Bad revelations and good decisions for the group. (NC-17)
 
NC-17 rated AU Danny/Tim. Mixed couples dancing, , swearing, coded allusions to
war and violence, bad revelations about the Holocaust, a second hand description
of violence, m/m displays of affection and dry humping in the facilities, chase
scene, rambling about religious/ethnic identity and threat to child. Also, this
is fiction. I had this idea, "Gee, wouldn't it be ha-ha funny if Tim Burton and
Danny Elfman were in occupied Paris and were dating each other?" Then I
remembered that this is WWII we are talking about. My muses think I'm a sadistic
little cookie. I adapted an incident as retold in The Avengers by Rich Cohen for
Naomi-Chaiya's back-story (she will be in Paris later). Jacob Gens, the Chief of
Police for the Vilna Ghetto, is a real person, but everyone else is not, or at
least are fictional representations of real people. Partially inspired by "Why'd
We Go (All This Way?)," "Dazzle," "Try to Believe," "Ich Bin Auslander," Sam's
speech in The Two Towers, and a lot more music.

I really danced for the first time tonight. We were staying in an abandoned
servant's quarters somewhere in the premier arrondissement, while the Irish
industrialist Paul O'Neil and his Armenian wife Sirvart went out for the night.

I know how to dance. It is a skill I learned at mixers and sometimes at
late-night marathons people went to forget hunger and inflation. I lead, the
girl followed, and I wished I could just sit down and listen to the band.

So, after putting Louis to bed, Richard and Marie turn on the radio to BBC, for
a program with banned music in French and German, I sit down with Tim. He
bounces his knee up and down to the music, giving small smiles when he
recognized the words. I just close my eyes, smiling while listening to the
interplay of words, instruments, and vocals.

Then a waltz came on. Richard holds out his hand. Marie smiles. "Really? Here?
With all that is d takes his hand. They are wearing threadbare clothes they
tried to keep neat, Marie's curly black bob had a few flyaway hairs, but they
danced like they were wearing fucking tuxedos and ball gowns. They seem so
happy, moving to the music, being together.

I was never happy dancing.

"I'd like to dance too." It takes me seconds to look in the direction of that
statement.

"Tim? What are you talking about? The only woman here is Marie-Pascale. If you
want to go across town to get Louise . . ."

"No, Danny, I want to dance with you."

Tim can be so naive, so I decide to set him straight about ballroom dancing.
"Let me explain . . ."

"Actually," cuts in Richard, "sometimes in secondary school, the guys would
practice dancing together. All you really need is a leader and a follower."
Thanks for the support, you know I hate dancing.

"So," Tim continues, "I'll follow, you lead. You've done this before, right?"

"Yes."

"So, get up, this song isn't going to go on forever." I stand up and strike an
exagerated waltz pose, not even trying to hide my smirk and rolling eyes. Tim
bounces up and takes my hand.

Twirl, slow, quick, quick, slow. After a while, it is like riding a bike. Then I
notice how close he is to me, one hand on his narrow, sharp hip and the other
intertwined with his. He is staring down at me with sparkling eyes.

I glance at Richard, expecting to see him smirking with a 'look at my baby
brother acting foolish' expression. But he is smiling, this odd genuine joy. A
shared happiness.

He feels warm and smooth against me, and can I really feel his heart against
mine? I lose my train of thought in the next passage, Tim and I spin on the
floor, and suddenly I feel like a revolving planet, suspended and content in the
starry night. I am holding on to a satellite, never releasing him from my
gravitational pull.

Wow. I like dancing.

Attendisme: wait and see, even if you're not sure if it is worth it. Perhaps
someday I will write a book called "French for the Sarcastic." Like that waiter
snorting "Royalle!" when I left a coin for him. Sorry, but until I find a spot
to play violin this morning, that is what you're getting.

I walk to the next block, going to Richard playing his accordion. "Are we ever
going to be playing out?" I say. "Playing out" is a general term for anything
more active than spying, hiding people or stashing leaflets. You know, like
shooting people.

"The composers (the High Command) say that we're not ready to play the horns
(use guns)," Richard answers.

"We have the horns and the reeds (bullets). I know some people who want to play
them don't know how, and some folks don't think we should play them at all, but
I'd like to be clear on what we're going to do . . . for the score, I mean."
Real suave on my part.

"They're worried about the critics (arrests, executions, the usual). Also,
they're busy filling orders for the Toulousse troupe (Unoccupied Zone
resisters)."

"The piano player (Michel) already went to the Vichy Symphony (arrested by the
gendarmerie). I'm still worried about the set designer (Tim) being brought in a
stage hand in Munich (sent to forced labor in Germany)."

"If the permission slip (fake medical excuse) is any good, he can stay here."

"Got stage directions (coded music) finished, anyway?"

"One more bar (still need to scout more)."

"Good. Still playing strings (using explosives) for Wagner admirers
(collaborators)?"

"Sometimes, other folks play (other folks using explosives). Wouldn't want them
to see only me (identify me)."

"Right. I got a troupe of acrobats (Jewish people looking to escape) to audition
(hide then smuggle out of the city)."

"Small troupe? (Are they children?)"

"Most of them--the larger troupes (adults) are already called to Munich
(deported to Germany)."

"Is the seamstress auditioning (Is Tatiana hiding them)?"

"No, but her friends are."

"I understand. She was late the last time (had a visit from the gendermerie)."

"Going to the Propagandastaffel?" Every new piece we play out has be approved by
them, which is fine because we aren't the ones who usually submit them.

