AU Danny/Tim set in Occupied Paris, approximately November-December 1942. I know
nothing about their sexual orientation, politicial opinions, personality, or
hobbies, it's all speculation here. This is rated R for m/f sex, m/m
narrotophilia, violence and swearing.

Ten minutes before, my sister-in-law Marie-Pascale drags me off. Here I am
wondering what the hell am I still in Paris for. Three years ago, I closed the
cabaret my brother and I opened. Still, we meet again, working against the
occupying Nazis in our own ways.

I stayed because I want others to live. Because it feels nice to have roots.
Because Paris has all these talented and mad people. Because of Tim, standing
next to me with one of the smugglers delivering food, supplies, sometimes gifts.

"Think of it as a late birthday gift."

The pixie-like smuggler hands a small tin box to Tim. He opens it, and holds a
small, silver, box-like object.

"It's a camera," he says. "I always wondered what kind of pictures I could make
with those."

"Shit," I say, "those are almost as sketchy to own as a radio." A pause. "Good
choice."

"Um, what about film?" he murmurs.

"Already loaded." She hands Tim three small canisters. "More here too. You need
to know how to load it. There are instructions. With pictures."

Tim lowers his head and smiles. "Thank you."

The rest of us have had a busy autumn. Vatos, Avila, Bartek and Alla handle
sabotage; Helene, Johann, Tatiana and Christine find places to hide escapees,
provide them with food and medicine; Richard listens to the radio, Marie types,
Louise does drop off; Tim forges and scouts, and I pass on information, either
in writing or music.

Sometimes I help Vatos blow stuff up. Marie sends information about battles and
laws to Helene. Louise talks to girls in auditions. Avila hides those like him,
escapees from Spain, sometimes leading those escaping to Spain.

We do things to in different capacities, for other people or on our own. Let's
see, explosive transports, hotel rooms damaged, people smuggled in boxes and
costumes, food riots, popped tires, cut telephone wires, bobby pins and marbles
in anti-aircraft guns, surprise visits to collaborators and trips through the
catacombs that ended with me sweating and shaking, but accomplished. Still no
'playing out,' but busking is still done.

Foremost, ever since we found out the rumors of the death camps were true, we've
been trying to warn people. Publishing Lord Eden's promise of vengence and the
letters, graffiti and whispered warnings to old acquaintances and new allies.
Some managed to escape or hide. Others did not.

Louise is hard at work at a project of her own. After graduating from the acting
academy, she went on several auditions. She stopped, however, tired of worrying.
"I couldn't take on the mantle of another time and another woman with these men,
straight-backed, beady-eyed, trying to figure out what kind of woman I was,
their minds on their girls or some delicacy that the rest of us couldn't
afford."

So, she's been writing a play. At night, she hunches in the safe-house,
scribbling pages of speeches. I've read a couple. One part Seneca, one part
Moliere, not as great as others, but just might get an audience.

After the camera, we meet Mitzi again. First, what events brought us to her.
Marie found out a rack of costumes was left behind in some storm or air raid or
something. Fabric is dear, as is anything to help disguise people. Louise scouts
by sweet-talking the gendermerie and Tim scouts by wandering around and drawing.
They warn us of daily round-ups happening in the area. Yes, kids, we'll be
careful. Tatiana was occupied with tending box gardens, otherwise, she'd love to
go.

Marie and I get off at the Metro stop, plain and gray as possible, my hat in a
cap and hers in a kerchief. It's a chilly, gray November afternoon, which means
no air raids.

I turn to her and whisper, "How are we not going to get stopped?"

"Not enough faith in our old rags?"

"I don't know . . ."

Then I see her leap to a window gate. She's trying to get a good grip, edging to
a clothing line. I climb up to join her.

"What are you doing," I say.

"If we're not on the street, they won't see us."

"A person climbing will get noticed.

"Not if I tell them I am practicing for busking."

"And what if you fall?"

"Before I met your brother, before I was a Clown de la Mort, the city was my
stage and I performed without a net."

"You're not performing. That requires people who want to see you. You're showing
off."

"You sound like your brother."

"Well, he'll kill me if you crack your head."

"Do you trust I won't?"

I decide that sooner or later, someone will wonder why I was hanging off the
gate, while Marie had a better excuse. I climb down, and then walk like I was
just a visitor. Marie walks the clothing line like she's back at the cabaret.

Indeed, there is a rack of clothing, much of it period costume. Whatever people
couldn't fit in, we can use for alterations. We plan to take them to the safe
house, and then Marie jerks her head. "I hear footsteps."

"Me too."

We maneuver the rack against the wall and lean into it.

There are certain sentences you don't want to hear. One of them is "We are
looking for Daniel and Richard Elfman."

Oh fuck. I remember when war was declared; Richard and I would argue with
bureaucrats that we weren't part of a fifth column, and that we're naturalized
because there was nothing for us in Germany. Now that France is over-run, we are
considered a threat simply for not being dead.

"Marie, Marie," I whisper. "We're just going to go in the direction of the
safe-house. If they spot us, we're running.”

We wheel the rack toward the safe house, and then we see the little old lady who
owns the place on the stairs. Not just on the stairs, but being lead away by the
gendarmerie in her little dull rose housecoat and kerchief. Fuck, can't we find
any place in Paris anymore?

Marie turns to me to whisper, "I know a place, if we keep going. Just follow my
directions. Street's a little steep, though."

"Fine," I mutter, "just get us out of their view."

We walk at a brisk pace, with Marie telling me to go left, go another left, now
straight, and look for the third apartment on my right. All the while, I hope
for no gendarmes.

"We're almost there," she says. Then I feel the rack lurch away from me. This
must be the steep part. I hold the bars of the rack, walking slowly and pulling
against the bars, as Marie steadies the front of the rack.

We come to the apartment, the same gray stone and blackened windows as everyone
else. Marie knocks and the door opens. The voice that comes out is lilting,
female, in French, but a faint accent from somewhere else. "Quite a cart, Marie.
Is Tanya in need of material?"

Only a few people call Tatiana 'Tanya,' that short Russian nickname.

