Gabriele nodded. She was holding her son’s hand and they were conferring quietly. The boy didn’t want to jump anymore. He was understandably afraid that he or his mother would be picked off by the German watch.
“Climb down the side and make your way to the couplings between cars, where you won’t be as easily seen. It will also give you the opportunity to turn around and jump outward. Cover your head and roll when you hit the ground. Then stay down. Stay flat. Don’t start running until the train has passed, and then wait a bit so the man on the caboose doesn’t see you and shoot,” Gabriele told her son.
“How do you know this?” Eva asked.
Gabriele shook her head. “I don’t. It is just what makes sense to me. I’ve thought about it nonstop since the first train.”
“Do you know where we are?”
“We’re in Switzerland, I think. But we may have already crossed into Germany. We need to jump soon. Otherwise, we will be deep into Germany. The deeper, the worse off we’ll be.”
“I’m not doing it. I’m not doing it. It is too risky,” Pierre cried.
“Where will you go?” Eva interrupted. The woman soothed her son and answered softly.
“We are Belgian. We are going to try to get back home. The Germans are pulling back. We think we will be safe if we can just get home. We fled to France when Hitler invaded.”
“What happened?”
“The Italian army left—they were actually the reason we stayed safe so long—and the Germans moved into the sector the Italians had once controlled. People were rounded up. My husband was detained and deported. Pierre and I stayed hidden for five more months. But in February, we were discovered. We were put on a train for the transit camp, and we’ve been waiting there ever since for a group large enough to transport.”
“Please, Maman. We don’t have to do this. We are strong. We will be all right in a camp,” Pierre pleaded with his mother.
“No, Pierre. It is our only chance to go home,” Gabriele said firmly, holding his gaze. “You have to jump, and you will jump, just like we planned. And you will get to Belgium. You will live, Pierre.”
He nodded, but his eyes filled with tears that spilled down his cheeks. He embraced his mother fiercely, and she kissed his cheeks and held him for a brief moment before pushing him toward the window.
He climbed up obediently. No one protested this time. No one tried to make him feel guilty or responsible. They just watched morosely.
Pierre was much smaller than Armand, but maneuvering to get his legs out the small opening first, balanced on the lip of the window, was a feat in itself. He waited, watching for the light. When it swept past, he slid out the window. He didn’t hesitate or look back, and with just a brief snag, his shoulders cleared and his head disappeared over the side. They could see his fingertips clinging, then they were gone too. There were no accompanying shots.
Gabriele prayed and wept vocally. Then she turned to Eva.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“Gabriele. You have to go. Pierre is waiting for you,” Eva urged. “He made it. He must have.”
“I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough or agile enough to survive it. I know it, and Pierre knows it. It is why he didn’t want to jump.”
“You have to try! Your son will be frantic.”
“You go,” Gabriele insisted again. “You jump. And stay with my boy. Help him get home.”
Eva could only shake her head. “No! You can’t do that to him.”
“I had no choice. I want him to live.” She pushed Eva toward the window. “We have to hurry. The train is moving quickly! You won’t be able to find him! The distance grows every second we delay.”
“But . . .” Eva protested, thinking of the boy in the dark, waiting for his mother. Gabriele turned on her with fierce eyes, her fingers cutting into Eva’s arm.
“S’il vous plaît. Please. I’ve done what I can to save him. Please help me. Save yourself, and help my son.”
“I will help you up,” someone offered, tugging on Eva’s sleeve. It was a middle-aged man with a small child and a wife heavy with pregnancy. They wouldn’t be jumping. Eva hesitated once more.
“Go!” Gabriele said, and Eva could only nod helplessly as the desperate mother imparted instructions in an urgent whisper. “Go to my husband’s aunt in Bastogne. She will take you and Pierre. She will keep you safe until the war is over. Tell Pierre I love him, and I am proud of him. I will fight, and I will live. And we will be together again. All of us. Someday.”
The man who’d offered to help Eva linked his fingers together and braced his feet, creating a step. Eva put her foot in his hands, and he bent his knees and launched her upward, giving her the lift and momentum needed to grasp the lip of the little window with one hand and the remaining bar with the other. She didn’t wait for courage or even to see if she was clear to go. She went out the window headfirst. Just like in her dream. She was still clinging to the bar with her left hand, and the action swung her around, her legs pinwheeling for purchase, a shriek on her lips. She hung from the bar for an eternal second before her toes found the edge of the cattle car.
