I wrote an unfinished scene (4 handwritten pages, front and back) that I don’t think will fit into my story as it exists now... but I don’t want it to float away and never exist. I am sharing it here:
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Paris, 1940
Miriam’s mother had been anxious for weeks; she assumed it was because Papa had not written in a month. Time was not Miriam’s strong suit, as she was only three. She couldn’t recall the last time Mama spoke happily of a letter from Papa or gave her a kiss, saying, “Papa loves you very much.” Miriam barely knew she had a father except when Mama said, “Your Papa would be proud,” or “Your Papa would want us to be brave.” The only thing Miriam recalled about her father was Mama’s words, calling him a hero. Lately, she sensed a heavy sadness in her mother’s voice when she said this. Mama felt the need to remind Miriam, or perhaps herself, that it was his duty to go, fight, and defend their country from Hitler’s forces. Miriam often watched her mother's worried eyes, not understanding but feeling a weight in their small apartment.
Little did Miriam know that this left her and her mother, Rachel, completely alone. Miriam's maternal and paternal grandparents both abandoned them for marrying outside their faith. Rachel had married an unpracticing Catholic named Jacques, while Jacques, Miriam’s father, married Rachel, a slender, wide-eyed Jewish girl. They moved to Paris. Rachel had not made any friends except for an old lady who agreed to watch Miriam, but neither Rachel nor Miriam liked her. The lady’s house smelled of rancid tobacco and dying flowers, and every visit left Rachel feeling lonelier, longing for warmth and kindness she could not find.
“I will take care of you,” Jacques promised and gave Rachel a knee-weakening kiss when she told him she was pregnant.
Jacques and Rachel married in a courthouse two towns over—Rachel in her best pale blue dress with a pleated top and ruffle sleeves, Jacques in his best charcoal suit. Their truest friends, Bastian and Isaline, attended them, and they spent their wedding week sneaking into Jacques’ room and curling up on his bed. When news spread that Jacques Laurant, the son of the wealthiest merchant, had married a Jewish girl, both families became aghast. Jacques and Rachel ran away to Paris, thinking it would be safest. Sadly, Jacques could not always provide for them in their tiny basement apartment, no matter how hard he tried.
“I will come back,” Jacques said before he left. Rachel had not seen him since last summer and, being nearly nineteen, she could state the exact date she last received word from him. She had read his letter so many times that she had memorized every word. In the letter, Jacques wrote nothing unusual or frightening; no upcoming battle was mentioned, unlike before. He simply signed it “all his love.” Two weeks ago, when the government surrendered, and the Germans marched through the Champs Elysées, Rachel watched them and felt a constant fear.
“We must be brave, your Papa would want us to be brave,” Mama said the last time they went to market. “And don’t make eye contact.”
Miriam tried to please her Mama and unseen Papa, but she couldn’t help watching the bright-colored dresses swish by or breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. She did not notice the fierce disdain directed at Rachel, as if Rachel was to blame for the men with spiders on their arms coming to Paris. Rachel felt humiliation and fear tighten in her chest, her hands trembling as she hurried Miriam along. Afterwards, Rachel and Miriam stayed in their apartment for four days, during which Rachel barely spoke, only keeping her head down and sniffling occasionally. After this, Rachel announced, “We are going on an adventure!” in the most cheerful tone she could manage, though Miriam could see the forced smile and glint of tears in her mother’s eyes.
At three, Miriam could not ask, "Where are we going?" or "Why are we going at night?" Mama said night was dangerous and kept the windows sealed. Miriam could only say “pourquoi.” However, the word sounded too much like “Papa,” and at first, Mama would say, “I’m sure he will find us.”
“Pourquoi?” Miriam asked her mother again.
“Hush,”Rachel said with pained bitterness that hurt her more than her daughter.
When they reached the train station, Miriam realized her mother had stopped abruptly and was scanning the crowd. The station buzzed with hurried men and women clutching large boxes, though order remained. Men dressed all in tan, with those strange spiders on their arms, looked fierce and scary. They would stop people and check their papers. Whenever the soldiers glanced their way, Rachel looked down and gripped Miriam’s hand tighter. Miriam, awed by the massive trains, nearly cried, but Mama’s anxious look told her to stay quiet.
After an undefined amount of time, a tall woman approached them. She wore dark chocolate shoes, was dressed in tan like the soldiers, but lacked the spiders on her arms, and was accompanied by a man with a stern, diligent expression. Even from Miriam’s height, she noticed his eyes scanning the crowd. Rachel knelt before Miriam, looked into her eyes, and explained that this lady would take care of her.
“I’m sorry, my sweet, but this is for your best.”
Miriam looked up at the woman, who had blonde, curly hair and looked different from anyone else Miriam knew. The woman’s face was kind, and one heel was taller than the other. When she crouched, Miriam noticed her bright blue eyes. Miriam had never seen eyes so blue.
