Chapter Text
The 13 of them are sitting in the common room of the main building, the sun just barely setting through the window behind them. Enjolras sits in the armchair directly under the window, and the sun reflecting on his golden hair seems to set him aflame, awash in a healthy fervor. Combeferre is seated near Enjolras, in a comfortable chair that seems to have a makeshift desk attached to it. There are papers spread out all over it, overlapping and jumbled – as the main economic advisor to the kibbutz, Combeferre is always accompanied by papers and pens. Next to him, Courfeyrac lounges on the floor, flipping through essays and occasionally scribbling a comment in the margins. Jehan lies perpendicular to Courfeyrac, legs resting on the arm of a sofa – he, as usual, is scribbling poetry in his worn notebook. On the sofa, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Bahorel sit debating the chances of Hapoel Be’er Sheva versus Maccabi Haifa while sharing a beer. Joly and Cosette, sitting opposite each other on a windowsill, seem to be discussing how to keep the gan children from getting sick, while Marius sits against the wall underneath them, scribbling on a notepad. Eponine and Musichetta are going over tomorrow’s menu, while Feuilly hums his agreement or disagreement with their choices.
Enjolras clears his throat and the hum of conversation slowly dies down as everyone turns to look at him. He has a presence which commands the room, no matter how hard they try to ensure that everyone is equal, and today is no exception – as he begins to talk, silence falls on the room, and everyone listens.
“I hope everyone had a productive day today. We’ve been producing consistent amounts of wine and grapes from the vineyard, which is fantastic, and everyone remains healthy – yes, even you, Joly – so that’s good. Combeferre, what are our funds looking like right now? Where can they go?”
Their weekly meetings on Thursday nights often focus on funds and their agricultural output – the only two things keeping the kibbutz alive.
Combeferre looks up. “Everything is looking good, Enjolras. We’re not struggling – we’re not rich, but we’ll be okay. As long as we keep up the output and everyone stays strong, and our clients don’t drop us, we should be set for the winter.”
Enjolras nods thoughtfully. “Even after the war? Have we suffered economically from it?”
Combeferre shakes his head. “We’ve recovered well enough. We may have lost a few--” here a few of the group bow their heads, still in pain from the loss of their friends in the horrific war. “…but we’ve bounced back, and our economics haven’t seen any drops since the war ended.
“Wonderful,” Enjolras says. “Has anyone got anything to mention before I tell you all your duties for tomorrow?”
Musichetta glances across the room at Grantaire, gesturing subtly to Eponine. Grantaire’s eyes light up in understanding, and he jumps from his place on the couch to whisper in Eponine’s ear. As the group watches, Eponine’s face contorts first in fear, and then in what seems to be quiet acceptance.
“No, Grantaire…I couldn’t. We can’t. It’s…there’s nothing we can do.” Eponine’s voice is full of sorrow, but it feels like an old sorrow – one the wearer has become accustomed to.
“If you won’t tell them, I will, Ep,” Grantaire says threateningly.
Eponine sighs. “You will even if I tell you not to, so what choice do I have?” She leans her head on her best friend’s shoulder, knowing that even if Grantaire is willing to tell their friends, his loyalties to her always come first. Sighing, she tries to convince herself of what she knows to be true: he’s doing it for the better, so that she’ll be happier.
Enjolras shakes his head. “What is going on, you two? Why so secretive?”
"Relax, Enjolras," Grantaire says. "Eponine has some stuff going on that she wasn't going to mention, but I think it's probably worth mentioning. If it's alright with you." The last sentence is tacked on almost as an afterthought, its sarcasm shining through. Enjolras just nods his acquiescence wearily, and Grantaire continues.
"Ep's family are from Morocco. She fled, a while ago, to come here and live a better life -- life there is hard enough, and her parents...weren't exactly the best. But she got a letter from home the other day, and basically...her brother and sister are in danger. Her parents have been jailed, her brother is twelve and her sister is eight...they have no one but each other. They're Jews in a hostile country. Nothing good can happen." Grantaire finished on that note, and put his arm around Eponine.
