Singer threw his hand up, signaling for Martin to stop. “It is the one mercy I can show him, letting him obey his old religious laws before he becomes completely subject to ours.”
“No,” Martin shook his head.
“Martin,” Singer argued, “how many times have you told me about your fears that becoming a judge robbed you of your youthful ideals, of your willingness to help, really help,
and to understand
the poor, the less educated, those left behind by the Republic?” Singer snorted. “Even those who do not have the slightest desire to become like us, upstanding bourgeois servants of a bourgeois state.”
Martin kept shaking his head in disbelief as Singer spoke. This was not the time for philosophical discussion or self-recrimination. They had a killer. A madman. Their duty was to bring him in.
“I agreed with you,” Singer continued undeterred. “
In the abstract
. As long as we were talking about ignorant peasants or desperate workers or young girls led terribly astray. I agreed with you as long as I did not see myself in those who came into my chambers. As long as they were not my people,” he whispered hoarsely. “I wanted them to be better, because we have to be in order to survive.”
Martin made a move toward the other men as he pleaded. “Come on, David. Let’s go.”
“No! Listen,” Singer said, not letting Martin back away. “Tomorrow is the beginning of one of our holidays. It celebrates a victory of the ancient Hebrews over those who wanted to paganize us, to make us like everyone else in the classical world. In other words, to ‘civilize’ us. But our warriors resisted and rebuilt the great Temple in Jerusalem, the one the Romans destroyed. I could use this time alone to think about what it means to be ‘civilized,’ and what it means to be a Jew.”
When Martin raised his arm in protest, Singer grabbed it. “Please. Ask Franchot or the gendarmes to stay with me. I’ll be safe. You can tell Noémie what I am doing and why, and that she can prepare the Hanukkah candles for me to light tomorrow night, when I will be worthy of them.” His grip got tighter as he waited for Martin to look him in the eye. “Ask them,” Singer repeated.
Then Martin understood. Singer did not want to explain his actions to the others, only to Martin—and to Noémie Singer. He had just revealed the most private part of himself, the pain and shame of Jacob’s crime, and perhaps even his need to repent for his disdain and indifference toward the tinker and his ilk. Martin nodded his assent. If this was something Singer needed to do, who was Martin to deny him? Singer had opened his heart to him. What more could one ask from a friend?
“If I can get someone to stay with you.”
“Please.”
When the stalwart Franchot agreed, without asking any questions, to guard over Singer and the prisoner, Martin hastened to leave. They had the killer, he would be in jail by noon tomorrow. Martin’s job was done. All he had to do before getting home was to stop by the Singers to deliver David’s message. Martin and the gendarme took off for Nancy as fast as they could against the threat of total darkness.
Except for the crackling of a waning fire, all was quiet when Martin opened the door to his apartment. He called out and, getting no response, tiptoed into the living room. One gas lamp gave off a dim circle of light on an end table. He saw the top of her head above the back of a chair. He sighed. She was sleeping, or thinking, remembering, mourning, staring at the flames.
“Clarie?” he said softly.
She stirred.
He hurried to her place. Her hair was unkempt, and she huddled under a plaid blanket, as if she were incapable of stoking the fire or taking care of herself.
“Clarie, I have good news.”
“Me too,” she murmured, not taking her eyes off the sputtering flames.
“Yes, what?” He pulled up a chair beside her.
“Papa is coming with Aunt Henriette right after Christmas. They’ll be here for two weeks.”
“That is good news! Henriette will take care of you and cook, and fill our home with delicious smells.” Even as he said this, his encouraging words disintegrated into cinders floating uselessly between them. He had no idea how to help Clarie find joy in anything.
“And you,” she finally looked at him. “Your news.”
“We have found the murderer. The case is over. You and I can spend more time together.” Somehow he knew that this would not be cause for joy either.
“Oh,” she said, turning away uninterested. “So who did it?”
“A tinker, a poor Israelite, a kind of madman.”
She arched her eyebrow. “Just an old Jew, then.”
Martin jerked away from Clarie as if he had been struck.
She covered her mouth. She had heard the contempt and sarcasm in her own voice. How could Bernard not be shocked? Two good men had been killed. An unfortunate was facing the guillotine. And she had chosen to think first of their race, with scorn.
He reached for her, for her cheek, for her temple.
For an instant, she was afraid. She shrank back into her chair, but his touch was gentle.
He rubbed her cheek lovingly with his thumb. If only he could erase those deep circles of exhaustion and grief from her beautiful eyes.
“Don’t tell Papa, please,” she said through tears.
“Clarie, my beautiful Clarie, I know this isn’t you.” This was the price of his abandonment.
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“No, darling.”
“I’m so ashamed.”
They looked into each others’ eyes.
How did this happen to us?
he thought, holding back the tears.
