13. Shoes

Chapter thirteen

Shoes

"Soldier, soldier," the daughters of the camp commander get out of the military vehicle that pulled over in front of Captain Becker's barracks, and they start running toward me. They don't bother closing the car door, and the German soldier who brought them here slams the door behind them. He remains standing next to the gray-green military car.

"I'm not a soldier; I'm a policeman," I say as I put on my blue police cap and step away from our barracks' balcony. Their floral dresses flutter as they run through the grass, wearing brown shoes and white socks. They look as though they belong in a poster on a billboard, in a world before the war broke, a world that is so far away from Nazi officers, French policemen, and Jewish prisoners.

"Policeman, we want to play with the dirty Jewess," the older of the two says as they stop running. She is about eight or ten years old. Her curly hair is tied up with a pink ribbon.

"Are you allowed to play with her?" I ask and look at the German soldier who brought them here. He's leaning against the car with indifference, takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and lights one.

"You know we are. You already brought her to us last time, and my father says we can do whatever we want here," she says and stands up, putting her hands on her hips.

"She belongs to us. We can do anything to her. We throw her things away, and she keeps bringing them back," the younger one says. She's only slightly younger than her sister, but older than the girl with the wild hair.

"The dirty Jewess also speaks German. Father says it's the language of the superior race, not like the French who can't fight," the older sister says, her hands are still on her hips.

"I'll see what I can do," I reply in French and turn to the gate.

"Tell her to bring her raggy bear," the little sister says.

"And hurry up, we're waiting," the older sister adds as I start walking toward the gate. "Dad says all the French are lazy," I can hear her saying, but don't turn around.

I walk to the gate slowly on purpose. My entire body is tense, and I place my hand on the leather holster strapped to my waist. It's been two years since they occupied us, and I still feel shamed every time I face a German soldier who speaks disdainfully to me or a German girl who patronizes me. I need to be careful and tread lightly. Her father is the camp's commander. He can punish the French policemen however he chooses to. I continue walking slowly so they'll keep thinking that the French are idle.

"Are you going to take more instigators to the East?" one of the policemen at the gate asks me and laughs .

"No, not today, maybe tomorrow," I reply, wondering what's so funny about the Jewish prisoners suffering in this camp.

I cross the yard taking big strides, ignoring the people clearing my path. I know where to find her.

"Girl," I slowly open the abandoned classroom door and call her. The tables have been pushed to the corner. But I can't hear a sound.

"Girl," I call her again and enter the empty classroom. Did something happen to her?

"Girl," I say and walk to the corner, look at the makeshift fortress that she had built and find her curled up, looking at me.

"The good hunter with the glasses," she says with a small smile.

"Why didn't you answer?"

"Because you spoke French, and I thought you wanted to catch me."

"Come with me. The commander's daughters want to play with you."

"Hilda and Liza?"

"Is that their names?"

"Yes," she nods.

"And what's your name?"

"Rebecca."

"Rebecca, come with me to play with Hilda and Liza."

"Do you have a piece of chocolate for me?"

"No, but I have some bread and cheese," I reach into my pocket and pull out two slices of bread and a small block of cheese wrapped in parchment paper. It was supposed to be my breakfast, but I put it aside.

"Will you watch over me?" She glares at me while hungrily munching the food.

"Yes, I'm a policeman," I place my hand on my rifle's strap.

"Good," she says after she finishes eating. She comes out of her hiding place, holding the ragged teddy bear, then takes my hand.

Her little hand feels strange in my big palm. I've never held a little girl's hand. I feel her fingers against mine. As we start walking, I look down and notice she's barefoot.

"You forgot to put your shoes on."

"I don't have any," she looks up.

"You don't have shoes?"

"No," she replies. I remember she had shoes the last time I saw her.

"What happened?"

But she doesn't respond. She just keeps looking at me.

"Did they take your shoes?"

"Yes," she nods.

"Let's go," I start walking, and she runs while holding my hand. But I let go of it. We can't form a connection. I'm a policeman, and she's a Jewish prisoner who I mustn't care for. I'm only here to bring her to the German girls to play with her.

When we go out into the yard, I deliberately walk faster so she won't be able to keep up. She runs behind me until we reach the gate. I'll just do my job, nothing more.

"It's okay," I say to the policeman at the gate. "I'm taking her outside to play with the commander's daughters." The other policeman opens the gate for us. I wonder how she feels about being free for a few moments.

"There she is," says the commander's younger daughter, as she claps and jumps, her golden curls bouncing merrily. "Let's play," she runs to Rebecca and snatches her teddy bear from her hand.

"You'll be the dog," the older sister says to her as they run to the German barracks, and Rebecca runs after them.

