This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

Alex looks down on her now. Asleep, cradling that photograph of her husband. Her body racked with pain, her bones heavy with fatigue. Yet in the middle of the night she had awakened and come here to gaze at her husband.

Alex pulls out the velvet kickstand of the frame and places it back on the bureau. Stares for a long time at the image of Father. Then he takes his blanket and, as gently as he can, lays it over Mother’s sleeping form.

10

* * *

22 February 1942

Dear Alex,

I woke up this morning to the sound of Maman and Papa arguing again. I dressed quickly and left the apartment.

I walked to the Maison des Lettres on rue Soufflot, and listened to some records. Schumann’s concerto and then Mozart’s requiem mass. Afterward, I walked along boulevard Saint-Michel, hoping to maybe see someone. But there was no one. All my friends have left Paris.

Under dark clouds, I walked to Sorbonne. It’s my favorite place in all of Paris. I walked past their magnificent buildings, the library, the observatory, the English Literature department. Soon, I told myself, after the war is over and the Nazis have left, after all my friends have returned and everything is back to normal, I will be a student here walking this courtyard, my arms full with Kipling and Wordsworth, chatting with friends. The words of John Keats came to me: “the excellence of every Art is its intensity.”

At noon, my feet were aching from the shoe’s wooden soles (rubber soles are hard to find now). So I stopped for lunch at one of my usual cafés. The maître d’ recognized me—Hélène, Nicole, Ruth, and I ate there often—but if he was surprised to see me alone, he said nothing. All my Jewish friends have fled Paris, I thought to explain to him, but didn’t. He showed me to our favorite glass table in the shady part of the outside terrace even though I’m not allowed to sit there anymore. Later, a group of Nazi soldiers arrived and sat at the table next to me. They were loud and drunk and kept ordering more beer and Camembert. One of them started leering at me, blowing cigarette smoke in my direction, suspicion entering his glassy eyes. The skies darkened again. When I felt a few drops, I used that as an excuse to end my lunch and quickly leave.

Paris hasn’t just lost her joie de vivre. She’s become scary. Even the familiar places—the cul-de-sacs, boulevards, buildings—they somehow feel threatening.

Charlie

* * *

24 February 1942

Dear Alex,

Yesterday, I went to Aubergenville to buy some meat. On the way back, the Métro was crowded and stuffy and smelly. An inspector was staring at me, his small eyes sharp. I turned away but a moment later felt two hard taps on my shoulder.

The inspector told me les Juifs are not permitted to ride in that carriage. He informed me that I had to step out at the next station and walk down to the carriage for les Juifs. His eyes were going all over me. He stood so close to me I could smell his cologne. I could feel his breath on my forehead.

I turned red with shame and anger. I kept waiting for my fellow Parisians to yell back at the inspector. But no one did. Everyone was looking away. Some at books, some behind closed eyelids, some to the far side of the carriage.

I remember back in 1941 a man on the BBC radio said Parisians must fight back against the German invaders. We must resist. He told people to paint resistance graffiti on the streets of Paris. To paint a red V.

And soon, there were Vs everywhere. On city walls, under bridges, on schools, all over Paris. I remember how proud I was of my fellow Parisians. They stood up to evil, to all the stuck-up Hauptsturmführers and Sturmhauptführers. But no more.

My Parisians are not evil. Or even cowards. They are only people—good people—who are now too busy and tired and distracted, trying to survive in these difficult times. But this is how evil grows, no? When good people are too tired.

At the next station when the train came to a stop, I stepped out. No one said a word.

Charlie

* * *

March 17, 1942

Dear Charlie,

I wish I could’ve been there. I wish I could’ve grabbed that racist sonofabitch conductor’s neck and squeezed, my fingers sinking like talons into his flesh. I wish I could have thrown a haymaker right into his pudgy nose and boxed in his jug ears. I wish I could’ve delivered a vicious kick at his head, snapping it back, breaking it off.

So much anger in me, Charlie. If you could see me now writing this letter, hunched over my desk, you’d see how hard I’m clenching this pen, how white my fingertips are gripping it, the splotches of angry red on my hand. Do you see how the words on this page carve into the paper, like a rake into soil, a blade into flesh?

Alex

11

MARCH 24, 1942

For the first time in months, Alex wakes up to the sound of laughter. Coming from the kitchen.

He throws on his clothes, rushes downstairs.

“You overslept,” Mother chides, but she’s smiling about something. “Hurry up and eat or you’ll miss the bus.”

“What’s going on?”

Frank is grinning at the breakfast table. “I should get extra credit for this. Mrs. Pope in English class will be impressed with my writing chops.”

“Will someone please tell me what’s happening?”

Frank scarfs down his eggs and bacon, washes it down with milk, enjoying the moment.

“Frank! Just tell me.”

“Fine. You remember that release petition I wrote on Father’s behalf?”

“Yeah,” Alex says cautiously. “Wait. No way.”

Frank grins.

Mother comes around and scoops a boiled egg onto Alex’s plate, and a generous serving of bacon before Frank. She’s still smiling. “I wasn’t sure what Father was saying in his letter,” she says. “It’s so complicated. But Frank just explained it to me.”

Alex glances at her, then back to Frank. “And?”

“Father said the release petition might be working. He heard back from some committee at the prison. Said they were going to make a decision soon.”

Alex sits down. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

Alex shrugs. “I guess … I was hoping for more. I mean, you were so upbeat just now. I thought Father was already released.”

“Oh, who invited this killjoy to breakfast?” Frank says. He rams bacon into his mouth, chews with his mouth open. “Things are looking up, Alex. No need to be such a sourpuss.”

Alex stares down at his food. “Sorry, I just … I don’t know.”

Frank waves it off. He stuffs more food into his mouth. His eyes suddenly light up. “Okay, this one you can’t be phooey about.” He gets up, grabs a newspaper from the counter. “Check it out,” he says, grinning as he taps the Bainbridge Review newspaper.

“What is it?”

Frank starts reading aloud from the front page. “‘This Friday’s special charity football game against West Seattle High … okay, blah blah blah … blah blah blah.” His eyes scan down. “Here it is. ‘Led by the All-American quarterback and charismatic leader, Captain Frank Maki, our boys are poised to deliver a resounding victory!’”

Grinning, Frank points to a picture beside the article. “No one told me I was this photogenic!”

“They called you a ‘charismatic leader’?” Alex says, taking the newspaper.

“They called me ‘Captain Maki.’ That’s how you should address me from now on.”

Mother pours milk into their glasses. “You boys finish up now. Or you’re going to miss your bus.”

“You too, Mother. ‘Captain Maki,’ okay?” He rams toast into his mouth, washing it down with milk.

She playfully smacks him on his shoulder. “You’re too chatty this morning.”

“Hey, did you read this editorial?” Alex asks a moment later, pointing to the next page.

Frank snorts. “And here I thought you were staring at my picture, admiring my handsome mug.”

“No,

seriously. Did you read it?”

“The editorial? Nah. You know me, sports and comics only.”

“Well, check it out. It says here that people on Bainbridge Island should be treating its Japanese friends and neighbors better. That Bainbridge Island needs to stand up for us, and make sure that our Bill of Rights don’t get violated any more.”

“Yeah?” Frank says. “No kidding. Who wrote that?”

“Walter Woodward. The owner of the paper. Says everyone should be appalled by what’s happening to us.”

Frank leans back in his chair, beaming. “See? What I’ve been saying all along. America will come to her senses. America will do right by us. Soon Father will be back home and everything will be back the way it was. You watch and see. And then all your fears about roundups will seem stupid. Never doubt the good U.S. of A.”