The Keeper of the Walls Page 40

  The wind was blowing around her face, and soft wisps of hair rose and fell about her neck and cheeks. In the setting sun, her dark green eyes were so ineffably sad that he was certain they were the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Without knowing why he did it, he let his hand go to her face, his fingers touching her cheek.

  Like a frightened cat, she drew back, and the green eyes blazed her shock at his touch. He shook his head, puzzled by his own behavior, and abruptly asked: “How old are you now, Kira?”

  “Almost fourteen.”

  He breathed in and out, and turned aside. He could feel her near him, like a shadow.

  Smiling, he looked at her then, and shook his head. “I don’t know.” He sighed, and continued: “I’m scared, Kira. I don’t want there to be a war. Because if there is ... Nicky and I will be called up within two or three years. And I don’t want to die, like the million and a half that died in the last war.” When he finished speaking, he wasn’t smiling anymore, and his tanned, healthy young face seemed contemplative and almost brooding.

  Impulsively, Kira moved closer to him, and began to play the piano on his arm, lightly. “Don’t think about it,” she said quickly. “That’s what being grown up is all about. Sadness, and death. Think about the sand, and the sea. If Nicky’s still mad at me, will you go swimming with me tomorrow?”

  He moved with sudden sureness, and caught her deft fingers in his own hand. Slowly he pulled her close to him, and peered into her eyes, his own breath held. Then he bent down, and touched her lips with his own. When he released her, she was still staring at him, and she said: “Don’t leave us, Pierre. Always be our friend.”

  “How could I leave,” he replied, “when you’re the most beautiful part of my summer?”

  But neither of them knew that by the end of August, their summer would be over. It wasn’t till the first of September that it hit them all, adults and young alike. At 1:00 p.m., a general mobilization was announced in reply to the German invasion of Poland. Posters were pasted on the walls of all public buildings in the village, requisitioning all horses and all vehicles. And on Sunday the third, though the picturesque streets of Saint-Aubin remained calm and normal, war was officially declared by the French government, and news came that there was heavy fighting in Poland already.

  Pierre’s father came, to take his son back to Paris, and stayed two days. There was fighting on the Siegfried Line. Warsaw was being heavily bombed. Jacques, Monsieur Rublon, and Wolf stayed by the radio, anxiety painted on their faces. And then Lily announced that her stepfather, Sudarskaya, and the Steiners would have to go to the city hall to be officially fingerprinted, with the other foreigners of Saint-Aubin. And everybody laughed, sudden mirth erupting among them, as Nanni said: “Is it like playing Thief? Do they really think we’re thieves?”

  And then Monsieur Rublon and Pierre, surrounded by luggage, were standing in front of their car, and everyone was crowding around them. Nicky stood close to his sister, and she thought, I’ll never be alone with him again. It’s over, everything is over. The car door was opening, Monsieur Rublon was stepping inside, and then she saw Pierre’s eyes, on her, on her only. For no more than three seconds, he looked at her, and she stared back intently. And briefly, he smiled, and nodded, imperceptibly. Then he opened his own door, and sat down, and closed the door, and the car revved its motor and took off in lifting motes of dust and sand.

  Later, in the house, she took the dishes in and soaked them under the hot water, letting the heat scald her soft hands, as if in punishment. She felt her mother near her, but kept her face averted, to the sink. Lily’s hand touched the back of her neck, and she murmured, “Time will pass quickly, my darling. You’ll see him again—soon.”

  Kira turned, and Lily saw the fresh tears on her cheeks. “But with the war . . . Are we going to go back to Paris? And maybe he’ll forget me. I’m just his friend’s little sister.”

  Lily sighed. “I really don’t know what we’re going to do, Kira. Grandma and Grandpa, and the Steiners, want to go home. But I’m afraid. I feel we’d be safer here, away from everything ...far away from any possible fighting. There’s talk around the beaches about setting up five lycées in the reception rooms of the large hotels on the coastal area near Caen. Many vacationers, like us, were caught by the war, and are electing to remain here. And some teachers on holiday don’t want to go back to the capital either, so there wouldn’t be a staffing problem for you young people.”