"Catch," they shout to her and throw the bear to each other.

I stand on the porch and watch them play. Rebecca runs between the two girls and tries to catch her teddy bear, her wild brown hair blows in the wind.

On the other side of the fence, the German soldier who brought them earlier is leaning against the military vehicle while smoking his cigarette and watching them. His black holster is almost invisible over his black ironed uniform. I can go back into our barracks, it's my break time, but I stay on the porch, watching Rebecca. She runs around and only occasionally stops to rest while the girls toss her the bear. I leave my lunch untouched.

The barracks door opens, and I turn around to see Sergeant Pascal come out and stand next to me.

"Mathéo, I think you've lost the bet. The girl is still alive, and you bet on today," he patted me on the shoulder.

"Maybe one of the Jews in the camp takes pity on her and gives her food," I reply.

"At least she's barefoot. Even if someone gives her food, she'll struggle to survive. The nights are getting colder," Sergeant Pascal says, lighting a cigarette. "How did she even get here? "

"The German commander's girls like playing with her. They asked me to bring her over. So, I found her," I reply, watching as she runs between them like a brown puppy trying to catch a ball of rags.

"Yes, the Nazis like to have fun with the Jews. They are allowed to have fun," he takes a drag from his cigarette.

"She lives by the water faucet outside," I tell him, not wanting to reveal her hiding place.

"I think the German commander's daughters will soon have to find another Jewish girl to play with."

"Can I bet on her again?" Another policeman joins us.

"Of course," Pascal replies. "We're open for another bet. How about you?" He turns to me. "Want to place another bet?"

"Yes, I do," I say and continue watching Rebecca running in the yard. I must behave like a French policeman under the German regime and do what is expected of me.

"I'll take your bet later," Pascal says when he returns inside with the other policeman.

The German soldier in the black uniform finishes smoking his cigarette, throws it on the ground, and disappears into the German barracks.

"Hilda, Liza," he comes out a few minutes later and calls them. He says something to them, and then approaches the military vehicle and opens the door.

The girls run to him and enter the vehicle. One of them throws the ragged bear on the ground near the car while the driver slams the door behind her and sits behind the wheel.

I see Rebecca approaching the bear when the driver starts the car. The car runs over the bear, almost hitting Rebecca. Instinctively, I put my hand on my gun, even though it doesn't make sense. Anyway, I won't pull it out and protect her against the German driver.

Confused, Rebecca remains standing next to her bear, even when the vehicle passes close to her and drives away on the road leading to Paris. I can still see the commander's daughters looking out the window and laughing at Rebecca standing alone in the yard.

After they disappear, she sits down on the ground. At first, I assume she was hit by the vehicle, and I didn't notice. But a few seconds later, she slowly gets up, walks over to her runover bear, and picks it up. She looks right and left, as if searching for something. Sergeant Pascal is right. She won't survive much longer. Even the commander's daughters won't give her extra time because she speaks German and plays with them.

I go into the barracks for a moment and then come out and call her. It's time to take her back to her hiding place.

"Rebecca, will you be okay?" I ask her as we enter the abandoned classroom.

"Yes," she nods.

"Take it," I give her my lunch. "Eat it now, don't save the food for later, so someone won't take it from you."

"Okay," she nods, "will you bring me more food tomorrow?"

"Rebecca, you have to learn to get by," I tell her, deliberating how to explain to her what she needs to do. "You have to get food for yourself like other people who trade their cigarettes for food," I try to explain.

"Do you have any cigarettes?" She looks up and asks me, her dark-brown eyes watching me .

"No, I don't have cigarettes, but you must learn to get by. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes," she nods.

"Good, bye," I say to her and walk out of the deserted classroom, leaving her on her own. I can't be responsible for her. It's not my job.

"See you tomorrow," I say goodbye to Fernard and step out of the Peugeot pickup truck, slamming the door behind me.

"Bye, Mathéo," he waves goodbye and slowly drives away down the street. He waits patiently for a young cyclist pedaling down the road, the fabric of her blue dress rubs against her hips with every move she makes. It's Fernard's turn to take the police car today. Tomorrow, he has to bring supplies from the police headquarters.

"Good evening, Mr. Allard," Luc stops kicking the ball of rags he's been playing with on the street. He stands at attention, salutes, and then asks: "Want to play ball?"

"Good evening, soldier," I salute back and stand at a distance from him. "Go ahead, pass the ball."

"Does the police have guns?" He asks and kicks the ball at me.

"We have everything, including guns," I show him the gun in my holster as I kick the ball back.

"Will we ever beat the Germans?" He asks.

