I took my agenda from my bag. Tomorrow morning, first thing, I had to call my gynecologist. Appointments needed to be made, fast. I probably had to go through tests. An amniocentesis, no doubt. No longer was I a “young” mother. Zoë’s birth seemed so far away.
All of sudden, panic hit me. Was I going to be able to go through all this, eleven years later? The pregnancy, the birth, the sleepless nights, the bottles, the crying, the diapers? Well, of course I was, I scoffed. I had been longing for this for the past decade. Of course I was ready. And so was Bertrand.
But as I sat waiting for him, anxiety grew. I tried to ignore it. I opened my notebook and read the recent Vel’ d’Hiv’ notes I’d taken earlier on. Soon, I was lost in my work. I no longer heard the hubbub of the restaurant around me, people laughing, waiters moving swiftly through the tables, chair legs scraping the floor.
I looked up to see my husband sitting in front of me, observing me.
“Hey, how long have you been there?” I asked.
He smiled. He covered my hand with his.
“Long enough. You look beautiful.”
He was wearing his dark blue corduroy jacket and a crisp, white shirt.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
I nearly blurted it out, right then. But no, this was too soon. Too fast. I held back with difficulty. The waiter brought a Kir royal for Bertrand.
“Well?” he said. “Why are we here, amour? Something special? A surprise?”
“Yes,” I said, raising my glass. “A very special surprise. Drink up! Here’s to the surprise.”
Our glasses clicked.
“Am I supposed to guess what it is?” he asked.
I felt impish, like a little girl.
“You’ll never guess! Never.”
He laughed, amused.
“You look like Zoë! Does she know what the special surprise is?”
I shook my head, feeling more and more excited.
“Nope. No one knows. No one except… me.”
I reached out and took one of his hands. Smooth, tanned skin.
“Bertrand-,” I said.
The waiter hovered above us. We decided to order. It was done in a minute, confit de canard for me and cassoulet for Bertrand. Asparagus for starters.
I watched the waiter’s back retreat toward the kitchens, then I said it. Very fast.
“I’m going to have a baby.”
I scrutinized his face. I waited for the mouth to tilt upward, the eyes to open wide with delight. But each muscle of his face remained motionless, like a mask. His eyes flickered back at me.
“A baby?” he echoed.
I pressed his hand.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Bertrand, isn’t it wonderful?”
He said nothing. I couldn’t understand.
“How pregnant are you?” he asked, finally.
“I just found out,” I murmured, worried by his stoniness.
He rubbed his eyes, something he always did when he was tired, or upset. He said nothing, I didn’t either.
The silence stretched out between us like mist. I could almost feel it with my fingers.
The waiter came to bring the first course. Neither of us touched our asparagus.
“What’s wrong?” I said, unable to bear it any longer.
He sighed, shook his head, rubbed his eyes again.
“I thought you’d be happy, thrilled,” I continued, tears welling.
He rested his chin on his hand, looked at me.
“Julia, I had given up.”
“But so had I! Completely given up.”
His eyes were grave. I did not like the finality in them.
“What do you mean,” I said, “just because you had given up, then you can’t…?”
“Julia. I’m going to be fifty in less than three years.”
“So what?” I said, cheeks burning.
“I don’t want to be an old father,” he said quietly.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said.
Silence.
“We can’t keep this baby, Julia,” he said, gently. “We have another life now. Zoë will soon be a teenager. You are forty-five. Our life is not the same. A baby would not fit into our life.”
The tears came now, splashing down my face, into my food.
“Are you trying to tell me,” I choked, “are you trying to tell me that I have to get an abortion?”
The family at the next table stared overtly. I did not give a damn.
As usual, in times of crisis, I had reverted back to my maternal tongue. No French was possible at a moment like this.
“An abortion, after three miscarriages?” I said, shaking.
His face was sad. Tender and sad. I wanted to slap it, to kick it.
But I could not. I could only cry into my napkin. He stroked my hair, murmured over and over again that he loved me.
I shut his voice out.
WHEN THE CHILDREN AWOKE, the night had fallen. The forest was no longer the peaceful, leafy place they had wandered through that afternoon. It was large, stark, full of strange noises. Slowly, they made their way through the bracken, hand in hand, pausing at every sound. It seemed to them the night grew blacker and blacker. Deeper and deeper. They walked on. The girl thought she was going to drop with exhaustion. But Rachel’s warm hand encouraged her.
They at last came to a wide path weaving across flat meadows. The forest loomed away. They looked up at a somber, moonless sky.
“Look,” said Rachel, pointing ahead of her. “A car.”
They saw headlights shine through the night. Headlights that were darkened with black paint, only letting a strip of light through. They heard the noisy engine approaching.
“What shall we do?” said Rachel. “Shall we stop it?”
The girl saw another pair of overshadowed headlights, then another. It was a long line of cars coming closer.
“Get down,” she whispered, pulling at Rachel’s skirt. “Quick!”
There were no bushes to hide behind. She lay flat out on her stomach, her chin in the dirt.
“Why? What are you doing?” asked Rachel.
Then she, too, understood.
Soldiers. German soldiers. Patrolling in the night.
Rachel scrambled down next to the girl.
The cars drew near, powerful engines rumbling. The girls could make out the shiny, round helmets of the men in the muted light of the headlights. They are going to see us, thought the girl. We cannot hide. There is no place to hide, they are going to see us.
The first jeep rolled by, followed by the others. Thick, white dust blew into the girls’ eyes. They tried not to cough, not to move. The girl lay face down in the dirt, her hands over her ears. The line of cars seemed endless. Would the men see their dark shapes by the side of the dirt road? She braced herself for the shouts, the cars stopping, doors slamming, fast footsteps and rough hands on their shoulders.
But the last cars went by, droning in the night. Silence returned. They looked up. The dirt road was empty, save for clouds of billowing white dust. They waited a moment, then crept down the path, going in the opposite direction. A light shimmered through trees. A white beckoning light. They drew nearer, keeping to the sides of the road. They opened a gate, walked stealthily up to a house. It looked like a farm, thought the girl. Through the open window, they saw a woman reading by the fireplace, a man smoking a pipe. A rich smell of food wafted by their nostrils.
Without hesitating, Rachel knocked on the door. A cotton curtain was pulled back. The woman who looked at them through the glass pane had a long, bony face. She stared at the girls, pulled the curtain back again. She did not open the door. Rachel knocked again.
“Please, Madame, we would like some food, some water.”
The curtain did not move. The girls went to stand in front of the open window. The man with the pipe got up from his chair.
“Go away,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “Get away from here.”
Behind him, the bony-faced woman looked on, silent.
“Please, some water,” said the girl.
The window was slammed shut.
The girl felt like crying. How could these farmers be so cruel? There was bread on the table, she had seen it. There was a pitcher of water, too. Rachel dragged her on. They went back to the winding dirt road. There were more farm houses. Each time, the same thing happened. They were sent away. Each time, they fled.