The Night, The Day (26 page)

chapter 48

M
artin Rosen’s eyes were fixated
on the ceiling until he heard the noise. He was startled, like an animal sensing danger. Doused in perspiration, he lifted his head from the pillow, honing his senses for signs of movement from the hallway outside his bedroom.

A figure appeared in the doorway, seeming like a shadow from the way the faint lighting of the hallway hit it from behind. Suddenly, a sense of relief, a slowing of his heart, as Martin recognized his daughter. “Elizabeth?” he called out.

“Daddy,” she said, her voice trembling, “I’m scared.”

She ran to his side. He scooped her up and wrapped his arms around her. “What’s the matter?” he asked as calmly as he could, wondering if the same demons that had kept him awake had invaded her sleep as well.

“I had a bad dream.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“A bad dream?” He hugged her tighter. “Tell me what it was about.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then how do you know it was bad?”

“Because I woke up scared.”

Martin was no expert in child psychology, but he knew that children frequently had difficulty articulating the things that scared them. And he was only too familiar with the fact that these things often came in the middle of the night. Two years earlier, immediately after Katherine and Ethan were killed, Elizabeth spent many nights running into his bedroom looking for her Mommy. It lasted for almost two months before subsiding, though it had never completely disappeared. Before he had left for Chicago, his first overnight trip away from her, he had been concerned that his absence might cause an exacerbation. Strangely enough, the result was actually the opposite. Since his return, the nights had been uneventful. He had attributed the change to a simple, sudden break in habit. But in truth, he knew that it was really one of those paradoxes of human behavior that defied understanding. And, whatever the reason, her problem had now resurfaced, causing him to wonder if her sense of his own terrors had somehow brought this about.

He stroked her hair. “There’s nothing to be scared of, princess. I’m right here. I’ll always be here and I would never let anything happen to you.”

As he said those words, he realized that he had used them with her frequently since the tragedy, and that it was no doubt a false promise. Still, he could think of little else to allay her fears.

She cuddled close to him.

“Would you like to sleep here tonight?” he asked.

She looked at him, a slight, sudden smile spreading across her face. “Can I?”

“Yes,” he said, aware that it wasn’t his wisest decision. Many an expert might have disagreed with it, but at that moment, he had neither the strength nor the desire to part with her. He needed her as much as she needed him.

A moment of silence passed as they positioned themselves for sleep.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, princess?”

“Do you get scared?”

Now he was convinced she was onto him. Genius that she was, she had seen him only briefly before she had gone to bed, yet she had read him thoroughly. “Sometimes,” he responded.

“And what do you do?”

There it was, the most interesting question she had asked him to date, saying nothing of its timeliness. And, as with all good questions, he hadn’t a clue of the answer.

Suddenly, he pictured himself lying in the his childhood bed, asking his own mother the very same thing and, as if transported back to the past, he could hear her response:
God watches over us
.

Faith as the answer to everything, the dogma of his youth. Was he denying his daughter something essential by depriving her of a sense of the divine? Would he, too, be faring better if he simply had reliance on a power beyond? Was Galit right, was there in fact a higher moral purpose superseding his own personal ethics and judgments? And if so, had he been devoting his entire adult life to an illusion, running from the very thing that now offered him his only salvation?

He turned to Elizabeth, pondering how to suddenly invoke the idea of a God who loved and protected her, searching his mind for the right words and thoughts. But all he could come up with was uncertainty, and not even the words to explain that. Looking into her eyes, wondering if she sensed his frustration, he said, “I think about the people who love me, the people who would never let anything bad happen to me, and I know that they’ll be there to protect me. Then I’m not scared anymore.”

She seemed to contemplate this. “Then that’s what I’ll do, Daddy.” She nestled her head against his chest and put her arm on his waist.

He could tell she had run out of steam, though the dialogue still played in his mind. Back to staring at the ceiling, he was once again ruminating over his own quandaries. And in the end, the only thing he knew for certain was that tomorrow he would confront not one man, but two: Benoît and himself.

chapter 49

M
artin Rosen was pleased with
the news Dan Gifford had given him: “Stephanie wants me to come home, Doc. She says she wants to try again.” Moreover, he was gratified that the session had focused on this development in Gifford’s life, giving him a sense that they were back on track. And, although he had detected a slight undercurrent of tension from things unspoken, he was confident it would wane with time.