We wheel the cart in, walking into a bare living room with a red chair, an old
brown piano and rust-stained white walls. Then I hear it. "It's you, the little
man with the big sneer."

I turn to the direction of that voice. Tall, long straight dark brown hair,
great legs, and a hint of a smirk on her face. Not her. "Oh, hello, Mitzi."

"Danny, my name is Miriam, not Mitzi."

Miriam 'Mitzi' Cutler is a clown who ran away from the circus, if you please.
She was a woman of many talents: great singer, superb trumpet player, good at
clarinet and saxophone, a musician rather than just a performer and works well
with the other musicians. She wanted more. She composes her works, and wanted to
perform those. Wonderful, but I started this whole mess; I'm the one that
composes the music there. After one too many fights about that, she up and left.
I think that was when I was dating Karl.

Of course, among her talents is sparkling wit and etc. She still has friends
among the Clowns. Stefan Bartek still talks to her, Helene Cartier still talks
to her, and guess what, so does Marie-Pascale Dufour Elfman.

She is polite throughout our visit, helping us move the rack in a clear space,
then giving us linden tea. "That was all I could get at the market."

Fortunately for her, she could get enough at the market. From what I got from
her conversation with Marie, she's scoring film now, commuting from Paris to
Bolounge to work on period costume dramas. She talks about getting up early to
catch infrequent trains, long hours with the orchestra, and fast changes in
personnel. In between the words, I could catch references to Propagandastaffel
demands; the firing of Jews and Communists; the disappearances of those caught
making anti-German remarks, the screams, the absences, and the attempts to make
a statement when a statement could kill you. In her way, she is resisting. I can
admire her from a nice, polite distance.

Somewhere in the middle, Marie sips her tea and turns to me. "Daniel, I think I
ought to invite her to dinner, since she was kind enough to invite into her
home. What do you think?"

"Why do I have a feeling that you do not particularly care what I think?"

"Perhaps because you know any good to come of her visit outweighs your own
feelings about her." Of course, I could see Marie's logic. Not only was Miriam a
friend, someone familiar with us, but a French citizen, someone with a good
alibi, a means of travel into the Unoccupied Zone, and an unassuming appearance.

So why the hell do I not want her around? The cabaret is in the past anyway, and
will stay in the past until the Nazis leave.

"Sure. Seven in the evening, next Tuesday. I'll see you there . . .Miriam."

Her head tilts incredulous. This is make for interesting night next Tuesday.

"If God was just
And fate was kind,
You'd be in your yellow dress
Between love and disgust."

Christine recites this in that mix of city and country patois, then a swish of a
knife across rabbit throat reverberates through the kitchen. I'm just playing
hearts with Bartek, Avila and Vatos. Tim and Louise are playing with Louis and a
rabbit. Johann, Helene and Alla are talking with four new people.

Monseiur Massion is the gentleman who brought the chestnuts we're snacking on.
Who says Englishmen have no manners?

Alla brings Jules, though he is not a Trotskyite. I think she called him a
Bundist. Like I can keep track. All I know is that he's a mechanic who can find
hiding place for refugees. He's tall and thin, with a dark, thick beard and
tired, dark eyes.

His sister Naomi-Chaiya left Lithuania, traveling by foot and smuggled in a
crate. Strikes me as jumping out of the pot into the fire, but Jules is her
brother, the closest she has to family now. She is shorter than Jules, but just
as thin, with big brown eyes, cropped dark brown hair and a narrow face. She is
pretty, possibly beautiful in better times.

We all know Miriam, of course.

"I'm just an ignorant country maid,
Not laden with gifts like the Magi,
Not clean like your sheets,
Not stable like Deutschmarks made."

So here we all are, in a boarding house Massion swears is safe. No informants
and no bugs. We're all relaxed. Richard is preparing vegetables for cooking,
Marie is directing people, Tatiana is setting the table, and Christine is the
butcher tonight. The conversations are still in murmurs, except perhaps for
Christine. Occasionally, I see through the door Marie leaning against Richard,
kissing his forehead before giving another order.

Richard stops chopping to call out to Christine, "Perhaps you should stay away
from prostitutes. A good idea not for your heart, but for your neck."

"But perhaps. However, women who turn tricks and women who perform understanding
lying for a living."

"So, why are you surprised when they lie about everything else?"

Christine sighs and continues.

"You told me, 'The Wehrmacht was just business,'
I believed that lie.
I only offered you my hands and my breasts,
Only my cunt and my heart."

Another swish reverberates through the kitchen after Christine says heart.
Louise whimpers and clutches a small, gray rabbit with drooping ears on her lap.
The rabbit is indifferent to the sounds of his siblings' slaughter. He continues
to sit still and twitch his nose.

"Good Grisett, good boy."

"He's lucky he's the runt and she was willing to give it to you for nothing."

"He's not a runt, he's beautiful."

"You don't know the first thing about taking care of a rabbit."

"I know to keep him warm and dry."

"Well then, you have a hutch?"

"Do you know where I can find one?"

Jules then turns from the conversation. "Listen, my French is so good . . .you
said you need a hutch, right, for rabbits?"

Louise nods.

"Perhaps I can make one."

"If there is wood," Bartek mutters.

Christine goes back to cutting rabbits.

I spend the quiet night trying to shoot the moon. We argue, we cajole and debate
in murmurs. It's been weeks, maybe months since we had a full dinner, rather
than small meals on the run. Everyone brought something. I spent weeks of
busking money on coffee and coals for cooking. God I miss black coffee. I better
not rush through dinner just for the coffee. I won't have another one in God
knows when.

Johann turns to me from his seat and says, "Malina is okay."

"I couldn't hear," I reply.

"Sirvart had to hide in the powder room, but Malina is alive and getting on the
southern route with Lourdes."

"Thank heavens," I mumble and go back to my game.

Louis stares bewildered at all these people, babbling. Tim hoists Louis in his
arms and talks in Tatiana's direction. "Just move your wrists, you know, in a
circle. Keeps your hands from being cramped."

A pause, then Tatiana calls back, "Well, imagine, it does work."