How did this happen to us?
she cried in her heart.
She finally said, “If I don’t think about Henri-Joseph and pray every minute, if I don’t do what is exactly right, what I’ve been told to do, then I am abandoning him, I’m letting him go. I can’t do that. He’s my baby.” She began to sob. “But why would he want a mother like this?”
“Listen to me, Clarie, please,” he said as he moved her chin so that she looked into his eyes. “He will be with us forever, in our hearts. There will be pain, a void, but we will have so many other things in our life to help fill the emptiness and make his memory sweeter. First of all, we have each other.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said as she turned her head away again. “What’s happened to me?”
He took both of her hands in his. “Darling, we should get away from here. Leave this place. We could go to Paris. You could teach there. It would be so good for you. And me, I’ll become an
avocat
. I’ll do what your Papa keeps saying I should be doing, plead for the oppressed, for the working man. We’ll be poor, but we’ll be happy again. I swear it.”
Please, please, I’ll do anything
.
His face was bright with hope, but she could not understand what he was talking about. Leave. Paris. Teaching. Offering all this to her, when all she wanted was Henri-Joseph.
“Oh, darling,” he said, “I wish I could take away the pain.”
He knew.
He stood up and lifted her out of the chair.
She let him lift her up. Even under his official suit and shirt, she could feel the essence of him, and smell the scent of her sweet, good man. She could not imagine why she had fled from this comfort.
He felt the softness of her breasts. Her hair tickled his nose, almost making him want to laugh aloud with joy. He was here now. Nothing could keep him from getting his Clarie back.
They held on for dear life.
A New Year, 1895
B
Y THE END OF THE
first week, Henriette Choffrut’s wide bustling body had replaced the solemn presence of Madeleine. Tante Henriette arrived with Giuseppe bearing a huge straw basket stuffed to the breaking point with dried olives and preserved fruits, newly pressed oils and canned tomatoes, wild herbs, and home-made tartes. She filled the air with news—of the restaurant in Aix, of Clarie’s six half-brothers, of the equally rotund and beloved Oncle Michel. And when silences fell, she hurried to embrace her beloved niece, holding Clarie tight to her ample breasts.
Every morning, Tante Henriette shooed the men away to go about their business. She sent Giuseppe to the cafés to read his newspapers, and Martin back to the courthouse to complete his dossier on the two murdered Israelites. She made Rose her ally in bringing cheer and the smells and tastes of Provence to the Martin apartment.
Giuseppe willingly fell into the role of Martin’s ally as they debated whether or not the young couple should move. Could Martin afford to give up his safe career as a judge? Could Clarie pass up the opportunity to pluck the plum of all plums, a teaching position in the capital? The men amiably changed sides on a daily basis. When they finally got an exasperated Clarie, eyes shining with the thought of living in Paris, to join them, they knew they had succeeded a little.
On Sunday, January 13, 1895, the afternoon before Tante Henriette and Giuseppe planned to depart, a peaceful warmth pervaded the apartment. Martin settled down in an easy chair near the fire to start Zola’s newest novel. Clarie and Henriette were behind the closed kitchen door, preparing a final feast. Giuseppe was on his way from the railroad station with the latest editions of the weekend newspapers, obvious fodder for a last political debate. Martin put his book aside and smiled, savoring the moment. He was, at last, part of a large, loving family; Clarie was getting better; and his role in the case was over.
Suddenly, Martin heard yelling in the street below and got up to take a look. About a dozen men and boys stood across the street, throwing stones at the Steins’ shop. Even through the closed windows, Martin could make out the shouts of “dirty Jews” and “youtres” and “traitors.”
He was about to get his coat and scarf to see what he could do to stop them, when he saw his father-in-law sauntering toward the fray. Realizing that he did not have a moment to spare, Martin charged out the door and down the stairs. On the second-floor landing he came upon Rebecca and Esther Stein. “Papa said we should go upstairs for safety,” the girl told Martin breathlessly. “May we?”
“Of course. Go,” he urged. “The door is open.” He didn’t have time to say more. He had to get downstairs before his big-hearted, impetuous father-in-law got involved.
With one pull, he swung the outside door open. By this time, Martin’s landlord had splayed his body across the shattered shop window and was already bleeding from his forehead. Giuseppe stood by his side, waving his roll of newspapers at the ruffians.
“Stop,” Martin shouted to the men across the street. “I am a judge at the court of Nancy, and if you do not desist this very instant, all of you will spend a week in jail.”
Even in his shirtsleeves, Martin had what Giuseppe teasingly called the whiff of the bourgeoisie. The motley crowd of men and adolescent boys in winter jackets and caps caught enough of whatever official odor Martin exuded to pause, at least for a moment. Martin flashed hot and cold with anger and fear. What if they didn’t believe him? Would a small riot break out, with him, Giuseppe, and Stein outnumbered? Martin was so much better at words than with his fists. That’s why he decided to take a firm stand, hands on hips, glaring at the men across from him.
