Tangled Ashes (36 page)

T
HOUGH MANY ELEMENTS
of this novel are fictional, the places featured in it are not. The Meunier manor, hidden away in the hills above Lamorlaye, does indeed exist, and it really was the site of France’s only Lebensborn until the Germans evacuated in 1944. Most of the documents that might have helped to reconstruct the WWII period of the manor’s history were destroyed as the Nazis left, but there is no doubt among historians that many children were indeed born there during the final months of the war. Unlike other “Founts of Life,” Lamorlaye’s seems to have been reserved for women who entered the program voluntarily. Others across Europe were much more sordid, their babies the product of rapes and kidnappings committed in the name of expanding the Third Reich.

When I was thirteen, I started attending a small school that met in the Meunier manor. The property belonged to the Red Cross at the time, and it housed a rehabilitation center for physically handicapped children. I was part of an integration program that allowed a handful of students from the village to study with the residents of the center. I have vivid memories of reenacting the entire
Les Misérables
musical on the front steps of the manor, of playing soccer
in a clearing in its woods, and of taking “field trips” to its Japanese gardens.

Lamorlaye’s small evangelical church is real too—my parents were among its founding members. And the White Queen’s Castle is one of my favorite places on earth. I spent many afternoons there, picturing myself as the owner of the diminutive and exquisite architectural wonder and trying not to watch weekend fishermen shoving worms onto metal hooks.

I have no childhood memories that don’t involve Lamorlaye’s other landmark, the château. Until I moved away at the age of sixteen, I spent much of my leisure time on the grounds of the castle, which housed the European Bible Institute from 1960 until 2001. While my parents taught inside, I played on the islands and went on treasure hunts in the woods. My brother and I came
this close
to burning the building down one afternoon as we lit matches on a stack of mattresses stored in the back stairwell. I’ve crawled under the castle’s patio and imagined grand events in the ballroom we called a chapel. Beck’s Château de Lamorlaye was home to me. It nursed my childhood aches and fueled my romantic élans. Its grand staircase remains a defining feature of my growing-up years. I dearly miss my castle days.

Today, though the château’s grounds have become a much-visited botanical garden, the building itself is locked and empty, slowly succumbing to the ravages of time. Yet even in its less pristine condition, it is graceful and strong, a silent sentinel whose towers and arches guard mute vestiges of the lives that once breathed within its walls.

Much more information, including photos of the castle and other sites in the novel, can be found on my website,
www.michelephoenix.com
.

1. Was Gary right to send Becker to France? What were the potential risks and benefits?
   
2. What do you think of Marie and Elise’s decision to work for the Nazis who had taken over their town? What were the benefits and the dangers of cooperating with the Nazi regime? What challenges faced those who refused to cooperate?
   
3. What is your opinion on Jade’s decision to abandon her studies and care for the Fallons’ children? How might you respond to a similar medical diagnosis or other unforeseen life change?
   
4. Which do you feel is more logical, Beck’s rejection of God or Jade’s relentless faith? Why?
   
5. Do you agree with Sylvia Fallon’s statement, “We never, at any age, outgrow the rules that apply to children. We need to feel known, we need to feel loved, and we need to feel safe”? Why or why not?
   
6. As you read about the suspicious nighttime events, whom did you suspect was the culprit?
   
7. If you were Thérèse, would you be able to forgive Jojo’s behavior as a young man? Why or why not?
   
8. How do you envision Beck’s future directly following his departure from France?
   
9. How can addictions, such as the one Beck struggles with, prevent people from developing healthy relationships? What are some things that could help a person fighting an addiction? What are some of the challenges to overcome?
   
10. Which of the characters in the book shows the most courage?
    

B
ORN IN
F
RANCE
to an American mother and a Canadian father, Michèle Phoenix is an international writer with multicultural sensitivities. A graduate of Wheaton College, she has spent twenty years teaching music, creative writing, drama, and English at Black Forest Academy, a school for missionaries’ children in Germany.

In 2008, Michèle fought two different forms of cancer and endured ten surgeries in four months. This dual battle caused her to reevaluate the direction of her life. Armed with a desire to make her remaining years count, she returned to the States in 2010 to launch a new ministry for and about missionary kids (MKs).

Now living in Illinois, she serves with Global Outreach Mission as an MK advocate and spends her time speaking, writing, and educating the North American church about the unique strengths and struggles of missionary kids.

“She’s beautiful, Shelby.”

I stared at the social worker’s face and wondered what
beautiful
had to do with the present circumstances. There were other words that described my dilemma. Strange? Yes. Disconcerting? Yes. Completely and horrifically out of control? Absolutely. But beautiful? No—it was not an adjective that belonged in this particular conversation, no matter how accurate it might be.

“Dana . . . ,” I began, shaking my head and raising my hands in utter dismay and incredulity, “I can’t . . . I mean . . . Seriously? You’re being serious here?”

This was only the second time Dana and I had met, but given the circumstances, we’d abandoned the formalities and gone straight to first names. She was old enough to be my mother, and there had been a frantic moment during that first meeting when all I’d wanted to do was curl up in her well-padded lap and have her shush me
into oblivion as my mom had done when I was a child, but the official nature of our encounter had kept my instincts in check and my pride intact. Besides, I was sure not even the competent and sympathetic Dana would have known what to do with a thirty-five-year-old woman trying to crawl onto her knees.