"We will," I reply confidently, still kicking the ball. But deep down I know we don't stand a chance, not after what I've seen in this war. We'll live under occupation for many years to come.

"Because we, the French people, are brave," he says and kicks the ball as hard as he can.

"Say, Luc, where does your mother buy shoes for you these days?"

"I don't know. She takes me to a shoemaker," he answers awkwardly.

"But how about now, when no one can get leather?"

"I don't know, she just gave me a pair. Do you want me to ask her?"

"No, it's fine, don't worry about it," I continue playing. I shouldn't have asked him. He's too young to know.

"She always takes care of everything. She says I should go to school and be a good student."

"She's a good mother," I tell him, thinking of my own mother who raised me alone during the previous war and after. "Luc," I stop kicking for a moment and pull out a stack of food coupons from my leather bag. "Give these to your mother, it'll help her," I hand him the stack. As a policeman, I get extra coupons. Mother and I can manage with less. They need it more than we do.

"But what will I tell her?" He holds the coupons.

"Don't tell her it's from me," I reply and think for a moment. "Tell her it's from Reverend Nicholas. You met him on the street, and he gave them to you."

"She won't believe me."

"Make sure she does," I smile at him. "Now that your father is gone, you must help her. You're the man of the house now. "

"Say, Mathéo, will my father come back one day?" He stops playing and looks at me.

"Yes, he will. The war will end, and your father will come back," I gaze at him.

"My mom will be really happy when he comes back."

"I know. He'll be back, I'm sure of it," I approach him and stroke his hair. "Give her my warmest regard." I say goodbye to him and turn to the entrance of the house.

"Goodbye, Mathéo," he calls after me, "will we play tomorrow too?"

"Of course, Luc, see you then," I walk past Mrs. Sophie's barbershop and the large bulletin board. They've hung new posters depicting the Americans and the English as evil venomous snakes. Behind me, I hear Luc kicking the ball against the wall. The wall consistently bounces the ball back, instead of his father who disappeared in the war. The Germans won't say what happened to him. His mother doesn't know if he fell in battle, was taken prisoner, or maybe lying wounded in a POW camp.

At least I knew what happened to my father in that war, but I was too young to understand. I played football against the wall for years and waited for my father to return.

"Mom, was it difficult raising me?" I ask her later that evening as we both eat simple onion soup in the kitchen.

"It isn't difficult for any mother to raise her child," she replies. "That's why we're mothers."

I turn my gaze to Dad's picture next to the radio. In the dim lamplight, I can only make his figure. Night has already fallen, and the curtains are shut so that no one can see the light in our house, violating the blackout regulations .

"Mom, where can you get shoes in town these days?"

"It's hard to get shoes now. They use all the leather for army boots. It's hard to get anything," she continues sipping the soup.

"And if I want to get shoes for a girl?"

"Why do you need shoes for a girl?" She stops eating and looks at me.

"I don't need to. I just asked where I could get a pair."

"Did you get involved with a woman who has children and want to be her knight in shining armor?"

"No, I didn't get involved with a woman," I continue sipping the soup. I shouldn't have asked her. I can't explain it to her.

"How old is the girl?" She resumes eating her soup.

"Five or six or seven, I don't know."

"So how are you going to get her shoes if you don't know what size she is?"

"I don't want to get her shoes. I just asked."

"Is it Colette? Luc's mom? Did you get involved with her? She's married," she stops eating again and looks at me angrily.

"No, Mom, I'm not involved with Colette, and Luc is a boy not a girl. Soon he'll be as tall as me. And I know she's married," I don't tell her about the coupons I gave her son.

"You always want to help others," she stands up from and takes the empty bowls. "When you were a child, you would lie in bed and read books about knights who defeated evil dragons and saved the world. But you're older now. You know that the knights lost, and the Nazi monster won. "

"Yes, Mother, I know. Thanks for the food," I stand up and hug her. "I know the Germans won. I work for them. Forget that I asked about the shoes. It's not important."

But the next day, when I return from work, there's a pair of brown leather shoes for a five- or six- or seven- year-old girl on the small chair by the entrance hall. They're polished and shiny, and there's a pair of small cream-colored socks next to them.

"I'm going to patrol the camp and inspect the Jews," I say the next day to Sergeant Pascal. I've hidden the shoes in the small leather bag on my shoulder.

"If you're going, take Fernard with you. Show him how we handle Jews who don't follow the rules," he takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. There's a name written on it. "This man would be happy to get on the train east today," he hands me the note.

"Excellent," I take the note and tuck it into my shirt pocket. I can't refuse his request. He mustn't suspect anything is wrong. "Fernard, take a rifle. We're going on patrol," I head to the gun stand and take out a rifle and a bullet belt.

