October 1942
The sudden abdominal contraction made Claudette gasp. This was too early! It had been only eight months since Raphaël’s departure. Claudette had awakened this morning feeling odd; the room seemed out of focus, as if she had a cold. Even her teeth felt foreign in her mouth. But this?
“Léonie!” she called to the woman in whose house she was staying for her confinement. “My back is killing me.”
As Léonie felt around Claudette’s bulging stomach, a second contraction hardened it. “It’s mild. They may stop. Pray that they will. I’ll go get Madame Duchamp.”
“Hurry up,” Claudette called after Léonie in a small voice. She lay in her room, alone and frightened. Coming a month too early, her baby—Raphaël’s baby—might not survive. She prayed to Mary, the Mother, who now stood by her bed, holding her hand. “Not yet, please. Let my baby grow a bit more inside.”
It must have helped, because there were no more contractions until Léonie returned. Claudette heard her children whining when a third contraction seized her.
Léonie entered the room with a few folded towels. “Where is Madame Duchamp?” Claudette called. “Why isn’t she here?”
“On her way. But your water hasn’t broken yet. You have time.” She left again, and Claudette heard her in the kitchen, pumping water into a pot.
She’d never felt so scared as she did when another sudden pain clutched her entire body, stronger than the previous ones. She gulped a lungful of air. Then a knife slashed her lower abdomen. Another knife stabbed her back. With a swoosh she could almost hear, a gush of warm water puddled in the bedding beneath her. She screamed as a huge contraction squeezed her abdomen. A guttural moan, like a roar, tore out of her.
Léonie reappeared. “Hold back. Just breathe out with each—” She stopped as Claudette had another contraction.
She panted so hard that her lungs emptied with a long growl.
“Jesus and Mary,” Léonie said. “Please. Don’t push.” She peeked under the cover and pulled Claudette’s legs up. “Just wait! Madame Duchamp is coming!” She propped a pillow under the left leg, which couldn’t stay up.
Another huge contraction made all of Claudette’s muscles spasm, and a wild groan emerged from her lungs, long and rumbling. Something slippery slid out.
“Oh no,” Léonie said. “It’s here!”
The air returned to Claudette’s lungs. She was heaving, sobbing, and laughing. The perspiration that coated her face mixed with her tears. “What is it?”
Léonie lifted a tiny pinkish baby covered with waxlike white mucus; the umbilical cord dangled, not much narrower than the thin limbs. “You have a boy!”
From the front of the house flowed the sounds of Léonie’s children. Claudette was in bed, the week-old baby snuggled in the crook of her arm, sleeping after being nursed by Léonie. Claudette was holding back tears. Her heavy breasts had failed to produce enough milk. Not only had her baby been born too small, vulnerable, but in his first few days, he hadn’t stopped crying. The pitiful braying from weak lungs had torn at Claudette’s heart. What was wrong with him? Could he die? She kept him latched to her nipple, and he sucked briefly, only to stop in frustration and resume his crying. Finally Léonie, whose two-year-old daughter still nursed, offered to try feeding him. It worked.
“You should continue to breastfeed,” the midwife had told Claudette. “In a few days, you’ll produce more milk. Let Léonie only supplement you.”
Now Claudette examined her baby’s fine features, each as perfect as a work of art. His miniature cleft chin was more pronounced than Raphaël’s. Gently, she shifted Benjamin so he was lying belly-down on her chest and listened to his even puffs of air. He was content, trusting in her care. She breathed in his sweet milk-and-talc scent, and her heart broadened with so much love, she was unable to contain it.
Raphaël was present in their new baby, yet that made her feel his absence more acutely. “My baby. Raphaël’s and my baby.” She wept. By not producing enough milk, she was failing both her loved ones.
Outside, the late-fall wind assailed the trees, and rain pelted the window. Since coal was unavailable, and there was no man to chop wood, Claudette stayed in bed to keep warm. Where were Raphaël and his father? Were they at least in a dry barn? Or had they found a cave where they could light a fire? If only Raphaël were here to caress their baby’s legs through the flannel swaddling and be grateful as she was that both legs were healthy. Madame Duchamp had assured her that in a year, Benjamin would walk normally. Claudette couldn’t stop checking him to reassure herself that he had not inherited his parents’ affliction, that his legs matched perfectly.
Madame Couture poked her head in the door. “Coucou,” she crooned. Smiling, she entered, carrying a covered dish. She gave each of Claudette’s cheeks la bise, removed her drenched coat and scarf, and blew on her fingers to warm them. Then she leaned over the baby, who was sucking his fist. “Small, but handsome. Don’t let him suck on his fingers,” she warned. “It’s bad for him.”
Claudette lowered his hand and planted a kiss on the soft spot in his scalp under the fuzz of light hair. The pulse of his heart in the still-unfused dent made him so defenseless, so needing of her protection.
“What’s his name?”
Claudette shifted him to reveal the side of his face. She wished he’d open his not-yet-focusing eyes. “Meet Benjamin-Pierre Baume,” she answered with pride.
Madame Couture’s smile vanished. “Baume as in Sainte-Baume?”
Claudette had never heard of him but liked the unintended association. “Yes. Like that.”
“Since you’re not married, your baby is a Pelletier.”
Claudette said in a steady voice, “After the war his father will return, and we’ll be a family.”
“Until such time, he’s a Pelletier.” By Madame Couture’s furrowed brow, Claudette could tell that the seamstress was mentally skimming through the list of the château’s employees for someone named Baume. Who had been around last winter to father a child? A man who had disappeared, like so many, either fleeing to join the underground or, like Léonie’s husband, sent to Germany for the obligatory labor service? “Well,” Madame Couture finally said, “three more weeks until you return to work. There isn’t much to do, but if you want to keep your post . . .” She let her words trail off.
“How can I leave my baby? Madame Duchamp says that I must breastfeed him several times a day or my milk would stop coming altogether.”
“We’ve talked about it. All the château staff’s children are being raised in the village.”
“The mothers walk or bike back home every day,” Claudette replied. “I can’t do that.”
“In that case, maybe the father of your baby can support you?”
At the sting, Claudette began to cry. Her emotions had been ricocheting since she’d given birth, hitting highs and lows so fast that she couldn’t predict how she would feel from one moment to the next. One thing remained constant: she couldn’t imagine an hour without Benjamin, let alone six days before getting her day and a half off.
“There, there, stop crying.” Madame Couture stroked Claudette’s arm, then touched the braid resting over her shoulder. “Father Sauveterre will baptize him this Sunday.”
Claudette had already sprinkled some water on Benjamin to protect him, but a priest’s blessing would be more effective, even if her last encounter with Father Sauveterre had left her feeling battered. This man who spoke about Christian compassion and mercy was as cruel as the priest back home. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save Benjamin’s soul,” Claudette whispered. She would give him two religions to double protect him. “I love him so much!”
The baby gave a tiny smack of his lips.
Madame Couture pulled over a chair. “Some big news at the château. We’ve received a large shipment of sculptures.”
