The Sparrow (59 page)

Excerpts from reviews of Mary Doria Russell's
The Sparrow

"It is science fiction brought back to the project with which it began in the hands of a writer like Jules Verne: the necessity of wonder, the hope for moral rectitude, and the possibility of belief."

—America

"Russell's debut novel … focuses on her characters, and it is here that the work truly shines. An entertaining infusion of humor keeps the book from becoming too dark, although some of the characters are so clever that they sometimes seem contrived. Readers who dislike an emphasis on moral dilemmas or spiritual quests may be turned off, but those who enjoy science fiction because it can create these things are in for a real treat."

—Science Fiction Weekly

"
The Sparrow
tackles a difficult subject with grace and intelligence."

—San Francisco Chronicle

"
The Sparrow
is an incredible novel, for one reason. Though it is set in the early twenty-first century, it is not written like most science fiction. Russell's novel is driven by her characters, by their complex relationships and inner conflicts, not by aliens or technology,"

—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

"It is rare to find a book about interplanetary exploration that has this much insight into human nature and foresight into a possible future.

—San Antonio Express News

"Two narratives—the mission to the planet and its aftermath four decades later—interweave to create a suspenseful tate."

—The Seattle Times

"By alternating chapters that dramatize Sandoz's tough-love interrogation with flashbacks to the mission's genesis, flowering, and tragic collapse,
The Sparrow
casts a strange, unsettling emotional spell, bouncing readers from scenes of black despair to ones of wild euphoria, from the bracing simplicity of pure adventure to the complicated tangles of nonhuman culture and politics…. The smooth storytelling and gorgeous characterization can't be faulted."

—Entertainment Weekly

Please read on for a preview of Mary Doria Russell's latest novel

A T
HREAD OF
G
RACE

available wherever books are sold

S
AINTE
-G
ISÈLE ON THE
V
ESUBIE
R
IVER
S
OUTHEASTERN
F
RANCE

W
EST OF THE
Maritime Alps, beyond what used to be the French border, soldiers of the Italian Fourth Army loiter on a street corner, pausing in their discussion of the armistice to watch a girl dash past. Sharing a match, they bend their heads over army-issue Milites and raise eyes narrowed by smoke. "Another year, and Diobon!" a Veronese private remarks. "That one's going to be trouble."

The others grunt agreement. The Italian Fourth has occupied this territory only since the end of '42, but that's been time enough to see her flower. "The features are still a bit too large for the face," a Florentine sergeant says appraisingly, "but the eyes are quite good, and she'll grow into those ears."

"Minchia!" a Sicilian swears. "If she was my sister, Papa would marry her off today."

"To keep you from getting your hands on her?" a Roman corporal asks, smoothly ducking the Sicilian's punch.

Flushed with late-summer heat and the importance of her news, Claudette Blum is fourteen, and splendidly unaware of her effect on others. Boys and girls her own age cringe at her infantile exuberance as she pushes and skips and dodges through the crowds that jam the streets of this mountain resort. Old men grumble darkly in German, French, Polish, Yiddish. Their elderly wives shake fingers. Those who could be her parents shake their heads, wondering when that gawky, thoughtless child will settle down. Only the kindest bless her heedless elation. They felt it themselves, briefly, when they heard the news. The Axis has begun to crumble.

They are all Jews—in the cafés and shops, the parks and pissoirs and bus stops of Sainte-Gisèle-Vesubie. The whole of Italian-occupied southern France is awash with Jews: the latest in the flood of refugees who've poured into Mussolini's fragile empire since the early thirties. Word's gone out, in whispers, and in letters passed from hand to Jewish hand. Italians don't hate us. The soldiers are decent men. You can walk openly in the streets, live like a human being! You're safe, if you can get behind Italian lines.

A few months ago, those lines were still expanding. When the Fourth rushed across the border, Police Commissioner Guido Lospinoso arrived from Rome with orders to take care of the Jews in Italy's French territory. Lospinoso did precisely that, commandeering hotels, filling tourist chalets and villas with refugees from across the continent. He encouraged the Hebrews to organize refectories and synagogues, schools for their children, nursing homes for their elderly and disabled. And then? Commissioner Lospinoso left France. He is, to this day, "on holiday," and therefore unavailable to countermand his orders placing all Jews under the protection of Italy's elite military police. Specially selected for imposing size and commanding presence, the carabinieri are, to a man, disinclined to be intimidated by their French or German counterparts.

When Vichy authorities wave Gestapo orders for the removal of undesirables, the carabinieri shrug diplomatically, all ersatz sympathy and counterfeit regret. Artistically inefficient, they shuffle papers and announce that another permit, or a letter from Rome, or some new stamp is required before they can process such a request, and no one has been deported. But now—

Claudette Blum gathers one last burst of energy and sprints down a hotel hallway, schoolgirl socks bunched under her heels. "Papa!" she cries, flinging open the door. "General Eisenhower was on Radio London! Italy has surrendered!"

