The Night, The Day (7 page)

He leads the children to his car, places them in the back seat and the suitcase in the trunk. He has no plans to share the contents of the suitcase with anyone. They will be added to the already sizable nest egg he has accumulated over the past few days.
The roundup is bound to continue for months
, he surmises.
Who knows how much of a fortune I will amass by the time it is over?

He arrives at one of the city’s gymnasiums where the Jews are being held, and escorts the children inside. He has not been in this building since the roundup began. The scene strikes him. Hundreds of Jews, many of whom have been there for close to a week, lacking baths and adequate toilet facilities. The stench of feces and urine is nauseating. He had planned to find the parents and personally bring the children to them, to teach them and the others a lesson in Vichy ingenuity, to see if the mother would at last acknowledge him. But he finds he can no longer stay in this place, the foulness is too overwhelming. He deposits the children with a guard and leaves.

He sucks in the fresh air as he hurries to his car. He is fighting an urge to vomit. There are Vichy police and guards outside the building; he must not show weakness in front of them. He gets into the car, pulls out his handkerchief and retches. Afterward, he looks around, taking comfort in his certainty that no one had seen.

He passes the train station on his way home, noting that it is from here the Jews will be sent to Drancy, an internment camp on the outskirts of Paris, before they are transported to their final destination. He is impressed with German efficiency, the choice of freight cars rather than passenger trains because they can hold more people. He only wishes they would hurry up and finish this ugly business. The next transfer from Lyon is in two days; he assumes the banker’s family will be included. He is aware of their ultimate fate. He has heard stories of the camps in Germany and Poland. He chooses not to dwell on that. He cares only about purifying his country, not where these “wanderers” are headed. That, he leaves to the Germans.

He continues on his way. In the morning, the Gestapo chief will learn of his having found the children, greet him warmly and praise him for a job well done. He will react with the obligatory grace. The map he confiscated will simply be icing on the cake. For that, the Gestapo will be in debt to him.

He arrives home. His parents, who he lives with, are still awake, cleaning up after their guests.

His father sees him. “A late night for you,” he says. “You look tired.”

“I’ve been chasing after criminals.”

“Criminals,” his father says skeptically. “What kind of criminals?”

For some reason, he cannot bring himself to tell the truth. He wonders why he feels this way; after all, his father is neither a friend of the Jews nor ignorant of his role in the roundup. Yet, somehow, he has a sense of shame – at least in front of this man – over hunting down children.

“Partisans,” he responds.

“What’s in the bag?” his father asks, pointing to the suitcase.

“Oh, this,” he says defensively. “Just some papers from work.”

His father gives him a disdainful look and walks away. Until this point, he had no clue how his father felt about the Vichy government’s collaboration with the Germans; the subject had never been discussed. He’d wondered if he would have been better off with the truth. Now he knows better.

He goes upstairs to his room, removes his uniform, and examines the contents of the suitcase. There are many fine pieces of jewelry, mostly diamonds and gold, and enough cash for an ordinary man to live on for a year. He inspects the jewelry carefully and recognizes one of the brooches, a pink cameo the wife had worn the day he had attempted to seduce her. It is a simple piece, probably late nineteenth century Italian, a design of a wavy-haired woman walking through the wind, carrying a vine, framed in gold. Rather pretty, he tells himself as he notices an engraving on the back:
To Leila, all my love, Philip.

He stares at the brooch, admiring its workmanship. His father and many other hardworking Frenchmen could barely afford the types of ornaments frequently adorned by the Jews. And now all this belongs to him. He knows he will sell the jewelry when the time is right – but this piece he will keep, as a memento of sorts.

He pulls a panel from the floor and retrieves a large wooden box that is hidden underneath. He deposits the cash and jewelry in the box, puts it back in its hiding place and replaces the floorboard. He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. It has been an arduous day, and tomorrow will be much the same.

Jacques Benoît knew that he could never erase these images. These, and others. He thought about the brooch, why he had kept it all these years. Perhaps because it was his only link to the past, a reminder of what he must always hide if he was to survive. And perhaps it was also a symbol of his guilt, an irrational need to keep something of this woman and her family alive. Whatever it was, he could never bring himself to discard it.

