This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

“How much do you know?” Monsieur Schäfer asks. “Do you know about Vel d’Hiv?”

Alex nods. “And Beaune-la-Rolande. I know you rescued her. And that you hid her in your factory. With a Sinti family. But after that—I have no idea.” He leans forward. “What happened?”

Monsieur Schäfer drops his eyes to the flickering flame. “Someone at the factory informed the French police. The gendarmes came when I was out, and took Charlie. The gypsy family, too.”

“Where to?”

He stirs his tea with taut circular turns of the spoon. “At first I do not know. But then a few months later I received a letter. From her.”

Alex sits up. “From Charlie? Where is she?”

“She wrote from a camp. A camp in Auschwitz.”

“Auschwitz? What’s there?”

He pauses. “It’s a … a very bad camp. In Poland. Terrible things happen there. People die.”

For the first time Alex can hear the faint ticktocking of a clock from an adjacent room. Five seconds pass. Ten.

“The letter was written in her bad German,” Monsieur Schäfer says quietly. “And very censored. But now I knew where she is.” He picks up his teacup, brings it to his mouth. But barely sips anything.

“I traveled there. Immediately. It was dangerous for me, yes, but I went. I have a friend in a high position at that Auschwitz camp. I thought maybe I could use that connection.”

“To get her out?”

“But it was impossible. Because she was in some trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There was a … how to say? I do not know English word. A révolte.”

“A revolt.”

“Yes, of course. A revolt. At the camp. Four women prisoners were arrested for trying to steal gunpowder. They were trying to use the gunpowder to make big explosion. To destroy … the fireplace.”

“Fireplace?”

“Where they burn bodies.”

The kitchen seems darker now, the candle flame flickering, weakening.

“These four women. Charlie was one of them?”

“No. But she was involved. She was helping them somehow. To start a revolt.”

Oh, Charlie, thinks Alex.

“The four women were … attacked. No, the word is … tortured. They were tortured. But they refused to give up any names. Including Charlie’s.”

He puts down his teacup, pulls out his packet of smokes. Lights it with a slightly trembling hand.

“The four women were then hanged. But the camp guards didn’t stop there. They killed hundreds more.”

“Hundreds?” Alex finds it impossible to breathe. “What about Charlie?”

“When I got to Auschwitz, my friend would not release Charlie to me. He said she was a suspect. She was part of the revolt. She was about to be executed.”

“They killed her?”

Monsieur Schäfer shakes his head. “I was able to get her out.”

Alex’s heart skips a beat. Then begins to race. “What?”

“I spoke to my friend, the one in high position. I asked him to give her to me. He said, impossible. But then I insist. I say this girl’s father cheated me in a business deal. And now I want revenge. I have come all this way because I must have revenge. My friend said don’t worry, they will kill her for me. But I said I want more than just death. I said this girl is pretty, I always had my eye on her, such a pretty girl. Just give her to me only a few hours, and then I will give her back to be killed. It will make my revenge better.”

He stops, catching the expression on Alex’s face. “I had to make it real. You must speak ugly to ugly men if you want to seem real.” He takes a long, quivering pull on the cigarette.

“He brought her to me. Said do what I want, but bring her back in half an hour.” His voice, trembling now. “She was so thin. Her hair gone. A skeleton. I did not recognize her.”

“But you got her out? You—”

“Only past the front guards. And then there was nowhere to hide her. No car, nothing. If I took her back into the camp, she dies. For certain. So I put her in the only place I can find. On a train.”

“A train?” Hope leaps up in Alex. “To where?”

“It was just leaving. But at least it gets her away from Auschwitz. From certain death.”

“To where?”

“I didn’t know it at the time. But now I know. The train went to Dachau.”

“Dachau?”

“A camp in Germany. A bad camp. It is like Auschwitz.”

“But you can get her out of there? You got her out of Beaune-la-Rolande before, you got her out of Auschwitz, surely you can get her out of this Dachau camp—”

“Oh, taisez-vous, vous êtes stupide!” he shouts, his hand slamming the tabletop, rattling the teacups sharply. The candles wobble, throwing flickering light across their faces.

Monsieur Schäfer clutches his fist, takes a few drawn-out breaths. “I am sorry. I apologize.” He rubs his face, hand calluses scratching against his scruff.

“A week later,” he continues after a moment, in a quieter voice. “I tried to find her in Dachau. But there is no record of her. No, of course not. Now it is impossible.” Ashes fall off the end of his cigarette. “You asked me if she is still alive. I do not know. Maybe she died in camp. Maybe she died on train even.” He stubs out the cigarette into the ashtray. “Or maybe she is alive still. I do not know.”

He stands up suddenly, the chair tipping over backward, the crash of it jarring. He stumbles to the sink. Leans over it, then lifts his head to the framed photo. Stares at that moment captured in time: his arm around Charlie’s father, invincible in their youth. “Back in Paris, I should insist more. I should have yelled more, Jacob, escape with me now to Nice. And then maybe we all flee to Switzerland. Then he is alive today. And Naomi. And Charlie, too. But I did nothing.”

“You didn’t do nothing. You did a lot for this family. Everything you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.” He turns and looks at Alex, his eyes half lidded, as if ashamed of their deep blue. “Nothing is enough now.”

“You believe Charlie is dead?”

“Yes.” He looks at his hands. “But sometimes no. What do you believe?”

“I think she’s a fighter. I think she loves life too much. I think she’ll do anything to stay alive.”

Monsieur Schäfer stares at Alex with a hard-to-read expression. Perhaps pity. “It is good to be young, to have such hope.”

“She’s alive. In my gut, I know she is. And I will find her.”

From the room next door, the clock starts to chime. Six times.

“I know, I know,” Monsieur Schäfer says, observing Alex turn to the clock. “I see this happen every day at six. The American jeep come to town to pick up American soldiers. And so you must go now. If you hurry you will catch it.”

Alex shakes his head. “I want to know more. I don’t care about the pickup.”

“There is nothing more to say. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore. So please leave me now.”

* * *

At the door he hands Alex a folded letter.

“She was writing this when the police came for her in my factory. They broke down the door and took her and the gypsy family away. I found this letter later on the floor where it fell.”

Alex stares at the letter in disbelief. A letter from Charlie.

“I kept it all this time,” Monsieur Schäfer says. “Because I always think maybe this will happen.”

“What will happen?”

“That you will come. Looking for her. Because you have such strong friendship.” He holds out his hand. “And now you must go. Read the letter later. Or you will miss the jeep.”

The two men shake hands.

And there is something else that still must be said.

“Thank you for carrying our letters all these years,” Alex says. He grips the man’s hand for a moment longer. “Whenever I received a letter from Charlie—it f

elt like the best thing in my life.”

For the first time the man smiles. “And Charlie, too. She always talked about you. Always said how funny you were, your jokes, your wonderful drawings. You were a joy to her. Especially toward the end, you meant so much to her.”

“I did?”

“Of course, but you know this already.” He swings open the door, and as Alex steps out, Monsieur Schäfer holds up his hand, remembering something. “On the day I pulled her out of Auschwitz. She said something to me. Something so curious.”