The French Baker's War by Michael Whatling

Author:Michael Whatling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction, family, france, french resistance, world war 2, holocaust, wwii, wwii fiction, missing wife, jewish escapee
Publisher: Michael Whatling

SEVENTEEN

Sunday, October 31, 1943

When André tells Frédéric they aren’t going to the park, the boy starts to cry. Nothing André says stops him. Frédéric garnishes his sobbing with sporadic shrieks, a fork shoved into the blades of a fan. André can feel it in his teeth.

When Émilie asks why not, André can’t bring himself to tell her, like he might jinx something. He has to be here when the Resistance comes for him. He makes a promise to himself to bring his son to the park every day for a month when his mother’s back.

Frédéric only quiets when Émilie sits next to him on his bed and puts her arms around his quivering shoulders, his eyes closed, his bottom lip peeled in a pout. André sees how the boy might feel it’s a reprimand—it feels that way to him, too. His insides become leaden.

He sits on the floor and rolls a ball towards his son, but Frédéric ignores it. Then André has an idea. He goes over to a cupboard near the stove and retrieves a tin basin and places it in the middle of the room. He bounces the ball, and it neatly drops into the vessel with a resounding clunk.

Frédéric opens his eyes a slit. André fetches the ball and bounces it into the basin a couple more times before Frédéric scuttles over, his hands stretched out begging for a turn. It only takes a few attempts before the boy flings the ball and it lands squarely inside. His eyes shine, and his cheeks are bright as the pinkest fondant.

André claps his hands, and Frédéric looks over, baffled at first, then delighted. He bounces the ball again, and again it lands in the basin. The warmth André feels rebukes him for how he hasn’t always been as good a father as he vowed to be when his son was born. He could blame the pâtisserie occupying his time or even being pushed out by Mireille’s boundless devotion to the child, but both reasons, while partly true, weren’t the real obstacle.

When Frédéric didn’t sit up, or crawl, or walk when he was supposed to, André and Mireille took him to the doctor, who told them not to worry, children develop at their own pace. But when it was long past the time for Frédéric to talk, the doctor confirmed their fears their son was behind other children, most likely due to the complications at his birth.

Not wanting to believe something was wrong, André convinced Mireille they should seek other opinions. One after another, doctors called Frédéric “stunted,” and “backward,” and “retarded.” Those terms made the Alberts wince, a red-hot spike impaling their hearts. Ultimately, André and Mireille rejected any other name for their son except for their own affectionate “our Frédéric” and “Petit Prince.”

The last doctor they saw was adamant—there was only one thing to do with a child like theirs. “He’ll always be a burden.” André and Mireille hurried out of the office, and before they were even

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