“And no one lifts a finger.”

  “Only a fist. People never lack the strength, only the will.” He puts his arms behind his back, as if restraining himself from an untidy show of emotion.

  Her stomach clenches for not going next door Sunday night when the cobbler’s shop was attacked, having begged off by saying she had Frédéric to care for. Only André and Monsieur Durand helped Samuel and his family fight the fire and slip away in the night, the other neighbours rendered deaf and blind, sudden as a clap of thunder.

  She’d been unable to move, her body heavy as a bag filled with wet sand. She was painfully reminded of the fire in the pâtisserie when she was a girl—the old oven ignited, trapping her family by the flames that engulfed the stairs. Mireille vividly remembers how her father carried her down them, then went up for her mother. On their way back, a step crumbled, and they plummeted the rest of the way. Mireille’s father broke his ankle, and her mother couldn’t breathe from the smoke and was so disoriented she tried to go upstairs again. While her father soon healed, her mother had a stubborn cough that hastened her to her death at age thirty-nine. Not long after, Mireille’s father died from no specific cause, as though without his wife, he gave up living.

  When Mireille asks herself what the Samuels could’ve done to deserve what happened to them, she can only come up with one sorry, despicable answer: They’re Jews. A reason so arbitrary it makes her question people’s sanity.

  “At least someone had the decency to board it up.” She looks over at the Samuels’ shop again. “Not that there’s anything left to take.”

  “They were our neighbours.” Monsieur Durand pushes his glasses up on his nose, and his sharp blue eyes appear larger and more sorrowful.

  Mireille searches his face, but his dignified demeanour reveals nothing. Then she understands and nods. It’s just like him to do that and not tell anyone. She feels tears forming. His selflessness rises in contrast with her sinking lack of it.

  Monsieur Durand gallantly switches the subject. “How’s business?” Mireille tips her head from side to side. “It’ll change,” he assures her. “Up. Down. These are the times. Never mind. We have perseverance.”

  “More than a lifetime’s worth.” She dilutes her words with a self-pitying sigh.

  “That is how we triumph, no?”

  She gives this sentiment a smile and peers through the window at Frédéric playing on the floor with his ball, the large pot, and now some pastry boxes. He’s their petit cadeau, the only gift she and André ever wanted and will ever need: their beautiful boy.

  Two German soldiers on patrol walk towards them, rifles across their backs. They stop to look in the chapellerie, and grin at the selection of hats like they’re ready to trade in their field caps for fedoras. Pedestrians bustle over to the other side of the street.

  Monsieur Durand whispers, “Now there’s the true pestilence.”

  The soldiers nod to them as they pass.

  The butcher’s son, cigarette dangling from his mouth, his mop of blond hair falling over one eye, bursts out of his father’s shop and loudly sings La Marseillaise.

  Mireille’s neck tightens and she can feel a scowl cloud her face. He’s being reckless—he has to be drinking. And at this hour! She tries to warn him not to be stupid, but nothing comes out except a peep of a moan.

  The Germans stop and look over at him with puzzled indifference. The butcher hobbles out and drags his son back in. With barely a raised eyebrow between them, the soldiers continue down the street.

  Mireille shudders. It beggars belief how Gilles hasn’t gotten himself killed. Had he been drunk last night? It’s a miracle he didn’t fall out of the bell tower.

  “Oh! Madame Monchamp!” Monsieur Durand cries out.

  They look up the street to his librairie where a portly older woman is waiting, dressed more formally than the time of day warrants. Even from where they’re standing, they can see impatience painted on her face and her tapping a book against her palm as if counting the seconds she’s been there.

  “She browses for hours and never buys a thing,” Monsieur Durand says in a hushed tone, although the woman’s too far to hear. “I would be better off selling pencils on a street corner.” The bookseller pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is solemn as a eulogy. “Your parents would be proud to see you fighting to stay open.”

  Mireille bows her head and sweeps dried leaves into the gutter. Those words are the ones she most desires to hear. The old man shifts, and Mireille knows he didn’t intend to invoke such a reaction. He touches the brim of his hat, and heads back to his bookstore.

