Part of Elaine felt she was not worthy of this story, and yet another part of her wondered if the telling might be something of a balm to Manon’s soul.
“When Claude was born, I devoted myself to him,” Manon continued. “He was the only piece I had left of the man I loved so dearly.” She went quiet for a while, but Elaine did not press her, content to let the conversation fade away if that was Manon’s wish.
Manon sighed, as though it hurt to breathe, a discomfort with which Elaine had become personally acquainted.
“One day I was baking and needed a small pat of butter,” Manon eventually said. “A friend in the next building and I often shared our limited goods. Claude was sleeping, so peaceful and precious that I did not want to rouse him for such a short trip. After all, I only planned to be gone for a few minutes at most. I left him.”
The frame shook in her hand before she gingerly settled it in her lap. “When I went to see Georgette, she wasn’t there, but the Germans were. Apparently, she was with the Resistance and had been caught. I was arrested as an accomplice.”
Elaine held her breath, not wanting to learn the rest of the story, but unable to tell the other woman to stop.
“They refused to accept my innocence, no matter how I beseeched them.” Manon’s tone went flat, the way one did when they separated from all emotion. For survival. And it was no wonder when she continued. “Rather than helping me, they slapped the cell bars with their truncheons and ordered me to be silent. When they finally released me, my arms and hands were bloodied and bruised from beating on the doors of my prison. My voice was gone from crying to be heard. My shirt…” Her words caught. “My shirt was stiff with the wasted milk my body produced for my sweet son.” She cradled the picture of Claude’s happy visage. “They kept me for nine days.”
Elaine drew in a sharp gasp and tried to cover it with her hand. But there was no hiding her shocked reaction to such horror.
Manon shifted her focus from her son’s photograph to the blank wall in the distance. “When I returned home, I stood in front of my door for over an hour before bringing myself to enter. I already knew it was too late for him.”
“I’m so sorry,” Elaine whispered. She wished for a more insightful response, something that might be of better comfort. But there was no balm for a wound such as Manon’s. Nothing could ever heal what had been so violently ripped away.
When Manon looked up, her eyes were no longer flat pools of black, but now flared with more spirit than Elaine had ever seen in them. “I joined the very Resistance they erroneously persecuted me for belonging to, and I do not worry about danger. I have nothing left to lose. If it were not for my faith, I would have joined my husband and son months ago.” The blaze of her expression waned, as energy did when it burned bright and was gone just as quickly. “Perhaps this boy will be another chance for me. To save what I could not with my own.”
She looked down at the picture once more, lost in her thoughts. Elaine rose and put a hand on Manon’s bony shoulder. The other woman did not stir.
Her story stayed with Elaine for the rest of the day and would remain with her for her entire life. Now, however, she was glad she had spoken to the other woman and hoped that in helping to save Sarah and Noah, Manon might also perhaps save part of herself.
When Elaine returned to the warehouse, she found the print room in full production with preparations for the latest paper. Antoine was hunched over the desk, his focus as sharp as the point with which he sketched in his artistic hand over the metal. Marcel fluttered over the printing presses like a mother hen, and Jean sat at the table where Elaine occasionally worked with the Roneo, little Noah in front of him.
Jean covered his eyes with his hands, then threw them back to reveal his face, his smile exaggerated like a performer at a fair. Sarah was at Noah’s side, gazing down at her son as the boy stared up at Jean with wide, hazel eyes. Every time Jean uncovered his face, Noah’s mouth would lift with the slightest hint of cautious joy.