“Oh, she is beautiful,” the woman said, patting Miriam’s chestnut hair. Mama always said her hair came from her father. “I am sure we will be good friends.” Then the woman straightened and turned a few degrees, giving Rachel and Miriam a bit of privacy.
“I know you will be a brave little girl, my little—,” Mama said the word in her secret language close to Miriam’s ears. Miriam heard it often and knew it was said in love, even though she didn’t understand it. Mama spoke this language only when she prayed. She called it her language of love and devotion.
Her mother stood up, and although Miriam could not understand what Rachel and the woman said to each other, she saw them hug and kiss as if they had always known each other. Miriam had never seen this blonde woman before. After the embrace, Rachel released Miriam’s hand, and the woman took it. Wanting to cry, Miriam stopped herself when she saw her mother’s tears. Rachel wiped her eyes quickly, trying to seem strong, and, sounding as if she were making a grocery order, said, “This is for the best,” though her voice shook.
“Pourquoi?” Miriam sniffled.
“Yes, your Papa would want you to be brave, and we will come find you.”
Miriam would isolate this memory of her mother kissing her on the forehead, then walking away, never once turning around, and check on them. In that moment, Miriam felt a rush of confusion, fear, and longing, unable to understand why her mother could not look back.
The woman crouched down again and tenderly spoke, “It will be all right, I promise, and if you are quiet and good, we can get some cake. What do you say to that? Do you like cake?”
Miriam nodded.
“Good, I thought so, now I promise we will be friends, almost like mother and daughter, and I will always take care of you.”
Miriam did not understand everything the lady said. She spoke French, but not like Mama; it was slow and thoughtful. Besides, Miriam had a mother—why need another? She could not say this, but promised to be quiet for cake. Miriam had never tasted cake, only seen it at the bakery. She silently promised to trust her mother, though she was not sure what “for her best” meant, but believed her mother always knew. Underneath, Miriam’s chest ached with confusion and a small hope that everything would truly be all right.
“My name is Cecilia,” the lady with blonde hair told her when it was just the three of them in their cabin. “And if anyone asks, sweet girl, you are Marie Josephine.”
At the woman’s prompting, Miriam repeated back, “Marie Joseph.”
The woman chuckled. It was a light, joyous sound as if this woman didn’t have a care in the world. Miriam couldn’t recall any adult sounding this way.
“Close enough, ma petite cherie.”
The word “my sweet” wasn’t as enduring as the one Mama had called her, but the woman said it with such affection that Miriam knew she believed it.
“I am your aunt, and we are going on an adventure.
Miriam had never been on a train before and wondered how long this adventure would be, when she would see her mother again, and why her mother hadn’t come with her. Though all she said was, “Pourquoi.”
“No, no, he is not your father, he is your uncle.”
“It would be better if she had lighter hair,” he finally spoke, but not in a way Miriam understood. His secret language was stern.
The woman responded in the same secret language, trying to sound reassuring. Then she switched back to French. “She is your niece. That will be better with your coloring. No one doubts your roots.”
He responded in such broken French that she never wanted to hear him speak again. Still, she understood, “Of course not, my family,” and “James the first” of a place called Scotland.
They switched back to their secret language, and Miriam did not piece together anything they said. All Miriam understood was that this woman looked more like a character in a fairytale than a real person. Until now, Miriam had only known people with brown or black hair and brown, black, or grey eyes. This woman’s eyes shone like a jewel, and her mother trusted her. Therefore, Miriam tried to trust her too, holding tight to her hand while uncertainty and curiosity wrestled in her mind.
The woman, as if reading her thoughts, said in French, “Now let’s get this mademoiselle a slice of promised cake.”
Miriam wasn’t sure what he said next, but he kissed the woman’s hand as if it were as natural as breathing and then left the cabin.
“He is a good man, I promise,” the woman spoke softly to Miriam. “And he will come around. It’s just a tense situation. In fact, I have always wanted a daughter, but that wasn’t God’s plan for me as I was blessed with two sons, fortunately not old enough to fight in this war.”
The woman got a blanket off the shelf and handed it to Miriam.
“Merci, tante.”
The woman leaned over and kissed Miriam, “I will do all I can to protect you.”
The man came back with cake.
With cake heavy in her stomach and the consistent move of the train, Miriam felt her eyes grow heavy. She wished she could hear Mama’s songs again. She fussed a little, and the woman scooped her into her arms, held her close, and sang a song she didn’t understand; it didn’t sound like a prayer as her mama’s songs sounded, but it was comforting, and Miriam closed her eyes to the breezy song. As she fell asleep, she smelt the scent of fresh flowers from the lady's perfume and vanilla from the cake.
“Isn’t she perfect?” the woman whispered.
“For the time being,” the man responded, and they were the last words Miriam heard before sleep got the victory.
*I did try to link this image to the original source, but it kept bringing up Pinterest. Also, on Pinterest, it said it was from Paddington station, not a station in Paris, but when I searched for an image, I found this interesting picture and article.
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| Photographs: ‘The “Green Ticket” roundup – first roundup of Jews in France during World War II’ |
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