Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pierre Moreau
It was clear that Arnaud from le tabac had betrayed their secret.
Not only was he an informant for the Boche, but he was a bitter man who saw the happiness and joy Mirela and Geneviève had found in the bakery and wanted to destroy it.
Pierre was not a violent man, but he imagined going into Arnaud’s shop and breaking every bone in his body.
But he had to think of the little girl’s future.
If anything happened to him, who would look after her then?
He had to keep quiet in order to protect her and so he kept Geneviève hidden in the atelier after that.
He told everyone that she had run away, probably back to her own village.
In the misty blue hours of the early morning, while everyone on the Rue de Paris was still asleep, she would tiptoe down the stairs and join Pierre in the bakery.
‘When Maman returns, I will bake her a beautiful cake,’ she would say, listing all of the magical ingredients she would use.
Pierre wasn’t sure whether to indulge her fantasies or prepare her for the worst. He had never heard of anyone returning from the camps.
What was a greater cruelty – a harsh truth or a kind lie?
Being a thoughtful and methodical man, he considered it for some time.
In his new role as sole guardian, it was up to him now.
The responsibility might have overwhelmed him if it weren’t for the fact that his love for this little girl was stronger than anything he’d ever known.
He would give his life for her and would never, ever abandon her.
She needed him, it was clear. But he needed her even more.
One day, not long after the war was over and Geneviève no longer needed to hide, Pierre made them their favourite breakfast – crêpes with blackberry jam, made from berries they had foraged along the hedgerows.
‘Do you like living with me at the bakery?’ he asked.
She nodded her head, her mouth smeared with purple streaks of jam.
‘Good.’
He took a sip of his coffee, then began biting the inside of his lip. How could he tell her that her mother might never return? That they would have to live with not knowing what happened?
‘We are a family now, you and I. You know, for years, I never thought it would be possible for me to have a family of my own. And now, if you will allow it, I would love nothing more than to call you my daughter.’
Geneviève put her crêpe down on the plate and looked up at him.
Her eyes were overflowing with bright, happy tears.
She didn’t need to say anything, he knew in that instant that these were the words she had been waiting to hear, and the words that he had so desperately wanted to say.
She jumped up from her chair and flung herself into his arms, weeping with relief, joy and woeful sadness.
‘Maman,’ she kept saying. ‘Maman.’
‘I know, I know,’ he soothed, rocking her slowly.
She knew. Of course she did. She was the brightest child he had ever laid eyes on. The war had forced everyone to grow up too quickly.
‘I can stay with you … for ever?’
Pierre Moreau thought his heart would burst.
‘Of course, ma petite. For ever and ever.’
* * *
But there are some promises, no matter how much we wish it were otherwise, that are impossible to honour. When Pierre Moreau’s heart began to weaken at the age of sixty-eight, it was Geneviève who took over the running of the bakery and nursed him on his deathbed.
‘I will always be here,’ he said with his last breath. And with every particle of stardust and bone that made up his spirit, he stayed true to his word.