Fernard rushes after me and takes a weapon, loads it, and ties the bullet belt around his waist. "I'm ready," he says.

"Let's do our job," I turn my back to him and leave the barracks. I can hear his boots pacing on the porch behind me.

"Don't you feel sorry for them?" Fernard asks me as we walk through the yard. The people walking outside clear our path .

"There's no reason to pity them at all. They brought it on themselves by failing to follow the rules," I reply and hate myself for having said those words. "For example, look at Mr. Arsenault," I read from the note in my hand, "he's accused of spreading false rumors."

"What did he say?" Fernard places his hand on his rifle's stock.

"I don't know, but it doesn't matter. It's treason. The people here are traitors," I continue walking quickly through the yard and look at the people with the yellow badges. I know I'm lying to him. I'm also lying to myself.

"Hey, soldier, do you need help again?" The woman who always stands at entrance number four calls out to me. Her light brown dress looks too big for her size. "I'll be happy for a cigarette," she says, putting her hand in her dress pocket while leaning against the concrete wall at the building's entrance.

"Who is she?" Fernard asks me.

"Never mind, ignore her," I reply and keep walking. She has a big mouth. I'm afraid she'll start talking about the girl I was looking for last time. Even policemen have to be careful here. I have to be careful. I'm holding the note with his name and his apartment number. Mr. Arsenault wasn't careful enough, and the Germans have all the information they needed about him.

We enter entrance number five and climb the stairs to the second floor. Despite the autumn breeze, there's a foul smell in the stairwell. I look away from the people peering at us from the apartments. They pull into the shadows and fall silent as if we were wolves coming to collect our prey. We're just doing our job .

"It's here," I whisper to Fernard. We move the sheet hanging over the door frame and enter the room, my hand resting on my gun and Fernard holding his rifle.

It takes me a second to adjust to the dim light inside. A man about thirty-five years old leans on an upturned wooden crate. He is wearing blue workers' pants and a dirty white workers' tank top. When he notices us, he turns around and raises his hands. I can see that his fingertips are stained with black ink.

"Quentin Arsenault?" I ask.

"I knew you'd come eventually," he says with his hands up. "I was wondering what took you so long." He tries to speak calmly, but I can sense the excitement in his voice.

"You are accused of subversion and of spreading false news," I read from the note. "Come with us, please."

"Where are you taking me?" He remains standing upright. There are some papers and a large print stamp on the upside-down crate. I pick up one of the papers, reading it in the weak light, ‘The Germans fail to capture Stalingrad. The Americans have invaded North Africa.'

"You're going east," I reply. He doesn't deserve to be punished. Nor does he deserve to be sent east.

"I am a French citizen. This is my country."

"This is the law, and we don't decide, they do. And they decided that you are spreading propaganda and false news inside the camp." I say and present him the note. I speak to him in a clear voice while standing up straight, but I feel ashamed.

"Since I was fifteen, I have been working in a printing house, preparing newspapers daily and ensuring people read the news. I've devoted my entire life to telling the truth. People in the camp should know what's happening in the world. "

"It's subversion," I repeat, trying to sound indifferent.

"I'm a proud Frenchman. I'm not ashamed of what I did. It's the truth, and you know it. The Germans will lose in the end, and all those who collaborated with them will be punished too. You should be ashamed of what you're doing," he says, still holding his hands in the air.

"Is he allowed to talk to us like that? We're policemen," Fernard asks me, and aims his rifle at Mr. Arsenault.

"Don't hurt him," I say, "they'll take care of him in the East. Come with us," I turn to him.

"Can I take my things with me?" He asks, lowering his hands.

"Yes, but hurry up."

He slowly puts on his shirt. The yellow badge stands out in the dim light. Then he turns to the corner, bends down, and picks up a simple brown leather suitcase. He leaves behind the sheets of paper on the cart, as well as the inkwell and stamp.

"Vive la France," he stands up straight while holding the suitcase, "let's go." He looks into my eyes with pride rather than hate. I look back but want to lower my gaze. I'm ashamed of myself.

"After you," I move a little and make room for him. He walks past me to the stairs. People peek at us from the apartments as we follow him down the stairs, and Fernard approaches me.

"Sergeant Pascal said that a while ago we found someone here who painted subversive paintings, so we transferred her east," he whispers.

"The Nazis don't like free-spirited people," I reply, feeling bad for the free-spirited people we've imprisoned here. But I mustn't tell him my thoughts. He's still new here. What if he said something to Sergeant Pascal?

"Faster, Jew, go," I say to Mr. Arsenault, even though he doesn't need to be prompted. He walks proudly in the yard with big steps, walking past other people.

