Chapter Text
He was found on a rainy afternoon. It was summer, he knew that much from the heat the day before. Where it was grey and cloudy, the wind oddly biting cold, the afternoon before had been searing hot, turning his pale skin pink as he hunkered near trees. He still wasn’t sure how he’d got to…well…wherever it is. He wasn’t sure of many things. He knew his name was Eric, that he’d been walking a very long time, and had made it through the kindness of strangers whose language he didn’t speak. The roads were long, a lot of them torn, the villages in rubble in some places.
They looked at him askance, like maybe he was a traitor or a spy—and for all he knew, he was one. But he knew he wasn’t Allemand—he didn’t entirely understand the word, but it was the name of the enemy, and he wasn’t that because once they heard him speak, they sent him on his way with loaves of bread and sometimes half a bushel of apples.
Eric had a few things. A pack with drawing supplies and a book. He had woken in the shed of a sheep farm with tattered clothes and a vicious wound on his shoulder. The older woman running the farm, who didn’t speak a lick of English, had tended to him. He was fed and watered, and helped her with chores until he could be on his way.
Then she slipped him a few brass-looking coins and a change of clothes, a fresh pair of boots, and he was gone. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew he had to get somewhere, to someone who could help him get home. Who could maybe explain how he’d got here, and maybe where he’d been.
So far, it hadn’t been much. He had vicious nightmares which left him waking in a cold-sweat, but he couldn’t remember much besides loud sounds, and a lot of water seeping into his lungs, leaving him gasping for air, feeling like he was drowning. The rest was just a mess.
He knew he’d come from Georgia. That his momma and daddy had a little ranch just outside of Madison where they raised cow, they had a coop with chickens, and sold eggs down at the market. He knew he’d always been a little strange, a queer boy no one liked to look at for long. But at the market, they sure loved him and his momma’s pies.
And lord did Eric miss them both. Lord did he want to get home, but he just didn’t know how.
He’d run out of money a few towns back, had been sleeping in fields. When the storm hit, he’d scrambled for town, a little village bigger’na ones he’d been in before, but not enough he’d find himself a telephone. He’d give darn-near his right arm for a telegram if he could get his hands on one, but so far this place had little more than a bakery, cheese shop, a dress-maker, and a lot of little homes with thatched roofs and wooden doors.
The rain was unforgiving, and Eric was developing a harsh burn in his lungs which he knew wasn’t a good sign. He’d need a hot drink and a few days rest, and that didn’t seem like it was on the horizon. He thought it would be less than swell to die on the side of a road when he’d survived…whatever it was he survived. But he supposed God Himself had a sense of humour. At least a little one.
His eyes were heavy now, and his skin burned with fever, and he could feel himself slipping.
He was only half aware when big hands suddenly took him under his arms. And bein’ a man, he’d’a protested harder if he could have made a sound, but as it was, his throat was tight and his tongue too thick for his mouth.
He was being carried then, feeling like he was floating on waves, and then the water stopped. There was warmth, pressed to his lips, and he manged to gulp it down just before his head fell back against a soft pillow. A warm, rich voice said something to him in a language he didn’t understand, and then his eyes slipped shut, and blackness took over.
***
When Eric woke the second time, he realised he was on a sofa in a very small lounge, in a very small flat. The sofa was perched under a small window, letting in a stream of light which told him the storm had passed. His limbs felt heavy, like when he’d been real sick as a kid and his momma had given him foul-tasting medicine. His eyes protested when he tried to open them fully, but he won the battle, and managed to sit up.
There was a small table in front of him, and a tray laid out with some crusty bread which didn’t look too old, a bit of cured meat, and the soft cheese he’d seen during his travels. His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten in a while, so he took it all in with a ravishing hunger he hadn’t expected. His throat was still sore, but there was a glass of slightly warmed, fresh squeezed juice, and that went down easy.
