“If they had, neither of you might have survived,” I pointed out, sitting down beside her.

  Vivienne looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. “To hear them tell it, a shooting didn’t even take place,” she said bitterly. “What kind of monster denies a mother the chance to go to her child?” she asked.

  I had no answer, so instead I reached for her hand. Her shoulders slumped and she leaned into me, letting me put an arm around her as she had done for me so many times.

  “I begged them to let me go,” she continued. “I told them he might be wounded, he might need me. They had the audacity to look me in the eye and claim that nothing had happened—even as the smoke was still in the air from their guns. ‘Go home, madame,’ they said. ‘Drive away and don’t come back.’ ”

  “I’ll make you some tea,” I offered. Because that was all I could do on that day, and many of the days that followed. I would sit with her, listen to her wail in pain and frustration, and wait for Jean-Paul to come home from work. While he also held out hope for Julien’s return, I could see in his eyes that he was more realistic. Like Vivienne, he refused to give up trying to find his son, but he seemed to do it out of a sense of duty rather than a belief that he would succeed.

  * * *

  —

  “Sara, are you asleep?” asked Jean-Paul one evening, many months later.

  “Not yet,” I answered. It was a chilly night in November 1945, and the truth was that I had been having trouble sleeping. Not just that particular night, but for quite some time. Vivienne had brought extra blankets up to my attic room, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that the problem wasn’t the temperature. I was going through a prolonged rough patch, even though anyone looking at my situation would have thought things were greatly improved.

  The war was over. It had gone on for so long, and it felt disorienting to see it end so quickly. First France was liberated in August 1944, which meant I could come out of hiding. But I still didn’t go out. Months dragged on as I lived in a strange sort of fog. No longer a hidden girl, but still not ready to resume “regular” life—if I even knew what that was anymore. The Beaumiers and the Lafleurs were patient and kind, thankfully. They knew what I had been through and didn’t rush me to move past my sadness and heartache. I’m not sure how I would have survived without them.

  Then, in early May 1945, Radio London broadcast the official report that Germany had surrendered. I almost didn’t believe it until I saw it in writing on the front page of the newspaper. Madame Lafleur said she was going to frame it—that’s how happy she was. The end of the war meant I could return to school and be with Mariann and Sophie and the rest of my friends again. All of this should have made my fifteenth birthday, in late May 1945, a day for rejoicing.

  But I didn’t feel like celebrating, not on my birthday or for a long time afterward. Everything seemed different and wrong. All around me, and inside me, too. It was like I had a giant hole in my heart. And on cold evenings, like that night in November, I would lie awake and feel an unsettling breeze blowing clear through me, even under a pile of blankets. I didn’t know how to bounce back or move forward or whatever I was supposed to be doing. I kept reminding myself that I should be grateful to be alive. Instead, I just felt sad and empty.

  Jean-Paul came into my attic room, accompanied by Vivienne.

  “We have some good news for you,” Vivienne told me. She held out a folded piece of paper. It was yellow with red writing on it, and I instantly recognized it as a telegram. I knew that telegrams were expensive, so people only sent them with important news. But we already knew that the war had ended. And I could think of only one other reason for sending a telegram, so I looked at her, perplexed.

  “I don’t know anyone expecting a baby,” I said.

  “It’s from your father,” she replied, the corners of her mouth turning up.

  Sara,

  I have been searching for you. Nearly gave up hope. Many lists, many names! Day of roundup, Nazis came to my work, but I hid in forest. Snuck home. Waited a week for you and Maman, but not safe, so hid again. Maquis found me and smuggled me to Switzerland. Stayed for rest of war. Moved to Paris and now work at hospital. Spend all my time looking for you, my little bird. Today, learned of your whereabouts. Making arrangements now. Cannot wait to see you again.

  Your loving Papa

  “He’s alive?” I marveled, reading the telegram again and again and hugging it to my chest even though I knew his hands had not touched it. Until that moment, it felt like the war had stolen and destroyed everyone I had ever loved. To have my father returned to me was the greatest gift imaginable.

  I suddenly realized I was no longer shivering. It was as if that telegram had lit a spark inside me, giving me a purpose to live: so I could see my father again.

  When he finally arrived on the Beaumiers’ doorstep, it was like dry kindling reacting to that spark. It burst into flame. I cannot describe what it was like to be reunited with my father. Sometimes, there are no words.

  He stayed with the Beaumiers for several days and spent time with the Lafleurs as well. There was so much to learn and catch up on, in our lives and in the world. Many of the horrors were truly unfathomable. We had known that the Nazis were heartless murderers, but it was not until the end of the war that we learned they had killed millions of people, including six million Jews.

  “Among them my sister and her family,” said Papa, shaking his head sadly.

  “Yes. And my friends from the École Lafayette,” I added.

  And then we sat quietly and did not say the one that hurt most of all: my beautiful maman.

  * * *

  —

  In January 1946, Papa packed his suitcase to return to Paris. And I got ready to go with him.

  “Thank you again for all you have done for Sara,” Papa told Jean-Paul and Vivienne. Papa and Jean-Paul shook hands formally.

  “No need to thank us,” replied Jean-Paul.

