Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  Odette tilted her head in a non-committal manner.

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘I told her it was none of her business.’ Boyer was still seething at the bitter tone of the woman’s demands.

  ‘Perhaps she thought it was her business,’ Odette said carefully. ‘If she believes there’s something suspicious about the boy being here.’

  ‘What is there to be suspicious about? Viviane told us what happened.’

  Odette did not answer but her silence was more than eloquent.

  ‘You don’t believe her, do you?’ he said.

  ‘Viviane?’ Odette snorted. ‘I rarely believe her. A lifetime of knowing her has taught me that.’

  Boyer poured a glass of wine. ‘I wish you two would be friends,’ he said. ‘Aren’t times hard enough as it is?’

  ‘We’re sisters,’ Odette said. ‘I choose my friends. I didn’t choose her.’

  ‘I wonder if she feels the same about you?’

  ‘She does. She makes it abundantly clear. And she hurts not only me but Maman and Papa as well. What with sleeping with that Gypsy crook.’

  ‘Her husband, you mean.’

  Odette looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Husband? What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re married. I’ve seen the papers myself.’

  Odette pondered this news for a while before replying. ‘And was this anything to do with the law that unmarried women are available for any work the government demands?’

  Boyer shrugged. ‘And what if it is? The law is most explicit. Viviane is married and the law does not relate to her.’

  Odette threw her arms in the air. ‘You are a slave to the law. If the law told you to wear a skirt or strangle your wife would you do it?’

  ‘I doubt a skirt would suit me.’ He swallowed his wine. The omelette was, as yet, untouched.

  ‘Well,’ Odette continued, ‘I for one think that Jeanne Greuze was right to come to the police with her suspicions. It’s a pity, perhaps, that she didn’t talk with someone more willing to listen.’

  ‘Listen to what? There is no substance to her insinuations. None whatsoever.’

  He began to eat his omelette and went over the interview in his mind. Jeanne Greuze had not exactly accused David of being a Jew, but she pointedly wondered why he hadn’t been seen in church, why he was so dark, why his accent was a little unusual.

  ‘You’re convinced that there’s no truth in what she says, then?’ Odette said. Her tone was less strident now, more conciliatory.

  ‘Absolutely convinced.’

  ‘Of course, husband.’ She paused. ‘You will have seen the boy’s papers?’

  The omelette almost stuck in his throat. He swallowed it with difficulty.

  He had considered asking Viviane to let him examine the boy’s papers but decided not to. The less he knew, the better all round. He had told himself that it was not a police matter and so not his responsibility to pry.

  He took a long sip of his wine. ‘This omelette is excellent,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose there are more eggs?’

  Odette shook her head. She was watching him like a cat eyes a bird.

  She realised that he was not going to respond so she risked a more direct question.

  ‘So what did his papers say? Is Viviane telling the truth for once?’

  He did not answer for a moment.

  ‘More or less,’ he said.

  ‘More or less?’

  He nodded, slowly. ‘David’s mother was, indeed, Simone Legarde. And she was killed in an RAF raid in Paris. But the boy has no father. He’s illegitimate.’

  Odette eyes narrowed. Celeste, of course, was also illegitimate but Odette had long realised that any gossip about this would incur the wrath of her father. But the boy was a different matter entirely.

  ‘That’s why we must not talk about David’s background,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair on the boy.’

  Odette gave a nod, as if she acquiesced.

  He congratulated himself on this subterfuge. Fight fire with fire, he thought.

  VISITING DOROTHY

  Grasse, November 1942

  Roland Boyer’s belief that the lie he had told Odette about David’s father would quell all further rumour was sadly mistaken. Odette never spoke about it to him directly, it was true. But her friends now added the word bastard to their insinuations about the boy. And the word snaked across the town.

  Viviane grew desperate about it, her nerves taut and ever ready to fray. ‘I wish we could get away,’ she said one day.

  ‘We can’t,’ Alain said, pausing in his reading. ‘The government won’t let anyone move now, not without a reason so strong even they can’t challenge it.’

