The Dogs and the Wolves

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘That can’t be true? Can it? Come on, tell the truth. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, I swear! May God strike me down! May I die at this very moment if I’m lying! And then a stone hit me right here . . .’

  He pointed to the arch of his eyebrow, pushing back the hair that fell on to his face with his feverish little hands. Little Ivanov couldn’t help himself repeating over and over again, like an incantation: ‘He ’s lying. This story can’t be true. I know it’s not true. He’s a little Jewish liar. If he’d really been hit in the head with a stone, I’d see a mark.’ But wasn’t there actually a mark? By rubbing his forehead and pulling his curls back and forth, Ben had managed to create a red patch just above his eye.

  ‘Can you see it? There, can you see it?’

  Why was he so determined to lie? To show off to Ivanov, of course, because he liked him. It was only Ivanov’s affection and respect that quenched an avid thirst in Ben’s soul, a thirst of which he was barely aware.

  ‘And so, you see, Ivanov, you see how I’d be able to stand up for you . . . You’ve got nothing to be afraid of if I’m with you. I’m stronger and smarter than Yatsovlev or Pavlov (they were his rivals). Listen to me, Ivanov, why do you play with them? When spring comes, we’ll escape out of the window when everyone’s asleep, and we’ll light a log at the river’s edge, and I’ll teach you how to catch fish at night, by torchlight. One of us holds the lit torch,’ he said, getting carried away by his fantasies, ‘while the sparks fly into the air and singe your hair, and the other one throws in the fishing line, and every time, an enormous silvery fish will leap out, gasping for air, its gills still all red! All you have to do is pick them up with your bare hands. In the morning, we can sell them at the market. After a while, we’ll have enough money to buy a gun and real bullets, or even . . .’

  He added, as if in a dream, ‘a bicycle . . .’

  And his little hands, which had been burning hot, turned icy with desire.

  ‘Will you come with me, Ivanov?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if I’m going to take you with me, first I have to be sure you’d rather be with me than with Yatsovlev or Pavlov.’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘It’s not enough to just say it. From now on, you must avoid them. You can’t play with them any more. They’re clumsy and mean and stupid. What could you do with them?’

  ‘I can’t promise that . . .’

  ‘Fine then! I won’t ask you to do a thing. I’ll find myself another friend.’

  ‘But why can’t I be friends with you and with them?’ exclaimed Ivanov in despair.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Ben said coldly. ‘You’re either with me or against me. Choose. Choose,’ he said again, leaning in so close to Ivanov that his black curls were practically touching the other boy’s pink knees.

  And beneath Ben’s glittering, imperious gaze, little Ivanov felt uncomfortable, awkward and impatient.

  ‘I’ve chosen.’

  ‘Just me then?’

  ‘Just you.’

  Ben fell back into his chair. He had got what he wanted, or, at least, the symbol, the image of what he wanted, for the truth was less important to him than the illusion of having obtained what he desired, even for a moment. Now, something more was needed: he would have to bring Yatsovlev and Pavlov under his spell, as well as the Natural Sciences teacher who couldn’t stand him, and, finally, Ada, the rebellious Ada, who always stood up to him, challenging him with her bitter mockery, but she . . . Ah! How he longed for the day when he would get his own back on Harry! She never spoke of Harry, but Ben knew that she thought about, and dreamt about, that horrible rich kid. She’d see him tonight . . . That was why Ben had refused to go with his mother and sister to the party. Whenever he thought of Harry, he felt something more subtle, more sophisticated than simple hatred, the kind of feeling you have for a friend who has beaten you up or told on you to the teacher. It was a combination of admiration, envy and fierce repugnance. The fact that Ivanov might have a life that was different from Ben’s was in the natural order of things, but Harry . . . ‘He could be me, and I could be him,’ he thought. He would have liked to see Harry suffer all the things he had suffered: frostbite, feet shredded by shoes that were too tight, the slaps he got from his mother, the slights from his teachers . . . And, at the same time, in his imagination, he took Harry’s place. In his mind, he was the one who was well fed, well dressed, loved like Harry. Rich like him. His mother and uncle were definitely right: for a Jew, the only salvation was wealth. He and Harry . . . they were from the same bloodline, shared the same name . . . and yet he was always pampered, while Ben . . .