When he was full, Eric flushed from his lack of manners, but luckily there’d been no one around to see him. His skin itched, and being inside somewhere nice like this made him profoundly aware of the last time he’d bathed, the last time he’d scrubbed at his teeth or had washed his clothes. He shifted, glancing at his surroundings. It was homey, full of books, a few paintings on the walls. But it was also a little too tidy, as though the person who lived there didn’t spend much time there at all.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat, but just as his bladder was starting to protest, the door opened and a man walked in. He was tall, imposing, and one of the most beautiful Eric had ever seen. He had stark black hair, icy blue eyes, and a firm, square jaw. His eyes roamed the room, then flared a little wide when he realised Eric was awake.
A tense silence fell between them, then the man began to speak rapidly, though not in English.
Eric blinked, then let out a nervous laugh and said, “I’m beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I don’t speak a lick’a that. Whatever it is. I been tryin’ but…” He trailed off.
The man’s jaw snapped shut, and he stared for a minute.
Eric licked his lips. “You got a…toilet?”
The man gave a short nod, then gestured down the hall where Eric saw a small room. He thanked god somewhere in this little town had indoor plumbing. He was able to relieve himself, and in the kitchen he found a sink and some soap, and got his hands and arms as clean as he could manage.
When he turned back, the man was perched at the edge of a chair, watching him carefully. Eric took a hesitant step, then said, “I should say thank you. For what you did. Savin’ my life. You probably don’t understand a word but…it means a lot. My name’s Eric.” He met the man’s icy gaze, then pointed to himself. “Eric. Eric Bittle.”
The man’s jaw was set tight, but he gave a nod, then pointed to himself. “Jack Zimmermann.”
“Real nice to meet ya, Jack Zimmermann,” Eric said. He thought about extending his hand, but Jack was so clean and sweet smelling, and Eric was…not. “Really, thank you again.”
“You…are welcome,” Jack said in stilted English, and Eric startled so hard, he actually felt his heart hammer against the inside of his ribs.
“You speak English.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. “Little bit,” he said. “I learn some in school. Some from…men. Who come through. Come to my shop.”
“Men,” Eric repeated. “Like me or…”
“Solider,” Jack said, waving his hand dismissively. “They fighting in the war. Some English, some American.”
Eric felt his stomach drop. Was there a war? He had no memory of that. “I…clearly I wasn’t a solider. I mean, look at the size of me.”
“Très petit,” Jack commented, and a tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. “Not fight.”
Eric shrugged. “My daddy was in the war. First war, you know. Back in eighteen. Got shot up real bad right near the end, sent him home. His leg was never the same, but he was doin’ alright. Last time I…saw him.” Eric stopped as Jack nodded.
“I fight,” Jack said, and then he reached up and yanked the leg of his trouser to his knee. “Then…” He made a kaboom sort of sound, a hand motion like something exploded. “Doctor…fix. But…is not same.”
“So there…so there is a war,” Eric breathed. “Is it…are we…”
“No danger,” Jack said, as though he knew what Eric was thinking. He rose and took a tentative step toward Eric, his brow furrowed, but he no longer looked angry. “Is over. They surrender, everyone going home…to family.”
Eric nodded. “Yeah I…well. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Jack cocked his head to the side. “You are not…going home? Not have family? How you come to Arromanches?”
Eric blinked at him. “A…what? Is that where I am?”
“Arromanches-les-Bains,” Jack said, the words rolling off his tongue. “Normandy. What happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” Eric breathed. “I’m not…Lordy I ain’t sure. I got hurt real bad, woke up in a barn, and this real nice lady was takin’ care’a me. But I can’t remember much. Not since…” He blew out a puff of air. “Lord, since before they was takin’ boys in the draft.”
Jack looked like maybe he didn’t understand all the words that had come out of Eric’s mouth, but he nodded all the same. “Maybe you fight? With the Americans? There was a big battle, they come from the sea, was not good for so many, but…then the war is over and they all pulling out, go home.”
