Henri was three weeks old when we were almost discovered for the first time. We were hiding in an abandoned woodcutter’s cabin deep in the Vosges forest, miles from any civilization. Matis had gone to fetch water from the stream when I heard voices. German voices. My blood ran cold. I hugged Henri tightly, clamping my hand over his mouth in case he started to cry, and shuffled into the darkest corner of the cabin, behind a pile of rotten wood. The voices were getting closer. It was a patrol, three or four men, laughing. They weren’t on a mission; they were out for a walk. The cabin door burst open. My heart stopped. A soldier came in, looked around distractedly, spat on the ground, and then came back out, shouting something to his comrades. They left. I remained motionless for another ten minutes, trembling, before Matis returned.
When I told him, he turned pale. “We can’t stay here any longer,” he said. “We have to go south, to Switzerland.” Switzerland was an impossible dream. The border was over 100 kilometers away, through snow-covered mountains, villages controlled by the Germans, and heavily guarded roads, with a newborn baby, no papers, and no money. But what other option did we have? To stay was to die. So we left.
We walked for weeks, avoiding main roads, sleeping in barns, caves, and the ruins of bombed-out farmhouses. Henri cried at night, and Matis rocked him while I slept, singing him lullabies in German that I didn’t understand but that seemed to soothe my son. Sometimes I would wake up and see them both: Matis sitting against a wall, Henri asleep in his arms, and something would tighten in my chest. He wasn’t his father, but he acted like one, better than some fathers I had known. March arrived, and the snow began to melt. We passed through a series of small villages where people looked at us suspiciously but asked no questions. The war had taught people not to meddle in other people’s affairs. In a village near Belfort, an old woman gave us warm milk and blankets in exchange for Matis’s knife. She looked at us for a long time, me with my baby, him in his torn and dirty German uniform, and said, “You’re both far from home.” Matis nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She smiled sadly. “War does strange things. Now, leave before someone else sees you.”
The closer we got to the Swiss border, the more nervous Matis became. He knew the checks would be strict, that the Germans were patrolling the area heavily to prevent deserters and Jews from escaping. He also knew that if he was captured, he would be shot immediately. I would be sent back to the camp, if I was lucky. As for Henri, I didn’t even want to think about it. One evening, while we were hiding in a barn, Matis said something I’ll never forget: “Éliane, listen to me carefully. If we get caught, you say I kidnapped you. You say I forced you to come with me. You say you’re my prisoner, do you understand?” I shook my head. “No, I won’t say that.” He insisted: “If you don’t say that, they’ll kill you too. I’m already dead anyway, but you and Henri have a chance.” I took his hand. “Matis, I will never betray you.” He lowered his eyes. “It wouldn’t be betrayal, it would be the truth that must be spoken in order to survive.”
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