The people stop and look at him. An older man in a suit tips his hat at him. More people stop and fall silent as we walk past them. I look at Mr. Arsenault and avoid their eyes. We'll soon reach the group of Jews gathered by the gate on their way to the train.

"Keep an eye on him until they leave the camp for the train," I say to Fernard and turn around once we reach the group.

"Will things be better for us in the East?" I hear a woman in a scarf ask a man standing beside her. He must be her husband.

"Are you going to bring another Jewboy?" Fernard asks.

"Yes," I reply and walk away, ashamed that he chose that word to impress me. I hope things will be better for them in the East. I need to find the girl, that's why I entered the camp.

"Rebecca," I quietly say as I enter the empty classroom, but she doesn't answer me.

"Rebecca, it's me, the good hunter with the glasses," I say in German, but no one answers.

I approach her hiding place behind the tables, but she isn't there. All I find is her ragged bear on the floor. Did someone take her?

She isn't in the yard. I look around and can't find her. Nor is she by the gate where she usually waits for the bus or for the commander's daughters. Where can she be?

I look at the dark group of people waiting by the gate. The guards will open it in a few minutes, and the group will head to the train station. Could she be among them? Did someone take her to the train going east?

I start walking to the people; I want to find and protect her. But then I stop. Isn't that what I wanted? Isn't it best if someone put her on the train and sent east, where she can find her mother? It's not my job to try to help her.

Even though it's not my job, I continue to move slowly toward the group of people, scanning them with my eyes and searching for her. There are very few children left in the camp, so I'll be able to see if she's among them. But then I notice her, not among the people, but at the edge of the camp, close to the barbed wire fence under the guard tower. She bends down and picks something up.

What is she doing there? I approach her. She's holding a tray while collecting something from the ground. Suddenly, she notices me and stands up.

"Do you want to buy cigarettes?" She shows me a cardboard tray with cigarette butts and snipes. I raise my eyes to the watchtower towering over us. The guards usually throw their cigarette butts from there.

"How much for a cigarette?" I ask her.

"One potato," she looks at me, serious. "Do you want one?"

"But I don't have a potato."

"How about half a potato? Or some chocolate? I'll give you these," she points to two cigarette butts with a bit of tobacco .

"I'll take them. Is this enough?" I take out a bill and give it to her.

"What will I do with the money?" She holds the bill and looks at me. "Can I buy a potato with it?"

"I'll tell you what we'll do," I look up at the watchtower. They mustn't see that I'm giving her food. "Take me to your hiding place, and I'll exchange your money for food."

"With a potato?"

"No, something better than a potato."

"Chocolate?" Her eyes light up. "I really like chocolate. One time you gave me chocolate."

"No, not chocolate, but something delicious."

"Okay," she tells me and reaches her hand out. But I move away from her. They mustn't see that we formed a bond.

"Let's see who can run faster to the classroom."

"Okay," she says, throwing the cardboard tray on the ground and starting to run. I follow, seeing her brown dress fluttering as her bare feet hit the ground. I'll do without food until I get home tonight.

"This is for you, in exchange for the cigarettes," I pull out of my side bag buttered bread wrapped in parchment paper and a small block of cheese.

"Will you bring me some food tomorrow?" She chews the bread greedily.

"Yes, I will."

"And I'll give you cigarettes in exchange for the food?"

"No. I'll get you food tomorrow even without the cigarettes."

"Well, I'll sell cigarettes to other people," she continues to chew, biting hungrily into the block of cheese .

"And I brought you something else," I take the small shoes out of the bag.

"Did Mommy send me this?" Her eyes light up, and she smiles.

"Yes, this is what Mommy sent you," I reply.

"Have you seen her?" Her dark-brown eyes look at me. What do I tell her?

"No, I didn't see her, but someone brought the shoes and said it was from your mommy and that she loves you."

"Angelina?"

"Who is Angelina?" I try to remember.

"The woman from Paris, with the room with the flowers on the wall, I told you."

"No, it wasn't Angelina. It was someone else you don't know. Do you want to put the shoes on?" I take the socks out of my leather bag.

"Yes," she sits on the floor, stretches her legs forward and starts to put on the socks and then her shoes. She stands up and looks at me, as if waiting for something.

"Is everything okay? Are they comfortable?" I ask her.

"Yes," she nods, "you have to tie my shoelaces."

"Don't you know how to tie your shoelaces?"

"No," she shakes her head. "Mommy ties them for me. She makes bunny ears, then the bunny runs away and hops into its burrow."

"What?"

"That's how she does it," Rebecca explains, "that's how she ties my shoes."