Eric let out a tiny laugh. “Now ain’t that a thought, but look at me, Jack. I’m not the fightin’ kind. They wouldn’t’a wanted me anyway when they learnt…” He fell quiet, his tongue refusing to say the words because he might not have remembered much, but he sure as heck remembered watching Michael Willis running up the football field and feeling…some type of way about him that Eric knew wasn’t a good thing. He swallowed thickly, not wanting a beating from the nice Frenchman. “I must’a got here some other way. Maybe my family’s here, you know? Lookin’ for me?”
Jack hummed. “Most Americans, they visit Paris, not here. We are…small place, not many people, not much English.”
Eric let out a small laugh. “Figured that one out.”
“You work for me,” Jack said after some silence, his voice firm and decided. “I pay you, then you take money, maybe go look for them in Paris. It take…maybe couple of weeks, maybe one months, but you on the road much longer, yes?”
“Oh I…” Eric began.
Jack gave him a piercing stare, then asked, “You can bake?”
That startled a laugh out of Eric who shook his head. “Oh honey…can I bake…”
***
Eric assumed he’d be put to work straight away, but instead Jack showed him the bath, which he luxuriated in for nearly a half hour. Jack wasn’t the sort who had fine-smelling soaps or anything, but he had enough to get Eric clean, and a set of clothes waiting for him when he was out.
They had dinner that night, some sort of creamy soup with chunks of noodles and veg, and fresh bread which Eric learnt Jack made every night by hand. The bakery, as Eric was given a tour after they’d eaten, was small, but there wasn’t much reason for it to be larger. The little village had less than three hundred people—maybe not even that after the war had ravaged the area. Though the Germans had retreated, things still weren’t easy.
“For my family,” Jack said, his face illuminated by the oil lamp perched on the bakery counter. “We are…how you saying this in English. Like the Germans say it? Jude?”
“Jewish,” Eric said, his voice a little small, because…that triggered something. Something he was supposed to know, like a memory buried deep. His head began to hurt as he pressed himself for it, but nothing came.
“The people here…most are good men, but some don’t like me so much. My parents…my father, he fight. My mother work in Paris, to send money here.” Jack sounded a little sad, a little tired as he spoke, his big hands folded together on the counter which was pale with a dusting of flour. “The country, needs too much…euh…” Jack struggled for the word. “Is so broken, need to be fix. Everyone working so hard, give up so much. I take over here, after my leg. But not everyone in the village still happy we’re here. Some of them…not think we should have..stay.”
“Because you’re Jewish…” Eric said, trailing off.
Jack shrugged. “I stay. Is our shop, our home. Someday when the country is better, I go back to University, the world will be…better.”
Eric let out a small sigh, and nodded. He closed his eyes and felt a wave of dizzy, and something pressing against his head, like a memory struggling to come out. But it was still blank, and he wished he knew how to make it stop. “Jack?”
Jack looked up at him. “Ouais?”
“Is there a way I can post a letter home? Just in case my ma and pa aren’t here?”
Jack smiled. “Ouais, Eric. I can help you with that.”
***
Eric kept the letter simple, written over coffee and croissants the next morning, long before the sun was up. Eric didn’t love waking early, but the prospect of talking to Jack again—someone who could speak his language, connect with him in a way no one had in what felt like months. He told his parents where he was, that he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. An injury, he was certain, and he had little memory, but was working on getting money to come home. He added Jack’s address, though it would be post-marked, and then handed it off to his new flatmate.
“I think that should do it.” Eric worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “How long d’you think before it arrives?”
“International, sometime take one months,” Jack said as he began to seal up the envelope. “But maybe little bit longer since there is still little bit fighting at the borders.”
Eric felt his shoulders slump, dejected, but still hopeful. It would take him just as long—if not longer—to earn passage back to the States, then to Georgia as it was. So maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. “I guess it’s all I got. Thanks for this.”
Jack shook his head. “De rien. Today we going to the market in Bayeux, for more supply, and we send your letter.”