  I stood there awkwardly, holding the suitcase the Beaumiers had given me and helped me pack. In theory I was ready to live with Papa. And yet I felt totally unprepared to say farewell to the Beaumiers. Jean-Paul had been so kind, and Vivienne had become like a second mother to me.

  “I…I’m going to miss you so much,” I said finally.

  Vivienne leaned into a hug, closing her eyes and touching her forehead to mine. “You will always have a home here with us,” she whispered. It was precisely what I needed to hear. Just as Julien would always live in my heart, a part of me would stay here with his parents, always.

  And so, without a moment’s thought, my hands went to the yellow scarf around my neck. The one I had always worn since Mademoiselle Petitjean had given it to me. Our foreheads were still touching, and in one smooth move I lifted the loop up over my head and put it around Vivienne’s neck instead.

  Vivienne brought her hand to the scarf. With tears in her eyes, she addressed me. “I will treasure it always.”

  * * *

  —

  Years later, the phone rang in the Beaumiers’ house. I know because I was the one who placed the call.

  “Allô?” said Vivienne sleepily.

  “Sorry to call so early,” I said. “I thought about sending a telegram, but…”

  “Sara!” she replied excitedly. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  I laughed. “Yes. It’s a boy.”

  “A boy!” exclaimed Vivienne. I heard her tell Jean-Paul, “It’s Sara. She had the baby, and it’s a boy!” Her voice had so much joy, you would think it was the birth of her own grandson. And in a way, it was. After all, I was like the daughter she never had. And after I left for Paris with Papa, I came back and visited them every summer—even when I was a grown woman.

  “Do you remember what I told you at my wedding?” I asked her.

  “Of course,” said Vivienne. I knew she was remembering that happy day when she and Jean-Paul, along with Papa, had walked me down the aisle. “Is everything good? Are all of you doing okay?”

  “We’re wonderful,” I told her, shifting the phone as my husband passed our sleeping infant back to me. “And we can’t wait for you to meet…Julian.”

  “Oh!” Vivienne cried out, even though this was exactly what I had promised her I would do if I were ever blessed with a son.

  As I hung up the phone, the baby stirred in his sleep. I lifted him onto my shoulder and walked with him to the rocking chair. I sat down and hummed softly to him while I looked out the window and watched the sun start to come up.

  “Those are your other grandparents, Julian,” I told him. “They were there for me when I needed them, and I will never forget their kindness.” He nuzzled into my neck and I smiled. “You just got here,” I told him, “but as you grow, you’ll find that kindness, like love, stays with you forever.”

  I took a deep breath, smelling his sweet baby scent and feeling calm and safe in a way I had never thought I could feel again. “You see, Julian,” I told him, “it always takes courage to be kind. But when you go through a time when kindness could cost you everything—your freedom, your life—kindness becomes a miracle. It is everything, kindness. It’s a light in the darkness. It’s the very essence of our humanity. It’s hope.”

  “Are you teaching him poetry, Sara?” my husband asked, a bemused smile on his face.

  I shook my head. “Just telling him how I feel.”

  He handed me a glass of water. “Look, there’s that bird again,” he said.

  I took a sip, then turned and caught the tiniest glimpse of wings before the bird fluttered off. But as I gazed down at my sleeping child, I realized I didn’t need to see it.

  I already knew he was there with me. He always was.

  EPILOGUE

  What is done cannot be undone, but one can prevent it from happening again.

  —Anne Frank

  PRESENT DAY

  “And that, mon cher, is the end of my story.”

  For a moment there was silence on the other end of the phone.

  Then Julian’s voice came through, haltingly. “Oh, Grandmère, I don’t know what to say. It’s so horrible what happened to you…to Julien…to all those people.”

  “Yes,” his grandmother said simply. She felt thoroughly drained. But also lighter, somehow.

  Julian stared at her, still reeling from the impact of everything she had shared. “I don’t understand,” he said finally. “H-h-how could it have happened? How could six million Jews be killed in the Holocaust, and the world did nothing?”

  “It’s almost impossible to answer that question, Julian,” replied Grandmère. “I think, in the end, it is like Vivienne told Pastor Luc. ‘Evil will only be stopped when good people decide to put an end to it.’ There must be the will. The struggle follows. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so, Grandmère. In other words, people have to rise up.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “Many brave souls—Jews and gentiles—risked their lives to stand up against evil. But now, almost all of us who remember those days are gone. Vivienne and Jean-Paul died more than thirty years ago. That is why it is so important that your generation knows what happened to my generation, so that you will never let something like that happen again.”

  Julian nodded.

  “You must promise me, mon cher. You will never let the world forget. If you see injustice, you will fight it. You will speak out. Promise me, Julian.”

  “I promise, Grandmère. I will never let them forget. I will shine my light…for you.”

  His grandmother sighed, grateful to see him so moved. Her friends often complained about how hard it was to get through to their grandchildren, how these young people were glued to their beloved screens. How ironic, Grandmère thought, that with her own grandson screens had not proved to be a barrier to connection and communication. Rather, in this case, screens were what facilitated it.

  “Oh, mon cher,” she told Julian, “you have no idea how happy you have made me.”