  She’s grateful he’s in their lives. Monsieur Durand has come to their aid more times than she can remember, often financially, even though taking money from him bothers André to no end. “For Frédéric’s sake,” the old man implores, and they relent, sometimes too readily. Their friend can be counted on, his discretion inviolable.

  If he suspects what she’s been up to, he hasn’t said anything to her.

  Mireille opens the door to go back in when the rattle of horse’s hooves on the cobbles and the discordant creaking of a cart causes her to freeze. What’s left of her smile dissolves.

  The florist slinks into his shop and shuts the door. Madame Bujold closes the shutters with a decisive bang. Shopkeepers along the street poke their heads out, then slam their doors and lock them. Customers scurry away.

  Mireille remains motionless, unable to look away from the horse and cart coming towards her.

  The door behind her swings in and music spills out, but it can’t silence the bone-rattling scream of a man crying out in pain.

  THREE

  Same Day

  Afternoon

  In Saint-Léry d’Espoir’s place de ville, dozens of townspeople, mostly women with baskets, ration books at the ready, line up under a sign announcing beurre - oeufs - fromage.

  André darts across the square and joins the queue.

  Mireille used to handle buying ingredients, but when the war began, suppliers faded away, and then Frédéric was born, it became André’s chore to scrounge for what he could.

  Venturing out is pure necessity—he hates being away from the shop for any length of time. The contradiction isn’t lost on him. It wasn’t that long ago when his younger self thought his world was much too small and confining and continuing to shrink. Now the world seems too large and expansive—he’s only truly at ease in his own little corner. He thanks God every night as he falls asleep for having all the world he needs in Mireille, Frédéric, and the pâtisserie.

  When a handful of customers exit, more push their way in, and André is swept along with them. He squeezes over to the shelf where the butter’s supposed to be. It’s empty. He removes his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. Now what? Everywhere he went looking for supplies has proven to be a waste of time. Last Friday, he overheard the fishmonger say with a laugh soon they’ll have to ration the rations. Too absorbed with finding ingredients and thinking the man was telling another of his fishy tales, at first André missed the joke.

  A cluster of women are arguing with the shopkeeper, a large, affable man with an overwhelmingly bushy moustache whose name André can’t remember. Today the man undermines his usual cheerful disposition by feigning being devastated.

  “Tragic. Completely tragic. I’ve been let down again. There are no words, Mesdames. But tomorrow... Certainly by week’s end.”

  “You swore that to us every day this week, Monsieur.” A tiny woman folds her arms, and disregarding both their sizes, plants herself solidly in front of him, blocking any escape the poor man might be considering. “And the week before!”

  “There’s still some cheese, Madame.” The shopkeeper nervously tries to appease their anger, his lips appearing and disappearing through the curtain of facial hair. André smiles. The man does right to fear for his safety. Who knows what vengeance women with baskets hand out?

  “We’ve already used our tickets for cheese,” spits another woman. She holds a basket larger than anyone else’s. André marvels at her optimism. Or is it foolishness? What does she plan to fill it with?

  “We need milk.” The woman shoves her oversized basket at the shopkeeper, who sputters and frantically looks around for help as more women surround him.

  André pushes his way out of the shop and drags himself across the square. Why bother arguing? It won’t make food appear.

  A sickly looking man stops André as he passes by. He leans in conspiratorially and shows André a few dirty ration books. “For what you can give me,” he whispers with a raspy voice. “Anything.”

  André reads the desperation on his face, etched raw and deep as though by acid. When André shakes his head, the man’s eyes drop and his shoulders slump. The ration book is probably all he has of value to sell. For what reason, God only knows. A doctor? Medicine? He must be in such despair he’ll give up eating. André deliberates whether to agree to the proposition, knowing it means taking food from the man’s mouth to feed his own.