"Yeah, Tatiana, I learned how to do that in school."

Johann's conversation with Naomi floats through the room. Vaguely German, but
not really, but still familiar.

"Naomi, you sound just like my grandfather," I say in German. Jules and Naomi
look at me confused and disturbed. Johann sighs and murmurs something in that
ambiguous language.

He then turns to me. "They don't quite understand, they aren't speaking German .
. ."

"Actually, my grandfather is from the Ukraine. He spoke German, but every once
in a while, he would slip into this language I never really understood, that
sound like German, yet wasn't."

"I was speaking Yiddish, Daniel. I know some from my patients. They know
French," Johann says, pausing to rub his eyes, "but feel comfortable with this."

I never learned what my grandfather would say, and my parents never really
pushed me to. In fact, they didn't like to talk about the past. As far as they
were concerned, they left that behind in various Russian villages, crushed by
Cossack hooves. I never knew what stories my grandfather had. Seeing Jules and
Naomi is like seeing my parents, younger, frightened, slowly getting used to
another country and another language.

We're both in the same fucking boat.

I turn my attention to the rest of the sitting room. Tim is now teaching Louis
how to pet Grisett, his long fingers guiding Louis' small hands. Vatos speaks in
code about derailing a supply train, with Avila offering suggestions and Bartek
glancing at Avila nervously.

Miriam is telling Helene about staying in Bolounge, spending days with the
orchestra, dodging the producers' advances, and being brought in to change bars
that sound suspiciously close to subversive compositions.

"I'm tired, really tired," she whispers, rubbing her head. "I haven't talked
this freely in years. I don't want to compose for films anymore, not until
something changes. It gets harder to work in decent films, never mind decent
French films. I have no idea what else to do. When I can, I get together with
some people, find out things . . ."

Helene nods. "We can always use that, if that is what you want."

Miriam nods, and I swear, glances at me, wary. "Yes, yes I think so."

A few games of hearts, some punning games and a sunset later, we are called to
dinner. Louis is placed in a high chair, perhaps left behind by one tenant or
another. We move tables and light candles in the sitting room, and then take a
seat. After all, the current won't be turned on until eleven at night, at least.

First course is broscht, made by Alla in some other safe house.

"Grandfather used to make this whenever we'd visit," Richard remarks.

Avila wonders, "If we're going to have cold soup, why not gazpacho?"

"Tomatoes are out of season," answers Alla.

"Oh, right."

Tatiana, Jules and Naomi take spoonfuls, while the rest of the table sips,
unfamiliar with the idea of beets as a soup. Alla looks around and shrugs. "It's
really better with sour cream."

"Not possible," Richard answers, "the Germans confiscated the cows." Silence,
like we're waiting for the gendarmes to charge. Then we start the nervous
giggles.

Second course was as much black bread as can be given to each of us. Turns out
to have more Loire Valley barley than sawdust. Very good. Richard pulls out two
bottles of sparkling white wine, and gives us each some, even if it amounts to a
thimble.

I take a sip. It's dry, light, with summer fruit undertones. "Where did you get
this? Wine is impossible to get these days."

"Leon gave it to me when Louis was born. I was saving it for a special
occasion."

Faces fall, people stop chewing on their bread. Jules and Naomi look confused.
Naomi whispers, "Leon?"

"He played horns with us, before the Occupation," Richard says. "He was taken
away . . ."

"He would make new instruments out of broken ones. Somewhere, there is something
he called a rumbaphone, that we would sometimes put in songs," I add.

"He was my friend," Miriam says.

Naomi's eyes grow wide. "Nazis?"

"Here it isn't the Nazis that take away Jews, it is the gendarmerie, the
police."

"The ghetto police did take away people in Vilna, but I didn't think they did it
here . . ."

Johann shakes his head. "No, no, they're French."

"Yehuda," Naomi says, "I can't tell whether Paris is better or worse than
Vilna."

Jules shrugs, "The French will turn you in, but they won't shoot you." He sips
his wine. "Besides, more people will hide you."

"But not by much," Richard mutters.

We talk about the old days in the cabaret while nibbling on cabbage. We remember
songs we did, skits we wrote, people we pissed off, hair we set on fire. The
time Christine dated that singer Edith whats-her-name, the time Kurt Weill came
in for a show and told us "No one here understands German. I don't even want to
hear German. And less horns."

"Then Miriam left and Avila came in. She left because of . . . differences in
approach," Richard says.

Miriam's reply is quick. "I left because your brother wouldn't take my ideas
seriously. He also wanted me to wear a black silk corset and leather boots."

Why this came out of my mouth, I don't know. "It would have made a visual
impact, you fucking prude."

"So you wear it. Not to mention you would talk about the most gruesome subjects.
Corpses and vampires and prostitutes . . ."

"I wrote the lyrics about prostitutes," Christine states indigently.

"Why anyone would admit that, I don't know. I like music to make people laugh,
think, and dance. I thought a lot of what you wrote was really good, but much
too dark . . ."

"Miriam, what I wrote in those days were fucking nursery rhymes compared to
what's happening outside."

"Are you two going to argue throughout dinner," Richard butts in, "because I am
really curious about which one of you will pull the pigtails and run."

"Oh, do not start with me. Bad enough about the bondage gear, but topless? I am
not playing in Moulin Rouge, thank you."

"Topless was a bad choice." Richard takes another sip of wine. "You had better
legs than tits, anyway."

"I don't care what you think of her legs. You can look, but you can't touch,"
Marie interjects.

"Was that it? I was a pair of legs to you two, not someone with some ambitions?
God, I always thought you didn't like women that much, but really . . ."

Marie mumbles something about Miriam acting like a vache, but I wasn't going to
let it rest. I guess I should be glad she stabs in the front rather than the
back. "If it is about your compositions, I didn't perform them because Les
Clowns de la Mort was my idea, something under my control. As a matter of fact,
I thought, still think, that you're very talented. If you started your own
group, I would be the first in line to see you. I admire your work. Your . . .
other traits leave much to be desired."

"Much like your behavior toward your lovers."

"Miriam, please," begs Bartek.