"No, no new material," says Richard. Then he nudges me. A small child holds out
her hand.

I have this habit with beggars interrupting. I smile wide and crazed and say,
"Did your mother ever teach you it is not polite to listen to other people's
conversations?"

"I have no mother now," the child replies. I sigh and grab one more coin from my
pocket, handing it to her. The child smiles shyly and runs.

"At least you did not grab it out of my case like the last time," Richard
mutters.

I see Vatos walking as fast as a short person could down the street. He mutters
apologies when he bumps into people. Richard just keeps on playing.

"Alla," Vatos whispers to us when he comes near, "have you seen Alla? I saw her
this morning; she said she was visiting her uncle. No one I've talked to have
seen her."

Alla and Vatos: I think their idea of courtship was arguing about the march of
history and the necessity of the state. Nevertheless, they were smitten with
each other, cooing and affectionate as possible in the shadows.

So I try to be helpful. "Last time I saw Alla was when she checked in after
dropping love letters (leaving behind pamphlets)."

Vatos sighs. "What could have happened to her?"

Richard isn't as helpful. "Called to Munich?"

"Oh please don't say that. She doesn't know the season schedule (future plans of
the Clowns), but she knows the flamenco troupe (Spanish refugees) and choir
(some other partisans)."

He didn't say anything about torture or forced labor, but we all knew what was
on his mind. Rescuing Alla from the pits of the Gestapo or whomever. Great. I
could forbid it, but I understand the urge.

"How are you going to avoid being called to Munich? You could also be sent home
(deported to Spain)."

Vatos shrugs. Maybe in his own way, he is having second thoughts.

Rescue--that's why we are all here, hiding, lying about ages, religions,
families, and nations. Never mind the little voice wondering if it is enough.

After playing the violin in another block, I stay again with the O'Neils, this
time alone. Okay, not entirely alone.

Malina and Lourdes, both small girls, one blonde and one brunette, tip-toed to
me. "Uncle Danny, where's everyone else," Malina, the brunette whispers.

Why they call me Uncle, I will never know. Then again, they are finding family
wherever they can. Their mother was unfortunately Dutch and Jewish, taken away
to Velodrome d'Hiver, to Drancy and then God knows where. Lourdes, by the way,
was the name of the midwife. That's how the youngest got her name.

"In different houses," I answer.

"Will you read us a bedtime story? Madame O'Neil has lots of books, but she and
Monsiuer O'Neil need to sleep early."

"Of course."

"Thank you," I suddenly hear.

Sirvart Vamgraian O'Neil stands there, a gentle grin lighting her overwise
serious face. Never mind how much money they have, she dresses in a faded yellow
dress with her black curls in a tight bun. "Also, I was told to give you this."
She hands me an envelope. "An old friend, the usher told me." An usher is a
smuggler in this code.

"Thank you."

Sirvart then frowns, her dark eyes clouding. "I've been reading the papers
lately. They say the deportees, they're being treated horribly. L'Humanitie
says--and I don't know if it's true--they're testing poison gas on Jews."

"I don't know. My dad said during the Great War, you'd think the French were
stealing away German women and having them dishonored. Best word to use, there
are children here."

"Momma cups our ears if she says something she does not want us to hear," Malina
offers.

I shake my head. "I won't even go into what some folks still believe happens
during Passover. I am not certain of these stories, rumors seem to be thick
here."

Sirvart nods. "But you don't want to be caught."

"No."

"The stories seem to be the same thing--deportees are getting killed, especially
the Jewish ones. If it is true--I can't see it myself, the Jerrys need all the
help they can get--we can't keep our mouths shut about this. Never mind the
press controls, someone has to write this down, let the world know."

"You are adamant about this."

"Daniel, my mother told me stories about her family being slaughtered by the
Turks. She only did it because I asked; otherwise she would just try to forget
it. But others are forgetting too. Someone told me Hitler said 'Who remembers
the Armenians these days?'"

Her eyes cloud more. "Worst than dying before your time is being forgotten." She
looks at the girls. "I forgot myself. I am sorry. This is no topic for
children."

"Their mother was deported. It will be part of their lives, if it is true."

"I hope the stories aren't true," Malina suddenly says, "I hope she's all
right."

"Me too," I say to her, giving her a faint grin.

Sirvart shakes her head. "I should not worry you. Go, read them a story."

In the study, Malina and Lourdes argue over requests. Malina wanted "Hop-Frog"
and Lourdes wanted "the Cinderella where the toes get cut off."

"Why do you like these stories? We are worried about scaring you with talk of
deportation, but you just seem like bloody stories." Maybe I am telling on
myself.

Malina shrugs. "You get scared, but then it's all over. Nothing in those stories
are real."

Yes, but the war is real. The deportations are real. Any escape is good for us.
I am not certain if I can keep these girls alive to see a world where the only
things to worry about are phantoms.

"Cinderella" wins out, and then the girls fall asleep. I open the envelope. The
letter is just numbers. This looks very familiar.

Herr Professor Acker and I wrote encrypted notes to each other during holidays,
before his engagement. Due to his obsession with all things Greco-Roman, we used
the Polybius checkerboard. Oh, it could be decrypted, but it was useful for
simple love letters between a student and a teacher.

I was curious. Why now? What is he going to say? Why am I willing to give up
sleep to read a letter from someone I never thought I'd see again?

Then I rationalized. He is still in Germany, seeing things I only hear on the
radio and read in smuggled newspapers. What will he say?

