Authors: C. Marie Bowen
John closed the door to his apartment. This small space held a different volume somehow, with both Billy and Henri absent. No sound rose from the butcher’s family in the flat below. At the window overlooking Aubrielle and Mae’s homes, the sleeping city lay silent.
Somewhere in those lights, Karl and his companions hid. The Nazi spy had boasted his group communicated with their command by radio. He’d already sent Aubrielle’s name to the SS, and there was every possibility the witch Nescato knew where they were.
He pulled the curtain shut and switched on the table lamp. Henri’s things lay scattered around the couch. The bedroom was an equal disaster. Tomorrow he would clean the apartment and return to his bed, but for tonight, the pallet in the corner offered the quickest solution.
He rubbed at the ache in his neck, shed his coat and jacket on the chair. His usual tidy self must have already fallen asleep. Stripped down to his undershirt and skivvies, he switched off the table lamp and rested his head on the canvas sea bag he used as his pillow.
Exhaustion pulled him down into a dreamless slumber.
Tap tap tap.
The long end of Nescato’s staff sparked hard against a stone.
“For eternity…”
Tap tap tap.
Nails hammered into a coffin sealed his immortal body into a six-foot-five-inch box.
For eternity.
Tap tap tap.
John blinked his eyes and for a moment, the absolute darkness caused his chest to tighten. He flung his arm out, tossing the blanket across the room.
Tap tap tap. “John?” Aubrielle’s voice pitched to a tight whisper.
Tap tap tap.
“Coming.” John struggled to his feet, body stiff and slowed with slumber. He found the light switch on the table lamp then opened the door.
Aubrielle peered up at him from the landing. Her worn coat covered her nightgown, her father’s winter boots on her feet. Tears scored her cheeks. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. “It’s Papa.” She covered her mouth and uttered a short sob.
The cold stairwell chilled John’s skin. He wrapped an arm around Aubrielle and urged her into his apartment. “Tell me.” From his coat beside the door, he pulled a folded handkerchief and placed it in her hand.
She wiped her face, averting her eyes. “I’m sorry to wake you at this hour—”
“No, it’s all right.” John found his trousers draped across the couch and stepped into them. “What’s happened?”
Aubrielle opened her mouth then closed it. She clenched her teeth and inhaled through her nose. Spiky lashes released more tears down her cheek. “John, he’s dying.” She looked at him, and her lips drew back from her teeth then pressed into a quivering line. “And he wants to speak with you.”
John pulled on his shirt, slipped his feet into unlaced shoes and grabbed his overcoat from the chair. “Did you tell Mae?”
Aubrielle shook her head. “He was insistent.” She shrugged one shoulder. “He didn’t say your name, not exactly, but he made it clear he wants you.” She swallowed. Her eyes glistened with tears. “John, he said some very odd things.”
John ushered her into the stairwell. “Is your back door unlocked?”
“Yes.”
He pulled his door shut and followed her down the stairs, onto the sidewalk, and between the buildings. “Get Mae—I’ll go to your father.”
Aubrielle nodded and ran to the back gate of the bakery.
John’s long legs took him through the backyard, past Éclair’s barn, and up the back steps. In the house, he hurried down the hall to her father’s room.
Lou lay on his bed. His chest barely moved as watering eyes stared at the ceiling.
“Lou?” John went to his knee and took the old man’s hand.
A tremor ran down Lou’s arm, and he turned his head, slowed by spasms in his neck until his rheumy eyes met John’s. Lou inhaled through his mouth, sucking air into his lungs one small gasp at a time until he could speak. “I waited for you, sir.”
John nodded. “Aubrielle’s gone to get Mae. They’ll be back in a moment.”
Lou stared at him. “I can’t remember things—but you—you, I know.”
“Of course, you do.” John squeezed his hand. “Aubrielle said you wanted to speak with me.”
Lou’s exhale gurgled in his chest. He closed his eyes, brows drawn together in pain, then coughed before his lungs struggled to fill again. “Is it time, sir?” his thin, raspy voice begged the question.
“Time?”
Who does he think I am?
“Lou, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You told me to wait until—until you—returned.” The long rattle and a painful draw of breath.
“No—I don’t—” A memory came to John of a medieval battlefield. Separated by the turn of the fighting, the bulk of the opposing army trampled through his camp. John had ridden the white gelding, Zeus, through the encampment after the invaders were driven off. Their tents had been dashed to the ground and set aflame.
In what remained of his father-in-law’s pavilion, he’d found his squire, a young man, nearly ready for his own spurs, speared through the chest with a javelin. As he slid from Zeus and knelt beside his young friend, Maury had asked him with the last breath in his body, “Sir, is it time?”
John, known during that age as Sir Jurian Locke, had held his squire’s head and nodded. “Yes, Maury. It’s time.” As though the lad had waited to hear those words, to gain permission from his master, Maury had closed his eyes and exhaled his last breath.
Lou continued to stare at John. “Don’t you remember me, sir?”
“Maury?” John whispered in disbelief. “I do remember—but I don’t understand.”
Lou coughed wetly and inhaled in short, painful bursts. “My Aubrielle—is she your girl?”
John wiped the sputum from Lou’s chin with the bed sheet. “Aye Lou, she is. She’s our girl.”
“Then keep her safe for me.” He clenched his teeth, his shrunken frame tensed. His eyes pleaded when they opened. “Is it time, sir?”
“Aye, Lou. It’s time.” John ran his hand across his face and wiped the tears on his slacks.
Lou squeezed his other hand and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
The reverberation of the back door intruded on their silence.
Aubrielle rushed into the room and knelt beside John at the head of the bed. “Papa?”