Marie is seething. "Let's talk of something else, now."

"I, we just want to eat in peace," Helene murmurs.

That woman doesn't know when to finish; unfortunately, I don't either. "Pardon?"

"I can hear you now. 'Tell them I'm busy.' 'Can't--rehearsal.' I'm busy too, but
I take time to see people, to soak up other people's influences. No wonder
Andromache and Karl left--"

Richard turns away. I snarl, "And what do you know? Maybe that's why Andromache
left--she wanted to have a musician for a companion, but didn't realize that
meant her lover would spend time actually doing work for little money."

"I know the feeling," Johann interrupts, "most women are horrified that I treat
the 'scum' rather than the wealthy." Helene brushes a lock of his hair in
sympathy.

Miriam looks less angry. "And Karl?"

"Karl left because . . .propriety." I spit that last word like a curse. "God
forbid people find out the young doctor was a 'sodomite.' His word, not mine. It
wasn't love, but I don't want to be told I was something foul and evil . . ." I
couldn't talk, so I tried to muster some bile. "Why do you care?"

Tim must have heard. He turns in his seat, facing me across the table. "Daniel,
you're not foul or evil."

Richard smirks, "He's evil in an amusing way, but, yes, didn't know the story
behind that fellow."

"It's over anyway, Timothee . . ."

A new voice shouts, "Open up!"

The loud shout freezes us in place. Then we hear another voice, "Please, please,
monseiur, my husband, he isn't here."

I didn't care about Miriam, I focus my anger on Monsieur Massion. "You told us
this boarding house was safe," I hiss.

He sighs and whisper. "They don't suspect us. We are safe here, I can't
guarantee the other guests."

Richard looks nervous. "You sure?"

Calm down, take stock. "Perhaps we should make plans to get out. It may be
nothing . . ."

"Oh fuck," Miriam murmurs, "I have pamphlets, about some vegetable shipments to
Germany. Sometimes I find out about evictions, searches. What government folks
are taking off the top."

"You're more useful than I thought," Marie snickers. "Have you been caught?"

"Not yet."

The shouts and the sounds of overturned possessions reverberate, though muffled.
Richard takes a deep breath. "All right, Johann, Tatiana, Timothee, Miriam,
Louise, grab the rest of the dishes." Naomi lifts Louis from his high chair and
holds him. He blinks uncomprehending. Richard continues, "Bartek, do you know
how to get to the nearest."

He nods, high curly hair bobbing. "Sure, but that is a loose term . . ."

"We'll take what we can get." I grab my gun from the waist of my pants and check
how many bullets. Richard checks his gun from his coat, Avila and Vatos slides
two rifles from under the table, Monsieur Massion flips his coat open to check
on his, Alla and Jules load their small pistols. Christine slides out a rifle
from a cabinet. Meanwhile, everyone else gets out winter coats.

Johann turns to me, "Daniel, before we go, I used to try the two of you from
fighting. Today, I decided to let you have at it. I learned something new about
you. Miriam doesn't talk much about it, but . . . I want you to consider that
you have more in common with Miriam than not. Do something that you don't
usually do."

I think I know what he means. I turn to Miriam and whisper "Truce?"

She nods, looking at the rest of the unarmed group. "You really didn't deserve
that remark about your lovers. I'm not better at it myself."

I shrug and glance over at Tim holding a pot of coffee. "You'll be safe, right?"

"I worry more about you." He gives me a soft smile and looks around.

The chaos not far from us still booms: the shouts, the pleas, and the opening
door. I hold my gun and wonder again about why this is happening. No one can
stop it, not here, not above. Then again, I never got the impression that
petitioning worked. My parents mostly prayed thanking that things are more good
than bad. I wait, ready to spring at a moment's notice, hoping we all survive
the night.

We hear the curses of a man, the screaming pleas of a woman, footstep, and then
silence. None of us sit down until all we could hear are faint scratches of
phonographs, chattering and snoring.

After we sit down, Tatiana serves the carrot and onion mixture. Tim suddenly
says "He's done the 'go away, I'm busy' thing with me, but then again, so do I.
We do find time to do something together." Miriam looks at me confused.

I decide to explain. "Oh, he does that, continues conversations you almost
forgot you had."

Miriam then cranes to see Tim. "You mean, you and Daniel . . ."

"Are going at it like rabid voles," Richard interjects.

I sigh. "It's a little hard to when you're doing something else entirely."

Miriam looks at me, then at Tim. "He's a lot taller than the people you usually
date. You must be moving away from the Napoleon thing."

"Not in this lifetime," Richard mutters. The rest of the table giggles. Tim
giggles too, but at least has the grace to look guilty.

The rest of the dinner is uneventful. Over rabbit and mushrooms, we discuss
street renovations, possible safe houses and recent arrests. Over Comte cheese
and blackberries, we talk about smuggled American jazz records and black market
sweets. Over coffee and Swiss chocolate thanks to Louise's grandmother, we
started on the jokes.

"I remember when the Nazis first marched in," Christine reminisces. "I had a
friend working coat check at some fancy place. She said that they ate whole
sticks of butter in one setting. No wonder it's so damn hard to get. All the
Nazis eating butter like they're pigs back at the farm."

Monsieur Massion cocks his head. "I'm curious, only one man here is from France,
the rest of you I imagine are from somewhere else."

Richard corrects him, "We had Michel, but well, he's arrested, the ladies tried
to find out where he was taken, but who the fuck knows where in Alsace he is . .
."

"Oh God," Miriam mutters.

"Petain sent the brave Frenchman to die in Verdun," Helene quips.

No one really laughs, but it just might be true.

Johann breaks the silence. "The papers for Stockholm, I'm going to try for
three, but I think I will only be able to get two."

Richard nods. "There still may be hope."

After dinner, the lights come on. We made up games, talk about books we haven't
read and plays and films we haven't seen. I borrow Avila's guitar and play
another coded song. Monsieur Massion drinks tea and tries to participate with
us. I think he is a little scared of us, what after an argument at dinner and
everything else we say. When the current is turned off, we light candles, talk
and play cards. Soon, we go to bed.