Besides, only one person knows about him.

"If I don't see a beheading soon, I am leaving," mutters Richard as he holds
Marie closer. A friend of Richard just wrote a play for Le Theatre du Grand
Guignol and invited the three of us to see it. Oddly enough, They spend the time
giggling and holding on to each other when killing begins.

I try to keep my eyes on this epic of beheaded aristocrats avenging themselves
on their executors' descendents, but I keep remembering the argument Tim and I
had. It started as a matter of cues and design, then it just . . .slid. Finally,
Tim blurted out, "I don't understand what you want, hell, I don't know what you
want at all. Then he stuttered apologies and I snarled something about Richard
leaving.

I was not enjoying much of this, just watching Marie and Richard close together.
Tatiana is watching Louis tonight; they haven't a free night since Louis was
born. I ought to be smug, content with having no children, no obligations beyond
the cast and the composing.

I should be happy being alone. I'm not.

I really fucked it up this time. He will run from the snarling. Unbidden, a list
of names, Isolde, Pierre, Andromache, Karl, Jean-Anton, Grazia-Zippora. Let's
talk about my favorite Italian Israelite. Grazia-Zipporah wondered in that
chirpy 'I never been outside of Venice before I went to Sorbonne with my first
husband the professor' voice why I never went to services. "Well, darling, the
whole 'man laying down with man' thing is sort of a deal-breaker on their part"
did not make her happy. She probably married another nice professor. They’re
probably happy.

Then I wind into the facilities. Oh god, not him, just washing his hands, and I
swear his eyes were not focused on the mirror.

"Timotheé, what are you doing here?"

"Washing my hands." He grabbed a towel. "I bought a ticket."

"And do you normally come here?"

"I didn't really expect to see you here. Maybe I should not be surprised." He
shrugs and turns. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

Where did that come from? "For what?"

"I really didn't mean to be so, you know, mule-like. A lot of things going
through my head."

I smelled church incense on his coat. "I thought you were an atheist."

Now those eyes were focused on me. "I was taking my grandmother to church. Rites
of unction." His eyes clouded dark. "She's dying."

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, because it seemed the right thing to say. "What . .
.could you tell me about her?"

"I lived with her since I was twelve until I moved in with Louise. My mother and
father were too busy with his work, thought the culture would be good for me,
the climate, I always was so sick in England."

"I thought you were French."

"I am, my father is English, I never really liked England, though. I never
really like him." Strange how much hurt and anger were in those plain spoken
sentences, and how does he know he could trust me so much to tell me? I am
almost afraid for him.

"So, you haven't talked to your parents."

"No. Grandmere is the only family I have." No, I wanted to say, I could be your
family, the cast of the cabaret, we could. Maybe I was offering too much, so I
kept silent.

I did not keep silent for long. "I guess I was too harsh too. It's going to
sound so stupid . . ."

"Go on."

"I thought I scared you."

"How?"

"Snarling. Sarcasm."

"I remember you were warning me against sleeping with you."

"Yes. Yes, I was."

"Why? Really, why?"

"You know how I was your first?"

"You are, sort of, I mean, Louise, I did do some things, I think someone at
ENCAD, but he left for the army . . ."

I nodded. "Here is the short version. I had a first. He left me. Never mind I
had many others between the two of you. I don't know if I will ever get over
being rejected."

He tilted his head. "Why would I ever do that? Other people have, but I cannot
see why I would." He stared more. "Tell me about him, I mean, if you want."

"He was a classics professor at the gymnazium I attended, much like your lycée,
preparation for university. He made me feel accepted, cared for. That was what
made him leaving so hard."

"I like your eyes," Tim suddenly said. Now there's a change of subject. He
continues, "I finally mixed the right amount of green and brown paint for the
colour. It was hard. Your eyes are not like the others."

He kissed on the cheek. "It must hurt to feel so alone, when someone you love
leaves." He bent his head down, staring at the tiled floor. "I don't know.
Grandmere is the first person I know who is . . .well, you know. Few stay around
long enough for me to feel anything before they leave."

He's hurting, I'm hurting, and we both could be asking for too much, expecting
too much. I felt afraid, like I always do before I light up a firecracker as a
kid. It may be a surprise for Richard and Heinrich if they heard that,
considering how often I did. However, I knew, even then, I only had so many
chances before I blow my fingers and god-knows-what off, before someone gets his
heart broken.

Yet I still light the fuse; I still reached out and kissed him back. He grabbed
my hand and leads me into a stall. Inside, we kissed blindly and grinded against
the cold faux-marble wall. He put his hands on the back of my head, and then
bucked against me, steady and increasing in speed. Just as suddenly, he stopped,
shuddering and breathing hard.

"Are you all right?" He nodded.

"What about you?"

"Later, is that good for you?"

"Yes."

"Do you need me to clean you up?" He nodded again, tight with a flushed face. I
unzipped his pant, pulled down and licked the fluids. He tasted strange, like
swallowing the sea.

Then he turned me up and around, pulling me close to his chest. Unzipping my
pants, he wrapped those damnable long and pale fingers around my cock. He gave
the head a gentle press, then he stroked slow and long. I lurched into his hand
so hard, that I thought my spectacles would fall off. I came quick and gasping,
pouring into his hand.

Cannot believe I remembered that much. Taking a piece of paper from a nearby
drawer, I work from memory, writing down the corresponding Greek letters. I am
little surprised I remembered this much from my classics education. I hoped that
I could still read Greek, that the prizes I won weren't just flukes. Come to
think of it, I fear that too.