Weeks later, I didn’t remember many of the details of our first meeting. Only the general gist of the conversation and the mystification that had plagued me every day since then. My dilemma had done for my prayer life what trans fat–free fries had done for my fast-food consumption. I was cranking out prayers as fervently as I was shoveling in fries, and though my decision hadn’t gotten any simpler to make, my ability to use a drive-through window without guilt had vastly improved. But I hadn’t given up on my praying. Not yet. This impassable imbroglio had proven two important facts to me. First, I was helpless. A lifetime of learning to be strong and independent had left me more debilitated than I’d ever felt before. And second, my praying had gotten rusty. The first few times I’d tried to utter something profound, I’d sounded like a glossary of antiquated King James clichés. I was pretty sure God laughed at my initial attempts, but I figured he could use the entertainment as much as I could use the practice.

“I need you to make a decision,” Dana now said, reaching across the gray Formica tabletop to press warm fingers around my frozen disbelief. Her oversize gold rings sparkled in the morning sunlight, somehow incongruent with the muddiness in my mind. “The paperwork is drawn up, and we can get this procedure started just as soon as you give us the go-ahead.”

The go-ahead.
Such an innocuous term. But in this case, it carried life-altering ramifications I couldn’t even fathom. I grasped the edge of the kitchen table and found comfort in its realness. It was solid and predictable, scarred by time and use, but there—measurable and palpable and familiar. It seemed at that moment that
everything else in my life had catapulted off a cliff, exploded like a clay pigeon into thousands of jagged fragments, and fallen, scattered and unrecognizable, into the dark abyss below. Giving anyone or anything the “go-ahead” while the pieces of my life were still settling in the muck of incredulity seemed about as wise as diving into a piranha-infested lake with pork chops strapped to each limb.

“Dana . . .”

“I know it’s frightening,” she said, tightening her grip on my hand, “and I know you have no point of reference for making this decision.”

“It’s just . . .” I searched her eyes for answers. “How did this happen? I mean, a month ago my life was . . . And now it’s . . .”

“Kaboom,” Dana said matter-of-factly.

“Exactly.” I sighed and retrieved my hand long enough to rub at my eyes and rake at my hair. Dana returned my gaze, unflinching, and I tried to absorb some of her calm as it wafted across the table toward me like the fragrance of cinnamon or freshly cut grass or White Shoulders on my mother’s chenille robe.

“Will you at least come to meet her?”

“No.” The word shot out like a reflex.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No.”

“We won’t even tell her who you are. . . .”

“I can’t.”

“Shelby.” Her expression was compassionate, but her eyes scolded my cowardice. “There’s more at stake here than just you. I know it’s overwhelming, and I know you’re still reeling, but think outside yourself for just a moment.”

I laughed at that, mostly because it seemed preferable to curling into a fetal position under my mom’s old kitchen table and praying to God for the Rapture to come quickly. This was a choice of cataclysmic consequences, and I was known to get stumped by a
Dunkin’ Donuts display. How was I supposed to decide this so soon when glazed versus frosted could keep my brain in a knot for days?

“She needs a mom,” Dana persisted.

“I’m not her mom.”

“But you can learn. Even if you’re not her real mom, someone’s got to raise her.”

“No.” I shook my head as if the gesture would rid me of the excruciating decision. “I’m not mom material. He made sure of that.”

“And yet it’s you he wanted for his daughter. No one else.”

I laughed again, though the sound was completely devoid of humor. “He doesn’t even know who I am. . . .”

“But he chose you.”

“I can’t do it.”

“What other option do we have, Shelby?” Her voice was soft, but her words slammed a vise across my lungs that threatened my ability to breathe. “What other option does Shayla have?” She leaned across the table, her eyes seeking my averted gaze. “Take a deep breath, Shelby.” She waited while I obeyed. After a few moments, she smiled and added, “If you don’t let it back out, you’re going to pass out.”

I expelled the breath in a rush of frustration and helplessness and fear, tears stinging my eyes. “I feel like I don’t really have a choice at all.”

“Sure you do. Technically. But if you’re feeling like there’s only one right choice—I think that might be true.” She fished a Kleenex out of her giant purse and handed it to me as if she’d done it a thousand times before—which she probably had. “I suggest you and I go for a little ride. We’ll drop in and see her—just as casually as you’d like—and then maybe you’ll be able to wrap your mind around all of this.” She pushed her chair away from the table and rose.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” I swallowed past the boulder in my throat and bit my bottom lip to steady it.

“I believe you. But you still need to.”

“I’m scared, Dana. What if . . . ? What if . . . ?”

“You don’t have to decide today. Maybe seeing her will help you, though.”

“Help me what?”

“Help you to know.”

“You won’t tell her who I am?”

“It’ll be our little secret.”

“And you’ll stay with me?”

Dana nodded and hung her purse over her shoulder. “You ready?”

“No. . . .” My laughter only almost masked my terror.

“You’ll be fine,” Dana assured me, coming around the table to squeeze my shoulder as I stood. “I’ll be with you—and we’ll take it nice and slow.”

“I need to brush my hair.”

“I was hoping you would.”

“Don’t insult me—I might change my mind.”

“Then you’re absolutely beautiful,” Dana said sweetly.

“And you’re a lousy liar.”

“Hey, if it gets you to the car . . .”

“I need a donut.”

“There are three Dunkin’ Donuts between here and Dream Acres.”

“Good,” I said bravely. “We’ll stop at all three.”