“Why should we believe you?” someone behind the front row of stone throwers shouted.
“Because it is true. I want your names,” Martin yelled back with as much authority as he could muster, even though he had no pen, no paper, no policeman to back him up.
But they had no masks, no charcoal on their faces, no guile, only irrational hatred and pure drunken stupidity. Heart pounding against his chest, Martin stared them down, eying them one right after another, as if he were recording their individual features in his brain. First one, then another began to pull the brims of their caps down over their eyes. One by one rocks fell from flaccid fists, clunking and rolling on the cobblestones. Finally a tall blond middle-aged man, his nose and cheeks ruddy with drink and pent-up rage, said, “Come on, let’s go,” and they began to disperse. Whether Martin was telling the truth or not, this thug knew enough not to take a chance with someone who called himself a juge d’instruction. The last to leave, a mere lad of about fifteen, was the most audacious. He swaggered to the corner and when he reached it, he called out “Jew-loving Judge” before speeding away.
Martin tried to disguise the huge sigh of relief he expelled. He stared at the emptied street in front of him, taking in smaller and smaller gulps of frosty air, until he felt calm enough to deal with his injured landlord. By this time, Giuseppe was already dabbing Stein’s bloody forehead with his handkerchief. “Those bastards,” he kept repeating.
“It’s nothing, Monsieur Falchetti, nothing,” Stein said, even as his widened eyes riveted upon the blood on his fingers. Martin put a steadying arm around his landlord’s waist.
“Mmmm.” Giuseppe, no longer excoriating the hate-mongering cowards, examined the wound with the skill of someone used to working with his hands and dealing with injuries. “You’re right. A glancing blow. Once we get you taped up, you’ll be fine.” He patted the frightened shopowner on his shoulder and handed him the handkerchief. “Let’s cover those windows.”
“Monsieur Falchetti, Monsieur le juge, you don’t—”
“Let’s get inside.” Martin was freezing. The wind rippled his shirt sleeves, converting his sweat into pinpricks of ice.
“Why? why? I want to know why.” Stein moaned as the three of them moved into the narrow hallway and shut the door behind them.
“I’ll show you why.” Giuseppe reached for the newspapers wedged between his upper arm and broad chest. He unrolled a copy of
Le Petit Journal Illustré
, revealing a full-page engraving of Captain Alfred Dreyfus, the first Israelite appointed to the General Staff of the French Army, being stripped of his rank and his saber in front of a jeering crowd. The heading in bold letters read
THE TRAITOR
.
Stein silently mouthed the word “traitor” and closed his eyes. “The shame of it,” he whispered. “The shame on my people.”
Martin grabbed the paper and stared at it, almost rending it in two with the force of his grip. Everyone knew about the verdict, but this kind of instigation, this rubbing it in, could only sow more hatred.
“It’s not your people,” he muttered. “It’s Alfred Dreyfus.”
He looked up to see Giuseppe solemnly nodding his agreement.
“I have to get Esther and Rebecca. We have to repair the window,” Stein said weakly.
“Come, then.” Martin started up the stairs and noted that his father-in-law had taken the precaution of walking behind the frightened, injured shopkeeper in case he stumbled.
When they reached the apartment, they found Henriette Choffrut sitting beside Esther Stein, listening to her with grave attention and shaking her head in sympathy. Rebecca was clinging to Clarie, muffling her tears on her beloved teacher’s shoulder. They swayed slightly as Clarie cooed consolation.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Stein declared as soon as he caught the attention of the women. “No bother. No worry. Just a broken window. We can fix that with a little paper until tomorrow.”
Esther Stein broke off from Henriette and embraced her husband. “Papa, Papa,” Rebecca cried as she joined her mother.
“We’re fine. We’re all fine. Isn’t that true, Monsieur le juge?” Stein insisted again.
Martin knew that his landlord wanted desperately to assure his wife and daughter that the crisis had passed. He managed to get out a yes, even though nothing that he had seen or heard in the last ten minutes could qualify as fine or good or decent or even bearable.
After the Steins left, Giuseppe showed Clarie and Henriette the headlines and the picture of Dreyfus, the traitor, being stripped of his honors.
“Do you think there will be more attacks on people like the Steins?” Clarie asked, her brow wrinkled with worry.
Martin shook his head. “They’ve done everything they could to Dreyfus. The papers have had their day. Those thugs have enjoyed their little cowardly confrontation. Now everyone should let the Israelites alone.”
When Clarie did not look convinced, he repeated, “It’s over.”
But it wasn’t over.
Not for Clarie or Martin.
Or Captain Dreyfus.
Or France.