The Blood of Lorraine (23 page)

A lovely rhetorical flourish, which would have been more effective if the rabbi’s words had not evoked the image of Mme Singer’s reluctance to shake Martin’s hand and Singer’s angry reaction. Martin suspected that some disagreements were more acrimonious than others.

“What about the issue of women? I don’t know your traditions, but—”

“Monsieur le juge, you are barking up the wrong tree. As you may recall, there was a false accusation of ritual murder made in this city a little over three weeks ago. Who did that incite?”

“This is where we are looking, I can assure you.” Martin was not about to tell the rabbi of the debate that kept his own mind abuzz, between Jacquette’s sage advice to look “closer to home” and the political sensitivities of Didier and Singer, urging him to leave the Israelites alone. Ironically, even the Grand Rabbi’s attempt to chastise Martin played into Jacquette’s side of the argument. By unwittingly offering an important connection between the victims, he had underlined an obvious strategy. Martin was beginning to suspect that it was time for him to look into even those possibilities that meant stepping on some sensitive toes. “The issue of women strikes me as one of the more controversial issues of the day, and—”

“And what?” the Grand Rabbi was out of his chair again. “What? How do you see us, Monsieur le juge Martin?”

Martin laid aside his pen, considering what to say. If he didn’t have so much respect for the rabbi as a man and a leader, he would not have deigned to try to answer his insulting question. But he did, and he stumbled: “As good citizens, as Frenchmen, as…” What could he say,
as Frenchmen and somehow different?

His hesitation left room for suspicion, and, just as he had learned from his recent dealing with Singer, the Israelites had a talent for sniffing out any doubts about them.

“French, but a little exotic, perhaps, Monsieur le juge Martin? A bit ‘Oriental’ for your taste?”

Martin shook his head in angry denial. “Of course not.” Those were not the words he would have used to describe Singer or the Steins. But what of this man standing before him in priestly robes, orating like a prophet of old? What was his lineage? Where did he come from?

“I can assure you, Monsieur le juge, that we are just as French as you are. Where are you from? The north? The south? I am from Alsace. My family lived there for centuries. And when the Germans took over, I crossed the border back to my beloved country. And your colleague, Monsieur le juge Singer and his relative, Maître Erlanger, their family lived here in Lorraine for centuries. They are of the very soil of Lorraine, the true blood of Lorraine. No one can deny them that.”

Martin shifted in his chair impatiently. Perhaps this was the penance he had to pay for his moments of doubt in the cemetery and his fear that somehow Singer was not as French as he thought him to be.

“Or what about Monsieur Osiris, the businessman?” Rabbi Block asked, then paused dramatically. “Ah, his name rings of the Levant, does it not? But did he not build the statue of the Maid of Lorraine for our fair city? Have I not preached that that lovely martyred maid, Joan of Arc, is as much the Jews’ national heroine as any Catholic’s?” He shook his fist for emphasis. “This is the blood that flows through our veins. French blood, defeated blood, blood that will someday be victorious against the Germans
and
the anti-Israelites. Blood that fights to fulfill the dream of liberty, equality and fraternity. For everyone. Even ourselves.”

Quite a speech! Although Martin had never liked being preached to, he did have to admire the oratorical power and fervor of the man who was the moral leader of his people and the guardian of their reputation. Martin picked up his pen again and opened his notebook to a clean page. It was his turn. As long as the rabbi had come to his chambers, he could very well answer Martin’s questions about the other members of the Consistory and what decision they had promulgated. In exchange, Martin would give the Grand Rabbi something he wanted: policemen to guard the Temple and the homes of the remaining Consistory members, tomorrow, Thursday.

Thursday, December 6

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, C
LARIE STOOD
in front of the armoire, surveying her dresses. She was going out for the first time in weeks. They all said it would “do her good”: Rose, Bernard, Madeleine. Bernard wanted her to take long walks through the park, by the shops, in the square, anything to take her mind off Henri-Joseph. Madeleine expected that she’d find solace by lighting candles in front of a holy statue. Clarie didn’t know what “going out” could possibly accomplish, although part of her wanted, truly wanted, to feel herself again, and to feel for others too. Sighing, Clarie reached forward to pull the dresses apart, one by one, as she tried to remember what life used to be like when she had worn them.