A shot rang out and then another, whizzing above her head. With all her might, Eva let go and pushed away from the train with the balls of her feet, turning as she flew, weightless for a heartbeat, contorting herself like a circus performer. “Slide into home!” Angelo had said when they played baseball. “Slide, Eva, slide!”
She slid through the air, parallel with the ground, flying toward home base. Then she was tumbling and bending, end over end, head, buttocks, hands, back, side, knees, shoulder, stomach, back. Like a rug being beaten against the cobblestones, flapping and connecting, flapping and connecting. And then she was still, lying on her back, staring up at a sky filled with dazzling stars. There was no air in her lungs, and she fought to inhale, unable to reinflate her diaphragm fast enough.
But she’d done it. She imagined Angelo throwing his arms out to the sides and yelling, “Safe!” the way he used to do when she slid home just like he’d taught her.
She smiled as she gasped and choked, sitting up to reach for a breath, ignoring Gabriele’s second set of instructions, along with the first. She’d said, “Stay down until the train is gone.” Eva hadn’t even checked. But the train was slowly disappearing, just a black rectangle in the distance, growing smaller and smaller, quieter and quieter, as she watched. She wanted to lie back down and enjoy her home run for a minute more. She was starting to feel the raw scrape of her tumble, and she knew she would be bruised and sore, but for the first time since Angelo had been dragged from Via Tasso, she felt a glimmer of life. A spark. She wouldn’t think about tomorrow. She wouldn’t think about how alone she was. She would just celebrate the victory of escape. Of survival. And that was all.
“Maman! Maman!” She heard Pierre, calling and running toward her. He’d probably been running since he jumped, racing after the train, watching for his mother.
Eva rose gingerly to her feet, swaying as the confused blood in her body reoriented itself. It was dark, and Pierre was still a distance off. He was not yet aware it was she, and not Gabriele, who waited for him. She started to walk back toward him, dreading the moment he realized it was her.
She felt a sick flash of sympathy when he pulled up short.
“Where is my mother?” he gasped, out of breath from sprinting along the tracks, running after a train that had carried his maman away.
“She didn’t jump, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”
“Maman!” he called, panicked, and began running once more, racing across uneven ground, tripping and staggering, calling for his mother.
Eva pressed her hands against her aching heart and followed him. She didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t want to take away his hope. She didn’t want to discourage him. But she knew Gabriele hadn’t jumped. She’d loved her son enough to part with him if it could save his life. But Eva understood when Pierre sat down and buried his head in his hands. She understood his desolation. Life was small comfort when you had to live it alone.
“What if she decides to jump, and I’ve given up?” he mourned.
“We can wait here for a while. If she jumped, she will walk back this way,” Eva suggested.
“What if she jumped and she’s hurt, lying down there somewhere beside the tracks?” He sounded so young and lost.
“We will listen to see if she calls to you,” she soothed softly.
He nodded despondently, and they waited, side by side, for a call that didn’t come. Finally, Eva could bear the silence no longer. She was cold and sore, and there were trees in every direction. She had no idea which way to start walking.
“Pierre, do you recognize any of this? Do you have any idea where we might be?” she asked gently.
“It is north to Bergen-Belsen. Maman told me the tracks lead north.” He pointed in the direction the train had just gone, then pointed straight in front of him. “We were going to go west. West is Belgium. That was our plan.”
“There is nothing for me at home,” Eva said. There was nothing for her anywhere, but she pushed the thought out of her mind. She would grieve later. Now she had to survive. “I will go with you to Belgium. Your mother says you have an aunt in Bastogne. She said she would come for you there when the war is over.”
The boy nodded and brightened a little, slightly reassured that he wasn’t completely alone in the world.
“I hope we’re still in Switzerland,” he mused. “If we are, we will be fine. We can go anywhere and ask for help and directions. But first we need to figure out where we are. The sun is coming up. I’m going to climb a tree and see what’s beyond the forest. We can always walk south along the tracks if I can’t see anything. Maman said the tracks will lead to a town.”
His mother had prepared him to be alone. It was obvious. Eva nodded and waited for him to scramble up a nearby tree. It wasn’t long before he was calling down to her excitedly.