Eric’s eyes widened, but Jack’s tone booked no argument, so he hurried through the rest of his breakfast, and quickly washed up. He didn’t look as tidy as he would have preferred, Jack’s clothes on him a few sizes too big, but the belt worked well enough, and after rolling his sleeves to the elbow and dragging a comb through his hair, he felt alright.
The gifted shoes weren’t worn through, so he slipped those on, and Jack ushered him out the door, down the street, and round the corner to where a car was parked. It was a nice looking one, more modern than Eric expected in a small village like this. He clambered into the seat, and before long, they were puttering down the road.
“This is real nice,” Eric said after some time.
Jack glanced over, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Merci.”
“That means…thank you, yeah?”
Jack laughed. “Ouais.”
Eric frowned. “Ouais,” he repeated. “Is that the same as oui?” He knew he was butchering the pronunciation by the way Jack was grinning, but he held his shoulders firm and Jack chuckled again.
“Is little bit same. More…how you saying it? Friendly?”
“Casual?” Eric offered.
“Casual,” Jack repeated. “You learn, after working at my shop. I teach you some French. When you going home, then you already have languages for University.”
Eric giggled. “University. Oh Jack…I’m just…I’ll be livin’ and dyin’ on my daddy’s farm, trust me. There’s no University for me.”
“You don’t want it?” Jack asked, a curious frown furrowing his eyebrows.
Eric shrugged, glancing at the very green beyond the bumpy road. “I…never really thought. I had enough schoolin’ at home, or so my daddy thought. And I ain’t…got a lot of talent. I mean, I bake a mean pie but…what’s that gonna do for a boy? Certainly ain’t gonna earn me a wife.”
Jack hummed. “A wife.” The look he gave Eric after that set Eric on edge, his heart beating hard and fast like maybe Jack knew. “Is what everyone does, yes?”
Eric shrugged, trying not to choke on the heart which was lodged in his throat. “I…guess so. Wondered if um…if it was ever for me.”
Jack sighed. “Peut être.”
The rest of the drive to Bayeux was in near silence.
***
Bayeux seemed larger than where Jack lived, but not by too much. All the same, the streets were busier, and there were more shops and cafés along the streets. Jack parked the car along a kerb, then beckoned Eric along first to post his letter. He spoke in rapid French, the words flowing from his lips like Eric hadn’t heard yet since he’d met the baker, but it was captivating and beautiful.
Eric hoped the whole thing was being explained, but the man behind the counter—though he seemed a little confused, was friendly enough and gave Eric a reassuring nod before taking it in his hands. Eric closed his eyes and murmured a prayer that all would be right, and he’s find his way home.
Jack led the way out of the shop, but though Eric could see the market stalls not far off, brimming with produce, Jack took his arm and led him toward a café.
“Food,” he explained.
Eric frowned. “No money. Jack I…”
“Is okay,” Jack insisted. He put Eric in a chair, under a small umbrella swaying next to a quaint little sign reading La Buvette. Eric kicked his legs, and watched the people milling about. No one looked at him much, which was just as well. He supposed he didn’t seem too foreign at first glance, and it would only be when he opened his mouth people would notice.
But maybe, if there had been a war, Americans wouldn’t seem so foreign. The whole thing had a ring of familiarity to it. Eric had known there was fighting in Europe. There had been whispers of it since thirty-nine, and he’d once even talked to his daddy, wonderin’ if he’d get drafted with the rest of the boys. But his daddy didn’t seem to think they’d want a boy like Eric, and Eric couldn’t blame him for thinkin’ it.
It seemed an awful coincidence though, that he was here, banged up, without a memory. But there was no sign of war on him. He woke up without a pack, without weapons, or fatigues. Without dog-tags. Just a wound, and a handful of items that just might have identified him if all they’d had to ship back was a body.
Lord, it was so much, and he wished he could get his head back to the way it had been.
Rubbing at his temple, Eric startled when Jack came out, holding a small tray with two beers, and sandwiches. He offered Eric’s portion over without a word, and Eric took it with a nod of thanks, tucking in straight away so he didn’t appear to be ungrateful.
