This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

Alex wants to rip the blankets off Frank, make him turn around. But he only sucks in a deep breath. “Fine, Frank. But I’m going to lie. Tell her that Father will be back soon. It’ll give her hope.”

Frank doesn’t answer.

“And who knows? Maybe Father will be released. Maybe even—”

“Shut up.”

The words, slaps to his face, stinging. He recoils, his cheeks smarting red. He waits for his brother to apologize or chuckle it away. But instead: “Quit being a child, Alex. Father’s not coming back. That’s not how the world works.”

“How do you know that? Maybe he will—”

“You’re so out of touch with reality, it’s not even funny.”

“You don’t know—”

“Head out of the clouds, Alex. How many times do I have to tell you?” His bed creaks as he shifts in the cot.

Alex stares at him. “Can you turn around, Frank?”

“Why?”

“Please?”

Frank sighs, flips his body over. “What?”

In the faint moonlight, Frank’s face seems harder than Alex has ever seen it. His eyes, which once glowed warmly, are as cold and stark as the nightly searchlight beams that sweep across the barracks.

“What do you do every day?” Alex whispers. “Where do you go?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “God,” he mutters, turning around to the wall again and throwing his blanket over himself.

23

AUGUST 1, 1942

The next time Alex visits the post office, a miracle.

The clerk gives him a smile. “I think we finally got something for you, Alex. Give me a sec.” She disappears into the back room.

He waits. It’s probably nothing, he tells himself. A Sears, Roebuck catalog. A letter about war bonds. Another disappointing letter about Father. Something—

“Good things come to those who wait,” the clerk says, returning with a smile. “A letter from France.” She turns the envelope over. “With a ton of stopovers, judging from all the postmarks.”

Alex takes the letter. He gulps. The crisscrossing postmarks and stamps are like the vines and branches of a dense rainforest, and through them he glimpses Charlie’s handwriting.

It’s like seeing her face.

He wants to scream.

She’s alive. He’s alive.

He stands, woozy, delirious, and light-headed. The world has suddenly opened up, announced its existence beyond these barb-wired fences.

“Are you okay, Alex?” the clerk asks.

He nods, walks out into the blazing heat. Looks down at the envelope, afraid it won’t be there, this was all his imagination …

It’s still there. Shining brightly in the searing sunlight.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He walks. Stops. Stares down at the envelope, heart pounding. Charlie is seconds away. What is he doing, what is he waiting for? He rips open the envelope, his fingers quaking with excitement.

* * *

10 June 1942

Dearest Alex,

Alex! I received your letter! You are alive! Hourra! I didn’t hear from you for such a long time, and I was worried to death! Are you okay? I wondered, Has something happened to you?

Then this afternoon when I returned home, I saw Monsieur S sitting in our living room! He looked very tired and old. And filled with sadness, very unusual for him. But when he saw me his face lighted up. He handed me a package with ten of your letters (TEN!!) and I almost exploded with joy. It was like my whole heart went whoosh on fire with life! I found my joie de vivre in that moment.

I rushed to my room and read the letters. I am so happy you are okay. But Alex, dearest Alex, I am pained to read what has happened to you. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be torn from your very home and put in some camp in the middle of nowhere.

Oh, I wish I could write more to you! I have so many things to tell you. But Monsieur S is departing now! He keeps knocking on my bedroom door and telling me he has to leave to catch his train back to Vichy. And that I must finish my letter now if he is to take it with him to mail off. So au revoir for now, dear Alex! Forgive the bad English, I have no time to write fancy sentences or to correct grammar mistakes or write better words! Maybe you think I am Charlie from three years ago! I am laughing!

I miss you,

Charlie

Oh, Monsieur S just got into a big argument with Papa so I can write more. Monsieur S says Paris has become too dangerous, and that we must all flee to the south, to Nice, to his summer apartment. Do you remember it was the place I spent one summer maybe six years ago? My best summer. I still remember the sun, the pier, the small Notre Dame church, the bowling grounds. Monsieur S says that Nice is unoccupied and free from anti-Jewish laws, we must go there at once.

But Papa is now calling him an idiot, says the Vichy zone is even worse for Jews, why would he move his family there? And now Monsieur S is yelling back, saying that Nice isn’t part of the Vichy zone, it’s in the free zone and that Jews are safe there. Maybe the Italians will invade, but so what? Il Duce has no desire to harm Jews.

Oh! Now they are really yelling at each other. Calling each other crude nicknames they haven’t used since the French war when they fought together in the trenches. Maman is pleading with both to calm down.

Maybe Monsieur S is right. Things in Paris have become much, much worse. A few days ago, all Jews were ordered to wear a big yellow star on our clothes. Maman says we must wear this star with pride. But I don’t agree. This is a badge of shame, a thing of disgrace, a bright yellow target on our chests.

Do you know what’s the most embarrassing? It’s when I meet others who are wearing the star. I don’t know why we turn our eyes away and hurry past each other. Somebody

explain this aspect of human nature to me.

And now there are rumors of roundups. And even of faraway camps.

Alex, where are the gleams of sunshine?

Oh, Monsieur S is leaving. Don’t worry everything is

And just like that, the letter ends. Alex peers hopefully into the envelope. But there’s nothing else.

* * *

That night, he dreams of her. She’s never sent a photo of herself; but over the years he’s built a mental picture, drawn from random comments she’s made about her appearance.

In his dream, he is walking along a cobblestone street. It is dusk. The temperature an autumn cool. Comfortable. A row of homes flanks the street, and these houses are fluffy and comforting like warm loaves of freshly baked bread. In the air, the smell of croissants, wine, the sound of laughter. Not a speck of dust. Even as he walks he realizes this is a dream, the images nothing more than a composite of every stereotype he knows of Paris.

Rising over the rooftops to his left, he sees the distant Eiffel Tower. And to his right—

He sees her. Sitting at a table set for two in an outdoor terrace of a restaurant. The Café de la Paix. Before her, a plate of foie gras and banana flambé. She is reading a book, a frayed old hardcover of Jane Eyre.

Something makes her look up. Their eyes meet. She does not seem surprised.

He walks toward her grinning. She smiles back, her hair sashaying back and forth.

“Alex,” she whispers, a glow in her face, a fire in her eyes.

24

SEPTEMBER 6, 1942

A blisteringly hot Sunday. By late morning, the heat has topped a hundred degrees. The barracks are ovens; people are driven outside only to be blasted by the sun and stung by dust-filled winds.

Some head to Bairs Creek, a small stream that cuts across the southwest corner of the compound. Others find refuge under the few trees dotted around the one-square-mile camp compound. Children climb the branches, their hair plastered to sweaty foreheads as cranky parents below scold them half-heartedly, their energy sapped as they fan themselves and indulge in bootleg sake concocted out of raisins and sweet potatoes.