When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

1. Mireille

1

MIREILLE

France, 1938

I was sixteen when my parents sent me away. I didn’t want to go. No matter how many times Papa explained to me why they must send me away, I could not understand. A grandmother I’d never even known, my father’s mother, had been raised Jewish before converting to Catholicism. This put us all in danger should the threats of Hitler be realized.

Thus, it had been decided that I must go to America. Mama had contacts there from when she was a child. A friend who now ran a boarding school had agreed to take me. I was to attend the Garner Academy for Girls. Somewhere in New England. Until recently I’d not contemplated my mother’s childhood in America. To me, we were French. And now I was to go to the States and live with strangers. It was impossible to wrap my head around.

I wasn’t sure of the financial arrangement, but I had a feeling they were waiving my tuition. Our vineyard in Bordeaux, which had been in my father’s family for over a hundred years, had struggled through the Great Depression. Papa was the last of the Perrin men. The only one left to protect his family’s legacy. They felt they could not leave, no matter the risk. It was all we had.

We’d taken the train from Bordeaux the night before, staying overnight in Le Havre so that I could board first thing in the morning. Seven nights in a second-class cabin seemed an eternity. I was terrified of being alone, without my parents, for the first time in my life. For the entirety of my sixteen years, it had been just the three of us. We’d done everything together. I’d grown up knowing I was adored and loved, basking in their unconditional affection. Everything had been about me. For me. Nothing truly terrible had ever happened to me. Until now.

The port of Le Havre was a chaotic blur of shouts and clangs and the roar of the ship’s engines. Workers moved along the docks, hoisting crates and directing carts, shouting to one another. Breathless, I sucked in the salty tang of sea air that mingled with the faint acerbic smell of coal smoke rising from the great funnels of the liner. I clutched my mother’s arm as we wove through the crowd, my feet like lead.

“It’s all right. You’re going to be fine.” Mama’s grave expression belied her words. She clung to me as hard as I did to her. Like me, she was a petite woman, although fair and blonde, whereas I favored my Papa’s darker skin and hair. Today, she had her hair tucked under a dark hat, and she wore her shabby wool coat and a red scarf her best friend Sylvia had knit for her last Christmas. She seemed smaller than I’d ever seen her as if letting me go was shriveling her into nothing.

Papa walked on my other side, his lean, straight-backed figure proud and slightly defiant. He had a tender heart, my papa. Sending me away had kept him up for nights on end. His dark hair had grown grayer in the past year. His thick-lashed brown eyes, the same as mine, now looked at me with adoration mixed with guilt. He held the trunk containing my belongings in one hand and the tickets in the other, the muscle in his left cheek pulsing.

The ship loomed ahead of us, a tower of steel and smoke. The name SS Normandie stood out in bold white letters against the dark hull. Smoke billowed from the stacks, curling into the pale blue sky. From the deck above, I caught glimpses of uniformed crew members standing at attention, their brass buttons glinting faintly in the weak light of dawn.

Around us, families bustled with their own goodbyes. Women dabbed at their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs; children hung on their mothers’ skirts. Most men remained dry-eyed as if they had agreed beforehand to remain stoic.

The cry of a seagull cut through the noise, followed by the deep blast of the ship’s horn, signaling its impending departure. My heart thudded. Tears scratched at the backs of my eyes.

“Don’t make me go,” I whispered. “I’d rather stay here and face whatever comes. With you.”

My mother stopped abruptly, pulling me aside. Her gloved hands trembled as she reached up to smooth the lapels of my coat, but she kept her voice steady. “This will only be temporary. You’ll be back with us as soon as…well, whenever all this resolves itself.”

All this? The seeds of war were everywhere. Hitler’s lust for power was well known. His hatred of Jews discussed in hushed tones late at night. I knew what the newspapers said about men like Hitler and what his policies meant for families like ours, even in France. None of this would be resolved quickly. It might take years before I could set my feet on French soil again.

If ever.

“I’ll write to you every week.” My voice cracked, and sobs rose from my chest. Mama’s hands lingered on my coat for a moment before she wrapped me in her arms, holding me so tight I could scarcely breathe. I didn’t care. I would stay this way forever if I could.

“I’ll write you too,” Mama said through her own tears. “And in your letters, you’ll describe your adventures so that I might live them too?”

“Yes, I will.”

Mama let me go, and Papa stepped closer and cupped his calloused hands around my face. “You’re strong, ma fille. You have been since the moment you were born. Odds were against you, but you made it.”

My parents had always been vague about my birth, other than it had been in America before Papa brought Mama and me to France. I wanted to ask what he meant, but he kissed the top of my head and stepped back to gaze down into my eyes. “The greatest privilege of my life has been to be your papa. You have been my heart. You and your mother.”

I hiccupped, tears blurring my vision. “I’d rather stay with you. Fight with you.”

“I understand, but I promised a long time ago, on the day you were born, that I would take care of you and keep you safe. I don’t feel confident I can do that here in France. I’ll rest easy knowing you’re in America. And it’s a wonderful opportunity for you. The American school your mother found will give you a bright future. Much more than we can give you here. At least for now.”

Mama gripped my hands in hers. “We want nothing more than to keep you safe.”

Safe. I would be safe. But what about them? An image of our vineyard in the early autumn light filtering through rows of vines flashed through my mind. My parents had struggled and fought to keep the vineyard intact and their workers employed. There were years I worried it might kill my father, but he’d never given up, even during the worst crops. If Hitler’s ambitions turned toward France, what would become of the vineyard? What would become of my parents?

“You must be brave, my sweet girl,” Papa said.

“I’ll be brave.” I hiccupped again. “As brave as I can, but I’ll miss you so.”

“We will miss you more than you could possibly understand.” Mama gripped my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “But we love you too much to risk your life.”

“They’re boarding,” Papa said. “We must say goodbye.”

Mama hugged me one last time, kissing both my cheeks. Papa did the same.

We whispered words of devotion and love, and then I turned away, heading toward the gangway that stretched before me, crowded with passengers and their belongings. A steward in a sharp navy uniform checked tickets and directed people aboard with brisk efficiency. My hand shook violently as I handed him my ticket. He looked at it, then glanced down at me, sympathy in his expression. “America is a good place. You will be blessed with a good life there.”

I stepped forward, my legs wobbly, stumbling to the rail at the side of the gangway, pressed between other passengers, saying goodbye to their loved ones. Despair and fear permeated the air. I was not the only one pretending to be brave. My gaze searched the crowd standing on the pier until I found my parents.

They stood together, my mother’s slight figure tucked against my father’s side. They waved. Mama blew me kisses. I raised my hand in return, my fingers trembling as the ship’s horn blasted, shaking me further.

The engines roared to life, and the wharf began to drift away. I stayed at the railing, watching Mama and Papa until they were no more than two small figures. My mother’s blond hair and red scarf fluttered in the wind, a splash of color against the gray crowd, but soon, I could no longer see even that. I gripped the rail tightly, the ache in my chest as bad as any physical pain a person could feel, the cold, salty air stinging my cheeks. It felt as if I might not make it to America in one piece. My heart was too broken.

Please don’t make me go.

But the ship had sailed. I was going, whether I wanted to or not.