He was glad, after taking a drink, that it was cider instead of anything stronger. He didn’t think his head could take any of the rich ale they served these parts. Eric had tried it once, on the road, and was stuck with a headache for two days after. His momma and daddy weren’t the drinkin’ type, had supported prohibition with an almost fanaticism that they also threw into their Sunday services.
Eric had to wonder what they’d think now, with him sittin’ in this café having a hard cider with a tall, handsome Jewish man.
He flushed and kept his gaze focused on his food.
“What sort of pie you bake?”
Jack’s voice startled Eric out of his thoughts, and he glanced up at Jack who had finished his meal. “Oh well…where I come from we grow lots’a peaches. You know those?”
“Bien sûr. Nous avons des pêches ici.” When Eric’s brow furrowed hard, Jack laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yes, we have peach here in France. We can buy some, yes? If you want to bake this peaches pie?”
Eric flushed and dragged a hand down his face. “Alright, you. You better start teachin’ me some French stuff so I don’t keep lookin’ like a right fool.”
Jack’s grin didn’t fade, and he clasped his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. “What some things you wish to know? Hmm? Maybe introduce yourself, yes? Your age?”
Eric worried his bottom lip, feeling a sting from biting it so often. “How do you say…I am?”
Jack’s smile softened. “Je suis.”
“Je suis,” Eric repeated, then a few more times for good measure. “Je suis Eric Bittle.”
Jack snickered, shaking his head. “Je m’appelle Eric Bittle.”
Eric sat back, huffing and crossing his arms. “But…”
“In France we say, I call myself. Not I am. Je m’appelle,” he repeated slower. “They teach you this in school. First lesson. Je m’appelle Jack. Tu t’appelle Eric.”
Eric licked his lips. “Tu t’appelle Eri…”
“Non,” Jack said. “Je m’appelle.”
“Je m’appelle Eric,” he repeated with a huff, flinging his arms into a shrug.
Jack gave him a slow golf clap. “Bravo. Très bien.”
“I’m assumin’ that means good,” Eric said with a tiny huff. “How…how do you say twenty?”
Jack mulled that over, then held up two fingers, then made a circle with his hand, and Eric nodded. “Vingt.”
Eric repeated the word a few times, then said, “Je suis vingt.” When Jack’s eyes began to twinkle, Eric huffed and threw himself backward in his chair. “Oh what now? Lord this language…”
“J’ai vingt ans. Is meaning…I have twenty years. Vingt ans. Twenty years.”
“I have twenty…” Eric said, trailing off with a sharp breath. “Y’all in this country are mad. I’m never going to get this.”
“Is just take some time, Eric.” Jack winked at him, making Eric go hot all over. “J’ai vingt-cinq ans.” He held up a two, then a five, and Eric thought to himself for a brief, traitorous moment, not so much older I should feel bad before he remembered Jack was a man and he was a man and that was just not what the Lord wanted.
He swallowed thickly. “J’ai vingt ans.”
“Bravo,” Jack said again. “Maybe we think of something more simple, yes? For today. Just say…merci beaucoup. Meaning, thank you very much. Will be helpful when we are shopping. I take care of the rest.”
Eric rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep the tiny grin off his face as he stood up and gave a little bow. “Merci beaucoup for the lunch, Jack.”
Jack laughed again, and shook his head. “De rien, Eric. Viens, allons-y.”
Eric didn’t need a translation, when Jack’s hand curled round his arm, and tugged him down the street.
***
Eric expected to get back to work the moment they had unloaded everything into the bakery. But instead of opening his doors, Jack took Eric back inside. The sun would be setting in a few hours, and Jack put out a few loaves of bread, some fruit, and began to heat up soup.
“You don’t want to open up?” Eric asked.
Jack shook his head. “Is late already, and…Shabbat when sun is down,” he said. “We don’t open then. Tomorrow is day of rest, no working, no baking.”
Eric’s eyes widened. “Oh um. Is that like…it’s…you believe um…?”
