Strasbourg, France — Christmas Eve 1943
Christmas snow can hide more than footsteps. It can hide children from soldiers, shield the voices they dare not raise, and soften the kind of fear carried by children who are losing themselves. On Christmas Eve, it must save them all.

The barn creaks behind him; inside, eight small bodies huddle under blankets, their breath rising in faint, quick clouds, as the snow falls like a blessing no one dares speak aloud.
Marcel tightens his scarf. His brother Alain, two years older, stands in the barn by the wagon—its bed lined with straw for warmth.

“Marcel,” Alain says, grabbing his arm. “We need to change our surname. Maybe for a long time.”

“Why? I don’t understand.” The seriousness of the moment grips his fear and squeezes.
“If the Gestapo catches us, they’ll look for our family. Not many Mangels in Strasbourg. They’ll be in danger. I’ve been thinking—Marceau, from General Marceau.”

A child starts crying. “Shhh! Not here,” Alain whispers, eyes flicking toward the darkness beyond the treeline. Somewhere out there are German patrols. He dusts flour across Marcel’s cheeks. “A white face is camouflage against the snow.”

Marcel catches his reflection in a mirror. “I look silly.”

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

The brothers share a quick hug, then start moving, pulling the wagon into the snow as the cold wind wraps around them. Noise emerges from the blankets—chatter, a whimper, a panicked wail. Marcel crouches, snow stinging his knees. He puts his finger to his lips as he meets the children’s eyes one by one. Then he pulls an invisible rope, staggering under its imagined weight before tumbling backward into the drift with an exaggerated oomph!

The crying turns into tiny giggles. Marcel rolls to his feet, brushing off invisible feathers, then quiets them again. A girl with freckles covers her mouth with her white-gloved hands, muting her laughter.
“Shhh,” Alain warns—but their loud fear is melting into quiet wonder.

They move. Alain leads, hauling the wagon. Marcel walks backward, keeping the children’s attention with silly expressions, pratfalls, and playful mishaps.

The forest thins beyond the last pines between the gap of the French lines and neutral Switzerland. Gunfire cracks to their left, sharper now, the echo bouncing off the snow-clad hills. The wagon jolts over frozen roots. Every squeak of the wheels sounds too loud.

Marcel motions sharply for the kids to stay down.

Alain’s hand shoots up—halt. The children freeze as German shouting seems close enough to chill bone. Marcel kneels beside a sycamore, finger to his lips. He mimes the wagon vanishing into thin air. The children, half-terrified, half-delighted, hide their faces to smother their giggles.

WHACK—a rifle shot slams into the sycamore’s bark, inches from Marcel’s head. The shock rattles through him, but the children are watching, so he flops into the snow with an exaggerated tumble, then pops back up with a grin. He’ll remember the sycamore always—the first thing to save him.
After long moments of silence, and the shouts from soldiers fading, Alain waves them forward. Wheels groan, boots crunch, and they slip through the narrow pass onto the quiet, snow-lit road—on the Swiss side.

The orphanage smells of woodsmoke and bread. Warm hands lift the children from the wagon. Some cling to Alain, others to Marcel, but all lives are safe this time. Marcel rubs his hands, frozen and stiff from the cold. The freckled girl steps forward, her coat patched at the elbows. She pulls off her white gloves and presses them into Marcel’s palms.

He slips them on. They’re still warm. His smile matches their warmth. She smiles back—without a word.

His brother gives him a grim look. “We go back for more.”

Christmas snow whips and swirls at the door. Marcel flexes his fingers inside the white gloves, then follows his brother into the night. He pats him on the back and says, “Great job, Alain Marceau!”

They exchange a grin and a short hug.

Alain counters, “Great job, Marcel Marceau!”

​

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​CHAPTER TWO - The Chosen

​

Once a winter-stripped sycamore rests in a quiet corner of Paris’ Père Lachaise cemetery, far from the grand lanes and marble angels and rows of celebrity graves. Its roots clutched the cracked lid of a forgotten tomb, reaching down through cold soil for water and nothing more. The other trees stood together in green company; the litte Tree grew apart, its branches stretching only toward itself.
Loneliness lasts longer than any winter.