He had often imagined what would happen if he were captured, how the world would know only his depravity, the man he had once been; how they would embrace but a piece of the truth and ignore the rest. Who would care about his accomplishments over the past forty years? Who would give weight to his benevolence and philanthropy? No one, not even his wife and family.

That was why his visits with the Jewish psychologist were now so crucial. Initially, he had agreed to see Martin Rosen, not to comfort his wife nor to satisfy Dr. Reddy, but as a ruse, a way of confusing his hunters into thinking that maybe he wasn’t their man to begin with. After all, how could the person they suspected him to be
ever
seek help from a Jew? It had been a clever move and must have assuredly infused doubt in their minds, especially after that fiasco over the identity of the auto worker in Ohio, the trial, the publicity, the eventual embarrassment.

But now, after having met Rosen, Jacques Benoît had a new and even better plan, one that strengthened his resolve and convinced him that, so long as he played his part carefully, he could finally gain what he needed to be free.

He recalled the information he had gathered on Martin Rosen’s personal life. It was surprising even to him what a man of resources could learn about another man. His people had scoured Rosen’s background down to the nitty-gritty details, and with all he now knew, he was certain he had made the right choice. In every way, Martin Rosen was ideal for what he had in mind.

Jacques Benoît contemplated all this as his limo continued down Middle Neck Road through the busiest section of town. He turned around for a moment and looked out the rear window, wondering if he was being followed.

chapter 8

J
acques Benoît sat across the
table from his wife in silence, waiting for the inevitable question about his therapy session. He couldn’t blame her, really; in a single act, he had shattered her nearly perfect existence. Now, still skeptical of his explanations, she sought answers.

Martha Benoît had the things most women yearned for: a loving and successful husband, devoted children, position and respect in the community, more money than she could possibly spend in a lifetime, and health. At 63, she still had the figure of a high-priced model, which she owed to genetics, a daily two-hour exercise grind and a strict organic diet. Her tennis player’s tan obviated the need for heavy makeup, while her wavy auburn hair and hazel eyes made her appear more free-spirited than she actually was.

“So, how did it go with Dr. Rosen?” she asked, caressing the rim of her wine glass with her forefinger.

Jacques hesitated for a moment, sipped his bourbon, and answered, “Fine. The doctor is a real gentleman.”

“Oh please, Jacques,” she snapped back. “It doesn’t concern me how the doctor is. I want to know how
you’re
doing!”

“How do I appear?” he asked.

“Why,
wonderful
, of course. A few weeks ago, you tried to kill yourself, and you’ve been just wonderful since. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

He paused. “I suppose it should.”

A welcome interruption ensued as the maid entered the dining room with dinner.

“That’s all right, Consuelo,” Martha said as the maid was about to serve the Cornish hens. “You can just leave the tray on the table. We’ll help ourselves tonight.”

Consuelo quickly complied. Jacques looked at his wife with amazement. She was truly annoyed, a side of her he’d rarely seen.

“I am sorry for what I did, Martha. You know that you are the last person on earth I would ever hurt.”

“But I’m the person you
did
hurt, Jacques, and so far, the reasons you’ve given me are wholly insufficient.”

“I feel as though you are cross-examining me.”

“I have to tell you how I feel.”

“I do not know what more you expect of me. I am seeing that psychologist, I am trying to find out if there is some, as you say,
underlying
reason for what happened.”

“Are you?”

“Why else would I start seeing that fellow every week? I
do
have other things to do with my time.”

“Perhaps to placate me.”

“Please, my dear, I know you are not stupid.”

She was silent for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“I have always regarded you as the smartest person I’ve ever met, you know that.”

Something inside her told her that she had pushed as far as she could, at least for now. He was in good hands with Dr. Rosen, so she’d heard from several sources, and she would just have to trust in that. She looked at him, regarding the warmth in his eyes. He was a good man, she believed, loving and selfless in every respect. He was right, he could never do anything to hurt her. Yet, what had happened to him, as impulsive, irrational and uncharacteristic as it may have been, left her uncertain about the future.