“Darling, have you seen the weather?” Bernard came into the room carrying his bowl of café au lait. “The sun is shining. It’s going to be clear with blue skies just like in Provence. Your beloved Provence.”

When she did not respond, Bernard set his bowl down on the dresser and drew the curtains back even further. “A perfect day for you to go out.”

She did not have the heart to tell him how little false cheer became him. So she kept staring at the clothes.

“If you’d like, I could take off part of the morning, and we could go while the sun is so bright.”

She turned to inspect Bernard. He still had a very nice face, the face of a gentle man with a good heart. A face she used to love. No, she shook her head slightly as she turned away, half-shocked by the formulation. The kind, intelligent face she
still
loved. But she could not tell what he was thinking or feeling any more. Was there more gray around the edges of his beard and his head of slightly wavy brown hair? Had he shriveled up inside like she had? In his white shirt, open at the neck and cuffs, he still looked like the near-boy she had fallen in love with and who had fallen madly in love with her. But she was no longer the girl he had met in Aix. She was tired of seeing that look in his eyes, pity. Her back almost burned with the burden of his gaze. He was waiting for an answer. “I know you have your work to do. The case. Besides, I promised Madeleine,” she said.

“By that time it might be getting dark again.” Bernard was sipping his coffee. It would be such a relief when he put on his cravat and jacket and became a judge again. This is what she and Madeleine had agreed that men did best. Deal with the world outside.

“Where are you and Madeleine planning to go?”

In other words, whose prescription for my well-being am I to follow—his or Madeleine’s?
Even though she knew he would not argue with her, she did not tell him. She intended to make her own decision about what she needed.

“Do you think I can get into the corset again?” she asked, without turning around, changing the subject.

“Does it matter? You’ll have your long winter coat on.” Suddenly he was behind her, reaching his arms around her waist and pulling her close to his chest so that she felt his soft beard on the back of her neck. “You’ll be beautiful, no matter what you wear.”

Even though she felt far from “beautiful,” Clarie turned and smiled. The look of absolute relief on Bernard’s face confirmed that this is what he so desperately wanted: to have her back again. Still, she could do no more. She began sorting through her clothes again. The most somber dress was the black and gray wool that she often wore to school. She took it out and threw it on the bed. The lace-trimmed linen collar and cuffs that she and Rose had conspired to keep immaculately white seemed obscenely cheerful. She had nothing appropriate for a mourning mother. And for that ridiculous reason she let out a sob, which she covered with her hand.

“Clarie.” Bernard took her to him, hugging her face to his chest and swaying gently back and forth. “It will get better. I promise.”

When? How? And why was Bernard so willing to comfort her, to hold her until he thought she had fallen asleep, when she knew that he’d often slip out of bed and go into the living room to pace, perhaps even to weep? Why did he leave her? Why had he taken Henri-Joseph into the living room that fateful night? Didn’t he know that if he had kept their baby in their bed he might be alive? If she still had Henri-Joseph inside of her, he would be safe. Despite all her efforts, she began crying again. These were insane thoughts. Was she going mad?

She pulled away. “Silly me,” she said.

He kissed her cheeks and forehead. “Never silly. I’ve never known you to be silly.”

That’s why, he once said, he loved her so much, because she was reasonable and intelligent and strong, willing to take risks, to do something new. Was she still that person? Would she ever be that person again?

She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief she kept beside her bed. “You’d better hurry. You’ll be late. I know you’re worried about this case.” Even though he hadn’t said anything about it for days, she could tell. Whenever someone was murdered, somehow Bernard felt responsible. Did he even feel at all responsible for the death of their child?

She plopped down on the bed, horrified again by the words invading her mind.

“Dear, what is it?”