She waits, breathless, for a whoop of joy, for her father to embrace her—perhaps even to weep with happiness. "Thank God you're back" is all he says. The room is dotted by small piles of clothing. Two valises lay open on two narrow beds. He lifts a pair of his own shoes. "See if these fit."

Deflated, she takes the worn black oxfords. "Papa, you never listen to me! Italy surrendered!"

"I heard." He picks up a shirt, puts it down again. "One to wear, one to wash. If those shoes are too big, put on extra socks—. Wait! Go downstairs first. Borrow trousers from Duno."

"Trousers from Duno? I wouldn't ask him for the time of day! Why are you packing?"

"I blame myself! Your mother wouldn't tolerate this arguing!" her father mutters, reducing socks and underwear to tiny bundles. "Do as you're told, Claudette! We have three, maybe four hours!"

She flounces from the room with a sigh of pained tolerance for a parent's unreasonable whims, but on her way back through the corridor Claudette grows uneasy. Family disputes in half a dozen languages filter through closed doors. Everyone seems angry or scared, and she cannot understand why, today of all days, when the news is so good.

"Believe nothing until it's been officially denied," her mother always said. "The only thing not censored is propaganda, and the British lie as much as the Germans." All right, Claudette concedes, clumping down the stairwell. Maybe the BBC exaggerates Axis losses, but even Radio Berlin admitted that the Wehrmacht gave up ground in Africa and Russia. Mussolini really was deposed in July! The king of Italy replaced il Duce with Field Marshal Badoglio, the Fascist regime was abolished, and Badoglio let all political prisoners out of jail. The Italian soldiers said that was true! The Allies conquered Sicily last month and landed on mainland Italy just last week. Could that be propaganda?

Veering between confidence and fear, she settles for adolescent pique, which splits the difference, and knocks on the Brösslers' door. No one answers, but she can hear Duno's father yelling. "Herrmann Brössler's lost everything but his voice," her own father said the first time they listened to an argument in the room below. "He was a big macher in Austria. An impresario! Now he's got nobody to boss but his family. "

Claudette knocks again, jumping back when Duno suddenly appears. "What do you want?"

Rising onto her toes, she peeks over his shoulder. Frau Brössler's packing, and little Steffi's stamping her feet. "You can't make me!" she weeps, while her nine-year-old sister, Liesl, insists, "Mutti, we can't leave Tzipi!"

Duno grabs Claudette's arm and shoves her back into the hotel hallway. "Ow! Let go of me!" she cries. "Has everyone gone crazy? The war is over! Why is Steffi crying?"

Duno stares with the arid contempt only a fifteen-year-old can produce on such short notice. "Stupid girl. Don't you understand anything?"

She hates Duno, hates his condescension, hates his horrible red pimples and his big ugly nose. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, rubbing her arm.

"When the Italians pull out of southern France, who do you think is going to march in?"

Her heart stops. She can feel it actually stop. "The Germans?"

"Yes, moron. The Germans."

"We've got to get out of here," she says, dazed. Duno rolls his eyes. "Where can we go now? There's no place left!"

"We're going east. We'll follow the army into Italy."

"Over the Alps?"

"It's the mountains, the sea, or the Germans," Duno says, relishing her fear because it makes him feel commanding and superior. "It's Italy or—" He makes a noise and draws a finger over his throat.

"Duno!" His mother pulls the door closed behind her. "What is it, Claudette?"

Claudette has seen a photo of Duno's mother from before the war. Frau Brössler's prosperous plumpness has gone to bone, but if she had any decent clothes now, she'd look like Wallis Simpson: willowy, well groomed. Claudette tucks her wayward blouse back into a skirt she outgrew last spring and decides to cut her bangs. "If you please, Frau Brössler, my father said to ask if I may borrow trousers from Duno."

"Your father is a sensible man, Liebes. Come in. We'll see what we can find."

Head high, Claudette flounces through the door, shooting a look of triumph at Duno, who is forced by hard-taught courtesy to stand aside and let her pass, but she stops dead when she catches sight of his father's face. "Liesl, we cannot carry a birdcage over the mountains," Herr Brössler shouts. "No more than we can take your grandmother on such a climb!"

Duno picks up a china-faced doll and hands it to little Steffi. "We have to leave Tzipi behind," he says, kneeling in front of her. "There's plenty of food for canaries here. He'll be very happy. Oma will be all right, too," Duno says, eyes on his father. "The doctors and nurses are staying."

"Thank you, Duno," Frieda Brössler says quietly. "Stop arguing, girls. Bring only what you can carry with one hand!" She holds a pair of Duno's trousers. "Take the woolen ones, Claudette. It will be chilly at high altitude."