  ‘We could say your uncle’s ill,’ she said.

  ‘Stefan? He’s as strong as a bull. Everyone knows it. Besides, I’ve no idea where he is, he could be anywhere. And I can’t see you living in a caravan.’

  Viviane kissed his hand. ‘I don’t know. I might be quite the Roma princess. And Celeste would love it.’

  ‘I’m not sure about David, though. He prefers motorbikes and cars. Do we know anyone with a car? He would love to sit in one.’

  Viviane shook her head. Then she gasped. ‘I do actually. Do you remember that American lady who had a fainting fit?’

  Alain looked confused.

  ‘You do. It was soon after David came to us. She had a black-out and I had to drive her car home.’

  Alain nodded. ‘Oh yes. Sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘She lives in a grand villa just outside of town. She knew Charlie Chaplin.’

  ‘She was an actress?’

  ‘No. She wrote films. Like someone who writes plays for the theatre.’

  Alain grew more interested now. ‘She must be rich.’

  Viviane shrugged. ‘She has a big house.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go and visit her, Viv. It would get you away from the town and all the tittle-tattle for an hour or two.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, although part of her would have loved to. She did not want to intrude on a stranger and she guessed that Dorothy’s friendliness was merely because she had helped her when she was unwell.

  **********************

  It was a few weeks later, at the beginning of October, that there came a knock at the door. Alain was at the market and Viviane grew alarmed. No one knocked on her door unless it was official. Her friends would just walk in and her neighbours would call out before opening the door.

  ‘Celeste,’ she said. ‘Go in the yard and take David with you.’

  ‘But I want to see who it is.’

  ‘Do as I say. And keep your voices down.’

  Another knock sounded on the door, a little louder this time. Viviane glanced at the mirror above the fireplace and tidied up her hair. She took a deep breath and threw open the door.

  She recognised the young woman on the doorstep although she could not remember how or where.

  ‘My name is Marie,’ the woman said. ‘I am Madame Pine’s maid.’

  ‘Of course,’ Viviane said. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t place you for a moment.’ She looked alarmed. ‘Is Madame Pine ill?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘She is quite well. But she wondered if you would like to visit her, with the children.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘She gets lonely. She needs to have company.’

  ‘Why me?’

  Marie shook her head. It was a mystery to her, as well.

  Viviane was surprised at how the invitation lifted her spirits. ‘I would love to come,’ she said. ‘Thank Madame Pine very much. When did she have in mind?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Marie said. ‘If you say yes, I’m to buy some wine and cakes.’

  ‘That will be wonderful.’

  ‘At three in the afternoon, then,’ Marie said. ‘You know how to get there? It will take an hour to walk.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The next day, with all of them dressed in their finest cl
othes, Viviane and the children knocked on Madame Pine’s door.

  Alain was in Nice, negotiating a supply of flashlights and bulbs which, because of the black-out, would be in great demand in the winter months.

  The door opened and Marie gestured to them to enter.

  Viviane was more at ease now. The last time she had been here she had been shaking with anxiety about Dorothy’s blackout and, even more, because of having to drive her car.

  Today, the long walk had been relaxing and good for the children. David had asked endless questions about the trees, hedges and birds which made her think that he had probably been brought up in a city or large town. He was fascinated most by the holes in the banks beside the road; the dens of rabbits, weasels and mice. He peered into them and sniffed the pungent scents of fur and flesh which rose from within. His face was bright with pleasure and he wanted to linger and watch for any animals to appear. Eventually, Viviane had to raise her voice to make him come away.

  ‘He’s a bit grubby,’ Marie said, pointing to David’s knees.

  ‘He was looking into burrows,’ Viviane said, which seemed explanation enough.

  Marie showed them into the garden room once again and they sat by the window. Viviane took out a handkerchief, spat into it and hurriedly rubbed at David’s knees. Then, for good measure, she turned the handkerchief over, spat once again and wiped his face. She looked inquisitively at Celeste who backed away at the sight of the handkerchief.