“Nothing.” She smiled again. She’d never reveal to him how she was betraying him in her thoughts. “I’m better already. Every day. As you say.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Bernard sat down beside her and kissed her on the forehead again. “Tomorrow night we will go to one of the cafés on the square for supper, just like we did when we first arrived. Then we’ll walk and see what is happening in the theater and the shops. And all those handsome army officers will look at you and want to take you away from me. But I won’t let them.”

Clarie pulled away. Really, he was making too much of an effort, treating her like a child or an invalid. “Your coffee’s getting cold,” she murmured as she went back to the armoire. “Do you want me to pick out a cravat for today?” He used to like her to choose one in the morning and tie it under his collar. There was no reason why he had to know what was going on in her mind.

During the hours between Bernard’s departure and Madeleine’s arrival, Clarie tried to read, to sew, to think of next week’s menu and shopping list, all to no avail. Finally, at three o’clock, Clarie started to dress. Rose helped her with the corset and pinning up her hair—things Clarie always did for herself. But for some odd reason, her fingers were incapable of finding the clasps. Clarie knew that Rose loved doing these things for her, but it didn’t seem right. Clarie towered a head above the older woman, and yet Rose was doing all the work.

“There now, look at you,” Rose said as she pinned back the last errant strand of dark hair. “You look lovely.”

And useless
, Clarie thought as she sat staring in the dresser mirror. That must change. She reached up to pat Rose’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry you’ve been working so hard.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Not so hard.” The maid leaned down so that their faces reflected back at them. They both looked ashen and worn out.

“Well,” Clarie said as she got up, “tomorrow you will have the day off. Monsieur Martin is taking me to dinner.”

“Lovely.” Rose clasped her hands together, smiling. “But I can still come to help,” she hastened to add. Her gray hair was so thin, it was always falling out of the pins. Her plain features seldom came to life, except in response to something happening to Clarie. When had Clarie stopped worrying about what Rose’s life was like? It was unfair.

Unfair, too, that she was releasing Rose tomorrow less for Rose’s sake than for her own. She wanted to be alone. She didn’t want to be hovered over. “No, do take some time to rest,” Clarie insisted as she went to the armoire to get her coat.

Madeleine was always on time. Even so, when the bell rang, Clarie’s heart leapt in her chest. She swallowed and started to button her long blue coat, which fit her rather loosely. She hadn’t needed the corset. She had no idea what was happening to her.

She hurried out of the bedroom, through the living room to the foyer. She wanted to get this over with. She needed to learn to go out on her own, do things on her own.

She greeted Madeleine with a kiss on each cheek and said good-bye to Rose. Then they stepped into the hallway. When Clarie heard the door close behind her, flashes of fear pulsed through her body. She grasped the banister. She should have gone, they should have let her go to the grave. That’s where she should be going now, she thought frantically as she looked down stairs that heaved and ebbed like ocean waves before her. She took the first step. Then the second. Madeleine was slow and patient behind her, encouraging her forward whenever she stopped.

When she got to the ground floor, she flattened herself against the wall, panting despite the slow descent. The wall was cold. Everything was cold. When Madeleine opened the door, it was colder still. Finally, Clarie stepped outside into the street and gazed around her at people going to and fro, pointing at shop windows, hurrying home, greeting each other. This was normal life. Sooner or later she had to become part of it again. Clarie took in a few deep breaths. She felt as if the cold was painting her alive, in pink and rose. It did feel good, to be here, among strangers, among people who did not know what had happened to her.

“Let’s see what’s in the gallery,” she suggested, and Madeleine took her arm as they crossed the street, skirting past the other pedestrians and a peddler’s cart, to look at the prints in the window. Clarie especially loved examining the street scenes and the pictures of old buildings, which took her to other times and places. She drew Madeleine closer to her as she felt her body relaxing. She could do this.

“Watch out,” they heard a man cry behind them. When they turned they saw Rebecca Stein barely avoiding a collision with a portly gentleman and a carriage as she ran across the street toward them. She had obviously run out of the Steins’ drygoods store without her coat.