  Kira bit her lip, and shook her hands free of the soapsuds. “But . . . if we stay here . . . then Pierre—” Her voice suddenly broke, and she cried, “He really will forget me! And maybe we won’t ever see each other again!”

  Intensely moved, Lily wrapped her arms around her young daughter, and held her silently. The strength of Kira’s despair made her feel how far away she’d come from her own youth, from her own first love. But had there ever been a puppy love, like Kira’s now? Or had she lived so far removed from the mainstream of society that the first time her heart had felt the rapture and the fears of romantic involvement, had been when she’d met Misha Brasilov? She tried to cast her mind back to her years in the convent school, to the time when she’d been, like Kira, close to fourteen. She decided that both her children, because of the instability of life around them, had grown up much faster than she had. Their childhood was gone, and suddenly, she regretted it.

  Lily knew that Kira was expecting her to say something, and so, tangling her fingers in the girl’s long hair, she finally whispered: “I wish I could tell you when you’ll see him again. War changes all sorts of plans and habits, turns people’s lives upside down sometimes. But there is one thing I can promise you: he will always remember, Kira.”

  Then she closed her eyes against her own overwhelming sadness, a nameless sorrow.

  Claire said to Lily: “But you’ll be so alone here, just with Sudarskaya. I don’t feel it’s right, your staying behind.”

  “I can’t explain it, Mama, but I just don’t want to return to Paris. And I wish you and Jacques, and Wolf, wouldn’t insist on going back. The butcher said it was a madhouse there, with fighting in the streets and the constant clamor of the cannon. People are going crazy over there! But here ... we can hardly feel the difference. We can’t feel the war.”

  “At least, in Paris, we’ll feel connected. We’ll know exactly what’s going on. And Wolf says he has some patients there, emigrants like himself. It’s important for him not to lose contact with his profession.”

  “I remember the last war. Papa kept me in Brittany, and there, with the nuns, I felt protected. I don’t want Kira and Nicky to have their lives completely disrupted by riots, and by food shortages, and other ways Paris will be affected. We’ll stay here, at least for a few months. And because it will be the off-season, the villa will cost us very little.”

  Claire shrugged, clamping down on her irritation. “Sometimes,” she remarked tersely, “you’re a very stubborn woman, Lily.”

  Lily smiled. “It’s an inherited trait.” She walked out to the living room, where everyone else stood around piled up cartons and stacked up luggage. She felt strangely relieved that she had made her decision. But she was sad that everyone was leaving, except for the small Russian piano teacher.

  “Well,” Jacques declared. “The car’s ready, and I suppose there isn’t any reason to dawdle. The roads are clogged up enough as it is, and we’ll be on the road for days.” Taking two suitcases in his hands, he began to walk out to the large Rolls-Royce that stood waiting. Behind it was Wolf’s smaller Peugeot.

  “I’ll miss you, Aunt Lily,” Nanni cried, throwing her arms around her neck. “But you’ll write, won’t you?”

  “Of course, cookie. And we’re not at the other end of the world, you know.” Gently, she helped the little girl climb inside the Peugeot. The small, plump hand stayed entwined with hers, and Lily felt a tremendous pang of sadness. Still, she’d made up her mind.

  Hours later, when the children had helped h
er straighten up the house, she felt the silence of the empty rooms. Sudarskaya, sidling in beside her, said: “It won’t be the same without them. Such a jolly time, all of us together. I was thinking, when the war ends, you and I could start running a pension together. The children would love it, and it’s a good business.”

  “And when will the war end, Raïssa Markovna?” Lily smiled at her, suddenly grateful for her company.

  “It will end when the powers that be take a good look around them, and decide that enough young men have died. Like the last time.”

  But last time, the war lasted four years, Lily thought, a dreadful anxiety twisting her heart. And in four years Nicky will be nearly nineteen. He’d have been inducted by then. . . .

  “Are you all right, Lily?” Sudarskaya was asking. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Lily said, and squeezed her arm. “We’ll keep each other company.”