The message is written, and I begin translating it in my head. The first word
was 'Diogenes.' A small nickname he called me, the rejecting all status for
truth and looking for an honest man with a lamp in broad daylight and all.

Diogenes,
It is good you are not here. A student betrayed me to the authorities. My wife
is left as a widow without ceremony. Here where I am detained, all hunger and
thirst, all work until muscles ache. I weep for the Sons of Israel: they are
given Lethean waters before all of us, and those who survive, still drink.

Epimetheus

Lethean waters . . .the River Lethe . . .in the underworld.

The rumors are true.

Oh God, no.

We are the Little Folk We!
Too little to love or to hate.
But leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
--Rudyard Kipling

The chimney sweep walks on the rooftop, one step in front of the other. Behind
him, Rabbi Asimov crawls, holding on to the coattails.

Weiss, the chimney sweep, was amused. "After a while, you're not afraid of the
heights."

"I'm more afraid of getting caught," Rabbi Asimov replied. He holds a small
telescope, just powerful enough to see dimmer stars. It was just enough to bring
down the wrath of Jacob Gens if he ever found out. As Police Chief Gens sees it,
Rabbi Asimov was there by the grace of God and the mercy of the Nazi
authorities. With the leading lights taken East, a scholar has to stay in Vilna
to maintain normalcy. As long as his eccentricities are harmless and legal, his
small household stays. Rabbi Asimov was well aware that if it came down to Gens
turning over him and any harm coming to the ghetto inhabitants, he would be
turned over.

He is risking much coming out here, but he could not keep away from the stars
anymore than he can keep away from his books. That was what got him expelled as
rosh yeshiva some years ago. He heard word of meteors, perhaps true, maybe
already gone. The Nazis monitor any mail, even about incandescent dust, so news
is now by word of mouth and a smuggled letter.

He focuses on Kochab, on Sadir, Cassiopeia. No sign. After that, Rabbi Asimov
focuses the telescope on the ground. "They're coming."

Weiss opens his black bag and empties out his cleaning equipment. He smiles and
shows the empty bag to Rabbi Asimov. Weiss asks, "Enough room?" Rabbi Asimov
nods.

After receiving the goods, Rabbi Asimov goes downstairs. In a candlelit room
with covered mirrors, a slender woman with large brown eyes and dark hair sits
alone. He stands in the doorway, facing her.

"Naomi-Chaiya," Rabbi Asimov whispers, "we have food. After Shifra and I give
some out, we will get you breakfast tomorrow."

"Breakfast, haven't had that in a long time."

Rabbi Asimov nods and pauses. "Your uncle was a good man."

Naomi-Chaiya replies softly, "He died of natural causes. That is rare these
days."

She turns her head and sighs. Perhaps she is thinking of her father. Rabbi
Asimov did not want to remind Naomi-Chaiya of her father. A few days after her
seventeenth birthday, she and her father were rounded up in the action of the
yellow passes. Then they found themselves in Ponar. She was separated, forced to
undress, then shot. Somehow, she survived, climbed out of the pit, wandered,
then was found by foragers. Shifra gave her old clothes, a place to stay until
her uncle (with work outside of the ghetto) came to pick her up.

Since then, she has kept to herself, reading, sometimes watching for smugglers
delivering food. Tonight, her eyes brighten.

"My brother, he left before the Nazis came. He was leaving for England, from
Paris, I believe . I think I can get there."

Rabbi Asimov worries, "But surely, you will be caught. Perhaps killed."

"There are good reasons to go. My uncle is gone, there is nothing holding me
here. If I stay here, I will be killed. We all will, I know it. I know there
will be more people sent to Ponar, maybe even other places." Her voice trembles,
but her eyes are straight-ahead and shining.

Rabbi Asimov sighs. "I know."

"So why do you not leave?"

"If there is a way to save others from this fate, I am willing to do whatever I
need to, whatever is possible without bringing more harm to others. I am old, I
lived a long time, I much rather that I die in service to the others."

He smiles. "Perhaps I am wrong to doubt you. I wish you much success in your
journey. Tell Yehuda I say hello. And Daniel, if he is still alive. Leonard says
he is indeed. I wonder how Daniel's father is doing . . ." Rabbi Asimov walks
away, remembering when he was just Issac, a tutor in between studies, and Meyer
Elfman was a thirteen year old from Kiev now in Berlin, yet to have two sons.
 

If you had been some poor demented fool
I might have had some reason to complain,
but good and bad you wind from the same spool.
Either your head is filled with wool
or else you want damnation more than bliss.
--Francois Villon

I can't sleep.

I cannot fucking sleep.

I feel sick, even sicker than before. Not only am I ashamed about the people I
was raised to consider my countrymen, the country I have adopted as my own
disgusts me. They are just taking it. The gendermes are taking people to certain
death, and people are doing nothing. Sometimes Marie-Pascale gets recruits from
the ration lines, Louise-Marguerite finds friends in the acting academy and
Johann connects with former patients. Everyone else just murmurs what can be
done?

So they do nothing. And people die.

I try to imagine where Herr Professor Acker is, but my nightmares bleed in. I
imagine dark cells full of the stench of the dead, with me choking on something
poisonous and slow. Was this what Hannah Abbandanzo, Malina and Lourdes' mother,
experienced? Was this the last sight Gittel Schneiderman saw? What of Leon? When
he is too tired for forced labor, do they put him down like a sick dog?

