How Huge The Night Part 20

"I'd dropped the wrong card. Your father's card. So I gave it to her. And you know what she did?"

They looked at each other.

"She gave us all ration cards. That's what she did." And Mama opened her mouth and picked up her song again, her voice rising lightly, effortlessly as a bird.

"Haven't you heard?" Philippe was saying to Jean-Michel. "That's a boche salute!"

Julien, behind them, threw Benjamin a wink. "Toldja they'd listen," he said under his breath. A rare smile bloomed briefly on Benjamin's face.

"No, it's not," hissed Lucien from across the aisle. "Not when it's our flag."

"Well doesn't it look a little funny? And then getting all worked up about the Jews-the boches started that, y'know-"

"The marshal's only saying the truth!"

Papa's ruler rapped twice across his desk. "Lucien, would you care to share with us whatever it is you find so fascinating?"

Lucien reddened. "Uh, non m'sieur. Sorry, m'sieur."

Too bad, thought Julien. Papa would have told him a thing or two.

They'd been telling everyone a thing or two, he and his friends. Telling everyone the truth. Some of the farm kids had never seen a newsreel in their lives; how were they to know? Somebody had to tell them.

Even Roland had never seen one. They'd stood by the wall at break that first day, as the whole school buzzed about what was wrong with Astier, and Julien and Jean-Pierre had described that newsreel of a Hitler rally, with ma.s.sive, frenzied crowds all saluting and screaming "Heil!" over and over for what seemed like hours.

He also told Roland, privately, how Benjamin could have lost his citizenship. "Don't tell him, please," he said. "He doesn't know. And it's already bad enough for him."

"Sure." Roland's eyes glinted. "Some other people are gonna hear it though. I can't believe that."

Everyone they knew, anyone who would listen to a word they said, heard the message. Everyone in their cla.s.s, everyone from last year's soccer teams. Roland repeated the description of the rally to all his friends on neighboring farms. And to his parents, who told it in their Fellowship meeting. Roland's brother, Louis the schemer, raised his hand in his history cla.s.s to ask Papa why he didn't salute the flag, and the next morning, a good third of the cinquieme cla.s.s descended on Julien's group at the wall during the flag salute, hollering that Petain was a traitor. Julien had to laugh. He wondered if he'd been like that, too, at thirteen.

After cla.s.s that day, as boys poured out the doors into the fall sunshine, Philippe turned to him. "Hey, Julien," he said. "We gonna do any soccer this year?"

"Open games," said Julien. He and his group stood by the wall in the sunshine, ignoring the last flag salute of the week. "Eleven men on each team, but mix 'em up every time. Or every other time. Whaddya think?"

"Yeah," said Dominique happily.

"Where're we gonna get twenty-two guys?"

"Half the quatrieme cla.s.s would jump at the chance, I mean last year-"

"Half the quatrieme cla.s.s is ten people!"

"What's wrong with the guys we had last year?" said Philippe. "Are we doing this without Henri? It's his ball."

"You know he won't go for the open-game thing."

Julien felt light-headed. Floating. He heard his own voice speaking quietly.

"I have a ball."

Silence fell. They were all looking at him.

"Then," said Roland softly, "we don't need him."

Dominique was looking over Julien's shoulder. Grinning. "Hey, Gilles," he said.

Julien's head whipped round. Gilles sauntered up to them, dropped his cartable on the pile, and sat on the wall.

"Hey, Gilles, ca va?" He glanced over at the flag salute. "You're not going?"

"I'm late."

"They're not done yet."

Gilles shrugged, then looked Julien in the eye. "Okay, if you really wanna know, I don't like that salute."

"What's Henri gonna say?" asked Roland with his crooked smile.

"Y'know," said Gilles, "I don't really care."

Philippe snorted. "Yeah. Mister King of France needs to get off his high horse these days. He wants us all to follow him around telling the sixiemes they're unpatriotic if they don't salute."

Gilles nodded. "I'm tired of it."

Julien and Roland looked at each other. "Well," said Julien, "I don't know if you want to join us, then."

"Yeah," said Roland. "We've been going around telling the sixiemes they're unpatriotic if they do salute."

They laughed. The French flag was snapping in the breeze, and the circle was breaking up. Julien glanced over. Sure enough.

"Here he comes, guys," said Philippe.

"Watch out, it's the king."

"Make way! Make way!"

"Hey, where's his white horse?"

There was laughter; but Henri was close now, and his face was set.

"Gilles," said Henri crisply, ignoring the rest of them. "We missed you."

"I was late. And it's voluntary."

"Voluntary!" spat Henri. "I don't know what's come over this school. I've never seen such a limp bunch of little girls in my life. Come on, Gilles. Tell me the truth." His eyes were hard with challenge, cold as ice.

Julien watched, not breathing. Gilles looked away. Then he stood a little straighter and looked at Henri again. "It's a boche salute, Henri."

Henri's lip curled. "You wanna see a real enemy of France?" He pointed at Julien. "You're looking at one right there. Cowards that won't stand up for France, that go around whispering rumors, undermining the marshal-why do you think we were defeated? The greatest nation in the world-conquered-because of cowards like him."

"We were defeated because the boches violated another country's neutrality," said Julien quietly.

"We were defeated because the boches violated another country's neutrality," repeated Henri in a childish singsong. "I don't wanna know what your daddy says. I want to know what you say, coward."