  Sudarskaya sighed. “I have no one else,” she simply stated. “That’s why I stayed.”

  After a few days, Lily discovered that they hadn’t brought enough heavy clothing, and she decided, come what may, to take the train back to Paris and pack up some things. Besides, she had to make storage arrangements with Madame Antiquet. Reaching the capital after a trip of starts and stops, in a train filled with people who were returning to Paris after an initial hesitation, she discovered that, although the city was certainly in turmoil, the butcher had greatly exaggerated his description of the situation. Most of the stores had reopened, and transportation could be obtained. But, on the train, they’d crossed another train full of soldiers, and had seen more soldiers with horses at the station in Cagny. She’d even seen what appeared to be airplanes in camouflage after the city of Evreux. There could be no mistake: France was at war.

  After a short visit to her mother, Lily went to the boardinghouse. Madame Antiquet helped her to look through her things, and together, they put together warm clothing, topcoats, and some books. The pension looked like a blind replica of itself, with bands of paper covering all the windows, and sacks blocking all the air vents. The two women ate cabbage and rice, and then Lily went upstairs to sleep.

  At one thirty, she was awakened by sounds of aircraft, but when she went to the window, she saw nothing. At four twenty, an air-raid siren began to shrill, and she quickly dressed in the dark and joined Madame Antiquet and the young maid, Leone, in the cellar. They sat in total obscurity and talked, their words reassuring against their fear, and at five twenty the siren signaled the end of the raid. Quickly the young maid heated a pot of coffee, and they had breakfast. Then the two women helped Lily with her baggage, and she took the subway to the Gare Saint-Lazare, from which she intended to take the six twenty-five train. This would take her to the city of Caen, from which she would have to board a smaller train to Saint-Aubin. The trip was supposed to take less than six hours, but with the crowds and the air raids in Paris, it was difficult to tell when she would finally arrive.

  After purchasing her ticket, Lily frayed a passage for herself and her luggage, and settled down on the platform among thousands of wives whose husbands had already been called to arms. She sat down on a battered leather suitcase, exhausted. All at once she saw a man pushing through the crowd, head forward, and she realized with a start that it was Mark MacDonald. She stood up, called out to him, raising her arm above the heads of the people. She saw him stop, lift his head, catch a glimpse of her . . . and then proceed at a faster pace. She felt a tremendous joy when he reached her side, a great relief that in this sea of strange faces, she’d found a friend.

  “You came here just to find me?” she asked him, incredulous. “But you might have missed me entirely, if I’d been glancing the other way and hadn’t spotted you first. It’s ghastly here.”

  “But I had to try. I never did say good-bye to you, Lily, when you left for the summer. And I wanted to see you.” He added, in a less personal tone of voice, “Who knows, anyway, when you will be back? Maybe you’re right to keep the children out of Paris.”

  “I experienced my first air-raid warning last night,” she said. “Have there been many?”

  “Several times a day.”

  “And . . . you aren’t going to try to return to the States?”

  “Not for the moment. I’d never be able to arrange it, anyway. I guess I’ll just stay put where I am. I might resume my writing for the Clarion, now that war’s on. The folks back home will be crazy for news of wartime Paris. There’s nothing like a safe, faraway disaster to make some people salivate.” He gave her a lopsided, ironic half smile.

  Impulsively, she said, looking into his eyes: “And if you feel like it, do come and see us. We have a huge house, and we’d love it if you came. If you want a semblance of peace, that is. Or a place to write your novel.”

  He smiled. “It’s a charming invitation in the midst of all this pandemonium. I’ll keep it in mind, fair lady. But I don’t imagine either one of us will be traveling around much over the next few months.” He added, his hazel eyes serious and earnest in the gray dawn: “That’s really why I wanted to say good-bye to you now. You’ll be okay there, won’t you?”

  She nodded, trying for lightness. “Thank you for caring, Mark. Keep up with my parents, will you please? It would relieve my mind to know that should they need something, you’d be nearby.”

