CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jean-Baptiste, France,
July 1–2, 1916
THE LITTLE BOY HAD BEEN in a cot in a small room with four or five other infants. Most were small bundles and asleep. One wailed—a thin animal sound. The room was on the ground floor along a gloomy corridor. It had a small empty fireplace, two windows and narrow glazed doors to the outside, and a small courtyard. None of the windows was open and the room was airless. A fly buzzed against a pane. A young nun was reading her breviary, sitting on a hard chair in the corner. She stood up as they entered and brushed down her apron. She looked nervous but said nothing.
“We’ve come to see Leo,” Mother Superior said. There were two older children as well as the tiny babies, but Jean-Baptiste knew which one was his mother’s child immediately. The little boy, dressed in a faded frock, was sitting up and looked at the newcomers but did not cry. The crumpled sheets around him were gray.
The three of them walked toward the cot, with the younger sister behind them. The priest made some strange clucking noises, and the child continued to gaze at them.
“You may pick him up,” said Mother Superior to the sister and the young nun passed them, leaned over the chipped metal bars, untied what looked like a bandage from the little boy’s wrist, and swung him onto her hip. His legs and arms were thin and his head seemed large; he had dark hair, which had, Jean-Baptiste thought, been shaved to the scalp, a very pale face, and a rash around his mouth. He clung to the sister’s habit.
“He can stand,” said the young nun. “Even walk a little. And he can say ‘amen’ and ‘thank you.’ He’s no trouble.”
“He seems a little thin, perhaps?” the priest said, hesitantly.
“We’re all a little thin, Father,” said Mother Superior. “There’s not enough for the sisters to eat, let alone feed the children. It’s not safe here. The Germans could come any day. We have petitioned to have the children moved to our mother house in Paris. There are promises, plans. But these things take time and travel is difficult and nobody wants the babies. Their care is too onerous. God will provide, no doubt.” Her tone, however, suggested doubt.
The priest nodded, apologetically, as if it had been rude of him to ask.
Mother Superior gestured across the room. “That one”—she nodded to the crying baby, whom nobody seemed inclined to soothe. “A decent family.” The priest’s head bobbed in agreement, his mouth pursed. “It’s a mercy the grandfather is dead,” she said, “and the child like to follow him. It won’t eat. And the mother? Run off to Paris. These girls, they see a soldier, and all their modesty and decency is put aside. Then they expect us to pick up the cost of their shame.”
Jean-Baptiste wasn’t sure if the look she gave him was because he was a soldier or because his mother had set aside her decency and had not had time to settle her account.
“We’re turning them all away from now on,” she said sharply. “If they can’t pay, they can’t leave their fatherless children here. We’ll take good Catholic orphans from respectable families and that is all.”
Jean-Baptiste could hardly take his eyes off the little boy. He was watching them, but he didn’t respond to the priest’s smiles, nor to the young nun jiggling him on her hip. His linen dress was crumpled around his hips and his small legs hung free. Jean-Baptiste held out his arms and the child turned his head, briefly, to the nun. But he let himself be taken, without a murmur. He was heavier than Jean-Baptiste had expected, but felt like a small animal in his arms.
“Hello,” he said, self-consciously. The boy smelled slightly of urine and there was a warm dampness where he was pressed against him. Jean-Baptiste smiled, and just when he thought the baby would not react at all, the child put out a small hand and reached toward his face.
He sensed Mother Superior signal to the priest and heard his cough. “I fear we’ve intruded too long,” he said.
“What will happen to him?” Jean-Baptiste said, turning around to face the older woman. “To Leo?”
There was a moment’s silence. “He’s a pretty child” she said, almost grudgingly. “In normal times he might be placed with a good, devout family. But now … too many men are away. Too many families have orphans related by blood.”
“So he stays here?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Until he goes to Paris.”
“I could have him. I’d like to have him.” He found himself holding tight to the small body, the child who was his. Who was all that was left of his mother’s life and of Vignon.