CHARLOTTE
They’re watching me all the time. They call it surveillance, but it feels more like house arrest. They’re not the only ones. I sometimes see Marge at her kitchen window, twitching the curtains. A young officer sits outside the house in his blue-and-white car for the whole neighborhood to see. No wonder no one calls anymore. He’s a few years younger than me, recently married, with a new baby; hence the gray bags under his eyes. Polite and unimposing, he keeps a respectful distance between us, as if he’s embarrassed to be checking up on me like this. He’s just doing his job.
I decide to invite him in for a coffee. I want him to know I’m just a normal mother, and not some anonymous face. Also, I might learn something from him about the trial. I walk out to his car with a straight back and my head held high.
He steps out when he sees me coming, smoothing down his crumpled pants and straightening his cap. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
“Good morning…”
“John,” he fills in for me.
“Good morning, John. I was wondering if you’d like to come in for a coffee.”
“I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”
“I see.” I look at him, noticing the slight tremor in his hands as he straightens his cap again. “What do you think I’m going to do? Lock you up in my house and run away?”
He laughs. It’s a high-pitched, nervous laugh and he covers it up by coughing, rolling his hand into a manly fist as he brings it up in front of his mouth.
“I’ve got some homemade cookies too,” I say, turning back toward the house.
As I guessed, he doesn’t want to appear rude, so he follows me in. When he enters the house, he removes his cap and moves his hands to the edge of it, letting it glide through his fingers, around and around, again and again.
“Come through to the kitchen.”
He watches as I put the coffee beans in the grinder, turning the handle.
“Wow.” He smiles. “Real coffee.”
“Yes, we like our coffee.”
There’s a minute’s silence, then he coughs again.
“Don’t worry about checking up on me like this.” I want to put him at ease. “You’re just doing your job.”
“Yeah, it’s not the most interesting bit. I prefer to be out and about.” He pats his stomach as though he’s already put on pounds sitting out in the car for all of three days now.
“Any news on the trial?” I try to sound casual.
“No, but don’t worry. It will be quick, as it concerns the welfare of a minor.”
“A minor?” I frown. Sam’s the major person in this whole trial.
“Yes, since a child’s welfare is concerned, it will have top priority.”
“But once they understand that Jean-Luc didn’t kidnap him, that he saved him, they’ll stop the trial, won’t they? They can’t really charge him with kidnapping, surely?”
“Mrs. Beauchamp, I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.”
I’ve made him uncomfortable. He’s sipping his coffee, though it’s still too hot to drink. I bet he can’t wait to get back to his car.
“I’m sorry, of course you don’t.” I take a deep breath. “How’s your baby?” I ask.
“Swell. He’s a great little guy. Don’t seem to like to sleep much, though.”
“Oh dear. We never had any trouble with Sam. He always slept well.”
“Guess you were lucky.”
“Yeah,” I continue. “He loved his sleep and his food. What we call a bon vivant in France. He was such an easy, happy baby. We really were lucky.”
“Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Beauchamp.” He puts his cup down decisively and stands up.
When I accompany him to his car, I see the mailman cycling away. Silently I pray there’ll be a letter in the mailbox from Jean-Luc. This waiting is killing me. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. I’m barely functioning. I look across the street at Marge’s house. I’ve thought about going over there, telling her the truth, but somehow I don’t think she’ll be ready to listen now. It’s funny how all the friendly faces of the neighborhood have evaporated into thin air. I had hoped that one of my so-called friends would come over to ask for my side of the story. The chance to explain, even if they didn’t understand, would have helped. But the curtains are closed at the kitchen windows, and no one’s in their yards these days.
When I open the latch at the back of the mailbox, I see one thin letter. Quickly I pull it out, staring at the postmark. France. I rip it open.
My dearest Sam, my darling Charlotte,
The two of you are everything to me—my home, my love, my life. Every day I thank the stars above that you came into my life. The past nine years have been more than I ever dared hope for, and they have brought me more happiness than I ever deserved.
Sam, through your eyes I have seen the world in its brightest, most beautiful colors. You have taught me so much: that we are born good, that life is worth living, worth fighting for. That we always have a choice. The best choice I ever made was you. Taking you was the best thing I ever did.
Your mother will have told you your story by now. It’s a special story, for a very special boy. You are brave and courageous, and even though difficult times lie ahead, I have faith in you. You are stronger than you realize.
Once we escaped to America, both your mother and I fell in love with you, and we didn’t look for your real parents. Please forgive us for this.
Charlotte, you gave me faith in myself, I became a better man because of you. Now, you must be clear that this is all my doing, my fault. You had no part in it. Remember how I didn’t let you talk, how I wouldn’t let you speak of the past. I said it was all behind us, that I would build a new life for us here in America. You wanted to tell the truth about our story, but I wouldn’t let you. Remember that through all this, you are innocent.
Stay safe, for Sam.
All my love, forever,
Jean-Luc
The idiot! He wants to take all the blame, when it was my fault. When it was I who refused to go to the authorities. I’d fallen in love with Sam and was worried that one of those Jewish organizations would take him away from us to “repatriate” him. I had terrifying visions of him being adopted by a Jewish family in Israel. I knew it had happened to children who were hidden in the war and whose parents had been killed. I convinced Jean-Luc that we couldn’t take the risk—that Sam was better off with us, believing he belonged to us, because I couldn’t have lived without him.