For years, it endured, season after season, listening to the footsteps of strangers on distant paths. Above ground, Paris lived and laughed; down here, the air was heavy with stillness.
Then came a winter when the first Christmas snow fell in perfect silence. The ground softened under that white blanket, and the little tree’s roots—hungry for something it could not name—reached further than ever before. In the deep, unseen dark, they touched another root. And another. Soon they were entwined, holding each other fast, trading unseen strength.
That was the beginning.

The next Christmas Eve, first Christmas snow fell hard and deep. The sycamores cones were swallowed in snow and soon one of the trees cones were swallowed by snow and froze into glassy looking ornaments, with live cone living on the inside. By morning, there were three. By Christmas eve there was a memory of the tree’s cone, now an ice ornament on every branch. The tree was pleased, each memory of his cone was now perfectly preserved. 

But the tree had a decision to make. He could relive the memory of his cone, buy disconnection the cone from it’s branch. One done, the beauty of the cone provided the tree with one last remembrance, but soon, being disconnected from the tree, its soon withered and died. The living memory was forever over. 

​

​

​Finn Dumas
Snow drifts in the streetlights of Paris, the same way it must have fallen on a hundred other Christmas Eves. Finn watches it gather street posts and branches above him, each flake landing as soft as a secret.    
 

On a crooked corner just off Rue Norvins, beneath a crooked gaslamp flickering like it’s got stage fright, a boy in an oversized, wrinkled green shirt, flourishes a playing card between his fingers on Christmas Eve. 

Finn Dumas is thirteen—more or less. Hard to tell under that straw hat with a black band he keeps on top of that mop of blond hair. Like that green shirt, his coat doesn’t fit either—but he likes the big pockets. He stuffs them string, matches, disappearing ink. You see, Finn’s a street magician, trying to make enough money to feed  him and his canine assistant. His eyes are sharp and watchful—he’s always searching for person most interested and will tip the most.  

His partner—a scruffy dog with wiry fur and straw hat with a black band—just like Finn’s—sits beside him. He named him Baguette—cause he devours Finn’s if he accidentally sets his down.  
The dog jumps onto a folding table, facing the small crowd. Finn places a box on the table covering him, acting like he never saw him. 

He looks around, the shouts, “Baguette, where are you?” 

 He barks on cue under the box. Finn lifts it, but there’s nothing there. No dog. Baguette then barks from behind the crowd and prances forward, back on stage. 

The crowd of Christmas shoppers and revelers gives a thunderous roar, and begins dropping coins and bills in a top hat. 

 
Baguette returns to his position and together, they bow.

“We’re Finn and Baguette and broke,” he says to the chuckling crowd. Baguette lifts tipping hat and prances it around through the crowd for tips. When he returns, Finn looks inside—then he sees it. 
A white glove rests as gentle as a whisper inside. 

His eyes widen. He picks up the glove and shows it to Baguette. His ears rise and he yelps several times. 

Finn looks past the buildings, past the souvenir carts and tangled alleys, to where the outline of Sacré-Cœur looms over Montmartre like a sentinel. A white face painted on a man with red beret smiles toward me and bows. Then he’s gone. A few pale snowflakes drift down, soft and slow.

“C’mon, Baguette,” he says, stuffing the glove in his coat. “We have to go—NOW!”
And they’re off—boy and dog, magician and assistant—vanishing into the December dusk.

​

Jude 

​

​Jude shuffles down the cobblestone streets, head down, kicking stray pebbles as he drifts further from the soccer field. His dark wavy hair hangs to the edge of his red jersey, that clings to his back with sweat. He washes it every night—he has no other. 

The other boys are still shouting in the distance, cleats stomping, laughter sharp. They’re hurrying home for their holiday family celebrations. Jude tries to pass as much time as he can before he has to face his dangerous father, who he knows will be drinking on this Christmas Eve.

  
Montmartre unfolds ahead of him in layers—alleys with Christmas string lights just going up, and from winter kitchens, an orange and golden glow spills out into the street.

He stops at the base steps of Sacré-Cœur and looks up. The basilica leans against the sky like it’s exhaling. The square below is mostly empty—tourists, artists, and street performers are gone for the day, and the crowd for midnight celebration is hours away. Clouds are forming, threatening the season’s first snow.

Suddenly, Jude is bumped from behind with a slight shove. He turns to his left to see the person, when the body slips around his right. Jude turns back, and in front of him, with arms spread wide and a slight grin in a silent apology, is a mime. Jude blinks and the figure’s gone. 