Before Louis goes to bed, Tatiana tells him a story. She whispers sweet and low
about a cat with silver earrings owned by a cannibal in the steppes. She lures
people in by meowing pitifully, leading to them to the cannibal for his dinner.

I awake with a sharp elbow to my side. I turn to that direction to see Tim
wide-eyed, tossing back and forth, obviously trying to find a good position to
sleep in. "Ow, fuck, Tim." He stops and turns to me, surprised that I am awake.

"I can't sleep."

"Oh."

"Jesus, Daniel," he whispers, "you're right next to me and I want to, you know,
but if we do, we'll wake up people, or maybe I'll wake up people by my
babbling." He lowers his head.

Fortunately, no one wakes up from Tim's outburst. I put my hand on his shoulder,
bringing him close to me. His chin is over my mouth, so I move up so I am
ear-level. "Maybe I can help you sleep by telling you a story," I say.

He then lays still and squints. "Huh?" He then places his hand on my back.

"Trust me," I whisper in a slow, husky and untrustworthy voice. I pause,
brushing my lips to his ear. "So there you are, sketching something or other."

"I do other things beside sketching, you know," he interrupts.

"Well, you do a lot of it, I mean, when you have time."

"Maybe I could earn money from it. Disney sounds good. I think I'll work for
them. You ever been to America?"

"No, I might want to. I want to go to Senegal first, though. Maybe other places
in West Africa, maybe Indonesia." I stop to run my fingers through
always-tangled hair, and then trail down to his cheek. His cheeks are round in
contrast to his long face, but rough with stubble. "I want to tell you the rest
of the story."

He nods, nuzzling. "So you're not noticing me walking. I brush against that mop
of hair to see if you notice, but you're so absorbed. I decide to continue,
kneeling over to nibble on your ear." Then I decide to do so, making him purr.

He stops long enough to murmur, "And I keep on drawing."

I stop nibbling to look at him. "You're a brat."

"I know."

"So, I'm not going to stop." I go back to nibbling his ear. I decide to whisper
"There's something enthralling about the way you immerse yourself in your
drawing. So much focus, so much passion. It reminds me of how much attention you
give to me, how you use your hands and mouth like you use your pen and pencil."

He murmurs assent and kisses my chin. "You do, too, you know, you look so
peaceful when you're playing music. Go on."

"I suppose if you're going to keep on drawing, you won't pay attention to me
doing this." I lick the earlobe, then lick the ridge. I move my mouth back down
to the earlobe, then down his jaw line, then to his neck. My lips just brush
against the skin, just enough to feel his pulse quicken.

Then I scrape with my teeth. He gasps and covers his mouth. "Oh! Oh, I guess I'm
not drawing anymore."

I sooth the skin with the tip of my tongue, which makes him sigh. "My hands lean
on your shoulders, while I move closer. Then I brush down your chest, stopping .
. ."

Then I hear something other than his breathing. I could hear the smack of limbs
against the hard floor and broken shouts. I could hear, "Nein, nein, alles tod."

All dead. Then I hear a shout, making me bolt up and away from Tim.

I wasn't the only one. Marie was up, as is Jules. Naomi bolts up, panting and
sweating.

"Naomi," Marie whispers, "are you all right?"

She nods. "I'm well. I had, how do you say it, a nightmare. Yes. Just a
nightmare."

Jules looks at Naomi concerned. "I'm here, you know, there's nothing to worry
about," he whispers.

Naomi nods. "Yehuda, do not worry about me. I will get sleep. I will be able to
do . . ."

"We understand." Marie says, nodding. She takes a small pillow from under her
and gives it to Naomi. "Perhaps this will help you sleep more comfortably."

"Thank you, Madame." She holds the pillow like a doll and lies down. Jules nods
and lies down too. Before going to sleep, Marie checks in Louis' cradle, perhaps
too small for him, but Richard was worried about someone crushing him. After
that, she lies down too.

When I lie down, Tim whispers, "Did you understand enough of what the girl
said?"

I nod. "Enough to worry me."

He smiles slight and coy. "Let me finish the rest of the story."

I squint, wondering if he could. "Of course. I don't mind."

"I grab your hands just as your fingers are, you know, where they are. I pull
you down for a long kiss, pulling you toward the bed." Now when he whispers,
some people think 'head-cold.' However, I'm thinking 'sex.' Especially when it
gets lower and he catches his breath more.

"My hands move all over you, you know, getting at places I don't always touch.
The small of your back, the nape of your neck, the part where your hip and your
waist meet, tracing outlines of your muscles, making me think of how I had to
trace Grey's Anatomy for days to get figure drawing right, and how I finally got
it when I drew you."

He sighs. "Sorry. I think you try to claw at my back, but I keep on feeling you,
your collarbone, your stomach cleft, your inner thigh. I don't go for the places
you want, I move my leg between your leg and my leg between your leg. Like
scissors. I play with your hair, kiss more, kiss hard, rub, feel you so warm, so
hard, so shocked, so beautiful, so lean, so pale, so red, so hazel, so you."

I think I was breathing hard as he tells me this. I debate grabbing him; I
debate taking the baton. I decide my companions would much rather I whisper than
moan, so I do so. "I don't claw at your back, not really. I try to unbutton your
shirt as you buck against me. My fingers trace patterns on the bare chest. Your
wanting . . . well, I move against you in kind, my head leaning against your
chest when I . . ."

"Like I imagine I did?"

"Yes."

We kiss and go to sleep.
 
 

An officer in the ghetto police force met with Rabbi Asimov discreetly. It was
simple: he was actually a member of Betar, he is assigned to escort the rabbi,
his wife and Nehemiah to 'relocation.'

"What was our crime?" Rabbi Asimov said off-handed.

The officer sighs, "The same as all of us. Living."

He has contacts, he said. He can get false papers for all of them, can get
forest guides from the partisans. All he has to do is make the rounds,
pretending to escort them to the gates, and slip them out.

"Are they reliable?"

"I don't know if any of you have a choice."

Rabbi Asimov sighed. "I know of the sewers. Naomi . . ."