  ‘Not after you’ve wiped it on David,’ she said in alarm. ‘He ate a worm.’

  Viviane turned to David. ‘You didn’t?’

  David nodded. ‘It wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘You must never do that again, you naughty boy. You’ll be ill.’

  He looked chastised for all of ten seconds. Viviane had to suppress a smile.

  ‘How’s the boy been naughty,’ came Dorothy’s voice from the door. ‘What’s the little fellow been up to?’

  ‘He ate a worm,’ Celeste said.

  ‘Did he now?’ Dorothy hunkered down beside David. ‘Was it a big one or a little one?’

  David stuck his thumb in his mouth. ‘A little one,’ he murmured.

  ‘They’re not the tastiest,’ Dorothy said. ‘Next time try a long one but make sure you cook it first. Hey, maybe we could share one next time you come.’

  David looked at Viviane, unsure what to say to this.

  ‘She’s only teasing,’ Viviane said. ‘She doesn’t really want to eat worms. And nor should you.’

  Dorothy laughed, threw herself into a chair and glanced at Marie. ‘Could we have tea and lemonade, please, Marie? And those delicious cakes you bought in town yesterday.’

  Marie nodded and left the room. She was disappointed for she wanted to hear the conversation between her mistress and the woman from Grasse.

  ‘Now, darling,’ Dorothy said to Viviane, ‘I want to know how things are with you.’

  ‘Things are good, madame,’ Viviane said.

  ‘Dorothy,’ she corrected. ‘And I’ve heard on the grapevine that they aren’t too good for you.’

  Viviane was immediately suspicious. And defensive. ‘What do you mean?’

  Dorothy shrugged. ‘That there’s been gossip about the boy.’ She turned towards the children. ‘Hey, Celeste, would you and David like to go see if Groucho wants to play? He may be snoozing in the sunshine somewhere but he won’t mind being woken. He’s not much more than a kitten and he likes to play.’

  Celeste took David’s hand and headed for the garden.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean about gossip,’ Viviane said, stiffly.

  ‘Oh, I think you do. If I’ve heard rumour even out here, then I dread to think what you hear in the town.’

  Viviane paused before answering. She could see there was no point in trying to hide things from Dorothy.

  ‘People always talk,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It is, let’s be fair, unusual for anyone to take in an orphan child of a friend. People are bound to talk.’

  Marie brought in the tea and cakes and Dorothy thanked her. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, ‘could you go and help Lucile with the supper. Take some cakes with you. You bought more than we need, I think.’

  Marie thanked her and left.

  ‘She always buys more than I ask for,’ Dorothy explained. ‘I don’t mind, I can afford it, and she adores cakes.’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘I let her get away with murder, actually,’ she said.

  All the while she was engaged in these pleasantries she was watching Viviane intently.

  Viviane smiled. Her stomach was rumbling at the sight of the cakes and it was all she could do to refrain from reaching for one. ‘I’d better call the children,’ she said.

  ‘Let them play for a while.’ Dorothy poured the tea and passed Viviane a cup. ‘I guess you’re right, darling. People are bound to talk about what you did.’

  She raised her cup to her lips, sipped it and returned to the table. ‘Especially if the boy’s a Jew.’

  Viviane’s cup rattled in the saucer. She felt as if she had walked into a trap. ‘Who says he’s a Jew?’

  Dorothy raised one eyebrow. ‘That’s the word on the streets, honey. That you took in a Jew. It’s only a rumour, of course.’ She paused a moment. ‘And some of the gossips say you did it for money.’

  Viviane flushed red, a deep shade which covered her face, her neck, even her chest.

  ‘All righty,’ Dorothy said quietly. She got to her feet. ‘Would you like something stronger than tea?’

  Viviane nodded, unable for the moment to speak.

  Dorothy went to the sideboard and poured them both large measures of sherry. ‘It’s surprisingly good,’ she said, handing Viviane a glass. ‘Considering it crossed the Pyrenees on mule-back.’

  Viviane took a larger gulp than she intended.

