Chapter 34

I lay awake on my cot, waiting for the perfect time to creep away to see Chaton. The Gypsies had moved their camp several kilometers away, and it would take me longer to reach them. If I was caught, I’d say I was going to visit Gretchen.

The old walls breathed around me, the wheezing sounds of wind squeezing through the cracks, stone against stone, and the groan of the floor settling into place. Some said the place was haunted. I stopped and listened. Hearing nothing alarming, I slid silently out of bed, tiptoed down the hall, and exited the building.

I hurried along the lane until I could see the lights of the Gypsy lanterns and campfires. But as I got closer, I heard shouts and the excited barks of the camp dogs, and saw enormous flames shoot into the air.

I steadied my breath and hid behind a tree and watched the French Home Guard brandishing guns and systematically lighting the wagons on fire.

“You must leave!” Petre, a grocer and head of the Home Guard, shouted and pointed a rifle at the frightened Gypsies.

“Get out! You’re not wanted here!” More yelling. More threats.

More screaming as the Home Guard plucked children from the camp. Children who would be given to the good citizens of Montreuil-Bellay or Saumur to be indoctrinated into the Christian life. Their families were forced to flee and leave their children behind.

From where I hid, I could see they had taken Adella, Chaton’s little sister. She and two boys huddled together, crying and afraid. One of the Gypsy boys put his arm around Chaton to comfort her. That should have been me comforting her, my arms around her, calming her fears for her sister. But I couldn’t let the Home Guard see me. It would be bad, and I didn’t want my mother to know I had been sneaking away from school.

One by one the remaining wagons were forced to leave. Chaton’s family’s wagon, painted red and gold and displaying geometric designs, left the camp and headed down the Rue des Lauriers, forced to leave Adella behind.

In a short time, the camp was deserted. Only the three smoldering carcasses of burned wagons remained.

I trudged behind them, following the dirt side road northward, keeping behind bushes and trees so as not to be spotted. Many of the landmarks and signage naming the roads and lanes were removed to thwart the Nazis, but I’d lived here all my life and knew the roads with or without signs pointing the way. I was gaining on the wagons, but where was Chaton’s?

I overtook the wagons, running beside them. “Chaton! Chaton!”

Their wagon halted, and Chaton’s head appeared out the back, her long hair flying in the wind, a flag on the currents. “Jean Claude! Oh, Jean Claude, they have Adella!” Chaton twisted a fold of her skirt. “What can we do?”

“I can probably find where they are taking her,” I said, straightening to my full height to demonstrate my worthiness of the task. I didn’t have a plan exactly, but I’d try to talk to Petre. Would Petre question my interest?

“Then what will you do?”

There wasn’t much I could do in this situation.

“I’ll think of something.”

“How will we find you?” Chaton asked, her words flung away in the wind.

“I’ll find you,” I said with a resolve I wasn’t sure I possessed.

The wagons continued on, their wares tinkling, the wheels crunching, Diesel engines coughing, and the plodding of the horses’ hooves echoing in the dark evening air, not a merry sound as when they first arrived, a suppressed, hollow-sounding defeat.

I leaned against a tree to think. What to do? What had my military schooling taught me? Strategy was key. I would need to get friendly with Petre to find out where he had taken the children.

****

“Bonjour, Petre, my good man,” I said after a sleepless night. My face was pale from my lack of sleep, but I made an excuse to leave class and go into Montreuil-Bellay. Petre, a grocer, would be looking after his fruits and vegetables spilling from crates outside his shop.

Petre, with weary eyes, heavy bags weeping down his face, smiled briefly.

“Bonjour, Jean Claude! What brings you to town on this gray day?”

I forced a smile. “Boot polish and news for my fellow students at Cadre Noir.”

“Ah, yes, Cadre Noir. You are a lucky boy. I was not so lucky when I was your age. I couldn’t meet the standards. I longed for the prestige.” Petre’s lazy eye gave him the appearance of looking both ways at once.

“You would have been a good cadet,” I said.

“Thank you,” Petre said.

“We heard rumors of a Gypsy camp,” I said, giving Petre a verbal nudge to talk about Adella.

“They are all gone. They were run out of town.”

“That is a good thing. And their children?”

It was common knowledge the children were sometimes taken from their Gypsy parents to be raised in proper French homes to save them from the nomadic life.

“We managed to get three,” Petre explained.

“Only three?”

“Yes, we have very few places to house them. Would your mother be willing?”

I immediately pictured my mother, her care-worn face, clutching and unclenching her apron in a dither to make such a decision.