"That will be the fall-back plan. Too many people have gotten lost in there to
be the only plan." The officer bows his head. "If I am not there, the waterworks
can guide you."

Nehemiah and Shifra were escorted by another Betar member, out of the ghetto and
into other hiding places. By nightfall, Rabbi Asimov was alone. Hunched over his
desk with one candle, he writes an apology.

He once thought the round-ups were punishment, punishment for the young people
turning to politics and not to study, for the citizens of Vilna for not being
more observant. Maybe it was he that needed to be more observant, not only of
halacha, but also of the people around him.

If this is punishment, why isn't he the first to die? Why is it the most
dedicated the teachers, the pious, who were the first to be 'resettled?' He was
just an old man teetering on being declared 'apikouros.' What of Naomi-Chaiya?
She observes the rituals, why was she taken to Ponar?

"Perhaps this is punishment. Perhaps this is a test. Perhaps I should have
talked to the young people, who put their hopes in a homeland or a classless
society because old scholars like me were too busy to offer them more. Too busy
with what? Arguing with myself about the nature of the universe? Of the madness
of the age? Through it all, I have only one answer: it is we who must save each
other."

He hid the writings in a niche. Before the ghetto police force came, he left
through the back door, feeling that he had said everything.
 

November slides into December and the days grow darker. We hear news of
victories in North Africa and in Russia. We hear news that the Nazis are
marching south, toward the Unoccupied Zone. I guess no more paths to Marseilles.
We managed to save some people from round-ups in Paris, but not all, not all the
time.

I am alone, shivering and ducking in corners after busking. Johann tells me that
he was able to secure two sets of papers. One set of papers for Louis and the
other for one of the parents. One will stay, and face who knows what.

The room Richard and Marie stay in is drafty and dusty, one thin wool blanket
for bedding and a knapsack for a pillow. Louis sleeps beside his parents in a
vegetable crate with his coat on.

They still have their day clothes on, long skirt and long pants, boots and
socks, button shirts and thick sweaters. Richard is wearing a long coat that is
too big for him, but big enough to snuggle Marie inside. His arm is around her.
They aren't sleeping.

"Only two tickets," Marie whispers.

"One for Louis, one for either of us," Richard replies. "That's what Johann
says."

"We wait any longer to see if all of us can get out, none of us will get out."

"Especially with the South being invaded."

"Not like it was any easier with the folks in Vichy."

Richard sighs. "Starving by your countrymen or by my countrymen is no choice at
all." He pauses to brush a lock of hair away from her face. "I think you should
go. My parents might be surprised by your visit. They've only seen you in a
photograph I sent them. They'll like you, however." He wipes his eyes. "I'm
strong. I can keep myself out of trouble, just stay behind with the radio and an
occasional tour."

Marie is silent, tracing patterns on his chest. He is startled when she finally
whispers, "No, you go."

"Marie--"

"It's simple. I get captured, I go to jail, maybe get some small things slipped
to me by some soft hearted fellow, get out when the Allies come. Even they
don't, someone may pardon me for good behavior. If you get captured, you die.
You know what Danny and Johann--"

"Louis cannot grow up without a mother."

"You want him to live without a father?"

He is silent in the face of this, something he knew but never truly connected to
his own small family. He cups her chin in his hand.

She smirks. "You're not going to be chasing those Stockholm women, are you?"

"I'll come home. It never crossed my mind, really." She tilts her head to his
shoulder, confused. "They are not like you."

"You're not joking?"

"Well, you're small and dark like most girls coming to Paris to seek fame,
fortune and all those other clichés. Good cheekbones, good legs. That wasn't
what really drew me to you."

He closes his eyes, thinking of the words. "Nothing startled you. You took
sunshine and showers, ecstatic crowds and mobs of hecklers, good times and bad
as a given. You appreciated the good and shrugged at the bad." He sighs,
realizing he is starting to get a lump in his throat, starting to tell her what
he needs to. "I needed it. You don't know how broken I felt in Berlin. I was no
longer anything; not a student, not a law clerk, not a lover."

"You had a girl in Berlin?"

"She and I drifted, I suppose. If it weren't for Daniel, for the cabaret, for
you and Louis, I would not even be here. Pardon, I am not this sentimental."

Marie takes his hand and holds it against her chin. "I'm listening."

"The day after I was dismissed from law school, you know, the proctor being too
enthusiastic about the new laws, I came down to the Rhine. I never thought about
the river much. I certainly never thought about throwing myself in before. Here
I was, though, thinking if I just jumped in, I could stop this feeling of
everything I thought would make for a good life disappearing. I thought about
how I wasted my life in dusty classrooms while I hummed arias in my head. That I
abandoned everything I really cared for, and just cannot get it back. I thought
I could just have nights out to the theater and phonographs and prints in my
house."

He kisses her nose. "A thought cut through the pain: what about Daniel? When he
was kicked out of school, he took his suitcase and violin, left and never looked
back. I thought it was mad then . . ."

"He did the right thing, then. These are mad times."

"I know that now." He kisses her forehead. "After all that, I won't forget you.
You've calmed me down, you've fed the lunatics who perform with us, you've
listened to me rant as a besieged stage director. I don't think I can give you
half as much as you've given me."

"You being there is enough."

"The fact that I can make you cry out with my touch doesn't count at all?"

This is when Marie tickles Richard. Giggling, he overpowers Marie, holding her
wrist against the floor. He grins and covers her face with kisses. She kisses
his mouth, nipping his lip and flicking her tongue against his.

Their fingers trace against each others' form covered by clothing as they deepen
the kiss. Richard then breaks away, saying "After four years and one son, I
still want to grab you and do things that would horrify my brother if I told
him."

Chuckling, she raises her leg, lifting her long skirt a touch. Richard pulls his
arms from his coat, and wraps the coat around the two of them.

His hands are around her and between her, exploring under her skirt with his
fingers. She lays her head against his shoulder to keep the noise down, all the
while touching in kind.

"You're bare-bottomed," he says confused.

"I haven't done any wash."

"Oh." He continues touching more and deeper.