  He digs a hand in his pocket and pulls out a few coins—all he has—and passes them over. As the man coughs his gratitude, still offering the ration book, André walks on, listless as a wounded animal. He can hear his father chiding him: “Kindness to strangers is always repaid by lashes from a whip.”

  André’s mouth sets into a tight line, and he picks up his pace. He vowed long ago he’d never inherit any of the cynicisms his father spouts.

  He stops dead. Damn! Now he has no money to buy Frédéric a cadeau. He’ll have to make a treat for his son with whatever’s left at home.

  Outside the gendarmerie, André crosses the street and is almost hit by a truck covered with canvas. He jumps back and breathes out in relief as the vehicle brakes beside the station. Two gendarmes climb out of the cab, and two more exit from the back. Other passersby stop to watch the police pull out three badly beaten men.

  A bald man smelling of stale beer stops beside André to gawk at the goings-on playing out in the sun’s glare. “Black marketeers,” he offers, without anyone asking. “Maudits salauds! They won’t haggle their way out of the embrace of Madame La Guillotine.” When the men are herded into the station, the man shrugs, and walks away with the air of someone who’s bored by having seen it one too many times before.

  Now the gendarmes are out of sight, a teenage boy lopes to the truck and climbs in. He emerges moments later with bags of flour and sugar, holding them above his head in triumph to the applause and cheers of the gathering crowd. But as he leaps out, he drops a sugar bag and it breaks open, covering the cobblestones in white. Without even a glance of regret at what he’s lost, the boy sprints away, clutching what’s left against his chest for dear life.

  Envy floats in André like a dead fish. If only he could be so bold.

  An old woman runs over with surprising agility and scoops up the loose sugar into the fold of her dress. As if on cue, the other onlookers swarm the truck. It’s chaos. Each of them fights for possession of the marketeers’ bounty. Some emerge victorious as the boy, arms full of goods, but it’s short-lived when others snatch it from them.

  André edges towards the vehicle. He rubs his bottom lip with his thumb. God expects everyone to be glad for what they have, even if it’s next to nothing. But as fervently as André believes this, his steps quicken. In an instant, he climbs up and disappears inside the truck.

  When André reappears, he’s carrying blocks of butter, but has to fight to keep them because of people trying to rip them from his grasp, not much different from feral dogs fighting over a carcass. He shoulders his way past them and jumps to the ground.

  Three gendarmes race out of the station and start yanking people from the truck, letting them fall unceremoniously to the street like sacks of potatoes. The policemen are overwhelmed by the throng, until one gendarme takes out his pistol and shoots in the air.

  The crowd scatters.

  André runs, but stumbles on an uneven cobblestone, and drops all the blocks of butter except one. He tries to retrieve them, but the mob tramples them in their panic to get away. André stares at the lost ingredient in spite of being bumped and jostled, cursing under his breath.

  •

  Carrying the only block of butter he saved, André makes his way home feeling ruined. Every so often, he looks behind, worrying gendarmes will materialize to arrest him for his crime. He grips the packet so tightly, his fingers dig into its mushy contents.

  When André sees the modest spire of Saint-Joachim, his anxiety evaporates. He turns the corner to the pâtisserie, and his mouth goes dry. The door’s wide open and Frédéric is chasing his bouncing ball towards the street.

  André rushes over and folds his arms around his son. “Making a break for it, I see.” He holds Frédéric to him for a moment, thankful there were no motorcars or trucks just then. The boy has never wandered outside on his own before. Frédéric points to the open door and makes an excited noise.

  “Yes. Yes. We’ll see what your maman has for our meal.” André retrieves the ball, and carries his son inside.

  The shop’s empty. André puts Frédéric down and the boy goes back to playing: he drops the ball with a thump, and when it lazily rolls away, he patters after it and picks it up. The only other noise is from upstairs: the rhythmic clicking of the gramophone needle against the record’s label.

  Leaving the butter on the worktable, André crosses to the stairs. “Mireille?” No reply. Then more loudly: “Mireille?” Nothing.