Courfeyrac looks up from where he lay on the floor. "Is there anything we can do? Get them out of there somehow?"
Grantaire snorts skeptically. "What can we, a group of simple kibbutzniks in the south of Israel, do to get someone out of Morocco? Thousands of kilometres away, and we can't even stay in touch with the top of the country, let alone outside of it. I just thought you all should know about it."
Jehan shakes his head. "Have you ever seen Enjolras meet a cause he can't win? He'll find a way, right, Enjolras?"
Enjolras glances at Jehan before turning back to Grantaire and Eponine. "I can't promise anything, Eponine. But we're a kibbutz. We work together to make sure everyone is happy. And if this will make you happy -- if this will make you feel safer and more comfortable here -- I will try my best. We all will." He looks around the room at his friends. Everyone is nodding and smiling at Eponine, murmuring words of comfort and encouragement. They all know what it's like to have family far away. Their parents were the first wave, the ones who built the country on their already scarred and bent backs. They are the first generation, the first children born as a sign of survival and perseverance -- and they won't ignore the plight of one of their own. How could they, when the Shoah is still a slowly-healing wound that opens a bit more every time their beloved country has to fight another war of survival? they have built this country, from the dirt and earth into something beautiful, and how can they not give other children the chance to see it grow too?
Eponine smiles at her friends gratefully, and if it's a little watery, if Grantaire holds her just a little bit closer, well...no one is going to say anything.
--
The sun comes up, as it seems to do every day on the kibbutz, and Grantaire slowly rolls out of bed. He got lucky today -- his first duty is clearing out the classrooms for the children to have school, which means he doesn’t have to be up before sunrise like those who were assigned to milk the cows or prepare breakfast. His roommates, however, weren’t so lucky -- Eponine is, as always, already busy helping Musichetta in the kitchen, and Courfeyrac has decided to get up to help Jehan with the early-morning grape harvest. Grantaire isn’t even going to start thinking about that one, because that friendship is a whole different can of worms that Grantaire does not want to deal with yet.
The kibbutz is already humming by the time he enters the dining room, people milling about and discussing the day’s work. Feuilly pounces on Grantaire as soon as he walks through the door, talking a mile a minute about his plans for building sturdier trellises for their vines to grow on. The Polish immigrant, just nearing his 29th birthday, is the best man on the kibbutz for carpentry, and they often enlist him to build new structures. Grantaire gets roped into these things because he studied art, and to his fellow kibbutzniks, that seems to mean he knows how to be an architect. He doesn’t question it -- it’s a job, and it gives him something to do. Makes him feel useful where he otherwise wouldn’t.
With Feuilly in tow, he finds himself a table and sits down on a bench next to Valjean. The man is getting older, and was one of the original founders of the kibbutz, but it feels like he hasn’t lost a day of vitality since -- he still gets up with them and toils in the fields like one half his age. Valjean is one of the few kibbutzniks who survived the Shoah, and he has the scars to prove it -- perhaps it’s that proof, the numbers on his arm and the ever-present haunted look in his eyes -- that makes all the younger kibbutzniks respect him so completely. There’s no way not to love Jean Valjean, with his absolute faith in the kibbutz and in their ability to bring their country to a better day, and his 25-year-old adopted daughter, Cosette, who brings life to the kibbutz on even the rainiest days. Their family is one of the most respected on the kibbutz.
“Mar Valjean, how are you this morning?” Grantaire asks.
The older man smiles. “I’m doing well, young master. The cows are healthy, the sun has risen on another beautiful day, and I am in the promised land. What more could I ask for?”
Grantaire shares a smile with Cosette at her father’s words. Valjean, ever the optimist, doesn’t always agree with Grantaire and his innate cynicism, but on sunny days like these, it’s impossible for that hope not to be infectious.
“It was a very brave thing you did yesterday, Grantaire,” Valjean says suddenly. His voice has become softer, and more serious -- Grantaire leans closer to hear him speak. “Not everyone would have spoken up when their friend asked them not to. But you made the right decision. Perhaps this turn of events in Eponine’s family will give our fearless leader somewhere to channel his anger and passion.”
