, we could!”
“No, Charlotte. It’s out of the question.”
“I could express some milk.” Madame Deschamps sounds sorry now.
“What about an orphanage?” I hesitate, noticing Maman and Madame Deschamps exchanging glances. “Couldn’t we leave him outside an orphanage?”
“He’d be dead within a week.” Madame Deschamps’ voice is a monotone.
Maman nods. “Orphanages are dangerous places at the moment. He’s malnourished already, and quite weak.” She turns back to me. “Go and fill the dishpan in the kitchen with warm water.”
I do as I’m told. It’s only half full when Maman comes into the kitchen, holding the baby. “I’ve sent Micheline back. She’s going to express some milk. It will be easier than trying to get ahold of cow’s milk, and probably better for him.”
“Please.” I try to keep the begging tone out of my voice. “Couldn’t we keep him? I’ll help you. You can show me what to do.”
“Charlotte, we can’t.” Her eyes glisten, and I hear the note of regret in her voice. “Don’t you realize that once they make the connection between you and Jean-Luc, they’ll come straight here. They might even send the Gestapo.”
“The Gestapo? No!”
“Yes. They’ll talk to the neighbors. I hope Micheline won’t say anything, but who knows what people might do when put under pressure.” She sighs. “We’re not safe anymore.” She pauses. “Thanks to Jean-Luc.”
A shiver runs down the back of my neck. He’s put our family in danger. “I’m sorry, Maman.” What if they send the Gestapo? What if they arrest us?
“Tell him to come out now. He needs to learn how to look after the baby. He can start by bathing him.”
“Jean-Luc,” I whisper as I open the bedroom door. “You can come out now.”
He shuffles out, his eyes downcast. “God, I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I didn’t know where else to go.”
I try to smile, but there’s a tight knot in my stomach. Thoughts of the Gestapo marching up our stairs fill my mind.
“His name’s Samuel.” Jean-Luc looks at me.
I nod. “Yes, we’ve just found out it’s a boy.”
When we go into the kitchen, Maman turns to Jean-Luc. “He needs washing,” she states. “I’ll show you how.”
She helps us bathe Samuel, then she makes Jean-Luc rub cold cream into the angry red skin on his legs. I watch as he dabs the cream on as though he’s scared to touch him. I know why Maman’s doing it—she wants to make him responsible. I watch her watching him, and I can see she’s furious with him, though she’s trying to stay calm. Men don’t know how to look after babies. What will he do?
Once the baby is clean and cushioned in the armchair, she turns to Jean-Luc. “Why are you wearing a Boche uniform?”
“It was the only way I could get out of the station.”
“How did you get it?” Maman’s tone is cold.
“I took the Boche’s pistol and made him give it to me. It was the only way.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“Only in the leg.”
“You should have killed him. Now you’ve left a witness. They’ll be after you.” Maman paces the room, looking down at him. “My husband will be back this afternoon. He can’t know about this.”
Jean-Luc nods. “If they’re looking for me, they’ll go to my place first. They won’t know I’m here.”
“How do you know you weren’t followed?” Maman frowns at him.
“I checked. There was no one near me.”
“But they know you met Charlotte in the hospital. It won’t take them long to make that connection. They could be here soon.” She frowns. “You have to leave. And you have to take the baby with you. They’ll know by now that you took him, and they’ll be looking for you. We can’t take the risk. We’ve already involved Micheline.” She continues to pace up and down the living room. “She’s the loose end that could get us caught. I’ll have to make up some story, but you know what people are like. She’ll talk.” She sighs. “I shouldn’t have asked her. I wasn’t thinking properly.”
“But Maman, we had to feed him. He was screaming. It’s not your fault.”
“Charlotte, don’t you see how we’ve compromised ourselves?”
“I’m sorry. I should never have come here.” Jean-Luc runs his hand through his hair.
Maman dismisses his apology with a shrug. “I don’t know how to cover our tracks now.” She leans over the armchair, looking at the baby. “What are you going to do?” She pauses, glancing back at Jean-Luc. “You must have a plan.”
I know that’s her way of saying she knows he doesn’t have one.
“Maman, please, we have to help him. Think of a way.”
I watch as her eyebrows come together. I peep over at the baby, calmly sleeping, as if the world were a peaceful place.
“Right,” Maman says decisively, looking at Jean-Luc. “I may be able to help. But you are never to repeat what I am about to tell you.”