She landed in front of Clarie. “Madame Martin,” she said, still panting. “Madame Froment.” She curtsied to both of them before going on. “I saw you from the window,” she said to Clarie. “Maman says that I mustn’t bother you. But I know that your maid does not come in on your sabbath, and I am learning to cook, and I…” she gulped hard, the look in her dark brown eyes eager, almost pleading, “I could bring you some lentil soup and bread from the baker.”

“Your mother is right, no one must bother Mme Martin.”

“No, wait,” Clarie said, ignoring Madeleine’s stern admonition as she laid a gloved hand on the girl’s arm. “That would be very kind, Rebecca.” How could one refuse a young girl, especially one who reminded Clarie how much she loved all her students and of what she had been to them. “Now, run along, or you’ll catch your death. And be careful of the street.”

“Yes, Madame Martin, yes.” Rebecca was on her toes with eagerness, before she scampered across the street, taking more care this time not to run into anyone.

“Humph. Always interfering.”

“I don’t think so. Why do you say that?”

“They are always getting into everyone’s business. Don’t you know that?”

“They?”

“You know.”

“Madeleine, come.” She wasn’t in the mood to have a dispute about the Israelites, but at least her companion was acting herself, not like the nursemaid to an invalid.

“Yes, let’s go to
our
church,” Madeleine said, steering Clarie down the block.

But when they rounded the corner and came within sight of the cathedral, Clarie froze. She felt as if someone was squeezing her heart, wringing all the blood out of her. The episcopal church was so overwhelming. All she could think of was that they had bundled up Henri-Joseph and brought him there to baptize him, that they knew, they had suspected. And that she had let them take him out of her arms. She had not gone to mass for months, and she could not imagine finding solace in the massive, princely building. Clarie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Bernard said I should walk.”

“You’re sure?” Madeleine asked.

Clarie nodded and turned the other way, toward the rue Saint-Dizier, away from the cathedral.

“Shops, then? The market?”

“The market, yes. Flowers. Good.”

The Central Market was only a few blocks away. Women were coming out burdened by sacks filled with the preparations for dinner. They looked so happy, so ordinary. When Madeleine started to go inside, Clarie stopped her. “Let’s stay outside with the flowers.” She didn’t want to smell the meat or the cheeses or see the hanging flesh. Red and pink-tipped white roses, fiery orange gladiolas, brave little violets in the waning sunlight, that was enough. Clarie leaned over to smell a white rose. When the vendor was busy with a customer, she touched its soft petal. Bernard used to bring her flowers. Perhaps he would today. “Where do they come from in the winter?” she asked dreamily.

“Greenhouses, you know that.”

Clarie blushed. Where had her mind gone?

They kept on going down the broad, busy street. Clarie had a feeling that Madeleine was guiding her, but she didn’t care. Walking, seeing people, this is what she needed.

“This is my parish, maybe you would be more comfortable here.”

Clarie paused a moment and looked up at the single tower of Saint Pierre. The church was beautiful. Even though it was much smaller, bone-white and new, it reminded her of Notre Dame in Paris. It, too, had an ornate façade which soared over its three doors. And inside, she knew, the arches would reach almost to the sky, and everything would be light and airy. It might not press down on her, it might allow her to pray for her son and find a bit of peace.

She took Madeleine’s hand as they walked up the four low steps to the main entrance. They had only penetrated a few meters into the interior of the church when Clarie knew where she had to be. A flood of memories propelled her to a side altar with its two humble, familiar plaster statues. It was, Clarie knew, Our Lady of Lourdes, the youthful virgin in white and blue standing on a rock just as she had appeared many times to the other statue, the kneeling peasant girl, Bernadette. Clarie’s mother had loved to tell her this story. For Clarie’s mother, the apparitions and the pilgrimages they inspired were proof that miracles could happen and would continue to happen in her lifetime. Then her mother had died. And Clarie, submitted to the discipline of the unbending nuns, no longer had any reason to believe in miracles or apparitions. But the statue seemed to be smiling at Clarie so sweetly. Even if the vision had cured no one, even if miracles did not exist, she had made the sickly Bernadette happy. She had made Clarie’s mother happy.