I am almost tempted to do nothing. Get out, run to some other place, Spain,
England, maybe Canada. Be alone, maybe in some primeval forest with dark sky and
trees, and burn all of my sheet music, my poems, old love letters and
photographs. Because the things I trusted seem so useless.

The important ideas get capitalized: Progress, God, Fatherland, Freedom, Art,
Civilization, so many more. In practice, they falter and decay. I've given up on
God, Torah, Fatherland and Security at seventeen. I guess I never really gave up
other ideas.

Why am I surprised? Genteel words masking murder, people dying as quickly as
cars built on the assembly line, the toxic gas wielded as deftly as the scalpel.
Again, I am still surprised. People talk about paintings developing from
scratches on cave walls, of the ending of human sacrifice and curing of
diseases. Maybe somewhere I really believed things could get better.

How could it be our prejudices haven't changed? Mama would tell me of the
Cossacks, Papa told me of his family expelled from Cologne, pushed into Kiev,
then bolting into Berlin. Hunted and haunted. "It's in the past now," they told
me, "we can teach children, make friends from different places, go to services
and be no different from anyone else."

Even when I realized I was different from others, I believed that the only
problems I would get were from people who did not want to develop, to advance. I
was in the right in the end, they will hum my songs or at least tolerate them,
and others will push ahead new art forms. I believed that given time, people
will discard the idea that men who take other men to bed are evil because
someone long ago said so.

Oh, people want to advance all right, with newer weapons and bureaucratic terms.
They just want to treat people like shit more efficiently. 'They?' Why am I
using that? I am sure that the one who turned Herr Professor Acker was a student
in my mother's class or someone who taught me history. They probably could stop
me on the street, and run for the gendermes. Or the Gestapo. New forms of poison
gas they can come up with, how to live with people different from them, they
just cannot see it.

Me? Is it just about me? Other people are in danger too, or maybe not? Richard
is married to Marie, is naturalized, but how long before they figure out the
papers are fake and Germany needs more workers, before he is sent to that
nightmare cell? Vatos and Avila are already on the run, God knows where Alla is,
no one ever hears where the captured go. Tim is running from forced labor, but
how long before he is caught? Helene could be arrested for snubbing the wrong
wolf-whistling solider.

Will there be another round up just where Richard and Marie are staying? Is
Louis going to be taken away, screaming and crying?

Will there be another Paragraph 175? Oh sure, I cannot get in trouble just for
holding hands with Timotheé, but how long will that last?

And what of the little girls, sleeping in the next room?

After the Jews and the leftists are taken away, swept clean from France like so
much dust, who's next? Helene suspects it will be the Gypsies. There have
already been rumors of arrests, not for stealing or loitering, but for being
around.

If I leave, no one will know. Nothing will stand in their way.

Perhaps I wasted enough time thinking, should make an effort to sleep. Someone
needs to take the girls to the next safe house on their way to Spain, and I need
all my energy.

I have to stand in their way.

Sunrise wakes me up, pink light pouring through the window. Staying away from
the window, I unpack my violin case. Spectacles, pistol, and miraculously clean
shirt are in there. I change and fold my worn shirt in a compartment in the
lining.

Curse my sensitive ears. I hear murmuring. Paul O'Neil speaking lilting
Irish-accented French and gruffer voices. Oh damn, the kids! The strange men are
asking about Malina and Lourdes. They got to get out of here. I grab my violin
case and shoes, walking as soft as possible.

In the hallway, Sirvart is holding my hat and jacket with two sleepy girls
holding clothes to change in. "Put this on quick," she says low and soft handing
me the jacket. After put them on, I'm about to put on the shoes when she shakes
her head. "Not now. Wait until you're at the door."

I nod and she bends down to the girls. "Change quickly." She then looks up at
me. "Turn around." I shrug and do what she says. The other voices get louder
talking over Paul, telling him if he doesn't let them upstairs, he will be
arrested.

"You can turn around now." Sirvart stands up and faces all of us. "Servant's
enterance is right down. You won't be spotted; they're asleep until eight. I'll
take Malina, you take Lourdes. You have the most similar colouring. There's a
good chance they're looking for a pair of girls, so it's best to take separate
routes to the safe-house." She pats Malina's gray coat. "Necessary papers are in
their coats. Lourdes knows the address, and she's carrying a map."

Lourdes bounces up to me and hands me a cap. I make my best effort at tucking
her long blonde hair into there, and just about manage to do so. "Madame O'Neil
would of braided my hair, but she didn't have time," she whispers to me.

"Good luck," Sirvart whispers.

"I'll see you later," Malina says with a child's optimism. Lourdes and I run
down the stairs, putting on our shoes before going out the door.

Flat against the wall of the next house, Lourdes shows me the route and the
Metro station near the safehouse. We then stroll down the street.

We've been criss-crossing arrondissements all morning, when I start to feel very
hungry. So did Lourdes. Fortunately, she did not need to use the water closet.
There's a cafe nearby, so we walk toward it.

Halfway through her milk, my fake coffee and the beignets we're sharing, I start
to feel watched. Everyone is calm, relaxed, having a mid-morning break, but
there's this one guy in a table across from us. Nothing odd about him, graying,
slight, and in a rumpled suit. He glares at us, cigarette dangling from his
lips. Occasionally, he glances at the street.

He can't be watching us . . .what for? But he is.

