All the Light We Cannot See: A Novel(41)

Cold air whistles through the halls, so pure it makes Werner dizzy. A trio of moths swim against the ceiling of his bunkroom. He unlaces his boots and folds his trousers in the dark and sets the tin of biscuits on top. Frederick peers over the edge of his bunk. “Where did you go?”

“I got cookies,” whispers Werner.

“I heard an eagle owl tonight.”

“Hush,” hisses a boy two bunks down.

Werner passes up a biscuit. Frederick whispers: “Do you know about them? They’re really rare. Big as gliders. This one was probably a young male looking for new territory. He was in one of the poplar trees beside the parade ground.”

“Oh,” says Werner. Greek letters move across the undersides of his eyelids: isosceles triangles, betas, sine curves. He sees himself in a white coat, striding past machines.

Someday he’ll probably win a big prize.

Code breaking, rocket propulsion, all the latest.

We live in exceptional times.

From the hall come the clicking boot heels of the bunk master. Frederick tips back onto his bunk. “I couldn’t see him,” he whispers, “but I heard him perfectly.”

“Shut your face!” says a second boy. “You’ll get us thrashed.”

Frederick says nothing more. Werner stops chewing. The bunk master’s boots go quiet: either he is gone or he has paused outside the door. Out on the grounds, someone is splitting wood, and Werner listens to the ringing of the sledgehammer against the wedge and the quick, frightened breaths of the boys all around him.





The Professor


Etienne is reading Darwin to Marie-Laure when he stops midsyllable.

“Uncle?”

He breathes nervously, out of pursed lips, as if blowing on a spoonful of hot soup. He whispers, “Someone’s here.”

Marie-Laure can hear nothing. No footfalls, no knocks. Madame Manec whisks a broom across the landing one floor up. Etienne hands her the book. She can hear him unplug a radio, then tangle himself in its cords. “Uncle?” she says again, but he is leaving his study, floundering downstairs—are they in danger?—and she follows him to the kitchen, where she can hear him laboring to slide the kitchen table out of the way.

He pulls up a ring in the center of the floor. Beneath a hatch waits a square hole out of which washes a damp, frightening smell. “One step down, hurry now.”

Is this a cellar? What has her uncle seen? She has set one foot on the top rung of a ladder when the blocky shoes of Madame Manec come clomping into the kitchen. “Really, Master Etienne, please!”

Etienne’s voice from below: “I heard something. Someone.”

“You are frightening her. It is nothing, Marie-Laure. Come now.”

Marie-Laure backs out. Below her, her great-uncle whispers nursery rhymes to himself.

“I can sit with him for a bit, Madame. Maybe we could read some more of our book, Uncle?”

The cellar, she gathers, is merely a dank hole in the ground. They sit awhile on a rolled carpet with the trapdoor open and listen to Madame Manec hum as she makes tea in the kitchen above them. Etienne trembles lightly beside her.

“Did you know,” says Marie-Laure, “that the chance of being hit by lightning is one in one million? Dr. Geffard taught me that.”

“In one year or in one lifetime?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You should have asked.”

Again those quick, pursed exhalations. As though his whole body urges him to flee.

“What happens if you go outside, Uncle?”

“I get uneasy.” His voice is almost inaudible.

“But what makes you uneasy?”

“Being outside.”

“What part?”

“Big spaces.”

“Not all spaces are big. Your street is not that big, is it?”

“Not as big as the streets you are used to.”

“You like eggs and figs. And tomatoes. They were in our lunch. They grow outside.”

He laughs softly. “Of course they do.”

“Don’t you miss the world?”

He is quiet; so is she. Both ride spirals of memory.

“I have the whole world here,” he says, and taps the cover of Darwin. “And in my radios. Right at my fingertips.”

Her uncle seems almost a child, monastic in the modesty of his needs and wholly independent of any sort of temporal obligations. And yet she can tell he is visited by fears so immense, so multiple, that she can almost feel the terror pulsing inside him. As though some beast breathes all the time at the windowpanes of his mind.

“Could you read some more, please?” she asks, and Etienne opens the book and whispers, “Delight itself is a weak term to express the feelings of a naturalist who, for the first time, has wandered by himself into a Brazilian forest . . .”

After a few paragraphs, Marie-Laure says without preamble, “Tell me about that bedroom upstairs. Across from the one I sleep in.”

He stops. Again his quick, nervous breaths.

“There’s a little door at the back of it,” she says, “but it’s locked. What’s through there?”

He is silent for long enough that she worries she has upset him. But then he stands, and his knees crack like twigs.

“Are you getting one of your headaches, Uncle?”