Jacques continued. “I spoke with the doctor about your talking with him. He says it’s fine and that you should call.”

She forced a smile.

He stood up from his chair, walked over to her and ran his hands through her hair. “Everything is going to be all right, my dear, I promise,” he said softly.

It amazed her how easily he could make her feel the same way she had the first time he ever touched her. This was the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had always been able to arouse her lust, the man who had inspired cravings she’d never imagined herself capable of. And even now, years later, he affected her so.

She grasped his hand and rose to meet him face-to-face. They hadn’t stood this close to each other for some time, several weeks before his suicide attempt by her count. It felt good, as if he were finally returning to her. She brought her hand slowly to his face, gently touching his cheek as she leaned into him and kissed his lips. It was a tender kiss, but one which vibrated through her entire body.

“I love you,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes.

“And I love
you
,” he responded as he drew her into another kiss, deeper and harder.

Enveloped in his hold, she wanted nothing more than to have all of him. Releasing herself, she took his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“But what of dinner?” he asked, grinning mischievously.

“It will have to wait.”

chapter 9

T
he village of Lake Success
was aptly named, in light of its grand homes and winding, impeccably groomed streets. It was not a place Martin and Katherine could have afforded, were it not for the financial assistance of Katherine’s parents. Martin had initially been opposed to the idea – there were plenty of fine neighborhoods within their price range – but Katherine’s father, a prominent Peoria surgeon with whom Martin had developed a most amicable relationship, had convinced his new son-in-law to at least take the money as a “non-interest loan.” Katherine fell in love with the neighborhood, saw it as a wonderful place for children, and Martin couldn’t bear to disappoint her. He promised himself, and Katherine, that he would pay her father back in full, though the man had never expected or even desired to see the money. Martin’s first two royalty checks on his book took care of the first and last installments, and his only regret was that Katherine hadn’t lived to see the house become
theirs.
He believed, however, that somehow she knew.

The house was a four-bedroom, center-hall colonial on Bridle Path Lane, a street that had once, years before the development of the area, served the very function for which it was named. Set back nicely from the road, on about half an acre of property, it boasted all white hand-split cedar shakes, with old-world crystalline windows and traditional drapery adding as much to its exterior as to the rooms within. Its simplicity, which lent it a storybook complexion one might find somewhere in Middle America rather than here among its more imposing neighbors, had clinched it for Katherine. It had reminded her of home.

For Martin, it had all been a big surprise. He had never imagined himself taking pride in something so mundane as a house. But as Katherine slowly added her touch, the more he came to appreciate it, and her. It became, in every sense, a reflection of their lives: pure and warm. And within its confines, he would always feel her presence.

“Daddy’s home!” Martin heard as he entered the house.

Elizabeth came running from the den and jumped into his arms, yelling, “Daddy!”

He hoisted her up and held her tight, relishing every squeeze and kiss, though his bones and muscles were telling him that she was getting too heavy, and he too old. A wave of sadness passed through him. “How’s my girl?” he asked.

“Good, Daddy, really good.”

He put her down, trying to conceal the strain.

“Come see what we were doing!” she commanded as she led him back to the den.

Jamilla was sitting on the den floor, pondering the pieces of an almost completed puzzle. As usual, she was dressed simply: fitted blue jeans and a black T-shirt bearing a faded image of Celine Dion. She was a small-framed woman in her early 20s, with long, straight black hair, dark skin, brown eyes, and what Martin had always regarded as sweet facial features. She looked up at him with the same smile that had so impressed him the first time he’d met her, the smile that had told him that she would be the perfect caregiver for his daughter. “Ah, Dr. Rosen, how are you tonight?”

Martin had grown accustomed to her accent though, when he hired her two years earlier, he was worried that it might hinder Elizabeth’s language skills. He had since learned quite the opposite, that nothing could impede his daughter. He looked down at the progress Elizabeth had made on the “7 years and older” dinosaur puzzle, confirming his sense, once again, that the girl had inherited her mother’s brains.

