Strasbourg, France — Christmas Eve 1943



The White Gloves

Strasbourg, France — Christmas Eve, 1943
Christmas snow shields more than footsteps — it hides children from soldiers, muffles voices they dare not raise, and softens the kind of fear carried by those who are losing themselves. During the holidays, Christmas snow must save them all.

The barn creaks behind him; inside, eight small bodies huddle beneath blankets, their cherub faces peeking out, pink cheeks stiff with cold, breath rising in faint clouds as snow drifts down like a blessing no one dares name. Marcel, himself  only sixteen, tightens his scarf. His brother Alain, two years older, stands by the wagon — its bed lined with straw for warmth.

“Marcel,” Alain says, grabbing his arm. “We need to change our surname. Maybe forever.”

“What? Why? I don’t understand.” The seriousness of the question grips his fear.

“If the Gestapo catches us, they’ll look for our family. Not many Mangels in Strasbourg, France. Our parents will be in danger. I’ve been thinking—Marceau, in order to honor our General Marceau.”

A child whimpers. 

“Shhh! Not here,” Alain whispers, eyes flicking toward the black woods where German patrols might wait. He rubs flour across Marcel’s cheeks. “White face blend into the snow.”

Marcel glances into a cracked mirror. “I look silly.”

“You are silly. That’s why I love you. We’re going to get through this, brother — and so are these kids.”

Alain hugs Marcel — quick and fierce, then starts moving. He pulls the wagon into the snow as the cold wind bites at them. Beneath blankets, little voices stir — chatter, a whimper, a panicked wail. Marcel crouches, snow stinging his knees. He presses a finger to his lips. He meets the children’s wide eyes one by one. Then he tugs an invisible rope, staggers under its weight, and tumbles backward into the drift with an exaggerated oomph!

The sobs crack into giggles. Marcel bounces up, brushing off invisible feathers, then hushes them again. A freckled girl presses her white gloves to her mouth to mute her laughter.

“Shhh,” Alain warns — their fear is softening into wonder, but they still must be careful.

Marcel walks backward, a comic guardian — grimacing, stumbling, pretending to slip in the snow — doing anything to keep the children’s eyes on him instead of the guns that wait ahead. 

The forest thins. Beyond the last pines lies the gap between the French lines and neutral Switzerland. Gunfire cracks to the left, echoing hard off snow-clad hills. The wagon jolts over frozen roots. Every squeak of the wheels sounds loud enough to betray them.

Alain’s halts. The children freeze as German shouting moves close enough to chill bone. Marcel kneels beside a blue spruce tree, finger to his lips. He mimes the wagon vanishing into thin air. The children, half-terrified, half-delighted — unsure of what’s happening — bury their faces to stifle tears and giggles.

CRACK—a rifle shot. Bark explodes inches above Marcel’s head. The shock rattles through him, but seeing the children’s eyes, he tumbles backward in slapstick, then springs up grinning. The blue spruce tree took a bullet for him.

The snow clings to its branches like memory itself, quiet and alive.

Long moments of silence pass. German shouts fade. Alain waves them forward. Wheels groan, boots crunch, until they slip through the pass onto a quiet, snow-lit road — on the Swiss side.

They reach an old motel turned into an orphanage. It smells of woodsmoke and bread. Warm hands lift the children from the wagon. Some cling to Alain, others to Marcel. All safe — this time. Marcel rubs his stiff, frozen fingers. The freckled girl steps close, her coat patched at the elbows. She tugs off her white gloves and presses them into his hands.

He slips them on. They’re still warm. They smile to each other — without a word. “You’re a strong little girl,” he says. “I’ll remember the night courage wore white gloves.” He kisses her cheek.  
Alaine’s look is grim. “We go back for more.”

Christmas snow whirls at the door. Marcel flexes his fingers in the white gloves, pats his brother’s back and says, “That run was too close. Great job, Alain Marceau!”

They share a hug. Alain counters, “Great job, Marcel Marceau!”

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​CHAPTER TWO - The Chosen

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​First Recruit: Finn Dumas 

Shop windows glow gold with ribboned chocolates and towers of pastries; chestnut vendors hiss steam into the cold; carolers sway beneath café awnings, singing half for joy, half for warmth.
In Montmartre — a famous quarter in Paris’ 18th arrondissement — on a crooked corner off Rue Norvins, beneath a gaslamp, flickering like it’s got stage fright, a boy flourishes a playing card between his fingers. His coat sags on his shoulders, his green shirt is wrinkled and too big, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the pockets — room for string, matches, a bottle of disappearing ink.

Finn Dumas is thirteen — give or take. Hard to tell under that mop of blond hair spilling from a straw hat with a black band. His eyes are quick and restless, always searching for the face who’s most interested — the one most likely to drop a coin. Because Finn’s not just a boy tonight — he’s a street magician, trying to earn enough for him and his partner to eat.

His partner is that scruffy dog with wiry fur with a matching hat and black band who waits beside him. Finn named him Baguette because if he ever drops bread on the ground — even for a second — it’s gone before you can say bon appétit — not that any Frenchman would ever say this wrongly used phrase.   