“Perhaps. I think she may want a girl. She says boys are too much trouble.” I laughed.

“We have a girl for your mother.”

“I will ask her.” I would bully my mother into keeping Chaton’s little sister safe.

****

Later the same day, during the noon hour, I excused myself to go into Montreuil-Bellamy under the guise of checking on my ill mother. With everyone distracted by the coming war and headlines about Hitler’s march across Europe, I was waved away and walked the short distance to our small but neat house in the center of Montreuil-Bellay.

“Maman, I have a favor to ask of you,” I said, kissing both her cheeks and telling her how beautiful she was. Her joy at seeing me was replaced by fear. Her face fell, and she took a deep breath.

“It is not a bad thing, Maman, but will help our country,” I explained, hoping my face didn’t belie my duplicity.

She nodded for me to continue.

“You must house a Gypsy child and care for her.”

“No!” my mother gasped. “They are so dirty! And suspicious looking!” She clutched at her throat as if she was choking.

My mother was mistaken, as were most of the citizens. I too had once thought that about the Gypsies. Chaton smelled of wildflowers, and I longed to drink in her scent.

“You will clean her and take away her suspicions,” I said.

“But what of your father? What will he say if I house a filthy urchin in our home?”

“He is not here. We must all do our part,” I said firmly, leading her into the tiny sitting room where a fire blazed in the hearth—her favorite room in their house.

“She can have my old room,” I said.

“Your room, but…”

“I will be at the Cadre Noir for another year, and by that time, she may go to a more permanent family.”

The time limit seemed to soften my mother’s fearfulness.

“It would be nice to have a little girl about the house…” she said. I could tell she was thinking. Considering. Deciding.

“You always wanted a girl,” I said, knowing my parents’ troubles at conceiving. “You can make her pretty dresses to wear and teach her to read. She will keep you company by the fire.” I waved my arm toward the hearth. “Think how cozy it will be for you to teach her to sew and knit.”

“Why yes,” my mother said. “That would be very nice.”

While my mother still had that faraway look in her eyes, I thought it best to be on my way. “Thank you, Maman. I will let Petre know of your decision.”

****

“Maman has agreed to a little girl,” I told Petre the next day.

“Thank you,” Petre said. “That is one less child to be relocated. The girl is a little thing. My wife and I have two foster children, and we could take no more.”

“She will be good for my maman while I am away. Keep her company. Do you have a name for her?”

“Adella.”

“Ah good. Maman will expect her.”

As I walked back toward the Cadre, Gretchen stepped from a nearby doorway. “Jean Claude?” she said breathlessly.

“Bonjour, Gretchen,” I said, kissing both her cheeks. “You look very nice this morning.” The surrounding sky was a gray and swirling mass of clouds, foreboding a storm, but Gretchen wore a cheerful red blouse.

She blushed. “What brings you to town?”

“Placing a Gypsy child with my mother.”

I heard her sharp intake of breath. “Surely not!”

“Oui. I’m afraid so. We must do our part.”

“But they are dirty and smelly and cast wicked spells on people!”

I inclined my head. “This is a wee child. Hardly a threat. She has been well cared for.”

Gretchen looked at me sharply.

As if on cue, we heard a canon boom in the background, and Gretchen jumped and rushed into my arms. She was rounder and shorter than Chaton. Her hair smelled of soap and lavender.

“I’ve missed you, Jean Claude,” she whispered.

I cleared my throat. “Me too. But I must get back.”

****

Later the same day, during the dark of the night, I waited for the cadets’ deep sleep, slipped out of the dormitory, and traveled in the direction of Tours, many meters away. The night was quiet. I took a deep breath as I left the shelter of the school, my footsteps the only sound. My way lighted by the moon. Chaton’s family had not gotten far; I spotted their fire and wagons for their family group.

“Bonjour! It is Jean Claude,” I whispered loudly to announce my presence.

“Jean Claude!” Chaton ran to me.

“I cannot stay.”

She stepped back.

“Your sister is safe with my maman.”

“Oh, thank you, Jean Claude! She is a good woman?”

“Oui!”

She kissed me on both cheeks and hands.

“What has happened to your hand?” She stepped back with a frown.

“A horse bite.”

“Maman has something for that.” She ducked into their wagon and returned with a small container of foul-smelling salve and massaged the goop into my hand.

“Merci.”

Was it my imagination, or did my hand feel better? I held it out, expecting to see the inflamed outline left by the horse’s bite, but the ache was dulled by the salve. I tucked my hand into my pocket, returned to the Cadre, and fell asleep.