“Pretty well,” Martin answered, dismissing the fact that he was actually spent. He never wanted Elizabeth to see him as anything less than enthusiastic after an entire day of being away from her. “A bit hungry though.”

The nanny jumped up. “Of course. Dinner will be ready in a jiffy.”

Martin smiled. “A jiffy works for me.”

Jamilla chuckled as she went to the kitchen.

“See what I did, Daddy? I almost finished the whole puzzle by myself. Jamilla helped, but I did most of it.
Right, Jamilla
?”

“Right!” the nanny yelled from the kitchen.

Elizabeth got on her knees and pointed to one of the completed dinosaurs. “This one’s a stegosaurus.”

“That’s correct,” Martin said, beaming.

“And this one’s a triceratops.”

“That’s right also.”

Elizabeth got up and stood beside her father, admiring her work. “Isn’t it cool, Daddy?”

“Very cool, princess.” He looked into her bright blue eyes. “As cool as it gets.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Jamilla called.

“Come, let’s eat,” Martin said. He took Elizabeth’s hand and started toward the kitchen.

“Daddy, do you think Aunt Esther will come to my birthday party?”

Martin smiled sadly; Elizabeth’s birthday was a good six months away, and was probably the next time he would see his older sister, Esther. Through all his choices, and the estrangement from his parents, his relationship with Esther had always endured. She was his only sibling and, while she maintained the traditional lifestyle of their parents, married a staunchly Orthodox man and had five children, neither she nor he could ever disavow themselves of the closeness they had shared as children. She remained, in effect, his only link to his past.

“Of course she will. Doesn’t she always?” he said.

“What about Michali and Devorah?” Elizabeth asked, referring to her cousins whom she had barely met two years earlier, when Esther had visited a few days after the funeral of Katherine and Ethan. It was the only time Esther had brought any of her children, and she had chosen the girls, who were also her youngest, so they could play with Elizabeth while she spent time with Martin.

Martin was always dumbfounded when Elizabeth brought this up, wondering if she truly remembered her cousins, or if simply knowing of their existence made her mention them from time to time. “We’ll see,” he answered, hoping she’d drop the subject.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” she responded, squeezing his hand.

He wasn’t sure whether she was parroting him, or if she was truly wise in ways he didn’t comprehend. He opted for the latter because it warmed his heart, which was exactly what he needed at the moment.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, princess?”

“How come I only have one grandma and one grandpa? Cindy and Andrea both have two grandmas and two grandpas.”

Another bombshell. Boy, she’s on a roll tonight
, he thought.

In truth, this was the second time Elizabeth had drawn this comparison with her two best friends, the first having been a few weeks earlier. What went on in a 4-year-old’s head amazed Martin, and he was certain she would repeat the question until he provided a sufficient answer. He turned to her, squatted down to her level, and said, “Honey, remember I told you that you also have four grandparents, just like Cindy and Andrea?”

She nodded. “But how come I don’t see your mommy and daddy?”

“That’s a good question,” he uttered, more to himself than to her, realizing that this wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“Because they’re far away?” she probed, recalling the explanation he’d given her in the past.

Martin cringed. When he’d said that, it had been the first and only time he’d lied to her. He hadn’t known what to say and realized that it had been a dumb lie to begin with, considering that Katherine’s parents, who lived a thousand miles away in Illinois, spoke with their granddaughter weekly and visited several times a year. He should have guessed this wouldn’t silence her.

“Well honey,” he said, “being ‘far away’ can mean many things. It can mean that they actually live far away, like Grandpa Joe and Grandma Evelyn, or it can mean that we’re just not close with them, that we don’t talk to them or see them because we’re not…” he searched his mind for the right term, and all he could muster was, “friends.”

“Why not?”

“That, my love, is a very long story.”

“Is it a sad story?”

“Yes, I’d say it is.”

“Will you tell it to me?”

“One day, when you’re older.”

She looked into his eyes, and somehow understood that it was time to leave this alone. She took his hand, and said, “Boy, I’m really hungry!”

He stood up, looked down at her, and marveled. He couldn’t get over the way she was growing up. It was one of those rare moments that he entertained the thought that maybe there was a God after all.