I pull out the money for the waiter. "Finish your milk, we're leaving," I murmur
to Lourdes. I don't know what I am doing after, but I have to get us out of
here.

Lourdes looks at me confused, but she drinks her milk and gets up. I glance
behind me to see the man look to the side and nod.

As I walk, the plan takes shape. I'll get lost. I walk through the cafe gate,
going back on the street, staying close to the pedestrian crowd. Lourdes holds
my hand, her small hand shaking. I think she feels something's wrong too.

I glance to my side and see an odd sight on the other side of the street. Four
big men stride down the street, unshaven with rumpled suits. Myrmidons of Paris.
They are across Lourdes and I, looking at us at times. I adjust my cap. Better
keep my hair in, not give them any markers.

I walk straight, trying to move closer to the crowd, to look like just a nobody
going somewhere they don't know about. The next time I glance, they aren't
looking at me, just at the corner, deciding somehow we weren't what we were
looking for.

Lourdes and I get close, just about to be swallowed by the crowd. We get behind
someone with a long box holding who knows what. He brings up the box, closer to
his armpit, the edge of the box catching the edge of Lourdes' cap. I try to put
my hand on her cap, but down it drifts, Lourdes' blonde curls spilling
everywhere. That's when the men turn around and start walking toward us. I grab
Lourdes, holding her close to my chest and run through the crowd.

There was a jostling and a shouting but at least I got a good head-start. The
four men are still at it, pushing people out of the way. Focus on the Metro
station; it's just a few minutes. Pace. If I can just get on before they catch
me . . .Lourdes is breathing hard and shaking. She shouldn't be this frightened
this young.

I keep running, though pacing myself, cutting a corner ahead. They still keep at
it. One of them yells, "You can't run forever. Give up. Give us the girl."

His smaller colleague adds, "If you give us no trouble, maybe we won't make you
drop your trousers. Twice the Jews, twice the money."

Fuck off, gentlemen. I grab Lourdes tighter and surge ahead. I see an empty
crate near my right hand. I push it hard down the street in front of them. They
stumble and jostle, and I can run at a steadier pace.

A part of me is amused by the situation. A rootless atheist fucking a man
holding the blonde daughter of an ex-prostitute. Ask a rabbi, he'd say we've
gone astray; ask a respectable businessman in Rosh Hashanah services, he
wouldn't know if we were Jews at all. I never thought about it, never attended
services after I was 17, have no restrictions on what I eat, touch whomever I
want. But, hey, we're Jewish enough for those thugs.

There's a crowd ahead getting into the Metro, so I slow down and try to glide
in. Lourdes loops her arm over mine and fishes two tokens from her pocket. She
clasps them in her hand as I run down stairs, holding her even more tightly as I
go two at a time. One of them lunges at Lourdes' coat. She slaps him hard on the
hand, and he tumbles down the stairs. His colleagues slow down to help him up.
We keep going.

Lourdes first drops the tokens in, I slide through the turnstile and then move
through the thick crowd. Just in case, I take off my cap and place it on
Lourdes' head. Maybe a slight change of appearance might help.

The train comes and we move with the crowd. This train might not be our train. I
don't care. I glance and see the pursuers arguing with the token collector. I
resist smugness and step on the train.

We spend the afternoon switching cars, switching lines, until we reach the next
safe-house. The hostess shows Lourdes her room, and then cuts my hair. When she
brushes the last strands of my hair, now just above the collar, she mutters
"Someone is waiting for you in the attic. He says he's got some news for you."

I nod and walk with her.

It was Sluggo, ducking below the attic frame and holding my duffel bag. "Hey."

I look at him sideways. "Hello."

"We're getting deported, so I figured I'd get your things. You left them at our
apartment, you know, when you were submitting articles."

"What happened?"

"You know how we have to register? Every day? Being enemy aliens and all?"

"Yes."

"Well, we were all there, long line too. Had to wake up real early."

I nod. He will get to the end.

"Jane was reaching for the necessary items in her purse, and her pamphlets fell
out. The guards did a search on us. Fortunately, the folks were feeling nice.
First offence. We could have been shot."

I shrug. Maybe it had to happen. Like he said, at least they didn't get shot.

"I have to go. The gendermerie think this is just a brothel. I don't want to
stay too long."

I nod.

Before he walks away, he says, "Don't worry, Danny, we'll find a way to get back
to Paris."

I can't really cry for him. Yes, deportation is a pain, but at least he won't be
arrested on sight if he comes to America. He has someplace to come home to.

I take my gun out of my pants and hold it for a while. I could have taken it
out, aimed at those men chasing after Lourdes and me. Then again, what if they
had weapons of their own. Last thing I wanted was Lourdes in the line of fire.
When it is just me, vulnerable, sure I could do it. I am almost frightened that
I enjoy the idea. Is this is what the occupation reduced me to?

Never mind. I am alive now. I need to go to places.

Sometime that afternoon, Johann held a transcript. What started as a routine
inquiry about frostbite and fingertip detaching became something else when the
solider started opening a bottle of vodka. "Vodka's the only good thing I
remember from Moscow, Herr Doktor Denbort," the solider muttered. A nice quiet
job at a desk in Paris is his reward. Johann noticed even when drunk, the
solider addressed "Herr Docktor Denbort."

