Henri

“Is that when you first met him? At dinner?” The girl’s voice breaks through the reverie. Memories of wrinkled chiffon and linen napkins crumble around me and I am pulled so roughly to the present, to the here and now that I gasp out loud.

“What?” I mumble, blinking at the light that’s suddenly filled my vision. For a strange moment, I’m confused. What am I doing here, in this hospital room? Who is the child lying on the bed, looking expectantly up at me?

“What?”

The dark haired child reaches for my hand and clutches it. She appears concerned. “Mamma, are you okay? It’s me, it’s Hannah-Belle.”

The moment of confusion stretches on and panic seizes me. What am I doing here? Who is this child? Why does she look so familiar?

“Mamma?”

Then, slowly, newer memories filter in. Happier memories. I remember a dark haired boy, bouncing in my once youthful arms, and the warmth of a kiss from a man who I recall a special fondness for. I remember the boy returning from college – a man now – with a woman in his arm. Then, faster, the images flash past. A child, a granddaughter, a dark, rainy night and an accident that ripped my family apart.

Hannah-Belle?

“You’re named after my grandmother,” I suddenly say. The girl holds my gaze and she nods as quickly as the tubes attached to her allow. “And your mother,” she continues, “you told me that at Daddy’s funeral. You asked him to name me after two of the strongest women you knew.”

The three year old child in my mind, dark eyes and hair, connects slowly to this little girl’s voice and the moment of complete terror subsides as quickly as it had come. In its stead, a pain and longing so deep fills me and suddenly, I am pulling at her hand, holding on for dear life. She looks surprised but she doesn’t push me off.

“Oh ma Chérie...” I start to cry, hating the realizations that are slowly taking hold.

“Cerebral palsy.”

“...thirteenth birthday.”

“She’s doing far better than she really should be.”

Hannah-Belle cradles my wrinkled cheek with her other hand. Her skin, so soft and young, feels cold.

“It’s going to be okay, Mamma. It’s all over now.”

It occurs to me that she means the war. My sweet grandchild is dying and she is comforting her seventy eight year old senile grandmother. Shame overcomes me. I will not allow one more moment of worry. Not one more.

“Je étame, ma Chérie,” I say.

The girl beams and nods slowly, “Je étame, Grandmamma.”

The sound of shuffling feet alerts us to the nurse that has entered the room. She wears the standard long dark pants and light blue blouse customary of her profession and her hair is held back in a loose chignon. Her face is bare of makeup and a smile pulls at the corners of her lips. If I had to guess her age, I’d have placed her at twenty five.

“Hey Hannah,” she addresses my granddaughter. Then her eyes – a curious blend of green and brown – meet mine. “Hello, I’m Cynthia.”

Hannah-Belle’s hand, the one she’d placed on my cheek, nudges my shoulder. “She’s my nurse, Mamma. Cynthia, this is my Grandmother.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Harrison.” She extends a hand towards me. I eye it sceptically. I do not shake hands. I do not make nice and say hi and smile. Hannah-Belle knows this. But Cynthia’s hand is hovering in the air, waiting for me to take it. Glancing once at Hannah-Belle, I see the pointed look she gives me and I understand.

Cynthia is not just Hannah-Belle’s nurse. She is also her friend. That fact alone increases the woman’s personal value by a thousand. My hand moves up and grasps hers in the age old gesture of offered trust.

“Nice to meet you too, Cynthia. You can call me Marie.”

Her smile, generic and practiced before, grows warmer. Then she straightens and a frown crinkles the spot between her eyebrows, right above the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but...”

Hannah-Belle sighs. “Let me guess, it’s check up time.”

“Doctor’s orders, Hannah. You know the drill.”

I try to decipher what this means. “Do I have to leave?”

Cynthia looks apologetic. “It’ll just be for a few hours. Mrs. Harrison – uhm, I mean, Hannah’s mother – has set this room to allow visitors for as long as this little girl,” she wriggled her eyebrows towards the bed, “...wants. But yes, you’ll need to wait outside for that.”

Glancing once at Hannah, I smile. “I’ll go get myself something to drink, okay?”

Her fingers grip mine and hold on tight. “Will you be okay, Mamma?”

I nod. “Of course, ma Cherie.”

Her eyes stay doubtful but I know she’s alright now. After a short moment, she lets me leave with a promise to come back as soon as I can. I give her a short wave and hobble –as I always do – towards the vending machines. It’s not a great walk, just a few minutes really, but the crane in my hand makes the journey long and treacherous. I used the short time I have, the only moments I’ve had alone since getting to the hospital, to think about Hannah’s request to know about Henri.

Had I romanticized his memory so much, twisted it into such a fairytale that my granddaughter found it a memory necessary to request?

Had I painted too well a picture of the man, of the boy, that the thirteen year old child was fascinated with him so?

Even more so, what was I to do now, now that she wanted to know? Heaven knew I could deny little to this child – this child that held my entire life and soul in her small hands – and she knew this too. I couldn’t tell her about Henri, not everything, but I couldn’t say no.

Once I reach the vending machine, I lean against the gray wall beside it and let the quiet waiting room carry forward the echoes of that night, and of everything that happened in the time afterwards.
Papa, on his knees by the door, tears streaming down his face.

Maman, in the kitchen, her body shielding her two youngest sons from the bullets that sprayed from the Gestapo’s guns.

Fraulein Hadgar clutching my hand so hard, it hurt. Her blue eyes flashing a silent plea: “Let her go, please! She’s just a child!”

Anton, Goerg, Klaus and Freidrich being stripped before me so that the soldiers could see, could prove that despite their names, despite their appearances, they – we – were Jews.

These were memories that Hannah could never, ever find out about. I had left them all, all that pain and horror, back in a life that I didn’t want my grand-daughter to revisit – even if through memory. She didn’t know, of course, what she’d unlocked by asking, by making me remember him.

But there were good times too. Of course there were good.

Anton and his dog, playing on the street. Freidrich trying desperately to get Isabelle to talk to him again. Henri, holding my hand. Henri, sneaking me a piece of bread. Henri, before he kissed me.

Are you proud of me, Henri, of what I’ve become?

America, can you believe it? I made it to America!

I never should have let you do what you did, Henri. I never should have let you go.

“Mrs. Harrison?” another voice this time, another girl.

I turn and look and see.

Cynthia stands there, a medical basin in her hand. She’s smiling politely.

“You can go in, now,” she tells me.

For a moment, I am still. I want to ask, to know, to understand, but I am too jumbled, to messy, to think the words out right. Cynthia sees me struggle and her strange eyes soften. The medical professional’s facade turns sincere.

“We’re going to make it as easy as we can, for her,” she said softly.

I feel the understanding crush in and slowly ebb away. Like a wave crashing on the dark sands of time, only to wash away again moments after. As easy as they can for her; the words ricochet inside my head, slowly at first, then faster.

As easy as they can.

The jumbled mess starts to twist and turn, morph into a monstrous evil that threatens to overwhelm me. I am momentarily confused – where am I? Who is she? – before my mind clears and I am, once again, coherent.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, already moving towards Hannah’s room again. Cynthia’s voice is almost as low when she says, “I’m sorry.”

And after a few moments, I am with her, Hannah-Belle, and we are weaving together the stories and lives of the me that had once been.