The Orphan's Tale(58)

Still my heart races and I am reminded of every reason I should stay away. “Those police who came to the show to arrest the man and the girl...they work for your father, don’t they?”

“Yes.” He lowers his head. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea that was going to happen. I’m sure it was ordered from somewhere much higher up. He must not have had a choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

He keeps his eyes low, not meeting my gaze. “If you don’t want to see me now because of everything that happened, I understand.”

“Not at all,” I reply, too quickly.

“Then come.” My fingers warm to his touch as he takes my hand once more and continues to walk.

Soon the forest ends, and across an open field, a barn appears darkly silhouetted against the dusky sky. Luc starts toward the barn.

“Luc, wait...” I say uneasily as we near the door of the barn. Going for a walk together is one thing. But going inside with him seems like something more, a step too far. “I have to get back,” I say. I imagine Astrid, knowing exactly where I am, watching the clock angrily.

“Just for a few minutes, so we are out of sight,” he cajoles.

The wood door creaks as Luc pulls it open. He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter first. Inside, the barn is empty, the air thick with the smell of rotting wood and damp hay.

“How did you find this place?” I ask.

“This is the very edge of my family’s property. Don’t worry,” he adds, seeing my alarmed expression. “No one ever comes out here anymore but me.”

He gestures upward toward the loft. “No one will find us here.”

I look up dubiously, suddenly mindful that it is just the two of us alone, far from the circus or anywhere else. “I don’t know...”

“We’re just talking,” he says, his voice challenging. “What harm can that do?”

Luc climbs up to the loft then and helps me, fingers moist on my wrist. It is a small rectangular area, maybe two meters by three, close to the sloped A-frame roof of the barn. Rough wood boards are covered in hay that tickles my legs beneath my skirt. Luc slides back a slatted wood window panel to reveal the rolling hills that lead to the village, patchwork fields broken by mossy farmhouse roofs. Lights sparkle in some of the windows before blackout curtains fall, seeming to snuff them out like candles. It is peaceful—and so pristine, it is almost possible for a moment to forget about the war.

Luc points out at a small steeple on the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun. “I went to école there,” he says and I smile, picturing him as a young boy. He had lived his whole life right in this village, much as I might have back home had things been different. He goes on, “I have two older sisters, both married and living in towns not far away. My grandparents lived with us, too, when I was a child. There was always so much laughter and noise.” There is a longing note to his voice that makes clear those times are far gone.

He reaches under a pile of hay and produces a darkened glass bottle, half-empty. “A bit of Chablis from my father’s cellar,” he says, grinning wickedly. He passes it to me and I take a sip from the bottle. Though I know nothing about wine, I can tell that it is a good vintage, the taste layered, spicy and deep.

In the corner where he had hidden the wine, I notice something still half-hidden beneath the hay. Curious, I move closer. There is a thick tablet and a set of paints. “You’re an artist,” I remark.

He laughs, wrapping his arms around his knees. “That’s a big word for it. I sketch, when I can get paper. I paint, though not so much anymore. My mother loved art and was forever taking me to galleries wherever we went on holiday. Once I wanted to go to Paris and study at the Sorbonne.” His eyes are animated as he speaks of art and his childhood.

“Is it far? Paris, I mean.” I am embarrassed not to have a better sense of geography.

“About four hours by train these days with all of the stoppages. I went with my mother to see the museums. She loved art.” There is a note of sadness to his voice now.

“You still live with your parents?” I ask.

“Just my father. My mother died when I was eleven.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. Though my own parents are still alive, his loss seems to echo my own, strengthening the ache I have worked so hard to bury. I want to touch his arm in comfort, but it seems I do not know him well enough. “Do you still plan to study art?” I ask instead.

“It doesn’t seem possible anymore.” He gestures to the countryside below with long tapered fingers.

“But you still want it,” I press.

“Painting seems so frivolous now,” he replies. “I don’t know what to do—I don’t want to just sit here. Papa wants me to join the LVF, but I don’t want to fight for the Germans. He says it doesn’t look right for the mayor’s son not to go, and I can only hold him off for so long. I’d run away, but I don’t want to leave Papa alone.”

“There has to be another way,” I offer, though I’m not sure I believe it.

“It’s just this damned war,” he says, his voice rattling with frustration. I am surprised to hear him swear. “It’s turned everything on its head.” He turns away. “What happened at the show the other day with the man and the girl, it isn’t the first time. There were Jewish families in Thiers who had been here my whole life. They lived over on the east side of town, just past the market. One of the boys, Marcel, was a friend of mine at école.”