As Johann transcribes the procedures of the examination, the solider goes about
talking about how good it is to speak to another Bohemian, to not be afraid of
what he talks about. Then he leans up, vodka fumes in Johann's face, and
whispers, "You want to know why I am drinking so much? I wasn't always in
Moscow. I first went to Poland. Barns burning. Whole villages shot. Gypsies
stripped and dragged. Einsatzgruppen--brutal to all, especially to the Jews."
The whisper becomes drier, and he continues, "You know what they're doing to
those poor devils back East?"

Johann did not transcribe any personal information about the patient before.
Today, he did.

After Sluggo left, I said goodbye to Lourdes. Malina still wasn't there, and I
fear the worst. What has happened to her? What about Sirvart?

I had nothing to do but busk. I have no idea if I even want to play music, but
really, staying here would just get me arrested or drive me insane. So I wear my
coat and hat, and walk with my violin case and duffel bag.

The dry fruit is still good, so that becomes my lunch. Hell, who cares about
meal times? Anything edible at any time is good. Time to play the old standards.

I go through the motions, giving them the three B's: Bach, Beethoven and Brahms
on violin. I bet the people can hear it: my tips are horrible.

After one more violin sonata, I started playing something. Somehow it started as
a reference to a medieval chanson, recalling the jongleurs, the poor musicians
on the fringes of society. I remembered Helene, who traveled from Bretagne to
play in an orchestra, but Occupation happened, and Christine the country girl,
who recites and pick pockets because she doesn't want to go back. Then, there is
me, the latest in a grand fucking tradition.

Con ira. With staccato, slides, dissonance, appergi, and an occasional detache,
I imagined slapping the face of every one of the passerbys, for letting these
deaths happen, for feeling hounded in the one city I thought was home, a temper
tantrum, a veiled bride with a shrapnel-scarred face.

Con affecionata. Lourdes comes to mind, with her blonde hair and frightened
silence. Somewhere, in the legato tones and dying and rising of the notes,
there's hope. Hope that Lourdes outlives Hitler and all the people he commands.
Hope that she becomes everything she wants to be. Hope that the world she lives
in will be peaceful, free, and understanding. Hope I never thought I would have.

Strange, I thought of giving up music, but it's the thing I grab on to. I didn't
care if the listeners liked it, but judging by the fact my violin case runs
over, maybe they did. I am almost tempted to transcribe it. I don't. That would
be like showing a stranger a love letter, though. Or maybe an unsent tirade.

I leave the corner at dusk, wondering who is taking care of the group take for
today. Louise's apartment, of course. I know where she's staying, not far from
here.

In the teeth of Things forbid
And Reason overthrown,
Helen stood by me, she did,
Helen all alone!
--Rudyard Kipling

I want to go with the one I love.
I do not want to calculate the cost.
I do not want to think about whether it's good.
I do not want to know whether he loves me.
I want to go with whom I love.
--Bertolt Brecht

Louise is there, so is Marie, Richard, Tim and Christine. All are surprised with
my take.

"Why didn't you write that song down," Marie asks.

Because they don't deserve it. "I guess I was too involved in playing to think
about it."

She nods and rubs her ankle.

Somehow I become aware that my legs burned. All that running and walking,
somehow it never occured to me that I would need to do more than sit on a stool
for a few hours. We decide on sleeping arrangements, with Richard staying
somewhere else to transcribe radio broadcasts, Marie delivering something or
other to an acquaintance and Christine couriering. Louise is visiting a friend.
Tim is just going to finish some pamphlets and go to bed.

"I have an announcement to make, but I want everyone here before I do."

Richard nods. "Funny thing too, Johann said the same thing. I wonder what could
that be." Can't be anything like what I have.

Somehow, even with my legs and the perpetual insomnia, I want something to do.
"You sure you folks don't need me for anything?"

"Nah, I work faster alone," Christine says smiling.

Richard shrugs. "I think you've done more than enough with the busking. Go to
sleep."

I walk around the small dark apartment like the last small dark apartment the
two of them had and grab a cot in the corner. As the apartment becomes quieter,
the usual murmur of thoughts gets louder. Is this all in vain?

Minutes later, Tim walks in. "You're not asleep."

I shrug. "You're not working."

"Hand is cramping. Besides, there is no rush. I don't sleep until after I finish
drawing." And forging I note to myself.

He sits down beside the cot, knees sticking out and chin resting in his hands.
"You look awful."

"I always look awful."

He shakes his head. "Not tired awful, frightened awful."

"It's about the announcement."

He looks up at me. "How can I help you?"

I never been asked that before, and I am not sure what to say. My whole body
aches, but I deal with things alone, or at least I did.

I'm almost too ashamed to say it. "Hold me. Be beside me."

He stands up and lays a hand on my head. "It's easier on my bed, you know. I
mean, you don't want to be stabbed by my elbows or anything."

I sigh. "Fine by me."

So he leads me to his narrow bed and puts his arms around me as we lie down. His
right hand cradles my head and his left cradles my shoulders. I slide down,
resting my head on his chest. I stay like this for a while, his thin shirt and
warmth against my cheek, his heartbeat against my ear, mixed with the sound of
our breathing.

I don't know when I started talking, but I did. I didn't just talk about the
background, the rumors, the stories in resistance papers, Herr Professor Acker's
letter and Lourdes. I talked about fear. It's one thing to play with explosives,
hide pamphlets and insult the easily offended, but that's nothing compared to
the fear of being forgotten. The melodies I worked so hard on being forgotten,
of all those people with no names and obscure burial places. That entire
struggle and having nothing to show for it. I am afraid I will die forgotten
more than dying.

