Page 6 of One of Them

The rest of the day passed with a maddening slowness.

Once Delia finished packing for her mother, she had to pack for herself, an awful process that required looking at every single thing she owned and making a decision—quickly—about what she would bring with her and what would have to be left behind.

No books—they were too heavy. But maybe she could manage a few—two?

Three? And she had to take her favorite dresses, and the glossy black patent leather pumps—her very first pair of heels, albeit low ones.

Also the fur-trimmed boots she wore in the winter.

Where were they, though? Not in her closet or the hall closet either.

Could they be with Sophie’s things? As she was on her way to look, she paused in front of one of Sophie’s sculptures.

It was a double portrait, carved so that the larger of the two faces nestled into the concave shape of the other.

Both were female, and looking at the curve of the noses—like Sophie’s, like hers—Delia had always thought of them as images of herself and her mother.

Never mind about the boots—she had to take this.

Unwieldy as it was, she brought it into her room and shoved it deep into the recesses of her valise.

Elsewhere in the apartment, Simon was making a similar set of choices.

She heard the thump of a valise being dragged, the sound of drawers and cabinets opening and closing, the occasional expletive— merde! —uttered as he worked.

Sophie had still not returned by dinnertime, so they sat down to eat without her.

During the makeshift meal of cold chicken, wilted greens, and—since no one had remembered to go to the boulangerie —stale bread, her father filled her glass with wine, not bothering to dilute it with water.

Delia took a sip. Sharp, but she welcomed the bite.

There were boxes ringed around the table, penning them in.

After a few more sips, Delia felt emboldened enough to say what had been on her mind all through this dreary, excruciating day.

“What if she doesn’t come back?”

“She’ll come back. She always comes back.”

“You mean she always came back. Maybe this time is different.” She realized this was true, and it scared her that she knew something her father wouldn’t let himself know.

“No.” Simon set his own wineglass down on the table, hard. A few drops flew up, staining the white napkin with dots of pink.

“But the train is tomorrow. And the ship the next day.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he said angrily.

“Then we’re still going?”

“Of course we are.” His tone softened, and he reached for her hand. “We have to go,” he added. “We’re not safe here.”

“Neither is Maman,” Delia said.

After dinner, Delia went back into her room, where Sophie’s valise now stood next to her own.

Unsnapping the locks, she dug through it until she found the journal.

Maybe there was something in it that would provide a clue about what her mother was thinking or where she might be.

Sophie had a neat, easily legible hand, and she had dated all the entries.

Delia flipped through the pages. Here was one written about a show of hers that had almost sold out and received several fine reviews; here was another about a quarrel, one of many, she’d had with Delia’s father.

Delia kept going; she didn’t want to relive those moments.

She kept looking for mentions of her own name, and there were a scant few.

Not as many as she would have hoped; she was stung by the omission.

Yet another name, Serge, began to appear with some frequency.

Delia wasn’t aware of anyone named Serge in her parents’ immediate circle; whoever he was, he had existed somewhere outside it.

But as she kept reading, her memory snagged on something.

Hadn’t there been a day when they had taken a ferry from La Tour Fondu to a little island off Hyères to.

.. what was it called?... Porquerolles, yes that was it.

Porquerolles. There was someone named Serge, she was almost sure of it, in the group that sat laughing and toasting everything—the meal, the wine, the clouds above, and the glittering sea before them—over lunch?

And hadn’t her mother been eager to go back again?

She had said she was visiting her friend Elena; Simon had seemed unhappy about these trips, but he hadn’t tried to stop her.

Could there have been another reason she’d kept returning?

Delia kept reading, hoping to find an answer.

But then she came to a place where the pages, which were perforated, had been neatly removed from the diary.

The previous—and last—entry had been written last week.

So these missing pages were even more recent.

What was in them? Frustrated, she put the diary into Sophie’s valise.

A couple of hours later, she heard a soft knocking.

For a wild moment she thought it was Sophie, but that was ridiculous; her mother wouldn’t need to knock, she had a key.

When Delia went to the door, she saw Gaby.

They had grown up together and been the best of friends, but when the Germans invaded, Gaby, like all the others, had kept her distance. And yet now here she was.

Delia had been angry when Gabrielle first retreated.

She’d expected better of her friend. But she’d missed her too and now was glad to see her, glad she had come.

Gaby was still afraid to enter the apartment.

But standing on the threshold, she leaned forward to kiss Delia on both cheeks.

“Adieu, ma chère amie, adieu,” she said.

Hearing those words, Delia understood then that she might never come back to Paris, or that if she did, it would not be for a very long time.

After Gaby had gone, Delia went into her room and opened her valise.

She dug around until she found what she was looking for—Coco.

Delia stared at the animal’s face, the thick and now dusty fringe of its lashes, the nose that was slightly dented from having been dropped so many times.

The leopard had been given to her when she was what, five?

Six? She remembered her excitement in untying the red satin ribbon and opening the box.

But now it was time to let her go, and she set Coco on her nightstand.

She thought of Gaby’s words earlier, and she repeated them now—“Adieu, ma chère amie, adieu.” And even though it was late, she took the bedraggled toy downstairs and kissed her a final time before leaving her in a trash can behind the building. It was only then that she wept.