Page 29 of Hell to Pay
Dr. Becker had already shouldered his heavy rucksack. Now, he picked up two buckets of water and said, “Children,bring your rucksacks.” They followed Father and me out of the room, where we closed the stone wall behind us once more and breathed the sweet relief of clearer air.
“Through the big door and up the stairs,” Father told me. “Hurry. Leave the door unlocked for now.”
The farther up we went, the warmer the air grew, and the louder the sound of explosions. There was something else beneath, too, like a roar from some mighty beast. A dragon, perhaps. I didn’t know what the sound was, but it made me tremble.
At the top of the stairs, Father said, his voice urgent and punctuated by coughing fits, “Use the key when you go back down. Lock that door and keep it locked, and confer with Dr. Becker about when it’s safe to leave again. Then you can come find us, either this way or through the tunnel and around the outside of the building.”
“But why?” I wanted to wail it. “Please don’t leave me, Father. Please let me …” I was crying now, hard as I tried not to.
Father put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re safer here.”
“Then bring everybody here,” I begged. “If it’s safer, why didn’t you bring them here?”
“Nobody outside of the family can know about this place,” he said. “Dr. Becker and his children would be in grave danger if people knew they were here.” A crash from overhead, and he said, “I must go.”
“It’s too dangerous!” I cried. “Stay here instead. With me.”
“I must go.” He bent and kissed my forehead. “God bless you.” He stepped through the door and pushed it closed behind him.
I have never, before or since, felt so alone.
14
EATING THE BUGS AND HEARING THE NEWS
Silence for a moment, then Ben said, “Whoa.”
“This stuff is going to be dynamite,” Ashleigh said.
“Oma,” Alix said, “why didn’t I know all this?”
“There was no reason to tell you,” I said. “Contrary to what Americans believe, one is not actually required to share all the details of one’s past.”
Sebastian said, “True, but we appreciate you sharing that one.” Sebastian’s face tended to look serious in repose, and it was more serious than usual now. “I’d like to hear the rest of it—what happened to all of them. Your family and the servants, from what I’ve heard, probably didn’t come out of it so well. What about Dr. Becker and his family?”
“Sebastian’s great-grandparents were French Jews,” Alix said.
“I’m sorry,” I answered, my tongue practically tripping over the words. The fatigue of old age is most tiresome. My mind would still like to do so many things, but my body won’t oblige. “Did they survive?”
“No,” Sebastian said. “My grandfather was sent to Aryan friends in the free zone in the south of France and passed offas an orphaned relative. My great-grandparents were getting ready for a run to Switzerland, but my great-grandfather was a professor at the Sorbonne who’d been saying critical things about the Nazi regime for years at that point, and … ” He shrugged. “They didn’t make it. Put on a train to Auschwitz-Birkenau.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, wishing I had better words.
“You mean they were—” Ben said.
“Oh,” Sebastian said, “your mom didn’t tell you, I guess. They didn’t actually make it to the camp. They died in a locked boxcar on the way. Suffocation, dehydration … bad way to go.”
“How do you know?” Ben asked.
“My father told me,” Sebastian said. “When he was sick. I never thought of telling your mom. I figured she already knew, or I didn’t want to think about it. Or both. He said he learned it from his father. I don’t know howheknew, though, since he was a kid at the time.”
“I imagine,” I said, “that somebody looked it up. The Nazis kept excellent records. Haven’t you wondered how such a small country managed to hold half the world in battle for more than five years? They were efficient. They were organized. Germans are good at that.”
“Well, I knowI’mfeeling extremely cheerful right now,” Alix said.
“And your grandmother’s probably feeling like she’s talked enough for one night,” Sebastian said. “Time to go, I think.”
“Now?”Ashleigh said. “When we don’t even know what happened next?”