"Well," I say and kneel to tie her shoelaces, "you need to learn to tie shoelaces by yourself. You need to learn," I add .

"Will you teach me?"

"Tomorrow," I reply. I've been here for too long. Sergeant Pascal must be looking for me.

"And bring me food? Like you promised in exchange for cigarettes? Mommy says you have to keep promises."

"Yes," I reply, "tomorrow I'll bring you food as promised, but you also have to promise me something."

"What?"

"That you only sell cigarettes to me. Not to anyone else."

"Okay," she nods, "I'll go look for more cigarettes."

"See you tomorrow," I stand up and leave. I have work to do. I'll bring her food tomorrow as well.

As I leave through the gate, I see Rebecca approaching the barbed wire fence and standing behind it, her small hands holding the wire fence.

"What are you doing?" I approach her from the other side of the fence.

"I'm waiting for Mommy to see what she'll bring me besides shoes."

"Mommy won't be here today," I tell her, seeing her expression turn sad. "She probably won't come tomorrow either. But if you stay away from the fence, I'll bring you some food tomorrow as I promised.

"Mommy will send me food?" She looks at me and smiles again.

"Yes, Mommy will send you food," I say. I have nothing better to tell her. "Now go back to the classroom and hide, okay?"

"Yes," she replies but remains standing by the fence.

"Why are you still here?" I ask her .

"Because you're protecting me," she continues to look at me.

"I'm leaving," I tell her, walking to the guards' barracks, but she stays there. I try not to think about her, but occasionally, I glance back and see her still standing by the fence with her new shoes, waiting for her mother.

"See you tomorrow," I say later to Sergeant Pascal as I pull over the Peugeot pickup truck next to his house.

"Bye, Mathéo, see you tomorrow," he takes a sack of potatoes from the trunk and walks toward the building's entrance.

I accelerate and drive slowly down the narrow street. The sun has almost set, and Mom is probably waiting for me to have dinner. But I drive past the house and continue a couple of minutes later I pull over by the church.

The small church's heavy wooden door is only partially open. I walk in, and my eyes adjust to the darkness. There are several lit candles in front of the altar, and several dim lightbulbs illuminate the hall. I walk down the aisle between the empty wooden pews. In front of the altar, before Jesus and the Virgin Mary, I cross myself and sit on the first pew, put my head in my hands, and pray.

I pray that no one steals her shoes or beats her because she's German and for her mother to come back from the East and take her.

"Mathéo, I haven't seen you here in a long time. Is everything all right?" Priest Nicholas sits beside me.

I look down and notice Priest Nicholas's palm in his lap. He's about sixty years old, and his wrinkly fingers tell the story of all the souls he has touched and encouraged. He has known me since I was a child.

"These are troubling times, Father," I say softly.

"I've heard that I gave out food coupons to boys whose fathers disappeared," he says, and as I turn to face him, I can see that he's smiling. His once brown hair has turned white over the years.

"It's hard for mothers to survive alone in times of war, Father," I reply.

"Yes, the war is long. No one knows when it will end, and you, Mathéo, are a good man."

"Thank you, Father," I gaze at the statues of the Virgin Mary and Jesus behind the altar. He wouldn't think I was a good man if he knew what I was doing in this camp.

"But that's not why you came here to pray, to let me know that you are a man of faith," he says to me quietly, his voice reassuring and comforting. "I know that thanks to your mother who comes in every Sunday and Mrs. Colette who tells me that you devotedly play with her son."

"Father," I turn my gaze to him again, "I am a policeman, a man of law. I'm responsible for keeping it and following orders. But what if those who created the laws are monsters?"

"These are difficult times," Father Nicholas sighs. "There's a war between evil and good. Evil has conquered us, and good has been diminished. Who knows, maybe good will never be able to free us, not in this lifetime," he turns his gaze to the crucifix .

"And what should we do?" I ask him. "Keep the law? Look the other way? Be the servant of the devil? I'm a policeman. If my commander gives me an order, I have to carry it out," I tell him, thinking of Mr. Arsenault, whom I had sent to the train today. And what about all the other Jews I took to the train whose names I don't even know? And what about Rebecca?

"I've known you since you were a little boy," Father Nicholas says, looking at me. "I remember how you would come to church every Sunday, sit upright on the wooden pew with a serious expression even before your feet touched the ground," he smiles at me again. "You didn't run wild like the other children, even though you didn't have a father to punish you if needed. Even when you were a child, you understood what was required of you. I'm sure that now you'll do the right thing."

"Father, I'm no longer sure what I should do," I think about the camp's barbed wire fences.

"Deep down, you know. Mrs. Colette thinks you're an angel watching over her son, even if all you've been doing as far as you can see it, is play football with him for a few minutes after work. Maybe there are others who think you're an angel."