Jude stands motionless collecting himself. His thoughts return to home. He breathes deep before he forcing his feet to shuffle toward the place that he dreads. Then he sees something folded on the stair before him. Then he sees something folded on the stair before him. Laid neatly wide open is… a white glove.

Jude picks it up and looks around, but the mime is gone. Not even footprints. The clouds split briefly, and snow begins to fall, sparse and silent. He rushes home.

He enters, expecting…  But his dad is laid out on the couch with a mostly empty bottle of something on the table before him. Mom is quiet and probably protecting herself in the bedroom. She won’t risk coming out. 

Jude changes to his only other shirt—a faded red pullover. He grabs his jacket from the closet and quickly and softly, sneaks out of the house. 

​

Miggy Laroux

Miggy lies on his side, curled like a comma beneath a thin hospital sheet. His red hair fans out on the pillow, and a scatter of freckles dances across his pale cheeks. He’s thirteen, but looks younger in the blue glow of the hallway light.

It’s past visiting hours. His mother’s gone home—they’re keeping him for tests for a few days. Just to be safe.

Down the corridor, a nurse calls out, “Lights out in five!”

Miggy sighs. What can be worse then Christmas Eve without your parents, lying in a hospital. He rolls off the bed and skims toward the door to shut it. He glances through the narrow glass window. 
A mime stands before him, arms spread in mid-performance, holding a red balloon. He looks at Miggy, frames a gentle bow and raises an invisible hat. His gentle smile and a flashing wink captivates him.

He blinks for only a moment, but the mime is gone. He looks down. Right at his feet, rests… a single white glove. The red balloon now floats at his bedside, bobbing gently above the pillow.

Miggy picks up the glove, grabs his hoodie and stuffs it inside the pocket. The door’s still cracked. He peeks into the hallway. Nurses are chatting at their station, backs turned.

He slips on his sneakers. Pulls his hoodie over his gown. And with one last look at the balloon, he closes the door—just as the overhead lights go out.

Then he’s moving down the hall like he’s invisible, like a trick pulled off perfectly. Bare-legged and freckled, flame-haired and free, Miggy Mignot vanishes into the hush of the hospital, headed into Paris that is just beginning to snow.
 

The Memory Tree

A flurry of wind sweeps the lane, snow spiraling as the gate creaks shut. Night folds in like a curtain, drawn for a show.

Jude and Finn arrive at the back gate of Père Lachaise at the same time. They’re waiting for Miggy when an old drunk lurches toward them, whiskers frosted, a paper sack clutched in his fist.

“Watch it, rat,” he snarls.

“Is he talking to us or himself?” Jude mutters.

“Sorry,” Finn says quickly, stepping aside. Baguette barks, nipping at the man’s boots. The drunk shoves him away and staggers off.

“You little punks think this place is yours.”

Finn pushes the gate open just wide enough. Baguette slips in first, paws crunching frost. Finn follows, then Jude in his red pullover. Miggy—bare legs under his hoodie, hospital tag still on his wrist—catches up, breath fogging in the cold.

They don’t speak. They smile, like the mime taught them.

At the darkened lane, Finn extends his hands. Jude takes one, Miggy the other. Warmth passes between them, enough to hold back the winter chill. Once a year, this night, they are whole.

Snow drifts heavier now, spinning down like confetti. Flakes cling to Baguette’s wiry fur; he shakes once, then trots ahead as if he knows the way. The boys follow, footsteps echoing on cobblestone.
And then they see it.

From the heart of the cemetery rises the Memory Tree. Pale bark gleams like marble, limbs stretched wide against the moon. A faint glow pulses from its roots, and the air trembles with the soft chime of faraway bells.

Beside it stands a marble tomb, crest carved with a Star of David. Below: Marcel Marceau.
And there he is, perched atop the stone. White face luminous, gloves bright as lanterns, he laughs without sound—yet joy vibrates through them all.

Marcel bows, sweeping his arms open. The wind stirs; snow whirls. The gate slams shut behind, sealing them in.

The boys raise their gloved hands and step into the circle of light. They clasp together, encircling the tree. A chain. A bond. A team.

The Memory Tree stirs. Its branches sway like a conductor guiding their silent hymn—not words, not voices, but something greater... lives remembered--and lives dismembered.