The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [227]
"My beloved Paula, my brave David and darling Jacques," he begins. "Claudette and I are leaving Sainte-Gisèle. I cannot know if this or any of my letters will reach you. I’ve spent days at bus stops and markets, asking everyone for word of you. I’ve contacted the Red Cross and the Jewish Council in every town, but nobody’s taken notice of a woman traveling with two small boys. In July, I enlisted the aid of a compassionate and resourceful carabiniere," Albert writes, silently blessing Umberto Giovanetti. "He found your names on the manifest of an eastbound train last September, but could learn nothing of your present whereabouts. The Italians have done little to ingratiate themselves with the Vichy government, but this policy makes it difficult to obtain information from French authorities."
Claudette bursts in, trousers slung over one arm, pale but calm. "I’ll change," she says. "Give me five minutes."
"Claudette is nearly grown," her father writes, and turns the paper over. "She’s like a dolphin, Paula. The woman she will be surfaces now and then, before submerging again into childhood’s sea. We are moving on to Italy, where the war is over. Our carabiniere told us of DELASEM, an Italian Jewish organization that operates with government approval. They will find us a place to live, and I’ll register again with the Red Cross. There’s no more time, my dear ones. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord shine His countenance upon you. May the Lord give us all peace, and bring us together again! Your devoted husband and loving father, Albert. "
He folds the letter, seals it into an envelope, addresses it simply Paula Bomberghen Blum. Shrugging into a baggy suit coat, he turns toward his daughter. His jaw drops. "What on earth have you done to your hair?"
She lifts her chin, but tears brim. "My bangs were too long. I cut them." Shamefaced, she picks up her bag. "They didn’t come out the way I wanted."
He shakes his head and drapes a topcoat over one arm. "Never mind. Hair grows."
She holds the door open while he takes a final look around the room. They join others in the hallway and descend the stairs in a murmuring flow, but when they reach the hotel lobby, Albert steps aside. Claudette looks back at him uncertainly. "A moment," he says. "Wait at the corner, please."
When she’s left the hotel, Albert approaches the front desk, where a bored clerk pares his nails. "My wife may come here, looking for us, monsieur," Albert says. "Would you be so very kind as to keep this letter for her?"
The clerk takes the envelope without so much as a word.
"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," Albert says with a small bow. "Please give the owner our thanks for his hospitality all these months—"
"Hospitality!" A sour-faced maid lumbers past, a bundle of linens heaped in her arms. "Who’s going to pay the bill, that’s what I want to know!"
The clerk is not heartless. He waits until the fidgety little Belgian is gone before ripping the letter into tiny pieces. The Germans will be here soon, he thinks. No sense taking a chance for a dirty Jew.
"PACE YOURSELVES," UMBERTO Giovanetti advises, waving civilians past carabinieri headquarters toward a bridge over the Vesubie. "Long, easy steps."
A reminder, nothing more: they are practiced at this, the Jews of Sainte-Gisèle. For most, this is the second or third or fourth time they’ve fled the Wehrmacht or Gestapo or local police, moving from Austria or Czechoslovakia or Poland to Belgium or Holland or France. Many carry children. Most carry suitcases. Some have fashioned knapsacks from blankets and string. Leaderless, they will attempt to climb the Alps in street clothes, wearing whatever shoes are still intact after years on the run, one step ahead of the Nazis, but