Now, with Gifford having just departed, Martin sat in his chair, playing with the brooch in his hand, looking at the clock and wondering where Benoît was. It was the first time the man was late and, considering their last session, it wouldn’t surprise Martin if he didn’t show at all. Martin was accustomed to this sort of behavior from patients, and he admitted to himself that resolving the Benoît dilemma without having to do anything had its appeal. But Martin knew that this could never end so simply.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of someone entering the waiting room. Martin had left the door to his inner office open, as he always did with tardy patients – an indication that he was waiting. He quickly placed the brooch in his pocket.

“I am sorry to be late,” Benoît said as he came in.

Martin nodded his acceptance.

Benoît closed the door and hastened toward the couch. “There was a business emergency I had to attend to.”

Martin raised his eyebrows.

“Nothing really,” Benoît explained. “Just a phone call – a crisis in one of my resorts in the Caymans.” Benoît sat down and caught his breath. “So, let’s get to it.”

“Yes, let’s.”

“Do you have anything in particular you think we should discuss?” Benoît asked.

Martin thought this was an unusual question coming from a patient. It was generally protocol for the patient to set the agenda for the session, not the therapist. He had already surmised that Benoît must have had a plan in mind from the very start of their relationship; thus, he interpreted the question as a fishing expedition on Benoît’s part, to see just how far along they actually were.

As for Benoît’s tardiness, Martin took that as a tactic, an old business trick – keep the other fellow waiting, make him anxious, gain the upper hand. In this case, it was Benoît’s attempt to level the playing field by equalizing the uneasiness. “Actually, I do,” Martin answered.

Benoît’s eyes opened wide. “And what might that be?”

Martin looked at him impassively. “I’d like you to tell me about the orphanage.”

Benoît’s face reddened, though his voice remained calm. “You want me to tell you what?”

“About the orphanage,” Martin repeated.

“What orphanage?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, so let’s stop pretending.”

Benoît suddenly retreated to silence. He appeared to be to be at a loss, drifting and uncertain, contemplating how to respond.

Martin waited patiently, assuming that the next thing he was going to hear would be the truth.

Benoît reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and began wiping his forehead. “What is there to tell you? You obviously already know,” he said.

“I want to hear it from you.”

“Ah, so you want me to wallow in it.”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“You know the truth!”

Martin simply stared at Benoît and waited.

Benoît met his stare, projecting more surrender than anger. Then he proceeded to relate the details, just as he remembered them.

April 6, 1944

Izieu, Vichy France

He opens the car door, tosses his cigarette on the ground, and steps out as the trucks behind him come to a halt. It is the dawn of a spring day; the air is chilled and foggy. He looks around as the Gestapo chief emerges from the second car. The two of them share a brief glance.

There are three other Gestapo agents in the chief’s car, and eight Vichy policemen in one of the trucks. The other truck is empty, awaiting its cargo.

He looks at his watch. It is almost time. The place is quiet, secluded out here in the hills beyond the city. A perfect place for refuge, on any other day.

The men gather and stand at attention, awaiting orders. He looks to the chief for a signal. A moment passes while the chief surveys the area. There is always the possibility of a partisan ambush.

The chief appears satisfied and nods.

He turns to the men and shouts, “Begin!”

His command eradicates the stillness of the early morning. Boots pound the ground, whistles blow. Lights go on inside the building. The chief looks at him, offering a faint smile. It is beginning.

The door is kicked in and the men file through, weapons in hand. He is certain that the weapons are needed only to instill fear – if there were partisans, they would already have attacked.

He enters the building last, walking beside the chief. This, more than anything, is his coup – to have been handpicked for this assignment by Klaus Barbie, Gestapo Chief of Lyon.

He hears a confrontation upstairs, some women are resisting. He feels he should intervene before the Nazis do. Bloodshed in an orphanage, even a Jewish one, would be most un-French.

He walks up the stairs and observes three women blocking a doorway that obviously leads to a room filled with children. The women are shouting, and his men, seemingly inept, simply shout back.

He takes out his pistol and fires a shot toward the ceiling. He then steps in front of one of the women and points the gun directly at her head. Now there is silence.

“Madam,” he says, “you and your friends have three seconds to step aside, or you will die.”

The women obey, as he knew they would. He looks at his men. “You couldn’t have pushed past them?” He is not altogether angry – it is another opportunity to demonstrate his prowess to the Nazis. He believes them depraved enough to regard him capable of actually killing the woman. But he is ever the smart one, knowing it would never have come to that.

He surveys the room. It belongs to four young girls, all sitting fearfully on their beds. Avoiding their eyes, he looks them over, guessing them to be 5 or 6 years old. “Take them down,” he tells the men as he turns and exits the room.

He hears more clamor from the ground floor – crying, yelling, and what sounds like laughter from the Nazis – as he proceeds downstairs. The children and staff are being gathered and ridiculed by their captors. He glances at his watch. The operation has been in progress just over ten minutes. He is concerned that it will take too long. It is important that these things go quickly; the men shouldn’t have too much time to think about what they are doing.