Jack shrugged. “Sometimes my family,” he said slowly, “we not follow all the rules. But maman and papa, is important to them I do this. Is difficult here, no place to go. No…” He struggled for the word, then shrugged. “No one here like me, so I light Shabbos candles here and…keep Shabbat alone.”
Eric realised what Jack was saying. There was no community. He was alone in his faith, and by his tone, the village preferred it that way. His stomach sank and he understood it in a way. Standing on your own, othered for who you were.
He walked up to Jack, reaching over, and took the cutting board with the carrots. “Can I?”
Jack smiled at him, then nodded and made a go-ahead gesture. They worked side-by-side, in mostly silence, laughing a little when they bumped hips or elbows. It was nice, and familiar, and the warmest and safest Eric had felt since he’d woken up in that barn.
When the soup was finished, the two of them sat in the lounge, feet curled under them, soup in their bowls, and bread on the table. Eric’s eyes drifted to the city street, to the soft orange glow as the sun began to dip low onto the horizon.
“How long ago did the war end, Jack?”
Jack blinked at him. “About eight month. Soldiers pull out not too long before this, but the fighting mostly stop before that.”
Eric let out a shaking breath. “I wish I could…I wish I could remember. You’d think I’d know why it’s all gone. There was no head wound, just…” He rubbed at his arm where a mess of scars sat just below his shoulder. “I don’t know how long I been here, how long I been away from home and lost.” He closed his eyes. “I’m scared.”
“You find home soon,” Jack assured him. He reached over, squeezing Eric’s arm. “Stay with me little while, then fill your pocket, and go see your peaches.”
Eric couldn’t help a laugh, and he cocked his head to the side, sharing with Jack his most genuine smile yet. “Merci beaucoup, Jack.”
Jack’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “De rien, Eric.”
***
Booming sounds, flashes of lights, pain. Something was choking him—maybe water, maybe blood. He couldn’t feel anything from his neck down except searing fire, and someone was dragging him through the mud, by the arm, and by the hair. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a choked wail, blocked by a swollen tongue…
The scream was lodged in his throat, and Eric scrambled to get free of what was holding him until he realised it was only blankets, and a warm palm on his cheek. After a moment, he could hear the soft flow of Jack’s words, murmuring in French as he remembered where he was.
“Jack,” he gasped.
Jack gathered Eric to him, holding him fast in an embrace that would have left Eric mortified if it hadn’t been for his racing heart, and the feeling like he was dying. As he started to calm, he pulled away, glancing up at Jack who was watching him with confusion and worry, but no judgement, no pity.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
Jack shook his head as he eased Eric back down, and handed over a glass of water. “Nightmare. Is right word, yes?”
Eric nodded as he swallowed half the water down, choking a little, swiping his hand across his mouth. “They happen a lot, but I can never remember them.”
“Nothing?” Jack asked. He crouched low, pressing the palm of his hand to Eric’s forehead. It was sweating, but cool. “You have see some doctor?”
Eric shook his head. “I mean, I got patched up by the old lady who found me, but I don’t think a doctor is gonna help much, Jack. When it happens it’s…I feel so…”
“Je sais,” Jack said quietly. “I know. After I’m shot I have…terrible dreams. Wake me up some nights, scared I’m there, in the fight. In the war.” He cocked his head to the side. “Maybe you were solider, Eric Bittle?”
Eric squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shuddering breath. “Maybe. But if I was…whatever this is, Jack…I’m not sure I want to know.”
Jack’s face fell in understanding, and he straightened up. “Maybe. For now, you sleep. In the morning, will all feel better.”
Eric nodded to himself, and buried his face in the pillow as Jack’s footsteps retreated back to his room. It wasn’t much, and he felt more alone than before, but it had been something. He could feel the ghost of Jack’s hands on him, of being crowded up against Jack’s chest, and he desperately tried to forget how nice it was. Because for however kind Jack was, he certainly wouldn’t remain so if he ever found out the truth about Eric Bittle, and his dark, quiet thoughts.