  “Of course.”

  For a moment they were awkwardly silent, pressed together by the hordes of waiting passengers. She could feel his thigh against hers, his hand poised on her arm, his breath warm against the cold air. Oh, God, she suddenly wondered, and when will I see him again? When will I see my parents, Maryse and Wolf—all the people I’m leaving behind? And, with an absurd juxtaposition of memory, she saw him turn again in the black of night, illumined by the garden lights of the house on the Schwindgasse— turn and look up into her bedroom, discovering her watching him, in her nightgown. The remembrance suddenly shamed her, and she turned her face so that he wouldn’t see the mounting color in her cheeks.

  The shrill of a train whistle startled them both, and, very quickly, almost without looking at her, he kissed her on the neck. “Take care,” he murmured, and then, as she bent down to pick up her packages, they were separated by a fat young woman and two children, moving forward. She tried to hold her ground, to turn back to catch a glimpse of him. But in the sea of faces that pressed in on her, she realized she’d lost him.

  Afterward, in the corridor of the train, sitting on her suitcase, she thought of what she’d said to Kira in the kitchen in Saint-Aubin. War did turn people’s lives upside down. What would happen to Mark MacDonald, who had loved her as a young girl, and who had, in a tenuous fashion, remained connected to her life for nearly sixteen years?

  And she was conscious that she hadn’t thought at all about Misha, not for the last part of the summer. Dear Mark, she thought, with a stirring of her heart. Throughout the years, how carelessly I often forgot you. But you never once forgot me, did you?

  Life was inexplicable. One man had given her two children, lived with her for more than ten years, and left her without even saying good-bye. And another, who had never been her husband, nor even an intimate part of her life, had come through a war-clogged city at six in the morning just to say good-bye. How, then, was she supposed to explain this life, with all its unexpected twists and turns, to the two adolescents who looked to her for answers?

  I have no answers, Lily thought. And she felt a terrible aloneness descend upon her, and she was afraid.

  BOOK III

  THE FORTIES

  Chapter 19

  Some Paris institutions, afraid, had transferred their personnel and offices to the southwest. Some had come as far as Bordeaux; others had stopped on the way to set down temporary roots. Still others, uncertain as to the future, had remained in Paris.

  Saint-Aubin and its neighboring beach resorts, Langrune and Luc-sur-Mer, had, during the summer of 1939, seen many vacationing employees who,
that September, hadn’t known what to do. The mail was still working, in spite of common sense, which would have predicted a total stop in postal communications. But for most of these people, a trip to Paris just to check out the situation had seemed too expensive. If their office stayed open, they would be expected back; on the other hand, if it was moving, they would have no way of learning where to—and would therefore be better off staying put and renewing the lease on their summer rooms. The atmosphere was pervaded with anguish and anxiety.

  Lily had not had to worry. Jacques had sent her a sum of money to last her a few months, in case the mail was suddenly stopped and she was left stranded without funds. But another problem faced her. Nicolas was due to enter the tenth form, Kira the ninth. Other parents wondered if the lycées of Paris would continue to function, in the dire eventuality that the capital was invaded. And if they didn’t: wouldn’t it be better to stay in Saint-Aubin? Many people shared Lily’s concern for her children’s education. Those resolving to stay were afraid that their young people would lose a whole school year.

  And suddenly, word came that a referendum would be held to determine how many children would thus be left over at the end of summer. If a school was opened on the coast, would the parents be willing to send their children there, however makeshift this operation turned out to be? The results were striking: all the families that had resolved to stay put, answered in the affirmative. All along the littoral, which stretched from Villabella to Arromanches, the total of young people in need of schools numbered over two thousand.

  It was decided that five lycées would be formed. They would draw their teachers from all the ones who had not reintegrated their own communities, but who had, like the vacationing parents, stayed behind in fear of the Germans. In the Brasilovs’ area, the large hotel in Langrune, now closed for the off-season, donated its dining room and restaurant. There wouldn’t be any heating; but then, no one was expecting miracles in a summer resort during a wartime winter.