She stops her teasing and unbuttons her husband's pants. After more touches, she
guides him inside. Pulling the coat tighter, they move together, quiet and fast.
She pulls him closer as he collapses from his little death.

His last words before he sleeps are "I love you. I'll miss you."
 

Helene gets a woman from the rations line to bring Louis and Richard to the
train station. With Johann passing false papers and tickets for the train and
ferry, we plan to get them to a safe place before leaving.

The days leading to departure time, I am frantic to be nowhere near Richard. If
I am not busking in places no one recognized me, I am getting Christine and
Louise messages and explosives to deliver, I am waiting in dark places, guarding
make-shift explosive labs, holding my gun tight.

I appoint Timothee the new BBC listener, due to his still strong but willfully
unused English skills. Marie is still typing pamphlets, and Miriam is even
helping out.

Richard just won't be there.

The night before he leaves, I am brewing a pot of tea for Naomi and me. We are
awake when we should be asleep. Somehow, the conversation drifts to nightmares.

"I don't like to think about the forest. I can't stop dreaming about it. Jules,
Jules tries to help," she says in halting but good French.

I nod, understanding. "I had nightmares for years. After I woke up, if I was
home from school, Mama would brew tea for me. Helped me sleep."

I spoon tea leaves into cups, thinking of the people who know of my imprisonment
in the school cellar. Most of them nod with the sympathy of the untroubled. Tim,
with his tangled night horrors, alone understands. Maybe this bird-like girl
with big eyes did too.

"Tell me yours if I tell you mine?"

"Why not, you will see what I have seen."

"What do you mean?"

"The Nazis, they took us out of my city, took us into the forest, made us naked,
made us fall into a pit. They shot us."

"How did you survive?"

"Maybe someone missed me. I got shot, though. I felt pain in my arm, but I was
feeling. Night came and I climbed."

"What was it like?" Nice going, Elfman. Now you sound like a ghoul.

"I climbed, I remember I pushed my father, my father's body, out of my way to
get up. I could see the people I was stepping on. I said hello to the people I
was stepping on. People . . .once lived. Now I am climbing on them, like they
are rocks."

"That's your nightmare?"

"No. In my nightmare, the bodies just keep piling, and I slip and fall under
them. I am buried under them, and I can never climb out."

"I can tell you this. You're alive. I am too. That dream is a lie as long as
someone is alive."

She nods and I sigh. After blowing out the fire and pouring the water, I talk.
"You make my dream sound ridiculous."

"Tell me," she says, taking her cup slowly.

"I dream I'm nine years old again and locked in a cellar, starving close to
death."

"Who would do that?"

"My French teacher."

"He couldn't box your ears?"

I giggle. She grins faint but sure. "I would never treat you like that, even you
were a bad boy. A very bad boy."

"Well, I would never shoot you."

We drink our tea and sleep in cots. I fall asleep, happy for some understanding.

Chaos comes in with dawn. Miriam looks out for anyone we don't know, while Marie
folds clothes into suitcases for Richard and Louis. I am dressing Louis in
winter clothes while Richard is dressing as fast as he can. After Marie packs
the suitcases, she grabs handkerchief and wipes Louis' face. If the gendarmerie
grabs them, they will be impressed by Louis' shining ruddy countenance.

Right. No need to be cruel. This is her way of setting things right. Now she is
combing Louis' unruly red hair, and the fight to make it perfectly straight is a
losing one, to judge by Louis' whimpers and Marie's mutterings.

Richard sighs and hoists Louis into his arms. "No need, we'll be fine." Marie
and Richard kiss goodbye, then she fixes Louis' collar and tells him to be good.
Louis looks confused. Maybe he doesn't know that he won't see his mother for a
long time.

Now we are all off.

Why does Richard want me on the cart? Miriam I can understand. Whatever problems
they had, she does know her way outside of Paris. Me? I have nothing to help
them with.

I am there, though, hiding behind the two coffins on a cart. Richard and Louis
are there, unafraid of dark, enclosed places. I envy them that. I am crouching
between the two coffins and ends of the cart. Perhaps a car is more comfortable.
However, with petrol being so scarce and so desired by the Hitlerites that cars
are now banned, this will do.

The woman we are meeting is tall, honey-haired and holding the reins of a
horse-drawn cart.

"He can go somewhere else. Some place where he is not an outsider."

Miriam squints. "Where?"

"Palestine."

Oh no, a Zionist. I once heard an old joke that when people say, "Jews, get
out," they are the ones selling the tickets. I hold back the urge to tell the
joke to her. Miriam can argue for the both of us. Of course, I could argue for
Miriam and me.

"What’s there? It’s a British mandate, I know, but the quotas must be enough of
a nightmare."

"It was where we came from. Someplace to stay." Her lips are pursed, like she is
holding in the urge to make a grand speech that would distract her from
directing the horse.

"Come on, before the Nazis came, you could go anywhere you want, work where you
want, study what you want . . ."

"And after the Nazis leave? Madame, I worked as a mannequin before I drove horse
carts. You want to hear the things the girls said to me behind my back? My
father was in Verdun, and those delicate flowers still did not consider me
French. The informers who turned my parents did not consider us French. The
police who chase us don't consider us French."

"So, you're going to be nothing?"

"No, I'm going to be Jewish and live somewhere where that is as natural as a
Frenchman in France."

"I'm staying," I mutter. Maybe this was not the best time to join.

"Why? Do you consider Paris your Jerusalem?"

Now she's in for it. "I don't have a Jerusalem. I don't have some perfect
somewhere. I much rather be here and annoy people, maybe change them. It might
be too much to hope for, but then again, so is just trotting off to the desert
for some mythical homeland."

"I know it will take work." The woman bows her head, suppressing an urge for a
grand speech. Still later, they talk again.

Sometimes I listen to the woman driving and Miriam run around like dogs on the
topic of a Jewish homeland. I am pretty sure the Red Indians get mentioned,
since Miriam is an American with French citizenship and the woman really wanted
to know how she felt being a descendant of people who weren't originally from
there.

"Say if a Red Indian wanted to go back to your town . . ."

"Well, he couldn't set up where he was in my house."