"The good hunter with the glasses," I whisper to myself.

"What did you say?"

"Thank you, Father," I reply, knowing that I won't be able to tell him about the Jewish girl who was left there alone.

"You're welcome, Mathéo. You're welcome to come to me anytime," he stands up. "Say hello to your mom for me."

I park the vehicle in the quiet street and step out. The people rush to their homes before night falls as the last rays of sun paint the streets violet. Luc isn't playing ball against the wall, either. The silence without the sounds of the ball seems strange. He must be helping his mother, or he's tired of playing alone. I take my leather bag from the pickup truck and rush home. Mother must be waiting for me. She doesn't know that I was delayed at the church.

"Mom, what kind of child was I?" I ask her later as we sit at the table. The smell of the meat she cooked fills the house. I managed to buy meat yesterday with my additional food coupons.

"What do you mean, what kind of boy were you?" She looks up from her plate.

"Was I like all the other children? Was I a happy child? Sad? A coward? Grumpy?"

"You were a child, and you grew up. What does it matter what kind of child you were?"

"It didn't bother me that Dad wasn't here?"

"A lot of children didn't have a father after that war," she puts the fork on the table and sighs. "I raised you," she picks up the fork. "I didn't have time to think about what kind of child you are, I had to work and raise you, so you just grew up." She stops eating and looks at Dad's picture beside the big radio.

I want to ask her if she remembers me sitting on the steps at the building's entrance and waiting for him. But I know it will make her sad. I don't want to hurt her.

"Mom, do you remember teaching me to tie my shoelaces? "

"Of course, I remember teaching you to tie your shoelaces. Every mother remembers how she taught her child to tie their shoelaces. Why do you want to know?"

"Is it something with a story about bunny ears?"

"Why do you want to know? Is it because of the girl's shoes?"

"No, Mom."

"I know it is," she says while eating. "Did you get involved with a married woman?"

"No, Mom, it's not because of the shoes."

"I was so proud of you when you became a policeman, and now you're involved with a married woman? What would your father say?"

"No, Mom, it's not because of a married woman," I reply and glance at Dad's picture. What would he suggest that I do? I mustn't tell her about the girl in the camp, it's dangerous.

"What will happen when her husband returns from the war?"

"Mom, I don't want to talk about it," I say and put my fork down.

"I'm just saying that you should think carefully about what you're doing. A single woman with a child is no joke."

"I know," I reply and think of Rebecca's mother. I remember her, even though I only saw her for a short while. What happened to her in the East? Is she even married?

I turn my gaze again to Dad's picture, standing proudly in his uniform. Why did you die and fail to see me grow up?

"I'll show you later how to teach a child to tie their shoelaces," Mom says after a few minutes as we continue to eat in silence .

"Thanks, Mom," I say, wanting to get up and hug her. But I know it will embarrass her.

"You just have to tell the girl a story about a bunny, who hops and hides in a burrow," she adds and looks at me.

"Holding the bunny's ear…" Rebecca speaks to herself while sitting on the cardboard in her corner, "…and then the bunny runs around the tree, hops and hides from the bad hunters," her little fingers grip the brown laces. She struggles to create a loop. "I did it," she looks at me and stands up, stomping happily.

"Great, now I have to go," I say, rising to my feet. I should hurry so they don't start looking for me.

"Do you want to buy cigarettes?" She turns and approaches the cardboard tray behind her.

"No, I don't want you to sell me cigarettes."

"But you told me that I need to learn to manage on my own and that I should only sell to you," she holds the cardboard tray in front of me.

"But I brought you food today, didn't I?" I look at the package wrapped in parchment paper in her hiding place. There is also meat in today's meal.

"Where's the food from? Did Mommy send it to me?" She looks at me. I can see the hope in her eyes.

"Yes, Mommy sent it," I reply. "She said she can't come to visit you, but she loves you very much and misses you. "

"Then I'll wait for her to come back," Rebecca sits down and opens the parchment paper with the food I brought her.

"But don't wait by the fence and don't sell cigarettes, promise?"

"Yes," she nods, chewing the food and smiling.

"Bye, Rebecca, I'll bring you food from Mommy tomorrow too," I walk away and leave the classroom, not before making sure the hallway is empty, and no one notices me. No one can find her hiding place, but I know it's only a matter of time before someone does.

"Where have you been? Three buses full of Jews from Paris are about to arrive," Sergeant Pascal asks me when I enter the guards' barracks.

"I walked around the yard. I searched for the girl we're betting on. Today's my day."

"Did you see her?"

"No, I couldn't find her. Maybe I'll win today," I go to the gun stand and take a rifle.

