Free The Night, The Day by Andrew Kane

ignorant of his role in the roundup. Yet, somehow, he has a sense of shame – at least in front of this man – over hunting down children.
    “Partisans,” he responds.
    “What’s in the bag?” his father asks, pointing to the suitcase.
    “Oh, this,” he says defensively. “Just some papers from work.”
    His father gives him a disdainful look and walks away. Until this point, he had no clue how his father felt about the Vichy government’s collaboration with the Germans; the subject had never been discussed. He’d wondered if he would have been better off with the truth. Now he knows better.
    He goes upstairs to his room, removes his uniform, and examines the contents of the suitcase. There are many fine pieces of jewelry, mostly diamonds and gold, and enough cash for an ordinary man to live on for a year. He inspects the jewelry carefully and recognizes one of the brooches, a pink cameo the wife had worn the day he had attempted to seduce her. It is a simple piece, probably late nineteenth century Italian, a design of a wavy-haired woman walking through the wind, carrying a vine, framed in gold. Rather pretty, he tells himself as he notices an engraving on the back: To Leila, all my love, Philip.
    He stares at the brooch, admiring its workmanship. His father and many other hardworking Frenchmen could barely afford the types of ornaments frequently adorned by the Jews. And now all this belongs to him. He knows he will sell the jewelry when the time is right – but this piece he will keep, as a memento of sorts.
    He pulls a panel from the floor and retrieves a large wooden box that is hidden underneath. He deposits the cash and jewelry in the box, puts it back in its hiding place and replaces the floorboard. He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. It has been an arduous day, and tomorrow will be much the same.

    Jacques Benoît knew that he could never erase these images. These, and others. He thought about the brooch, why he had kept it all these years. Perhaps because it was his only link to the past, a reminder of what he must always hide if he was to survive. And perhaps it was also a symbol of his guilt, an irrational need to keep something of this woman and her family alive. Whatever it was, he could never bring himself to discard it.
    He had often imagined what would happen if he were captured, how the world would know only his depravity, the man he had once been; how they would embrace but a piece of the truth and ignore the rest. Who would care about his accomplishments over the past forty years? Who would give weight to his benevolence and philanthropy? No one, not even his wife and family.
    That was why his visits with the Jewish psychologist were now so crucial. Initially, he had agreed to see Martin Rosen, not to comfort his wife nor to satisfy Dr. Reddy, but as a ruse, a way of confusing his hunters into thinking that maybe he wasn’t their man to begin with. After all, how could the person they suspected him to be ever seek help from a Jew? It had been a clever move and must have assuredly infused doubt in their minds, especially after that fiasco over the identity of the auto worker in Ohio, the trial, the publicity, the eventual embarrassment.
    But now, after having met Rosen, Jacques Benoît had a new and even better plan, one that strengthened his resolve and convinced him that, so long as he played his part carefully, he could finally gain what he needed to be free.
    He recalled the information he had gathered on Martin Rosen’s personal life. It was surprising even to him what a man of resources could learn about another man. His people had scoured Rosen’s background down to the nitty-gritty details, and with all he now knew, he was certain he had made the right choice. In every way, Martin Rosen was ideal for what he had in mind.
    Jacques Benoît contemplated all this as his limo continued down Middle Neck Road through the busiest section of town. He turned around for a moment and