Grantaire’s surprise is evident in his tone of voice. “You’ve seen it too? The fury he hides behind the calm exterior?”
Valjean nods calmly. “Enjolras has all the makings of a true leader, but the war shook him to the core. No one was expecting it, least of all him -- I believe he finally was hoping for a safe future, after our success in the Six-Day War. But this one...it scared him, more than he cares to admit, and though the others don’t see it, I knew you would. He needs something to fight for, that one, or he will go stir-crazy. Eponine’s little siblings might be just the ‘cause’ he is looking for. After all, how could he not want to bring more people to this land of milk and honey, even if it is constantly in danger?”
Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t know, Mar Valjean. Seems to me that would be a good enough reason to send them away, to America, or somewhere safer.”
Valjean leans back. “Perhaps. But I think Enjolras sees more in the future of this country than he sees in its present. He believes in the power of people, Grantaire, and I don’t doubt his ability to stir our masses with his words. He will mobilise us to fight for the Thenardiers’ safe passage, and it may yet turn out to be a great simcha for our little family.”
Grantaire sighs. “I hope you’re right. Eponine has been worrying herself sick over them for weeks now -- I knew if I didn’t say something, she would do something silly.”
“You two have known each other for a long right now, right?” Cosette breaks in.
Grantaire nods. “I met Eponine when I first made aliyah. We met in Tel Aviv, and she looked so lost that I had to help her -- I wasn’t much better off, but at least I knew the language. We got lucky - we could have been sent anywhere, but I had heard of Sde Boker and I knew this was where I wanted to go. I took Ep along because she didn’t have anyone, or anything.” He sighs, memories of days gone by flashing like embers in his eyes. For a moment, Cosette can see the younger Grantaire, one who was perhaps not as cynical, less scarred by wars and pain. But he shakes his head, and that spark disappears as he stands. “I should get to work. Mar Valjean, Cosette, Feuilly.” He nods to each of them in turn and strides off across the dining hall.
Valjean turns to his daughter. “Has he fought, Costi? Why is he so cynical?”
“Yes, Aba,” Cosette responds. “He fought in the last war, and though it was victorious, Eponine has told me he was never the same.” She shrugs helplessly. “He argues with Enjolras over everything, from running the kibbutz to thoughts of peace with our neighbours. He claims not to believe in anything, not even the idea of a peaceful existence, but he stays with us and has no thought of leaving.”
Feuilly nods. “Grantaire’s life has been a struggle, Mar Valjean, a struggle with sadness. When he came to the kibbutz, he found friends, but the cynic in him lies just underneath the skin, and war brings out the worst in people. I fear he hasn’t recovered from losing Yochi and Sam...he was close to them.”
“He is close to everyone,” Valjean notes. “You both say he is a cynic, but I see something else...I see someone who is simply afraid of hope. But you know him better. Come! It’s getting late in the morning, and we have work to do!”
--
Grantaire meets up with Eponine after the afternoon round of work is finished, outside the barn on the kibbutz. It’s become their regular meeting place, every day, just to catch up. Since they first met, they’ve become closer than they ever expected -- there’s something easy about bonding with someone who has seen as much horror and anguish as you have. Grantaire and Eponine see that in each other, the pessimism and world-weariness that comes with too much responsibility at too young an age.
They settle on the ground in silence, backs against the sturdy wood of the barn.
“Sorry I told them about Gav and ‘Zelma, Ep,” Grantaire says eventually. He sounds truly sorry, not as if he’s saying it out of any duty, and Eponine decides to believe him.
“It’s fine, R. I knew it would come out at some point -- it’s a kibbutz we’re living on, after all. Everyone knows everything about everyone.” She tips her head onto her best friend’s shoulder in an echo of the previous night. “I just....didn’t want their pity, you know? The minute you said it, I could hear the ‘awws’ and gasps of pain and sorrow, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to be considered less because I have to deal with this.”