Their next trick begins. Baguette leaps onto the folding table. Finn places a box over him, pretending not to notice him. 

He looks around, then shouts, “Baguette, where’d you go?” 

 A bark answers from inside the box. Finn lifts it — empty! No dog. Another bark rings out from behind the crowd. There’s Baguette — prancing forward as if vanishing and reappearing during Christmastime were the simplest thing in the world.  

Laughter ripples through the crowd. Coins and francs clatter into Finn’s top hat. He bows low. Baguette bows lower.

“We’re Finn and Baguette,” Finn announces, sweeping his arms wide, “— and broke.”

The crowd chuckles. Baguette takes the hat in his teeth and trots through the onlookers, collecting tips. When he returns, Finn peeks inside — then freezes.

Nestling among the coins lies a single white glove.

Finn holds it up. Baguette tilts his head, ears high, and gives a sharp yelp. Inside the glove, letters gleam faintly:

                                                               Re-member, and begin!
                                                                   Bring the glove.
                                             Midnight, Père Lachaise Cemetery (near the back gate).
                                                     Shhh. In silence, memory begins.

Finn’s gaze drifts past the crowd, past souvenir carts and tangled alleys, up to where the white dome of Sacré-Cœur rises like a sentinel over Montmartre. And there — between drifting flakes — he sees him.

A painted white face. A blue and white striped shirt. A red beret. The man bows, smiling.
Then he’s gone.

“C’mon, Baguette,” Finn mutters, stuffing the glove into his coat. “We have to go — now.”

Boy and dog, magician and assistant, vanish into the December dusk as the first snow of Christmas softly settles over Paris.

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Second Recruit: Jude Delacroix

Jude shuffles down the cobblestone streets, head lowered, kicking stray pebbles as he drifts further from the soccer field. His brown wavy hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat beneath his red jersey — the only one he owns, washed every night, worn again the next day. 

 
Behind him, other boys shout and laugh, cleats clattering as they hurry home to families waiting with food and light. Jude slows his steps. The longer he takes, the longer he can avoid his father — who will already be drinking because it’s Christmastime — his excuse of the day.  

Montmartre climbs ahead in layers, its alleys strung with half-lit Christmas bulbs and kitchen windows glowing amber and gold, spilling warmth into the street.

At the base of Sacré-Cœur, Jude pauses. The basilica leans against the gray sky above. The square below is empty now — tourists gone, street-performers packed up. Clouds gather heavy, threatening the season’s first snow.

A sudden shove jolts him. He slightly stumbles and turns left — but the body slips around to his right. And there — arms spread wide, a faint grin offering a silent apology — stands a man with a white painted face, white gloves, and red béret.

Jude blinks, and the mime is gone.
Something white lies in the square where the mime had been. A glove. Jude picks it up, scanning the square for him. No mime. No footprints. Only the hush of cloud-thick air.
Snow begins to fall — thin, hesitant flakes, silent as breath. Jude closes his fist around the glove and discovers something inside — a note: 

                                                                Re-member, and begin!
                                                                     Bring the glove.
                                       Midnight, Père Lachaise Cemetery —(near the back gate).
                                                       Shhh. In silence, memory begins.

Once home, Jude slips through the door, careful with every step — bracing himself. His father sprawls on the couch, a half-empty bottle on the table beside him. His mother hides behind the bedroom door, silent as prayer.

Jude moves to his room as quiet as a spirit to not be heard. He pulls on his faded red pullover and jacket. He hesitates, glancing once at the glove in his hand. “Re-member, and begin!” he whispers, then quickly slips out back into the night — in silence as the note requests.

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Third Recruit: Miggy Leroux

Miggy curls on his side like a comma beneath a thin hospital sheet, red hair spilling across the pillow, freckles scatter across his pale cheeks. Thirteen years old, though in this room of machines and quiet beeps, he looks younger.

Visiting hours are long over. His family’s gone home. He remains here for overnight tests.
Down the corridor, a nurse shouts, “Lights out in five!”

Miggy sighs. What’s worse than Christmastime alone in a hospital? He rolls off the bed, slips on a worn hoodie, and tugs a floppy Papa Noël hat over his hair — the kind with a bobbing snowball at the end.

Outside his door he sees… a mime — arms wide in mid-performance — holding a red balloon. He looks at Miggy, frames a gentle bow and tips an invisible hat. Then winks.

Miggy blinks, and the mime is gone.

At his feet lies a single white glove. The red balloon is somehow tied to his bed post — it bobs gently. 

He picks up the glove, unfolds the note inside. He frowns at the words. Conflict flashes across his face as he ponders the invitation. 

“Anything to get out of here,” he says. Then stuffs the glove into his hoodie pocket, cracks the door open. The nurses — backs turned — laugh and gossip.

He slips on his sneakers, crouches low, and eases the door shut, just as the lights overhead click off.

He runs — bare legs flashing, freckles and reddish blond hair soft in the dim light — Miggy Laroux vanishes like a burgler into the Paris night — amid the season’s  first Christmas snow.

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