Page 30 of The World That We Knew

“What are you doing?” Julien called after them. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

But life now depended upon luck, not reason. The sun was so bright Julien lifted a hand to shade his eyes. His parents seemed to have disappeared, swallowed up, lost in the light and the masses of people. It made no sense. His mother would not turn from him in such a way. Julien made a move to go after his parents, but Edgar stopped him.

“Walk backward, as if you were coming into the stadium rather than leaving. I will open the gate and you can lose yourself in the crush of people, only you will be walking away. Don’t come back. These people are all being shipped off.”

Julien stood there stunned. By now he was unable to see his parents in the chaos of the stadium. Or was that his father’s jacket, the one he had worn to teach his classes?

“Go!” Edgar told him. “You don’t have forever!”

Julien’s head was ringing. He couldn’t hear a word anyone said, least of all Edgar. But then he saw his grandfather’s gold watch on the gardener’s wrist and understood. His father had bought his freedom, and he knew then, although it broke his heart to do so, he wasn’t going to throw it away.

He walked backward through the crush of people that was being pushed past him. Once he was at the edge of the crowd, he turned and ran, spiraling through the maze of city streets, tearing the buttons from his shirt to leave behind on street corners so he would be able to find his way back if necessary. By then it was dusk, the end of the first day of the roundup. He had to fight the urge to go home and seek out his familiar life; instead he went to a tunnel near the river, where he sat shivering, though it was a hot night.

He returned to the stadium in the morning, following the path he had taken, still hopeful that he could find his parents and get them out as well. It was the seventeenth and the raid was in its second day; twice as many people were now trapped inside. There was a full-fledged hysteria as people realized they had walked into a trap. This was not temporary, Paris was no longer their city, and there was no way out. German soldiers now patrolled the gates. Julien watched through the fence and saw things he never imagined he would see. There was still no food or water and some people had already died. There was no choice but to step over them, or to pile them up in the shade. He thought he saw his father among the jostling crowd, no longer wearing his jacket or his hat. He called out his name. The professor may have looked up, but if he saw his son, he acted as if he heard nothing at all. He disappeared into the crowd to ensure that Julien wouldn’t call out for him again.

As for Julien, he had nothing to trade; even the so-called treasures they had buried in the garden were not enough to buy a life. He walked away, hardly able to breathe. That night he hid in an alley where groceries were delivered for the German officers, not far from his home, staying put until dusk, the blue hour, when he would be less noticed. Each time he heard sirens his blood raced, as if he were guilty of something, a common criminal, as his onetime friend Bernard had claimed. He realized he would never see his father’s watch again, though it had been promised to him his entire life. Victor had never wanted it. I’ll only break it, he had said. Give it to Julien, he’s the careful one. He’s always on time.

Time now meant nothing. He had betrayed his parents and left them behind. In a few days they would be sent to Auschwitz. He was a boy of fifteen who had lost everything. He looked at the stars, constellations whose names his father had taught him as they stood in the dark of their garden, not knowing they would never be there again.

He heard someone call out to him. Surely he imagined it, for he was alone. He leaned up against the wall, eyes closed.

“You,” he heard now. A clear soft voice. “Julien.”

There was a young, unkempt man, no more than eighteen, signaling. The fellow was Claude Gotlib, who had gone to school with Victor. “Your brother sent me. He was injured or he’d be here himself. I tried to get to your family before they were picked up.”

“You’re too late,” Julien said.

“Not for you.”

Julien hesitated. He didn’t know Claude, and he didn’t know why Victor himself hadn’t come for him, all he knew was that his parents were still in the stadium.

“Come on.” Claude was impatient. “Wait any longer and you’ll land us both in trouble. Believe me, your brother will have my head if I don’t get you out of here.”

Julien heard train whistles and sirens. He was still shivering. Above them, the stars were burning bright. He could not think of his parents, his father without his good jacket, his mother, who was so elegant, searching for a place in the shade. All he knew was that he was alive. That was his promise to keep.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE TWO BROTHERS

HAUTE-LOIRE, AUGUST 1942

JULIEN AND CLAUDE DIDN’T TALK much as they traveled. They slept in the woods or in safe houses, where their hosts often didn’t speak to them at all, for it was best not to know too much about those you had hidden. Some people graciously left dinner for them to share, and once they were given a bottle of wine, which they gulped down before falling deeply asleep. There were some stops along the way that seemed curious to Julien. He was told to wait outside, while Claude saw to his own private business. Afterward, Claude guarded the rucksack he carried and told Julien to keep his hands off it. “Don’t even breathe near it,” he was told.

One night, while Claude was asleep, Julien crept over to take a look. Once he had, he quickly backed away. Now he understood what Claude and Victor were up to. Claude was transporting gunpowder and sticks of dynamite.

The last night Julien and Claude were on the road together, they went to the stone church in Vienne, sleeping under the pews, grateful to be given warm milk and rolls in the morning by the old woman who did the cleaning.

“If you’re ever in real trouble, come here,” Claude told Julien. “They won’t ask questions, and the priest will help as best he can.”

The villages became smaller as they went on into the mountains, the lanes were cobbled, and rose trees grew up between the stones outside front doors that were painted pale blue, or green, or gray. Julien closed his eyes at night and replayed their journey, so he might remember his way back. To learn a maze it was best to leave something behind, to chart the path, as Hansel and Gretel had done in the tale of their escape from evil. Since he had no bread crumbs, and no more buttons on his shirt after leaving a trail to the stadium, he left a mark on a tree whenever they stopped. An L, for Lea. A letter he would be sure to notice.

They stayed out of sight during the day and traveled at night. But on the last day they went on until noon. They were near the Ardèche Mountains by then, only a few days’ hike from Switzerland, and the Germans rarely came this far. At last they stopped in a field. The sun was strong. Julien’s skin tanned rather than burned, but Claude, who was pale, was suffering with sunburn and was glad autumn would soon be upon them. Already there had been frosts in the hills, and snow could be seen in the mountains.

“Why are we here?” Julien wanted to know. There were hawks above them and the clouds were moving fast. Everything was changing.

“You ask a lot of questions. Why don’t you ask him?” Claude gestured to the road.

A speeding car had stopped and pulled over. Normally they would duck into the woods if anyone was nearby, making certain not to be seen, but Claude was relaxed, even when the driver got out and approached. Julien thought perhaps the man was a farmer from the look of his clothes and his long, shaggy hair. But the stranger grinned and waved. “It’s me,” the man called. “What idiot doesn’t recognize his own brother?”