"I say you're slipping if you think calling someone a coward'll make him do what you want. You can call me a coward three times a day, and you won't make me a fascist."

Henri's jaw tightened. He didn't answer.

"Is that what you want me to be? And the pet.i.ts sixiemes? Is that what you are?"

"If you can't be proud of your country anymore without being a fascist," Henri bit out, "maybe that is what I am."

"You and Petain both. That's your National Revolution-if you can't lick 'em, join 'em."

They stood facing each other, eyes locked. There seemed to be more faces around them than there used to be. Cold winter air came back to him, and blood on the snow.

The bell rang.

Chapter 32.

Go Gustav had never been so afraid.

My sister is dying.

She was cold when he touched her. Heavy and cold. She lay on Lorenzo's blanket, not moving, looking up at the bare flickering bulb. When she wasn't cold, she was far too hot, feverish, talking strange things like she had in Trento when he went to the Gypsies. There were no Gypsies here. Only the soup-kitchen people, who let him wash bowls for a cup of milk a day. He gave it to Niko, but she said she wasn't hungry. It took him an hour every day to make her drink it, make her eat her share of soup. She said she wasn't hungry. He could see her bones.

"Niko. Eat."

"Gustav, I'm telling you the truth. I can't eat. I'm not hungry at all. It's like ... like I've gone on past hunger. Left it behind me. It's just gone."

"Niko. No." No. He tried to force the spoon into her mouth. Soup spilled down her chin. Something broke in his chest-his hand jerked, and he flung the spoon hard against the wall. He wanted to strike her.

She just lay there. Not looking at him. Slowly, she closed her eyes.

She felt so still. So heavy and still. She didn't feel hunger. She didn't feel anything except the stillness. The letting go. She wished Gustav would eat the soup. Drink the milk. She understood her father now. His fierce desire for her and Gustav to get out, to live. It's only Gustav now, Father. He'll live for you. He's a fighter, Father. I was a fighter. But I'm done.

She didn't really think there would be anything, after. She didn't really think there was a G.o.d. Death the thief, she had thought once, but it didn't seem that way anymore. There would be darkness; it wouldn't hurt. If you didn't exist, you couldn't hurt.

And if there is, her father had said. And if there is anything after-will I see you, Father? What will you say? For having sent your daughter to her death for a dream of safety? What will I say to you, for having lied to your son and led him into danger. Father. Father.

"Gustav. I have to tell you something."

He was kneeling over her. "Niko? How do you feel?"

"Gustav. I lied to you."

"You feel too hot, Niko ..."

"I lied to you. Before the border. When we couldn't find the rabbi. I said Father'd told me what to do if the rabbi was gone. He didn't tell me a thing, Gustav. I'm sorry."

Gustav's face went still. "Nina. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm going to die."

His eyes were wide. "Nina. No."

"I'm not getting better. I'm getting worse. Gustav, I'm so sorry-I don't know how you'll find a way to bury me, here." She stopped. A boy with a suitcase was standing by the entrance to the toilets, looking at her.

"Niko!" Gustav's eyes were fierce. "Don't you dare think like that, don't you-"

"Sh, Gustav. There's someone listening. He might think we're German too."

The boy was gone. Gustav's head was in his hands. Above her, the light of the bare bulb flickered and dimmed, and she watched it; the last light she would ever see. She heard with a detached ear the shallowness of her breathing. Not long now. Days.

Voices woke her. Gustav, a strange voice speaking Yiddish. The boy with the suitcase, sitting on the floor beside Gustav. Talking.

"My train leaves in the morning-at eight. I could spend the night here with you. Will your brother be able to make it onto the train?" What was he talking about?

"Niko," said Gustav. "This is Samuel Rozengard from Gren.o.ble. We have a plan."

He had heard them talk about her dying. He had thought about it for an hour, and come back.

He was on his way to boarding school in a little town in the hills. He would sleep here with them tonight instead of in a hotel and use the money to buy them tickets. To this town, where there was food. Tickets out of here.

He reached into his shoulder bag, and brought out something round, blotched in gold and red. It took her a moment to recognize it. A peach.

"We have a tree in our backyard. This one is for you."

She stared at it. Its unbelievable color. In this dim place, it glowed like summer, like the sun. He put it in her hand. It was round, and heavy as life.

She couldn't. He wanted her to live, stand up, get on a train. She couldn't even face crawling to the toilets. He didn't understand how tired she was. The time comes, Gustav. It comes. When you can't load all that hope and fear onto your back again, and keep walking. When you have to put it down. She would never love a boy, she would never read a book again, or sit at a table and eat. She had accepted it. She sat leaning against the wall where Gustav had propped her, looking at the peach cradled in her hand, and did not move.

"Niko. Eat." Samuel was gone. Gustav was looking at her.

"I can't do it. I can't do any of it. Gustav, it's too late for me, I'll die on the way-Gustav, you should keep the tickets, wait a few days, you can go on your own ..." She pulled feebly away from the anger that swept out from his eyes like a blow. He spoke in a low and furious voice.

"You are getting on that train if I have to drag you."

"We should never have left home. Father was- Gustav ... Gustav, Uncle Yakov was right ..."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Gustav hissed. "We left. We're here. We're alive. We are-both-still-alive. Now you eat that peach or I will hit you."