The Julian Chapter: A Wonder Story Page A

village.
    “Oh, you know me, Jules,” she answered. “I do not like to dwell on the past. Life is ahead of us. If we spend too much time looking backward, we can’t see where we are going!”
    Much of the village had changed. Too many bombs and grenades had been dropped. Most of the original houses had been destroyed in the war. Grandmère’s school was gone. There was really nothing much to see. Just Starbucks and shoe stores.
    But then we drove to Dannevilliers, which is where Julian had lived: that village was intact. She took us to the barn where she had stayed for two years. The old farmer who lived there now let us walk around and take a look. Grandmère found her initials scrawled in a little nook in one of the horse stalls, which is where she would hide under piles of hay whenever the Nazis were nearby. Grandmère stood in the middle of the barn, with one hand on her face as she looked around. She seemed so tiny there.
    “How are you doing, Grandmère?” I asked.
    “Me? Ah! Well,” she said, smiling. She tilted her head. “I lived. I remember thinking, when I was staying here, that the smell of horse manure would never leave my nostrils. But I lived. And Jules was born because I lived. And you were born. So what is the smell of horse manure against all that? Perfume and time make everything easier to bear. Now, there’s one more place I want to visit.…”
    We drove about ten minutes away to a tiny cemetery on the outskirts of the village. Grandmère took us directly to a tombstone at the edge of the graveyard.
    There was a small white ceramic plaque on the tombstone. It was in the shape of a heart, and it read:
    ICI REPOSENT
    Vivienne Beaumier
née le 27 de avril 1905
décédée le 21 de novembre 1985
    Jean-Paul Beaumier
né le 15 de mai 1901
décédé le 5 de juillet 1985
    Mère et père de
Julian Auguste Beaumier
né le 10 de octobre 1930
tombé en juin 1944
Puisse-t-il toujours marcher le front haut dans le jardin de Dieu
    I looked at Grandmère as she stood looking at the plaque. She kissed her fingers and then reached down to touch it. She was trembling.
    “They treated me like their daughter,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.
    She started sobbing. I took her hand and kissed it.
    Mom took Dad’s hand. “What does the plaque say?” she asked softly.
    Dad cleared his throat.
    “Here rests Vivienne Beaumier …,” he translated softly. “And Jean-Paul Beaumier. Mother and father of Julian Auguste Beaumier, born October 10, 1930. Killed June 1944. May he walk forever tall in the garden of God.”

We got back to NYC a week before my new school was scheduled to start. It was nice, being in my room again. My things were all the same. But I felt, I don’t know, a little different. I can’t explain it. I felt like I really was starting over.
    “I’ll help you unpack in a minute,” said Mom, running off to the bathroom as soon as we stepped through the door.
    “I’m good,” I answered. I could hear Dad in the living room listening to our answering-machine messages. I started unpacking my suitcase. Then I heard a familiar voice on the machine.
    I stopped what I was doing and walked into the living room. Dad looked up and paused the machine. Then he replayed the message for me to hear.
    It was Auggie Pullman.
    “Oh, hi, Julian,” said the message. “Yeah, so … umm … I just wanted to tell you I got your note. And, um … yeah, thanks for writing it. No need to call me back. I just wanted to say hey. We’re good. Oh, and by the way, it wasn’t me who told Tushman about the notes, just so you know. Or Jack or Summer. I really don’t know how he found out, not that it matters anyway. So, okay. Anyway. I hope you like your new school. Good luck. Bye!”
    Click.
    Dad looked at me to see how I would react.
    “Wow,” I said. “I didn’t expect that at all.”
    “Are you going to call him back?” asked Dad.
    I shook my head. “Nah,” I answered. “I’m too