Lou’s attention shifted by degrees from John to Aubrielle. “My girl—” The rest of his words were taken by the rattle in his chest. His eyes continued to stare at his daughter. His mouth opened to inhale, but his chest didn’t rise.
“What’s happening? Why can’t he breathe?” Aubrielle ran her hand along his face. “Papa?”
“His lungs,” John whispered, “have collapsed.” Sorrow filled his heart.
Good-bye, old friend.
Lou’s body jerked. His mouth opened and closed, an involuntary attempt at a breath, then his eyes lost focus and the slight color in his cheeks bled away. The trembling grip he’d maintained on John’s hand released.
John lowered Lou’s arm to the covers. In John’s extraordinarily long life, filled with bizarre events and inexplicable magic, this last conversation with Lou had been unprecedented.
Aubrielle lowered her head onto her father’s chest and cried, murmuring apologies.
John stood beside Mae in the doorway.
“I should have known his time was near,” Mae whispered to John behind her hand. “There was something off about him tonight.”
John left Aubrielle to mourn and accompanied Mae into the kitchen. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “But Lou enjoyed himself. His daughter gave him one last night with his family.”
Mae set a tea kettle on the stove. “That poor girl. She’s lost so much.”
They fell silent and listened to the kettle warm over the flame. After a few moments, the tea kettle whistled.
Aubrielle paused near the kitchen, her eyes downcast. She sniffed and looked up at John. “Were you able to speak to him?”
“I did. For a moment.” John wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “He wanted to know you would be all right.”
Aubrielle pulled away from John’s hand. “He talked to you about me?”
Mae poured boiling water into the teapot. “I’ll make us some warm tea, dear.”
“He asked if you and I—” John dropped his hand. “If I would watch out for you.”
Aubrielle stared at John. “He didn’t know what he was saying.” She passed by him and seated herself at the table.
Mae set the teapot, and two cups on the table then raised a brow at John. “A cup for you, John?”
“Yes.” He sat across from Aubrielle. “Thank you
.
”
Aubrielle dabbed her nose with his handkerchief. “
Merci.”
The white cloth disappeared up her coat sleeve, and she cradled the warm porcelain cup with both hands. “What do I do now?” She gazed into her tea as if the hot liquid knew the answer.
“We’ll find his best suit and brush it clean,” Mae said.
“I’ll go to the synagogue and let Rabbi David know about Lou this morning,” John added. “He told us they would help when the time came.”
“The only thing I know about death and Judaism is the dead can’t be left alone.” Aubrielle glanced over her shoulder at her father’s room and her lips trembled. “But I'm unsure if that means alone in the house, or alone in his room.” Her face contorted with grief. She pulled John’s hanky from her coat sleeve and covered her face as her shoulders shook with sobs.
Mae rose and rounded the table. She gathered Aubrielle in her arms. “Shh. It doesn’t matter. He knows you’re here with him.”
* * *
John waited until morning prayers concluded to speak with Rabbi David.
Dressed in a black wool suit, the rabbi entered the small meeting room and extended his hand to John. “I’m afraid I know why you’re here.”
John nodded. “Lou Cohen passed this morning.”
“I’m sorry. My condolences to you and his daughter. I’ll speak with the
chevra kadisha
. They’re volunteers who care for the dead. They’ll take
Monsieur
Cohen’s body from his home today and prepare it for burial.”
“Thank you, Rabbi.”
Rabbi David walked with John from the small meeting room toward the tall exit doors. “Tell his daughter not to worry. By the Eternal Covenant with God, her father awaits
Olam Ha-Ba
, Life Everlasting, in the afterlife. Some scholars believe the dead may be born again, to mend the world or when the soul has left unfinished business in this world.”
The rabbi laid a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “Whatever awaits us, death is a natural part of life, as is our grief at losing those we love most. The volunteers of the holy society help families show respect for their dead by faithful observance of our traditions.”
At the door, John returned the borrowed yarmulke. “Will there be a funeral service?”
Rabbi David nodded. “Prayers will be spoken by a community elder at
Monsieur
Cohen’s grave tomorrow. The Temple maintains an area at the
cimetière du Père-Lachaise.
The Temple will provide both the grave and the marker.”
“Is there anything we should do?”
“You should check with the
cimetière
tomorrow morning. They will have a list of burial times. If you like, you may leave a short eulogy with them. His daughter is welcome to read it herself of course, but there is no obligation to do so. The cantor will be happy to include it in the service to honor her father.
“Aubrielle should grieve for her father as dictated by her love for him and by her faith. There are no other requirements.”
“Thank you, Rabbi.”
John left the synagogue and crossed the street, his thoughts on Lou Cohen, as well as a boy John knew several hundred years ago, Maury. John still couldn’t properly connect the two individuals in his mind. Maury, his young squire, so eager to please the knights he served. Anxious to win his spurs and become a knight—a dream never fulfilled. Maury’s life was so different from Lou Cohen’s life, that of a father and a husband and a warrior from the Great War.
Would memories of his life as Maury have surfaced had Lou never set eyes on me? Was it his illness, or a face he recognized from a life long ago?
Deep in thought, John continued to walk instead of hailing a cab. He turned north down a narrow cobbled side street. Women, with scarves around their heads, enjoyed the unusually warm temperature after the cold spell, chatting together as they walked to the market.
This neighborhood would be perfect for Karl to gather names for his Führer
.
John searched for a familiar discoloration in the faces of the people he passed.
Children dressed in school uniforms and carrying books rushed down the block to class. The smell of freshly brewed coffee from a sidewalk café had enticed several gentlemen who laughed and talked on the patio.