  He’s about to go up and switch off the gramophone when the sounds of the ball hitting the floor and Frédéric’s running feet stop. André turns and is startled to see his son holding out the red ball to a woman crouching behind the display case.

  What in God’s...

  “May I help you?” André has never seen her before. Is she a customer who’s fallen? Has Mireille gone for help? The hair on his arms stand up. It makes no sense for this woman to be cowering there on the floor, nothing more than a crumpled pile of clothes.

  She turns her body, an arm stretched protectively across her chest. She’s gaunt and pale and is wearing a faded and torn grey work uniform. A dirty rag covers her hair, and her face is streaked with grime. Under one eye, there’s a yellow and purple bruise, and dried flakes of blood ring her nostrils.

  “Is something— Are you hurt?” When the woman doesn’t answer, André moves to help her up, but she flinches and shifts away from him. “I’m sorry. I don’t...” He’d never hurt her—how can she think such a thing? “My wife’s supposed to...” He stops. What’s the point of telling her about Mireille? That if he has a wife, somehow it will reassure her he’s a good person? How can you prove to someone you don’t know what’s in your heart?

  He’s at a loss what to do. Call the gendarmes? They’d only overreact and end up dragging her out kicking and screaming. Mireille would never forgive him if he lets that happen. For a second he considers throwing the woman out himself, and his skin goes clammy. How is that any better than what the gendarmes will do? Mireille won’t think much of that, either.

  André watches Frédéric pad over to the stairs and plop down on the bottom step, his eyes riveted on the stranger.

  “It’s all right,” André says gently to her as though talking to a child. He realizes that’s wrong, too.

  She lifts her head, her eyes swollen in fear. To emphasize he isn’t a threat, André takes a step back and raises the palms of his hands to her in surrender. After a moment, she slowly stands, but falters and reaches for the display case to steady herself.

  André spots the yellow badge she’s been hiding—a Star of David with juif written on it.

  “No! You can’t be here.” She has to go. André bounds to the front door and opens it.

  Across the street, the butcher and the florist are outside the boucherie, and when they see him, they stop talking. Nosey bastards. André quickly shuts the door.

  “You have to leave. This way.” He pulls open the side door, and hurries back to her. “Go down the alley and—”

  The woman whimpers, crouches again, and covers her head. Her reaction stops André cold. His throat closes and he starts to sweat.

  Why did she pick this shop? The flower shop is more charming; the butcher’s more popular; and in the bread shop, Monsieur Sylvestre gives away samples like a Pigalle prostitute does syphilis.

  “I-I just want you to...” André turns to the door willing Mireille to walk in right then. If she went for help, she’s taking her time. He goes to the window and looks out, hoping to see her up the street heading home. “Where is she?”

  He looks back at the woman, trying to work out the mystery of how a Jew ended up in their shop. Her expression’s blank as a plate. Is she a criminal? If she is, and if the state she’s in is any indication, they’ve punished her for it. She’s run away, that’s obvious, but from where? André doesn’t know many of the Jews in town, there’s not many. The Samuels next door, of course, but they’re gone now. And there was a journalist who wrote for La Dépêche du Saint-Léry who used to come in every Monday without fail to buy six macarons and six madeleines, but he left just after the war started when he was let go.

  The Jews are not wanted here, especially now the Germans have arrived. André overhears what his neighbours say about them around the display case, though he tries not to listen, and would rather they’d buy their pastries in silence and go. Anyway, it’s not any concern of his. He leaves debates about politics to Mireille and Monsieur Durand. He’s a baker. He has no need to stray from that.

  He concentrates on the star pinned to her—he heard Monsieur Durand speak of Jews in their ghettos in Paris having to wear it. He hasn’t seen anyone with it here in Saint-Léry except for the Samuels. He didn’t give it much thought when they were first required to put it on, although it bothered Mireille and their learnèd friend to no end. The law seemed reasonable enough to him—André had been hearing for years how Jews were causing problems in the city. How exactly, he’s not sure. The Samuels had always been nice to him and his family, and that was good enough for him.

 

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