Of Silence | completed

THE HOSTAGE

PARIS, FRANCE. 25 DECEMBER 1941

Charles raised his hand to knock on the narrow green door. Valérie had directed him to this address, and pressed an old letter into his hands - the same one that he held right now, clutched in his achy, sweating fists. The return address on the letter said No. 28 Rue Fabert; the door he stood in front of said the same. But when it swung open he did not see the face he had expected.

The woman had the same fair hair and light blue eyes but she was not Inna Kuznetsov, and the brown-haired, brown-eyed man that stood behind her was most definitely not Joseph Lévesque.

'Yes?' asked the woman.

Charles swallowed. 'Do Inna and Joseph live here?'

'Not anymore, I'm afraid.' She began to close the door slowly, her eyes flicking downward.

'Wait,' said Charles, placing his hand on the doorframe to stop her. 'I am an old student of Monsieur Lévesque. From Lille. I'd like to see him. Can you tell me where he lives now?'

The woman pulled open the door again, and the man behind her stepped closer, placing one hand lightly on her shoulder. The woman looked old - wrinkles had begun to map out little dips and crow's feet near hear eyes and mouth. She did not resemble Inna in the least, save for her hair and eyes.

'I do not know where they could be. They left, in May, after Joseph joined the army.' She seemed hesitant in telling him, as if it was some great secret, or as if it pained her to tell him.

At her words, Charles felt dread congealing in his stomach. Joseph could not have willingly joined the army, he was too physically weak. Charles had to admit that, however much he hated to think of his teacher as weak when his personality was anything but. Yet he knew that with his limp, Joseph would have a hard time as a soldier.

'They did not tell you, when they left?' His voice tilted higher at the end, desperate.

'Come in,' said the woman, and pulled the door open wide again. 'It is a long story.'

Charles entered the house. It was small, but comfortable, and had a stunning view: from one window he could see the Tour Eiffel, from the other the banks of the Seine. The woman motioned for him to sit in one of the upholstered chairs in the living room.

'I'm so sorry to disturb you, madame,' said Charles, wincing as she brought out a small tray of biscuits from the kitchen. He found it awkward when people were kind to him and did not know how to respond to hospitality.

'Please, call me Yulia,' she said. 'This is my husband, Étienne.' The man - Étienne - nodded at Charles, with a tight-lipped smile. Yulia went to sit on the other chair, across from Charles, and then set the tray of biscuits in between.

'They left during the night,' she said. 'Joseph had joined the army, like I said, and the British troops ordered an evacuation at Dunkerque, as I'm sure you know. Inna wanted desperately to leave France-'

'Why?' asked Charles, suddenly.

'Je ne sais pas. She was always scared of any kind of conflict. It is like an obsession for her, running away.' Charles caught something in her eyes: was it disgust? Pity? He didn't know.

'Please continue,' said Charles, and reached for a biscuit. 'I apologize for interrupting.'

Yulia coughed heavily and looked at the window across from them, the one that showed the Seine. She was not looking through the window, Charles noticed, but at it, as if she was in a prison and there was nothing outside.

Charles took a bite of the biscuit in the pause. It was a little stale, too sugary, and when he bit into it flaky crumbs rolled down his front. It was nothing like the biscuits Valérie baked, but he found he could not help comparing the two. He missed Valérie terribly.