And Grantaire would whisper things, murmur platitudes and reassurances like they’ll heal the worries Eponine hides, but he knows they’re a lost cause. He knows all too well that any comfort will be ignored, because Eponine’s hurting, hurting more than she has in the past. He knows that there’s a gaping hole in her heart that nothing can fill, not even the promise of her future or the love of her friends. So he just sits, and lets her lean her head against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything when the tears begin to soak through his shirt, doesn’t speak a word as her back heaves with sobs under his soothing hand. He just sits, because he understands the pain she’s in, always has. There’s a connection between them that runs deeper than words, something that none of the other kibbutzniks understand.
When Combeferre comes to find them, a good twenty minutes later, Eponine's sobs have subsided, and the two of them are talking softly about Morocco, and Eponine's siblings' situation. Combeferre rounds the corner to the back of the barn and looks a bit awkward -- he, of course, can tell that Ep's been crying. Combeferre has a sixth sense when it comes to emotions, which makes him the best second-in-command to Enjolras that any in the kibbutz could dream of. When Enjolras forgets that his friends are human, 'Ferre is always around to remind him with a soft nudge or a few gentle words.
"Hi, Grantaire, Eponine. Enjolras sent me to find you two -- he's having a meeting in the common room and wanted all of us to be there," Combeferre explains.
Grantaire nods. "We'll follow you in half a minute. Thanks for letting us know."
Combeferre accepts the thanks wordlessly and starts to walk back towards the main house. Before he rounds the corner out of their sight, he turns back, looking at Eponine.
"For what it's worth, Ep...I'm sorry. I can't imagine how hard this has been and continues to be. We'll do everything in our power to rescue them, I promise you." A slight blush spreading across his cheeks, Combeferre nods his goodbye once more and walks off.
Grantaire sighs. "Eponiiine...." His tone of voice is reminiscent of that of a teasing third grade student. "Is there something going on that you haven't told me yet?"
Eponine looks at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, R?"
Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You didn't notice?" He jerks his head in the direction Combeferre walked off in. "He's smitten!"
Eponine laughs, a short, barking laugh, full of skepticism. "Please. He's always in touch with everyone's emotions, it's really not just me. Anyway, it doesn't matter."
Grantaire stands up and grabs Eponine’s hand to pull her up with him. “Why? He’s a nice guy, and you need to stop pining over Pontmercy and live a little, habibti! And he likes you! What is there not to love?” He grins at her.
Eponine brushes the dust off her pants. “Doesn’t matter, Grantaire. He doesn’t like me, not like that, and there isn’t enough time. Not with winter coming and our crops needing tending and my brother and sister in danger. And after all, if you’re so smart with love and romance, why don’t you tell me how your little crush on Enjolras is going, huh?” She raises an eyebrow at her friend.
Grantaire huffs. “We’re not discussing that, Eponine. It’s not happening. It’s different, anyway. Enjolras hates me. Combeferre loves you. And nothing is ever going to happen between Enjolras and me.”
Eponine just smiles serenely, bumping her shoulder against his as they walk back the main house, bickering lightly all the way.
--
“We have a few things to discuss tonight, and several of them are of a slightly worrying nature, so I’d appreciate it if you all helped me out and paid attention this meeting. I’ll try not to talk for too long, especially because Shabbat is approaching, but do, you know, try to keep the conversation to a minimum,” Enjolras says, standing in the centre of the room. The members of the kibbutz are gathered around him in a circle, lounging on chairs, sofas, or the ground, or finding perches on tables or windowsills. Enjolras’s presence is commanding, drawing eyes to him even through the chatter of conversation. Grantaire suddenly wishes for a pencil and paper -- there’s something about the fire in Enjolras’s eyes tonight that makes the artist in him excited. He hasn’t sat down and done a proper drawing in months, not since before the war and its consequences. Shaking his head to rid himself from those thoughts and the path they lead down, he takes a sip from his bottle of wine and focuses on Enjolras.
