Page 18 of The World That We Knew

They had one minute to turn and walk forward. They had been speaking of foolish, childish things. How they would sneak out their windows one evening so Madame wouldn’t know, how Julien might convince his mother to allow him to have a dog, which she had always denied him before. Now their hearts were beating in rhythm, in terror. He could push Lea aside so perhaps she could escape. She could go forward and be arrested for being a foreign Jew so he might flee. They could stand together or run together.

“Schicke nur das Mädchen,” one of the soldiers called, and both men laughed. Just send the girl.

Julien muttered a string of curses under his breath. He felt the way he had when he’d beaten Bernard, a rising fury he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to control.

“Don’t say anything,” Lea said in a whisper. She had spoken only French since her arrival, and the German of the soldiers sounded strange to her now.

“Bist du taub?” Julien was now asked. Are you deaf?

One of the soldiers had a grasp on his rifle as he muttered to his friend and began to approach. That was when Ava appeared from a doorway, her black hair falling down her back, her face serene. Lea hadn’t realized how beautiful she was; in the kitchen she looked so plain with her hair tied back, wearing those horrible boots. But now, she was illuminated. Supernatural, Lea thought, her breathing ragged and uneven. A magical creature formed from a different substance. She thought of her mother. I’m still here every time she looks at you. She sees you as I would.

The soldiers held their hands over their eyes to shield themselves from the brightness that filled the street; they tried to make out what caused the brilliance, but they would never know that Ava was accompanied by the light of the three angels sent to watch over Lea. Melahel, and Ornael, and Haiel, the angels of safe travel, patience, and courage.

“Was machst du hier?” one of the soldiers called to her. What are you doing here?

She was here to see to her duty, her burden, her obligation, her child. In this street that is what she felt and what she knew. Hanni had placed her own tears in Ava’s eyes before they had opened to the world. Perhaps that was why at this moment she felt what she should have not felt, a rising panic. She heard the wind and it told her what to do. Do what you must, do the most not the least, make certain, save her at any cost.

“Come close,” she said in the first human language she had learned. Komm näher.

She was stronger than a hundred horsemen. She would follow her burden to the end of the earth. She glanced at Lea and, with no words, let her know she should run. Lea grabbed Julien’s hand the moment the soldiers’ attention was diverted. They dashed around the corner, over the cobblestones, their hearts pounding, flying along alleyways, throwing open the garden gate, then sinking down behind the greenhouse, their backs against the wall, as they did their best to breathe.

“We left her there,” Julien said, furious with himself. Just as he suspected, he was a coward. His brother had been right. He was not a man.

“She can take care of herself,” Lea told him. “More than we ever could.”

“It’s not right. I’m getting my grandfather’s rifle and going back.”

Lea took Julien’s arm. She leaned close to whisper. “She’s not like other women. You don’t have to rescue her.”

He recognized the truth in this. He had seen Ava at work in the garden; in her hands a spindly tomato plant was suddenly laden with fruit, a wilting rose could be plucked and bloom again. Once, he had spied her in a tree with a dove in her hand, speaking to it before it flew away.

“What is she, then?” When Lea was silent, Julien grew concerned. “If you trust me you’ll tell me.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did. But she can take care of herself. I can’t tell you more.”

“Ever?”

“When the war is over.”

Julien laughed and said, “I’ll hold you to that.”

Lea nodded, but the truth was, Maybe not even then.

Ava left the soldiers in a doorway, so no one would see. She should feel nothing, but there was something strange inside her, some raw emotion she couldn’t name. Was it the shock in their eyes, the way their spirits lifted from them, the presence of the angel in the black coat there beside her even before she had made a decision, as if he had known what she was destined to do?

She felt called to the water and clay from which she’d come. She wanted the cold current and she wanted to wash off the deaths. There was the river, only steps away. For the first time Ava wanted something for herself, that river, that water, that clay. Without thinking, she stripped off her dress, folded it on the bank, then took off her boots. She went barefoot, quickening her pace, the mud between her toes. When she plunged in, the water was delicious and familiar, as if she had come home.

A lone heron stood at the edge of the river. Ava could tell this one was in mourning, for herons were always in pairs. His heron wife had been shot by a farmer who believed the flesh of a heron brought good fortune and courage. It was an old story, fashioned out of a lie, but people believe lies if they’re told often enough. In ancient Rome, this was the bird of divination. Its hollow bones tossed onto the floor would form an augury used to predict the future, and its bold call warned men of wars and famine. In Greece, herons were messengers, for both mortals and gods.

Herons were usually no more than three feet tall, but this one stood nearly as tall as a man. His plumes were ash gray, and his head was blue-black; his wings were ink and ash combined. A bird’s heart is larger than a man’s. It sees colors no human has ever seen, it can gather more light, hunt in the darkness, hear the wind on the other side of the city. This one saw Ava for who she was. A creature like no other. The heron walked to her and she to him. This is how it began, out of water, out of clay, out of air, when it was not expected, when it should have never happened, when no one else understood who she was.

CHAPTER TEN

THE DISAPPEARANCE

PARIS, AUTUMN 1941

BY NOW EVERYTHING THEY HAD could be taken away. You couldn’t influence a magistrate when you had nothing to offer in exchange for his favor. You couldn’t put yourself above others when the soldiers who came to question you helped themselves to coats and jackets from the wardrobe in the hall. Madame Lévi sold the rare books for next to nothing to an underground dealer, then used the money for food. The locust trees had been cut down for firewood, and the rosebushes came next, their branches tossed into the fireplace for a flame that barely flickered with pale green smoke. Two professors of mathematics from Berlin, coauthors of academic papers with André Lévi, had moved into the third floor, along with their wives and children, all of whom had been taught to conceal themselves in the cupboards should the police arrive. André Lévi had answered when they came to the door. Two brilliant colleagues who were now wearing rags, carrying their children on their backs, thinking of starvation rather than algebra. They called what was happening in Berlin The Destruction. All Jews would be relocated, and then exterminated. The professor let his colleagues in without a second thought and asked Ava to make a pot of her soup. Claire was no longer speaking to her husband. She worried about her sons, fearing what lay in wait for them outside the garden gates. She had begun to keep certain treasures in a bag she carried around her waist, beneath her skirt. A few gold coins, her favorite earrings, her children’s baby teeth in a small glass jar.