  Meanwhile, the girls were getting ready for the party. Lilla had a starched white cotton dress, a moiré silk belt, bronze slippers and a crown of artificial flowers on her head: for a week now, Lilla and Ada had cut out, sewed and arranged tulle forget-menots on wire stems. Over her school uniform, Ada wore her best white pinafore; she had a large red ribbon in her hair.

  Lilla sprinkled a few drops of perfume on her handkerchief and belt, then moistened her finger with the perfume and rubbed it on her neck and upper lip. Ada looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘Ah, well . . .’

  ‘Oh Lilla! Do you think you’ll be getting kissed? On the lips? . . . And even on your neck? . . . Oh!’

  ‘Shush! Be quiet! Mama’s coming!’

  ‘Give me a little, will you?’

  ‘Why?’ said Lilla, smiling at her little cousin. ‘Are you also hoping that someone will kiss you, you little brat?’

  As a joke, she sprinkled some perfume in Ada’s hair. Ada couldn’t say a word, she was too deeply moved to laugh along with Lilla. Why was a kiss so forbidden, so desired? She certainly wouldn’t get any pleasure at all from kissing Ben! But if she really became Harry’s friend, he would kiss her, wouldn’t he? She didn’t understand why, but alternating waves of hot and cold rushed through her at the thought.

  She made a hasty escape, rushing to hide in the junk room; it was dark and smelled musty. She locked the door, got down on her knees in the middle of the room, folded her hands and began praying to God:

  ‘Please make him see me. Please make him notice me.’

  She hesitated. Nastasia finished her prayers by making the sign of the Cross, but surely that would be sacrilegious for her? Still . . . she couldn’t resist: she traced the sign on her forehead and chest, her hand trembling. She stood up. As she was leaving the junk room, she realised with dismay that her dress had got dirty and her pinafore wrinkled at the knees. But there was nothing to be done.

  She sat down beside Lilla and watched her finish getting ready without saying a word. Then Aunt Raissa came to fetch them. She was wearing a purple silk dress and a paste butterfly in her red curls. She puffed up the sleeves of her dress, full of hope.

  10

  The large hall where the party was being held was decorated with paper garlands, green plants and little French flags. The entertainment had just begun. The sound of rows of chairs creaking under the weight of nervous mothers had ceased; the women sat very still, their lorgnettes fixed on the stage, where a chorus of twenty-five little girls were singing:

  ‘There is a bird that comes from Fra-a-ance . . .’

  Their mothers had thick necks, wore their hair in large black buns and had diamond earrings whose lustre depended on the rank and social status of their husbands. Anyone wearing a pearl necklace whose husband was not at least a banker would have been considered impertinent, but diamonds were acceptable, even amongst the lowest of the low: the merchants of the Second Guild. And Aunt Raissa had at last taken her place amongst these respected matrons. All of them, however, were seated below a little platform that formed a box reserved for the rich Sinner family.

  The wealthy Sinners arrived in the middle of the entertainment. On seeing them enter the room, everyone looked simultaneously flattered and indifferent. It was a great honour to b
e in the company of the Sinners, but, all the same, they shouldn’t forget who they themselves were: the Levys, the Rabinovitches! Every woman puffed up her chest and made her diamonds sparkle, all the while whispering, ‘They say the Governor General himself attends their balls . . .’

  Harry sat in the middle. He was thirteen years old. Ada would not have been at all surprised if he had been wearing a suit of gold. His clothing was more modest than that, but just as extraordinary in Ada’s eyes. He had on trousers the colour of grey pearl, a black jacket and the round collar that boys from Eton wore. He looked shy and sullen, but to Ada, that only added to his prestige. His hair was so beautiful! He was holding one of the programmes designed by Ada, and had a box of chocolates open in front of him. As he took one, he dropped the programme, which fluttered through the air for a moment before landing near Ada. She picked it up and held it tightly in her trembling hand.