"Or even in your town? Is your attitude toward the Red Indian the same as the
Jew?"

"No, no, it is not. But he cannot live exactly as he once did. There are
automobiles and post offices and cigarettes . . ."

Miriam sighs and turns in the direction of the coffins. "Richard, what do you
think?"

Richard says through the coffin, "Dead men do not argue politics."

Sometimes I ignore them and make sure Richard and Louis are safe and look at the
landscape. Look, bare tree. Hey, evergreen.

"My boyfriend, he's from Algeria, he says that the Algerian Muslims make great
neighbors, but make bad government, and the French make bad neighbors but good
government. I'm tired of depending on someone else's government." She shakes the
reins. "Especially when they start rounding up people whose ancestors fought for
Napoleon. Compared to that, all the hard labour in the desert everyone has been
talking about is a little thing."

"What?" Miriam looks at her confused.

"A month ago, they rounded up my father. And who knows what happened to the rest
of my family in Marseilles?"

"Oh no. We heard about that." We have not, however, met anyone with relatives
there.

Miriam squints and purses her lips in concentration, then thinks of another
thing to debate about. "What are you going to do with the Arabs? Some of them
won't want you running things. You told me stories about your boyfriend being
harassed because he wasn't wearing certain pieces of clothing, clothing he is
supposed to wear under Muslim law but doesn't have to under French law."

I grow impatient. "This isn't about a homeland for you, Miriam. You want to know
if she still considers France her home."

The woman blinks. "Perhaps . . . I no longer can consider any place run by
someone else my home."

Miriam joins in. "Has it gotten this bad? Is Liberty such a joke that you cannot
stay?"

The woman looks wide-eyed, like she is not sure why Miriam doesn't understand.

The woman driving sighs. "As for the Arabs, they already think we are just
little Westerners. Cannot win. Perhaps it will take time. Once they see we are
running things more fairly, better than the French or the Ottomans, maybe they
will understand. Maybe we could stand to understand them, too. There's much
about their religion I don't understand. I don't know."

I glance to my right and see the familiar capes and bicycles. "Ladies, this is a
most intriguing discussion, but there are gendarmerie on our end. Drive faster."

The woman nods and slaps the horse with her crop, speeding up the cart. However,
the gendarmerie pedals faster.

Think, now, what can I do to stop them? I see a canister of nails near the
coffins. Of course. I throw some on the road. One gendarme veers off the road,
tumbling down near a tree. The second stops when he notices his tire is flat.

We make a good distance and find ourselves few miles outside of the train
station. I still crouch between the coffins. How Louis, all of three years,
keeps still is beyond me. I suspect having his father calms him down.

I had no one down there . . .not now.

What I see next is a nasty surprise. Two well appointed black cars coming up on
us.

The woman glances over her shoulder and looks at me, eyes wide. "Should we stop
for them?"

"No."

"You have an idea?" She slaps the horse, moving the cart faster than before.

I touch my hip and realized I still had my pistol. It is unused, untouched, and
perhaps a better idea than dynamite. Anything to keep my brother and my nephew
safe.

I don't have a Jerusalem; I have people who I care about, who I must protect. If
Timothee needed to leave, I would help him like I am helping Louis and Richard.
It would hurt as hell like now, too.

Maybe worst.

Now, I am aiming at the tires. "Keep driving," I say, not feeling very confident
in my aim, but she keeps on.

The first shot gets the left front tire of the first car. It pulls over, letting
the second car pass. I check the chamber and see there are enough bullets. I aim
for the tires again.

This time, I shoot the front and back tires. It takes three shots, though. The
woman is still driving faster. Miriam is pointing and shouting the way to the
train station.

Then I see a man in grey army uniform run out. He's headed toward us. He's going
to try to jump the cart.

No.

I have two more bullets and I really don't want to hurt him. I aim for left
knee. I hear the gunpowder burst, then the man crumpling and groaning in pain. I
go back into the cart when the woman turns her cart toward a safer route.
Somehow, we manage to make good speed before the rest of the men in the cars can
get us.

Finally, we are at the train station, walking on stones and dirt. The train
hasn't come yet, and somehow I want to say something. "Richard, you asked me to
come with you. Why? I have . . ."

"You're here, because I want to say good-bye. You've been doing so many things
that I didn't get a chance until now."

I could never lie to him. "I didn't want to say goodbye, Richard."

"It's not forever." He gives me a firm handshake. "Until we meet again, Daniel."
He turns quickly, holding Louis' hand. He takes quick steps to the train
station, occasionally looking of his shoulder.

Louis raises his hand and waves goodbye. I slide into the cart, hidden by
coffins. Miriam will be transported to the train station to get to Bolounge, to
pretend none of this happened.

We ride on the cart, taking circuitous routes to prevent being seen again. When
Miriam and I leave, the woman looks down at me and speaks.

"You call me Nataniah. If anyone you are helping wants to go to
Palestine, send to me. I will get them safe, or at least get them to someone who
can."

I nod. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if Leon would go. He is
already dead I scold myself.

Maybe not. Maybe he is hanging on long enough. Maybe he escaped. Maybe I am
lying to myself.

It's colder than I thought it was this morning, and the sky is a clear blue of
winter. Maybe I was in a confessional mood with Miriam leaving. "You can back
out now," I say to her as we close in on her train station.

"I am thinking about what Nataniah said about doing things better. I believe we
will win. If we do things better, if we look at our prejudices, I don't mean
just here, in America maybe, maybe there will be no need for what the woman is
speaking about, for all that strife I can see if she, if they go ahead with the
homeland idea. I intend to help us win."

I shrug and Miriam is quiet again. Maybe. I do not know if what she is saying
will come about. I'm just the composer.

"Maybe it will come about anyway."

I must get to the next safe house, type new love letters. I will see my friends
again and see how Tim is today. He is okay. They are all okay.

I must not cry. I will see him again. I believe this.

I get bad news when I get to the safe house. This morning, buskers were given
surprise inspections of permits. In the sweep, Bartek, Tatiana and Christine
were arrested. Oh shit.

"We're going to rescue them," Avila asks.

"Why not?"