Page 231 of All the Devils Are Here

It did seem appropriate that a garden named for a man who hid Jews in the war should itself be almost hidden.

But the Gamaches knew how to find it, just off rue des Rosiers.

The jardin Joseph-Migneret was quiet this Thursday morning in mid-October, and they had it almost all to themselves.

The girls ate crêpes, bought from Omar, and now ran like dervishes between the trees and benches, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter.

Annie rocked Idola in her arms, while Honoré tugged at his father’s hand, trying to break free. Eventually, Jean-Guy let go and watched him race into the walled garden, to play with his cousins.

The adults had paused in the passageway, between the busy street and the garden. Standing in a semicircle before the plaque, they read each name. Noting the ages of those Monsieur Migneret had not managed to save.

The children of the Marais, sent away. Who never came home.

Then the Gamaches joined their children.

Armand and Reine-Marie stopped, by habit, at the exact spot where he’d proposed, and she’d accepted, more than thirty years earlier. And watched their grandchildren play.

There was a chill in the air this October morning, and Armand adjusted the blanket around the knees of the elderly man in the wheel-chair and got a “Fuck off, I’m fine” from Stephen for his trouble.

Smiling, Armand straightened up in time to see a woman, about his own age, approach.

“Excusez-moi,” she said, pulling a sweater tighter around her. “I live in that apartment”—she pointed to a series of tall windows on the second floor—“and saw you here.”

“Désolé,” said Daniel. “Are the children disturbing you?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Just the opposite. This garden was created with children in mind.”

She knelt down and, bringing a photograph from her pocket, she placed it on Stephen’s knees.

After examining it, Stephen lowered it to his lap and looked into the woman’s eyes.

“Arlette?”

“Arlette’s daughter. She died four years ago, but kept this by her bed. My father never minded. He knew he owed all he had to the man in the photo. And so do I.”

The cracked and faded picture showed a young woman, in coat and slacks, smiling. But her eyes were grave. And beside her was a young man. Arm across her shoulder.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” said the woman. “You’re Armand?”

“Non,” Annie began, but Stephen interrupted her.

“Oui. That was the name I used in the war.”

Reine-Marie looked at her Armand, who was staring at Stephen, dumbfounded. He never knew that he’d been named after him.

“My mother told me that ‘Armand’ means ‘warrior,’” said the woman. “And she said you were.”

“We both were. My real name is Stephen. And your mother? I only knew her as Arlette.”

“Hélène,” she said. “She looked for you after the war, but you’d gone.”

“Oui. To Canada. This’s my family.”

“Your son?” she asked, turning to Armand.

Stephen began to explain, but this time Armand cut him off and said, “Oui. And these are his grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.”

“You’ve done well with the life you were given,” she said and, kissing his cheek, she left them.