  ‘Don’t worry, honey,’ Dorothy said. ‘Your secret’s safe with us.’

  For a moment Viviane meant to argue, to say that Dorothy was wrong about David, completely wrong. But she knew there was no point.

  She said nothing for a while. Apart from Alain, nobody knew that David was a Jew. Yet the burden of keeping the secret had begun to wear her down. This stranger’s forthright discussion of it was disconcerting, alarming even. Did she mean to denounce her to the authorities? What would happen to the boy then? And to her and Alain and Celeste?

  Yet, at the same time, now that the issue had come into the open, she felt a little relieved. There was no more sense in hiding the fact. She could not close this box now.

  ‘You can trust me,’ Dorothy said quietly. Her tone was unlike any she had used hitherto. It was calm, gentle, compassionate.

  ‘Promise?’ Viviane asked, quietly.

  ‘On my mother-in-law’s grave,’ Dorothy said.

  Viviane gave a sigh. ‘How did you hear? About David?’

  ‘Tradesmen come to my house. I sometimes shop in town.’

  ‘And they talk about me?’

  ‘Only my friends. Monsieur Blanche, the baker, and old man Corot.’

  ‘Corot the butcher?’ Viviane had never been in Monsieur Corot’s shop for his meat was the most expensive in town.

  ‘They’re good people. You might be wise to get to know them.’

  ‘I know Monsieur Blanche. I buy my bread there.’

  ‘He made these cakes.’

  Viviane stared at the plate. ‘I haven’t seen anything like these for years.’

  Dorothy smiled. ‘It’s a special order, honey.’

  Viviane stared at her. So she must have been confident that Viviane would come to the villa. Her suspicions were immediately roused. Why was this? Why had she asked her? Marie’s explanation that she liked company now appeared rather hollow.

  Perhaps it would be best to try to hide these thoughts. If Dorothy was a friend then it would be churlish. If she were an enemy then showing any antagonism would merely make things worse.

  ‘So you’ve heard these rumours only from Monsieur B
lanche and Monsieur Corot?’ she asked, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice.

  Dorothy shook her head. ‘Not just them. My cook Lucile lives in Grasse. She’s my eyes and ears. Very useful these days.’

  ‘So, madame,’ Viviane said, ‘if you don’t mind me asking, what else have you heard about the boy?’

  ‘Ooh, very formal. You must be fretting.’ Dorothy gave her a sympathetic look and sipped her sherry, allowing herself time to think. ‘There’s not a deal else, Viviane. Some people think the boy’s a Jew, others don’t. A few are bitter about this, but they’re just trouble-makers. Most are either sympathetic or don’t care one way or another.’

  ‘And you?’

  Dorothy touched her gently on the knee. ‘I hate Hitler and all his works. I despise him. And I don’t see why anybody, least of all little children, should be persecuted because of who they were born to.’

  There was an unforced honesty about her words. Viviane sighed and closed her eyes. She felt a solitary tear fill one eye and she wished that her handkerchief wasn’t so filthy.

  ‘Have a cake, darling,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘I think I will.’

  She chose an eclair. The chocolate was not particularly good and the cream had been mixed with something rather cloying, margarine perhaps, but it tasted lovely. She’d never been partial to cakes in the past and never thought to seek them out. Now, shortages meant it was too late to develop the taste for them.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,’ Dorothy said.

  Viviane shook her head. ‘I’m no longer so sure. I never imagined that Maréchal Pétain would agree to arrest children but he did. And the Nazis are animals.’

  Dorothy didn’t reply. She knew from various sources that the Nazis had definitely not wanted to take Jewish children. The Vichy government had offered them up, nonetheless, partly because they did not want to take care of thousands of parent-less children but also to curry favour with the Nazis. Best not to say this to Viviane, though, she thought.

  Then something struck her. ‘You have papers?’ she asked. ‘Papers for the boy?’

  The eclair suddenly tasted vile in Viviane’s mouth. She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must get them. And as soon as possible. It will be a sure proof for the child.’