“First of all,” the leader continues, “Chanukah is coming up in about three weeks. We need to decide what we’re going to do -- obviously, we’ll have some sort of celebration, but arrangements will have to be made.” He turns to Musichetta. “‘Chetta, I’ll leave you to the menu for that, I know I put it in capable hands.” The rest of the room smirks -- it’s no secret Musichetta can win anyone over with a subtle wink and a plate of her cooking, and Enjolras is no exception. Enjolras notices the grins and rolls his eyes, but continues talking. “There are two other slightly more sombre things we need to discuss today. The first...” He closes his eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath. “Mar Ben-Gurion’s health is fading. He’s still lucid, responds to his name and everything...but it’s no secret that he’s getting older. Even Paula knows it. I wanted to ensure that we have the funds to care for him in case his health gets worse. Combeferre?”
Combeferre looks up. “I don’t know, Enjolras. Normally I would say yes, but winter’s coming, and we have to take care of our crops. We would probably be okay if it was something minor, but life-threatening illnesses, we’re not equipped for, right, Joly?”
Joly, the head doctor of the kibbutz, nods. “We just wouldn’t be prepared, Enjolras. We’d have to send him elsewhere.”
Enjolras nods shortly, accepting the truth. “The other thing I wanted to mention was about Eponine’s siblings.” He turns to Eponine, speaking directly to her. “Ep, I really want to do something about this. I’ve looked into it, and I think the only way to do anything would be to go into Morocco and get them. That would be...challenging, and would require more funds that I don’t know if we have.” Again, he turns to Combeferre, but doesn’t pause to let the other speak. “I was planning to talk to ‘Ferre later in private about that, but I wanted to know if there is anyone in the kibbutz who is completely against the idea of getting Ep’s siblings out of Morocco. We have to decide on this as a group, a family, so do speak up if you disagree with it.”
Silence falls on the room. Several people look hesitant at the idea of pulling something like that off.
“How do you propose to get into Morocco, get ahold of two kids who could be on the streets -- sorry, Ep -- and get them out and into Israel when you don’t even have legal authority over them?” Grantaire finally says.
Enjolras nods shortly. “You’re right, Grantaire, those are issues we’ll have to answer, but don’t you think it’s more important to take this risk? We could save their lives!”
Grantaire shrugs. “I’m just pointing out the problems with this plan. You seem to believe that it’ll be easy as pie, just a hop in and out of the country. It’s not going to be that simple, sabra. I’ve done the immigration thing, and it’s tough. They’ll have to be admitted as immigrants to the country unless you can prove that one of you is related to them. And what if the parents refuse to let them go? You need to think this through, Apollo, and do it with care. You may believe in the benevolence of human beings, but it’s the governments, not the civilians, you have to look out for right now.” He ends his speech with a sip from the bottle of wine in his hand.
Enjolras bristles at the slights to his ideology and plan, but says nothing to disagree. “Questions that have to be answered, Grantaire. Just questions.” He turned to Eponine. “Ep, this is what you want, isn’t it?”
Eponine buries her face in her hands. “You can’t ask me a question like that, Enjolras. Of course I want my siblings near me, how could I not?” She lifts her head, eyes shining. “But I don’t want -- I can’t have -- any of you risking your lives for me. We’ve lost enough from this kibbutz, this community we’ve raised from the ground on our hard work, and I don’t want to lose any more.”
Enjolras leans back against a wall. His eyes look more sorrowful and weary than they have any right to, and Grantaire is reminded suddenly that Enjolras is young, younger than many of them. Their leader looks vulnerable for a moment, lost in a sea of swirling ideas and plans that are on either side of the extremes -- they could end in incredible joy, or unending sorrow. But after a moment, the emotion is gone, and in its place is a steely determination that has made much older men cower in fear.
“We will rescue them, Eponine. I’m telling you now, there is no way I’m letting family of family pass by quietly in danger. I will do everything in my power to reunite your family, and anyone who wishes to join me --” he glances around the room -- “is welcome to.” He nods. “Have a good kabbalat Shabbat, everyone. I’ll see you all later.” Gesturing to Combeferre to follow him, Enjolras strides powerfully out of the room, leaving an aura of power and determination in his wake. The room is silent for a few moments, before conversation erupts again.