  Meanwhile, a little girl with hair as curly as a poodle’s was reciting Camille’s speech in which she curses Rome, generously adding three ‘r’s to each one that Corneille had written. The audience listened, impressed:

  ‘Rrrome, the unique object of my rrresentment!’

  A fat boy with pink thighs came on stage.

  ‘Poordriedoutleafdetachedfromitsstem . . .’ he began.

  Then he stopped, dissolved in tears and disappeared as if he’d fallen through a trap door.

  Next came the dance of ‘The Butterfly and the Rose’. Amongst the heavy young girls who surrounded her, Lilla danced with graceful beauty: she waved many multicoloured scarves and smiled at everyone with a tender look that seemed to say, ‘How can you not love me? You must love me.’

  It was more than a success. It was a triumph. Aunt Raissa sat very tall in her chair, her lips pursed in a contemptuous smile, savouring her pleasure and all the while thinking, ‘And you imagine I’m going to let her wither and die in this provincial town as I have, wasting my strength and my talents looking for a husband who might be acceptable? Oh, no. Lilla deserves more than that. You good people will be hearing more about Lilla, and her mother!’

  After all, who was that great tragic actress, Rachel? A little Jewish girl, born in a caravan. Nothing was impossible to the Jews. Every path was open to them. They could climb to dizzying heights. All of Mother Russia herself was not a sufficiently brilliant or vast stage for Lilla. (Besides, Moscow and St Petersburg were off limits to Jews.) No, she needed Paris. Only in Paris was it worth trying her luck, risking everything. What a wonderful child she was! How gracefully she bowed as everyone applauded! She was born to be on the stage. The auditorium resounded with shouts of ‘Bravo’ as she took her final bow and left, her pink and green scarves floating behind her.

  Afterwards, dances and games were organised. Harry remained standing next to one of his aunts, rather aloof. Madame Mimi came to fetch Ada. Together they crossed the entire length of the hall, and everyone could see that little Ada Sinner was going to be introduced to her rich cousin. It surprised no one that, even though the two children were closely related, the distance between them was immense. On one side there was money and the uncles who were bankers in Paris; on the other was the ghetto, a lack of education, poverty . . . It was no doubt rather shocking to them that Madame Mimi was behaving this way. These French . . .

  Madame Mimi waved at Harry.

  ‘My dear Harry, here is a lovely little girl who would like to meet you. You can dance with her. They’re about to play a very pretty waltz.’

  Harry raised his eyes and recognised the child he had seen two years before, covered in dust, her hair dishevelled, her hands scratched. She surged up out of a horrible, sordid world, a world of dirt, sweat and blood, far removed yet, despite everything, mysteriously, terrifyingly linked to him. His entire body bristled as if he were a little dog in a forest who was well fed and cared for and who hears the hungry cry of the wolves, his savage brothers. He took a quick step backwards.

  ‘No. I don’t dance. No.’

  But at the same time, he was dying of shame. He recalled the harshness, the haughtiness with which those children had been treated. He knew very well that, later, he would be sick with remorse over his behaviour: he had a sensitive, moral soul, but he would rather have shaken the hand of the most filthy beggar than this little girl’s hand. If he was trembling as he stood opposite her, it was not because she represented poverty to him, but because she represented unhappiness: a kind of unhappiness that was strangely, terrifyingly contagious, the way diseases can be contagious.

  ‘Well, don’t dance then!’ Madame Mimi urged him on. ‘Run off and play together.’

  ‘Madame Mimi,’ Harry murmured, ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘You know very well . . .’

  What could he say, what excuse could he find to make her go away more quickly, so he wouldn’t have to see those anxious eyes looking up at him?

  ‘You know that I am not allowed to play with other children,’ he said finally.

  At that instant, extreme hatred and extreme love merged in Ada’s heart, creating a feeling so violent, so contradictory, so upsetting, that she felt as if she had been wrenched in two.

  But Harry’s emotions weren’t simple either: he was afraid of Ada and attracted to her at the same time. He looked at her with passionate, sad curiosity. For a second, his attraction to her was so strong that he said, ‘I’m very sorry . . .’