Now, it is not just me that might be forgotten, not just Jewish people, not just
Gypsies. One by one, any group the Hitlerites decide to erase dying forgotten.

After my monologue, Tim says nothing at first. "Well, I can't forget you." I
raise my head, looking at his face. I've never seen him look like this before.
His eyes are wide and scared, but his jaw was firm with pursed lips.

"Three people," he says finally.

"Yes?"

"Three people who accept me, who don't interrupt me when I ramble, can't finish
what I'm saying, you know how it is, three people who like whatever I draw, even
if, well, it isn't what they wanted at first, three people who feed me, who know
I'm not frail and weak all the time, but love me when I feel that way, you
know?"

Be patient, I tell myself, he's got something to say and he will say it.
"Grandmere, Louise and you. Grandmere is gone. Her name, I took it, that's all I
have left of her, and some stuff she gave me, but I took her name. You and
Louise, all I have left. Bastards have art, have more food than us, but they're
not taking you away from me."

So you weren't born L'Avigne. Interesting. "This . . .You could go back to
school."

"And it wouldn't be like it was before. Nothing's the way it was before
occupation. Shit, I didn't think they'd arrest kids, or kill people because
they're this way or that way. Not in 1942. Why are we in these categories
anyway? It's like school. You're smart or you're dumb, you're talented or you're
not, you're athletic or you're not. Why are we so mean to each other because of
stupid shit?"

"I don't know."

"I could help you. I could, you know, scout. Warn. Entertain smuggled kids. I
make good silly faces." He smiles and shrugs.

"Give direction?"

"If you want. I mean, you're probably more used to being ordered around by your
brother."

I chuckle, because it is funny, and I am glad I find something funny despite the
bullshit.

I get serious for a moment. "You think . . . you think we'll succeed? What if
the 'Thousand Year Reich' really lasts that long? They'll call us terrorists."

"Then you'll be remembered by the children that the children of the children,
you know, fifty generations, all those children, all those adults, rescued.
They'll tell people about us in whispers. When Paris is finally free, maybe not
now, maybe not even by Christmas, you'll be remembered as someone who ran fast
and had this kindness, even though you snarl and mock. You . . .maybe as a
hero."

He kissed me on the lips, soft and chaste. "A hero. Yeah. And I'll be remembered
as the babbling idiot who drew better than he talked, who followed you
everywhere. Who had every reason not to, but they did it because it was right
and good. Because I loved you."

"I think history will remember you more kindly than you think," I add with a
faint grin. I didn't want to believe what he was saying. Somehow, however, I
wanted to try.

I kiss Tim as I drift into sleep, on lips, forehead and throat. He strokes my
hair and sometimes nibbles on my ear. I sleep. Even if things are now worse, I
can survive. We can survive.

Somehow, Johann's announcement and mind coincide. Two different people, two
different paths, differing in details and perspective. Two witnesses with one
warning.

Everyone has their opinion. "The Boches are fucking barbarians," Helene growls.
She never says things like that in front of Johann. Any prejudice and derision
worries Johann, however well deserved.

"Barbarians at least challenge their enemy to a battle before killing them,"
Johann retorts. "The Hitlerites simply lie through their teeth."

Louise looks horrified. "Those poor people! How can I make people weep for the
characters on stage when they will not weep for their neighbors?" Then her face
glows with inspiration. "I shall find a way."

"I should have known," Richard says shaking his head. "I read Mein Kampf,
borrowed it from a classmate in university. Everyone else thought it was bombast
and bullshit, and no one would believe this fever rambling about control and
this dark Jewish take-over of Germany. Until I was expelled first year in law
school, I believed them."

"Oh, Louis!" Marie exclaims, "Not with Father and Catherine, neighbors are
collaborators, or at least gossipy. Pierre has a good job in Nantes, but he is
already warned too many times to stop mocking Petain." She sighs. "Stockholm is
the best idea. Richard's parents are there. I am told it is easier to get papers
for one child rather than one child and an adult."

Vatos goes on another speech. "The businessmen and the politicians, the priests
and the bought academics, they pick on the weakest and divide us all. Better
that than see that there are better ways of life than a nation-state, than a
pecking order where the people do not get much. We've had our disagreements. I
can't tell you I understand you or the things you were taught. I consider you a
fellow musician and an ally, even if you are not my comrade. I already face
deportation and prison if I am caught. I'm proud to add aiding you in anyway to
my list of 'crimes.'"

"Oh Jesus, those . . . this is wrong, so wrong and what Vatos said too," Avila
adds with a sweet smile.

"I can only imagine what they are doing in Czechoslovakia," Bartek murmurs. "I
don't understand half of what Hernandez was talking about, but I will help you."
I see Avila look at Bartek and smile.

"Hey, we can take a few more guests," Christine says with a smile and a shrug.

Alla, rescued from the gendermes, nods. "I often ask myself whether Stalin or
Hitler are the most corrupt in this century. The least I can do is make this
plot one of Hitler's failures."

Tatiana sighs, "I can't believe I'm agreeing with a Communist, but then again,
we live in a strange time. May the spirits help us do the right thing." Tatiana
doesn't disagree with Alla because of politics. She's dvoeverie, and in her
mind, the Communists are even worse than the Christians and the Jews. At least
the two groups respect the past, even if they don't worship her gods and saints.

"So, I guess now we rescue people from certain death," Richard says.

"Out-live Hitler," I add.

"Keep enjoying life even when all this shit is going on," Marie reminds.

"I'll settle for two out of three," I chuckle.