"Only when we find her lying dead on the ground do we pay the winner. Disappearing doesn't count," he also goes to the weapons stand and takes a rifle. "Let's go. We have work to do," he tells me and two other policemen on duty. We head to the parking lot to wait for the buses arriving from Paris.

A cool autumn breeze blows while we wait outside. I turn my gaze to the Germans' barracks. Captain Becker is standing on the balcony, watching us. He has his black visor hat with the SS skull. His hooked nose reminds me of the German eagle that sank its claws into our nation.

"Your girl," Sergeant Pascal touches my arm, and I turn to him. What did he mean ?

"What about her?" I try to sound indifferent.

"She's alive. You lost the bet," he laughs and points at her. Even though I had asked her to stay away from the fence, she's standing next to the barbed wire fence, waiting for the buses like us.

"She doesn't want to die," I say what he expects to hear.

"No one asked her. We're betting on her," he lights a cigarette. "Someone must be giving her food. She also managed to get shoes. It's taking too long, and I've already lost money on this bet."

"Maybe some family adopted her," I suggest.

"I don't believe that. All the Jews care about is their money. They won't share their food, but it doesn't matter. We'll have to help her fulfill the purpose for which she was left here rather than thrown into a train," he takes a drag from his cigarette as we observe her. I hear the buses approaching and turn my gaze. Three green buses accompanied by a black police car drive to the camp. "Let's leave her alone for now. The Germans keep sending us new Jews," he pats me on the shoulder, and we line up in the parking lot to welcome the newcomers. They'll soon get off the buses.

I look at them as they slowly get off the buses. I can see on their faces the fatigue after long months of escaping the Nazi's clutches. It's been several months since that summer day when the Nazis hunted down all the Jews in Paris and France. Ever since, they've been searching for the ones who got away.

I can infer where they were caught from their clothes. The young man wearing a beret, dirty work clothes, and a torn tank top must have been hiding in a basement. He's holding a bag containing all of his belongings on his shoulder. He glances at us loathingly. Walking before him is a couple, a man wearing a fancy suit, and a woman in an elegant dress. They're looking in horror at the rifle in my hands. They must have been carrying fake documents and were caught in a surprise inspection by the Gestapo. I notice a young woman getting off the bus. She's wearing a wrinkled dress and looks humiliated. What happened to her? Did she hide in an attic? Did someone tip off the Nazis?

"Traitor," I hear Sergeant Pascal whisper and turn my gaze. A man about my age steps off the bus. He's wearing a police uniform.

He walks slowly, slightly limping, his uniform is torn, and his police cap is missing. His ranks and police insignia were also torn. I notice the bruises on his face. He doesn't have a suitcase or a bag with him. He walks past me with indifference, avoiding eye contact, pacing among the Jews who arrived with him as if he had decided that he was one of them.

"Who is he? Do you know him?" I approach Pascal and ask.

"No, I have no idea who he is," he replies, while aiming his rifle at the people gathered near the gate.

"Why is he here?"

"He must have tried to help the Jews or opposed the Germans, and he was wrong."

"He's French, he's one of us."

"We all choose a side," Pascal looks at me. "Strong or weak, and he chose the wrong side."

"Yes, you're right," I touch my rifle and point it to the ground, "he shouldn't have resisted them. We're the law."

"Those who want to survive need to make the right choice," Pascal says and turns to two elderly women walking past us. " Go to the entrance gate, to Drancy's vacation camp," he says to them.

"Yes, he deserves to be punished," I respond. "He should be here until they release him."

"He won't be released anywhere," Pascal says mockingly. "He'll be on the first train out. Traitors like him have no place on French soil."

"They'll transfer him to resettle in the East?"

"Do you really think they're being resettled?" Pascal looks away from the people and turns his gaze to me. "Hitler promised he'd cleanse the world of Jews and rats, and he's definitely cleansing the world of Jews. About rats, I'm not so sure. They still roam the streets of Paris at night," he laughs, takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one.

"What do you mean?" I glare at him; I feel nauseated. The other policemen push the last people in the camp through the open gate.

"No one should know about this. It's an SS secret." Sergeant Pascal approaches me. "The Germans send trains full of Jews to a camp in the east. No one leaves the camp. And surprisingly enough, the camp doesn't get overcrowded. The Nazis ‘handle' the Jews, and they disappear forever," he exhales, and the smoke rises for a moment like a bluish cloud in the air until it evaporates.

"What is this place?" I watch the policemen close the camp gate behind the people.

"It's called Auschwitz. It's in Poland, far from France," he smiles at me. "I never liked Jews. No one escapes Auschwitz, and no one survives."