air by the clasp.
“Luba, you little genius. Where—”
“It was right in the jewelry box in the bedroom.”
We left the frozen mop in the alley and headed back to Rue Chabanais. Halfway home, I touched the papers in my pocket to make sure they were real.
We had found my son.
* * *
—
THE NEXT MORNING LUBA and I went to L’Ecole Cygne Royal hoping to catch a glimpse of Max in the schoolyard. We arrived at ten o’clock to avoid seeing Varinka at morning drop-off.
Careful to keep to the opposite side of the street, we walked by the school entrance, Ecole Maternelle chiseled above the door. Above the blue door was a stone crest with three swans carved in it. Next door, surrounded by a black iron fence, stood a pea-graveled schoolyard. How neat it all was. Three metal, pastel bouncy horses, each atop a heavy, rust-colored coil, stood in a sandy area along the left wall. A pretty sandbox. Beyond the schoolyard, steps ascended to a pair of honey-colored oak doors with black hinges. Was Max’s schoolroom beyond those doors? Would the children come out for play, even in the cold?
Just a glimpse of him was all I needed.
Luba and I jumped a bit when the oak doors burst open and children marched out in a wobbly procession, three teachers helping them down the stairs. The little ones, wrapped up in their heavy coats and scarves, headed for the sandbox. How quiet they were.
Soon another group arrived, older children. Luba and I strolled down the street and back searching for my son among the warmly dressed students.
The teachers stood near the sandbox in twos, chatting, hands in their pockets, stamping away the cold. Every now and then one would break up a spat or button a coat.
One teacher left the group and gathered the older children.
“Jacques dit touche tes genoux!” she called out. The children bent and touched their knees.
It was the famous copycat game, where a player was eliminated if he followed instructions without hearing the words “Jacques dit.”
A young couple came along the sidewalk and stopped near us to watch the little game. Luba and I stepped to the fence and I searched the children’s faces, best we could, since they were wrapped up in scarves and hats, until my gaze landed on one child.
Luba grabbed my arm. “It’s him.”
Could it be Max? He wore a navy blue coat and a nubby, gray woolen cap.
“Jacques dit tirez la langue!” the teacher called out.
The children stuck out their tongues, sending little white puffs of breath into the air.
“Lève un pied!” she said, catching all of them unawares. Each child lifted a foot and when they realized they’d been caught, one let a laugh ring out, a laugh that sent a chill through me.
Max. The boy in the navy blue coat.
I held on to the cold iron bars to steady myself. My boy.
He walked with another child to the sandbox.
The more I watched the more certain I was it was him. Afon’s easy gait. My skin tone. If only he would come closer.
The young couple walked on and I considered my options. Could I call out to Max? The teacher was distracted with her Jacques Dit game, after all.
Max wandered in my direction, along the fence, running his mittened hand along the slats.
“Max, dear,” I whispered.
He turned toward me.
“It’s your mama, darling.”
He stepped closer. Did he remember?
All at once a teacher from the sandbox stepped to the steps at the door and clapped her hands. “Lunchtime, children.”
Max hurried to the door with one look back to me.
Luba pulled me close. “He knows you, Sofya. We must go talk to the headmistress. After we show her the papers we could leave with him today.”
A lovely warmth spread over me as I pictured the three of us walking out the front gates, Max’s hand in mine.
I snatched the dog fur hat from my head. “How do I look?”
“Terrible. That coat is frightening, but just remove it when you enter the building. And the hair…” She licked her palm and smoothed back my hair. “There. Like any French mother.”
“At least I finally bathed.”
“You could still use some perfume. Just keep your distance.”
* * *
—
LUBA AND I WAITED in the outer room of the headmistress’s office. Glorious scents of roast chicken and potatoes and cinnamon wafted into the room sending our stomachs growling. At least Max was being fed one good meal per day. I pulled my dog fur coat closer, having decided it best