A
LBERT
B
LUM PUSHES
tall shutters aside and leans from the window. In the street below, people are hurrying east on foot, but he himself closes his mind to fear and haste. Taking a seat at the little wooden desk, he smooths a single sheet of carefully hoarded stationery. Iron habit demands that his pencil stub be perfectly sharpened. He brushes wood shavings into the wastebasket, wipes the blade of his penknife with a handkerchief, replaces both in his pocket. When he begins at last to write, each letter is precise and regular.

"My beloved Paula, my brave David and darling Jacques," he begins. "Claudette and I are leaving Sainte-Gisèle. I cannot know if this or any of my letters will reach you. I've spent days at bus stops and markets, asking everyone for word of you. I've contacted the Red Cross and the Jewish Council in every town, but nobody's taken notice of a woman traveling with two small boys. In July, I enlisted the aid of a compassionate and resourceful carabiniere," Albert writes, silently blessing Umberto Giovanetti. "He found your names on the manifest of an eastbound train last September, but could learn nothing of your present whereabouts. The Italians have done little to ingratiate themselves with the Vichy government, but this policy makes it difficult to obtain information from French authorities."

Claudette bursts in, trousers slung over one arm, pale but calm. "I'll change," she says. "Give me five minutes."

"Claudette is nearly grown," her father writes, and turns the paper over. "She's like a dolphin, Paula. The woman she will be surfaces now and then, before submerging again into childhood's sea. We are moving on to Italy, where the war is over. Our carabiniere told us of DELASEM, an Italian Jewish organization that operates with government approval. They will find us a place to live, and I'll register again with the Red Cross. There's no more time, my dear ones. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord shine His countenance upon you. May the Lord give us all peace, and bring us together again! Your devoted husband and loving father, Albert."

He folds the letter, seals it into an envelope, addresses it simply Paula Bomberghen Blum. Shrugging into a baggy suit coat, he turns toward his daughter. His jaw drops. "What on earth have you done to your hair?"

She lifts her chin, but tears brim. "My bangs were too long. I cut them." Shamefaced, she picks up her bag. "They didn't come out the way I wanted."

He shakes his head and drapes a topcoat over one arm. "Never mind. Hair grows."

She holds the door open while he takes a final look around the room. They join others in the hallway and descend the stairs in a murmuring flow, but when they reach the hotel lobby, Albert steps aside. Claudette looks back at him uncertainly. "A moment," he says. "Wait at the corner, please."

When she's left the hotel, Albert approaches the front desk, where a bored clerk pares his nails. "My wife may come here, looking for us, monsieur," Albert says. "Would you be so very kind as to keep this letter for her?"

The clerk takes the envelope without so much as a word.

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," Albert says with a small bow. "Please give the owner our thanks for his hospitality all these months—"

"Hospitality!" A sour-faced maid lumbers past, a bundle of linens heaped in her arms. "Who's going to pay the bill, that's what I want to know!"

The clerk is not heartless. He waits until the fidgety little Belgian is gone before ripping the letter into tiny pieces. The Germans will be here soon, he thinks. No sense taking a chance for a dirty Jew.

"P
ACE YOURSELVES,
" U
MBERTO
Giovanetti advises, waving civilians past carabinieri headquarters toward a bridge over the Vesubie. "Long, easy steps."

A reminder, nothing more: they are practiced at this, the Jews of Sainte-Gisèle. For most, this is the second or third or fourth time they've fled the Wehrmacht or Gestapo or local police, moving from Austria or Czechoslovakia or Poland to Belgium or Holland or France. Many carry children. Most carry suitcases. Some have fashioned knapsacks from blankets and string. Leaderless, they will attempt to climb the Alps in street clothes, wearing whatever shoes are still intact after years on the run, one step ahead of the Nazis, but not alone this time. Among the bobbing homburgs and swaying kerchiefs are hundreds of gray-green field caps; the Italian Fourth is at their side. The armistice was supposed to be kept secret until Italy's armies could withdraw in good order. Instead, the Germans learned of their ally's surrender the same way Italy's armed forces did: on Radio London, when that idiot Eisenhower told the whole world three days early. Now it's every man for himself.

Behind Giovanetti, a squad of carabinieri dig in near the stone bridge that spans the river east of town. "Brigadiere!" one of his men says, nodding toward the crowd. "Your little admirer!"

Claudette Blum waves as she and her father work through the throng. Umberto blinks, taken aback. Mortified by his reaction, the girl's fingers fly to her forehead. "A new hairstyle!" Umberto exclaims heartily, trying to recover. "How very becoming, Mademoiselle Blum!"

She turns away, blushing, only to confront Duno Brössler's mocking leer. "Mmmmmmberto," he moans, eyes closed in dreamy devotion. Claudette snarls and Duno laughs, crossing the bridge and striding down the road after his family.