With a gesture of his hand, he beckons his second in command. “Our German friends admire efficiency,” he whispers to the man. “We must make haste.”

“Yes, Captain,” the man replies, then darts away, shouting orders.

He notices Barbie watching him closely. It is a pivotal moment. The war has been good to him thus far. The small fortune he has plundered will serve him well once his country is again free. He knows the Nazi occupation will not last forever, and wonders just how much time remains for him to amass more riches. Already there have been rumors of an Allied invasion.

He notices the room filling up quickly; his men are more aggressive in their task. He knows it is the rewards they anticipate after the war that form the basis for their loyalty. They, like the Nazis, know what he has been up to. The Nazis turn a blind eye; a small price to pay for his assistance. It is all unspoken but quite understood.

Within minutes, the roundup is complete. There are forty-four children in all, and seven adults, one fewer child than the Gestapo report had indicated.
Perhaps the report was faulty
, he contemplates. Either way, there is no time to search.

Several of the children are weeping, clinging to their caretakers. He wonders if things are this warm between them at other times. He has always believed orphanages to be horrible places, not much better than the Nazi camps he has heard about. This, somehow, makes him feel justified.

A few of the older children aren’t crying, but the fear on their faces is evident. It is that very fear that has made his job so easy. These people do not resist. They are petrified and do what they are told, hoping that their obedience may afford them a measure of mercy. They are fools.

He steps in front of them and begins to speak: “I am Captain Lemieux of the Vichy police. This building is being seized by the Vichy government because of suspected partisan activities.”

He personally considers his comments ridiculous, though they are verbatim what Barbie had told him to say. The Germans have become so habituated to propaganda, he wonders if they have actually come to believe their own lies.

“You will all be sent to a new place to live. There is no need for you to bring any of your belongings. My men will gather them for you and bring them to where you are going. If you cooperate, everything will go smoothly.”

He notices a woman bending down and whispering in one of the younger children’s ears. “Madam,” he says calmly, his expression curious.

“I am just explaining what you said to the boy. He is only 3 and does not understand all your words,” the woman responded, her voice quivering.

He nods his head, excusing her, while his eyes reveal that he will not tolerate another interruption. He looks at his men and says, “Proceed.”

He watches as the children and their caretakers are led from the building, observing that their fear is not diminished by his speech; on the contrary, it grows by the moment. He believes that those old enough to understand anything know the truth about their destiny. But that is of no concern to him.

Barbie steps beside him. “You have done well,” he says.

He nods.

They follow the procession out of the building.

“It seems our partisan friends took the night off,” Barbie says.

“Either that or they simply don’t care about a bunch of Jewish children.”

They watch as their captives are placed on the truck in orderly succession. The Germans appreciate orderliness, and for now, it is all about pleasing the Germans.

“Where will they be taken?” he asks, betraying a momentary lapse in his indifference.

“Drancy, of course,” Barbie replies.

“And after that?” He realizes his curiosity is taking over, but can’t seem to help himself.

“The usual places,” Barbie responds.

He struggles with a desire to probe further. It was foolish to ask in the first place, he tells himself. He knows exactly where the rail lines from Drancy lead. Perhaps he simply wanted to hear Barbie say it, to have the Nazi acknowledge their partnership. But equality with a man of Barbie’s stature would always be elusive – for the German sees himself as superior not only to the Jew, but to all. And in the end, superiority is what matters.

His men board the second truck and he watches as both trucks pull away. From a distance, he still hears crying, resounding as strongly as if his victims were right in front of him. And as the trucks disappear from view, the crying persists, leaving him wondering if it will ever stop.

When he had finished, the two men sat, looking at each other, absorbed in a silence more potent than anything either had ever experienced.

“How did you find out?” Benoît asked, breaking the stillness.

“A dossier was left under my door.”

“Ah, so it was them.”

“Them?”

“The FBI, immigration, Israelis – the usual people who concern themselves with such matters.”

“So you knew they were onto you?”

“Of course I did.”

“And that’s why you tried to kill yourself?”

Benoît pondered. “I suppose that was one of the reasons.”

“The other reasons being?”

“There was one other reason. I should think you would have surmised it by now.”

“My guess would be that, aside from the shame your exposure would bring upon your family, you may actually have felt some remorse,” Martin said, searching Benoît’s face for confirmation. “Perhaps you were even trying to punish yourself.”

“Bravo, my dear doctor. You have shown yourself to be every bit as smart as I believed you to be.”