  He had gone all red; his little yellowish face, so like Ben’s, was now purple. His eyes filled with tears, and when she saw his expression, Ada no longer felt anything but love.

  Madame Mimi hurriedly turned and walked away, followed by the little girl, her head lowered. It seemed to Ada that everyone was looking at her and mocking her. Her face took on an expression of such intense seriousness and pain that Madame Mimi stopped when she noticed it.

  ‘Ada,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t want things so badly.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Madame,’ she replied.

  ‘You must keep more detachment in your heart. Treat life as if you are someone who lends money generously and not a greedy usurer.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she said again.

  She was walking but saw nothing. Madame Mimi stopped some children who were playing to suggest they include Ada, but all the teams had already been decided; they refused to let her join in Blind Man’s Bluff; no one wanted her for Hopscotch or Musical Chairs. Finally, they let her play a game of Tag. She was caught almost immediately. Never again would she feel such intense distress as at that moment: surrounded by a circle of curious, mocking faces, she ran from side to side, trying to catch the little girls who squealed as they got away.

  11

  It was nearly midnight, but Aunt Raissa and Madame Mimi were so excited by the success of the party that they didn’t want to say goodnight. The Frenchwoman accepted an invitation to the Sinners’ to have a cup of tea. Lilla was soon in bed and fast asleep, only her black plait peeking out over the sheets. Ada undressed slowly, her fingers shaking and cold. She got into bed but couldn’t go to sleep. On the other side of the wall, Aunt Raissa and Madame Mimi were talking, and Ada could hear every word.

  ‘She instinctively knows how to carry off what she’s wearing,’ said Madame Mimi.

  They were talking about Lilla. Ada felt no jealousy; it was impossible not to be happy for Lilla’s good fortune. But, in spite of herself, she lay in the darkness and cried.

  ‘It’s sinful to keep that child here . . .’

  ‘Oh, my dear Madame Mimi, you’ve read my mind! What will she do in such an uncivilised place?’

  ‘She could be one of the belles of Paris in five or six years . . . She’d need some elocution lessons, a few deportment classes . . . The Conservatoire . . .’

  At those magical words, Aunt Raissa let out a little strangled cry of desire and regret.

  ‘The Conservatoire, do you really think so?’

  ‘She has such a pretty voice . . .’

&nb
sp; ‘She’s a silly little goose,’ Aunt Raissa suddenly said with extraordinary bitterness. ‘You have to keep an eye on her every minute so she doesn’t fall in love with the first good-looking beast who comes along. That’s why I could never send her to Paris alone. She’d get distracted.’ (What she really meant was ‘She’d let herself be seduced by some penniless boy’.)

  ‘Why don’t you go and live there? Everyone, no matter what age, should know what it’s like to leave your country, to live your life on the throw of the dice. I, for example . . .’

  ‘But I’m dependent on someone else. I’m just a poor widow. Someone else supports me,’ said Aunt Raissa, irritated.

  Never had Ada heard her aunt speak in such a sincere tone of voice. Everything the elderly woman had ever wanted, everything she had ever dreamed of, everything that had remained secret within her for all those long years now escaped as sighs, stifled cries and tears.

  ‘It’s so awful not being rich and free! When I think of the Sinners . . . Didn’t you tell me that they’re leaving Russia to go and live in Europe? That the little boy will be brought up in Paris? What a wonderful future, and how unfair to my family! I’ll have to stay here, wasting away from the boredom and mediocrity and imagining the same fate for my daughter. I wasn’t made for this kind of life, Madame Mimi. You understand me; you’re the only one who understands me . . .’

  ‘Your brother-in-law . . .’

  ‘Israel is so afraid, so cowardly. God, men are such cowards! He would never agree to leave the country. And he’d never send us there. If Lilla were his daughter, but she’s only his niece . . .’

  ‘I could offer to take her to live with me . . .’

  ‘With you, Madame?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I inherited a modest amount of money which I’ve invested in Russian Bonds. That way, my future is secure. I intend to go back and live in Paris next spring. But I wouldn’t dare take on the responsibility of looking after Lilla all by myself . . . Such a young, pretty girl, you understand . . . That would be asking for trouble . . . Only a mother . . .’