  “Grandmère? I love you. I’m so proud to be your grandson.”

  “Thank you, Julian,” she told him. “I love you, too. More than words can say. Remember, you carry the name of the kindest person I have ever known. Good night, mon cher!”

  “Good night, Grandmère. Sweet dreams!”

  “You too, darling boy.”

  Grandmère hung up the phone. She felt pleased that she had done what she’d set out to do. Going back to those memories reminded her of how much loss and pain she had suffered, especially when she was so very young. But it also reminded her of all the beauty she was able to glimpse, even during the darkest of times.

  She reached across her desk and groped around until her hand found a little wooden treasure chest. She had bought it when she was pregnant with her son, selecting it with a very specific purpose in mind. She pulled it closer and opened the lid, revealing several layers of light tissue paper. After reaching in and rustling the tissue paper aside, she withdrew the small treasure nestled within.

  “Hello, my little bird,” she said to the tiny wooden creature.

  Though her hands had aged—alas, like the rest of me, she thought ruefully—that little carved bird still fit perfectly into the curve of her palm. Over the years, the wood had gotten smoother and shinier from the oils on her fingers. It remained her talisman, and she took it out and held it often. It never failed to bring her a sense of peace when she needed it the most.

  * * *

  —

  About a month later, Grandmère was having her daily café et croissant (chocolate, of course) while reading the newspaper. She skimmed the style section and the arts section before turning to the international news. The image, and accompanying headline, made her stomach turn and her heart sink.

  “No, no, no,” she muttered to herself, as she found herself doing all too often. “It cannot be.”

  As she dug into the articles, her anger grew. Policies based on prejudice, indifference to the suffering of children, refugees in crisis, and a global rise in xenophobia and anti-Semitism.

  “How can this be happening?” she wondered out loud. “Have we learned nothing?”

  She took off her glasses and wiped her eyes in frustration. Increasingly, it was hard to even look at the news. She felt voiceless, powerless, frustrated, and afraid.

  …tap tap…

  A light rapping noise at her kitchen window interrupted her thoughts. It came again.

  …tap tap tap tap tap tap…

  “Hmm?”

  Finally, she turned toward the sound.

  Outside her window, in the middle of Paris, she saw a bird.

  Not a pigeon, or a dove, or any of the birds one might expect to see outside the balcony of a Paris apartment. A little white bird.

  A little white bird that looked her in the eye before quickly darting away.

  But even in that briefest of moments, she knew what it was.

  Or rather, who it was.

  Grandmère smiled and closed her eyes. She felt the warmth of its wings beating in her heart.

  She felt herself rise up with it and soar high above the city. She circled la Tour Eiffel, then let the air currents guide her out over the sea, dipping and gliding all the way until the Statue of Liberty came into view. From there, she turned north, her eyes fixed on a pulsing mass of people filling the streets. She swooped down and took in the grand spectacle of it. So many different people, all united in purpose, waving signs, singing, chanting, and marching together, their positive energy lifting her spirits and their energetic voices breathing hope into her lungs.

  And one familiar young voice rising above them all.

  * * *

  —

  “Grandmère, guess what! I went to a peace march today!” Julian announced excitedly when his grandmother answered the phone that evening. “It was amazing—there were so many people, all taking a stand against injustice. You would have loved it. You should have been there!”

  “Tell me more, mon cher,” she replied. “So I can feel like I was.”

  Grandmère picked up her little carved bird. She cradled it in the palm of her hand while her grandson told her all about the demonstration he had attended.

  And as she listened, her heart took flight.

  AFTERWORD

  by Ruth Franklin

  Most of White Bird takes place in France during World War II, but there’s a scene early on that could happen in any school today. Sara, a budding artist who likes to doodle during class, has dropped her precious sketchbook. Her seatmate, who picks it up after class has let out, is a boy whose legs were twisted by polio; because of his sideways gait, their classmates call him by the cruel nickname Tourteau, or Crab. (His real name, as many readers will already know, is Julien.) Sara doesn’t join in their teasing, but she also doesn’t try to befriend him or speak up in his defense: she is a bystander. As he approaches her, balancing carefully on crutches, her friends start to whisper. “Eww. What does he want?” “I can smell him from here.” (Julien’s father is a sewer worker.) Sara thanks him for the sketchbook but doesn’t object to her friends’ cruelty.

  Anyone who has read “The Julian Chapter” in Auggie & Me, in which R. J. Palacio fleshes out the backstories of some characters from her groundbreaking novel Wonder, will remember this boy and the role he comes to play in the life of not only Sara but also her grandson, Julian, his namesake. White Bird both continues and expands on that story, beginning—in a perfectly modern touch—with a FaceTime call in which the present-day Julian asks his grandmother to tell him more about her experience as a Jewish child in France during the war. Through her eyes, we see the Nazi menace as it gradually encroaches: the swastikas flying from the village buildings, the laws banning Jews from certain public places and requiring them to wear a yellow star, the first terrifying roundups and deportations. But for Sara, whose family lives in the Free Zone, life continues mostly as normal—until Nazis arrive at her school to round up all the Jewish children.