Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  ‘What is Brer Rabbit?’ Marinelli asked.

  ‘I guess the French would call him Frère Lapin.’ She made the sign of rabbit ears above her head. ‘What would it be in Italian?’

  ‘Fratello Coniglio,’ Marinelli said. He gave a little smile. ‘I would like to read these stories, Signora Pine.’

  ‘I’ll have to dig them out for you, then. I hid them away from David.’

  She gave a winning smile and Marinelli beamed, all thought of David completely dispelled.

  ‘Anyway, Captain,’ she said, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  ‘No specific reason, Signora. I like to keep an eye on people who live outside of the city. You cannot be too careful.’

  ‘And I’m very grateful. Would you like some cognac? Or something bubbly, perhaps.’

  ‘That would be very pleasant.’

  She took his arm and started back to the house. She had taken only a few steps before she turned and gestured Alain to leave. He needed no second instruction. He grabbed hold of David and hurried down the drive.

  ‘Tell me again, exactly what happened,’ Viviane said.

  Alain groaned. He’d told her several times already. He felt like he was a schoolboy being interrogated by a teacher. Patiently, he repeated what David had said about not wanting to be a rabbi, how Marinelli reacted and how Dorothy had flirted with him to distract his attention.

  ‘But he’ll remember that David used the word rabbi,’ Viviane said. She wiped her hands continuously as if washing them.

  Alain took her hands. He could still feel them writhing beneath his grasp. ‘We don’t know that,’ he said. ‘He might believe what Dorothy told him about the rabbit stories.’

  ‘I’m sure he can’t be that stupid.’

  ‘Maybe not. But a man who is losing his heart is half-way to losing his mind.’

  He tried a grin, saw it was beginning to work and then clutched his heart as if in the throes of passion. ‘Bellisima Signora Pine, I adore you,’ he cried in a ludicrous Italian accent. ‘And I believe it if you say the moon is cheese and Mussolini a clown.’

  Then he kissed Viviane all the way up the arm, to her neck and then her cheeks. She giggled like a teenager.

  ‘You’re silly, Papa,’ Celeste called from the back yard.

  ‘He’s very silly,’ Viviane said. ‘But he’s lovely.’

  She hugged him. Sometimes he was the only thing which made her feel safe and hopeful.

  THE MILICE

  Grasse, 20 February 1943

  It was a week later and the weather had turned wet and windy.

  Viviane was sitting in the living room, darning one of Celeste’s socks. She hummed quietly to herself. She felt less worried than of late. Six months of keeping David under wraps had taken a toll on her but now that the Italians had arrived, the burden had lifted a little. She thought it strange that foreign invaders appeared to pose less threat to her than her own Government but it was true. And, to be honest, the Italians were not that foreign. Many of the locals had Italian relatives and some of her friends from school spent summers in the villages over the border.

  Alain was sitting at the table, poring over a list he had just made of his contacts in Grasse, Cannes and Nice. They did not make up for the more extensive network he had built in Marseilles but there was nothing else for it but to work at developing things in new towns. And then he smiled. The Italians might prove the best contacts of all. And the friendship between Dorothy Pine and Emilio Marinelli could well be the best place to start.

  A quiet knock sounded on the door. Viviane and Alain exchanged glances. Hardly anyone knocked in Grasse. Most people just opened the door and called out. Or, just as likely, entered the house and sat down. Before the war, they might even have helped themselves to a glass of wine or a pastis.

  Viviane told Celeste and David to go upstairs and be quiet.

  David trotted up quite contentedly but Celeste was truculent. She had heard the knock at the door and wanted to wait to find out who it was. Only firm words from Viviane made her leave.

  Alain waited until the children had disappeared and opened the door.

  ‘It’s you,’ he cried, flinging the door open. ‘What’s with the formality?’

  Gerard Pithou slouched into the room. As usual he blushed deeply on seeing Viviane.

  She raised half an eyebrow. She had always had her fair share of admirers but Gerard was not one she particularly relished. He was hardly the stuff that dreams were made of and he was gauche and uncomfortable in her presence. Nevertheless, she smiled sweetly and invited him to sit down. He was a good friend of Alain’s and she always treated him in a friendly manner.

  Alain had already poured Gerard a glass of wine and was thrusting it into his hand. He took one large gulp and all but emptied it.

  ‘Top up his glass,’ Viviane said, in as pleasant a voice as she could manage.

  ‘Why are you looking so cheerful?’ Alain asked him as he poured the wine.

  Viviane glanced at Gerard. She could discern no trace of cheerfulness about him, merely an impression of febrile excitement.

  ‘I’ve joined the Militia,’ Gerard said. ‘The Milice.’ He pulled back his coat to reveal a badge with a white gamma sign on a black background. ‘This is our emblem.’

  ‘What does it signify?’ Alain asked, although he regretted doing so almost immediately.

  ‘The gamma sign is for the astrological sign Aries,’ Gerard said. ‘It means a new season for France, rejuvenation. And the Führer is a great believer in astrology.’

  ‘The Führer?’ said Viviane. ‘What the hell are you talking about? You’re French, not German.’

  ‘France and Germany are partners now, Viviane,’ he said. ‘Partners in a new Europe.’

  ‘Poppycock.’

  Gerard flushed violently at her reaction. Viviane was not sure if it was his usual embarrassment at being close to her or something more worrying; anger perhaps.

  ‘And I have a gun,’ Gerard said. He lifted his pullover to reveal a pistol stuck into his pocket. ‘I don’t have any bullets yet. We’ll get them in a week or so.’

  Viviane’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘You’re like a little boy, Gerard. Playing at soldiers.’

  ‘No, I’m not. And I came to ask Alain to join us.’

  ‘Well he’s not going to.’

  ‘He should. We get good pay and extra rations. And he’ll never be sent to work in Germany.’

  ‘We have no need of better pay and extra rations,’ Viviane said.

  Gerard gave her a doubtful look. Alain had done better than most people since the start of the war but they still found things difficult.

  ‘Think it over, Alain,’ he said. ‘Those of us who are in at the beginning will do best. I get a uniform next month.’

  ‘And what are your duties?’ Viviane asked. ‘Cleaning the German’s boots? Teaching children how to salute Hitler?’

  Alain gestured to her to stop but she was too angry to keep quiet.

  ‘And will you beat up people who insult the Nazis? Will you round up the Jews and help imprison them or send them to labour camps in Germany?

  ‘That’s not fair, Viviane,’ Gerard said. His face was white now and his lips compressed. ‘I am a patriot and all patriots should stand by our Government. The Maréchal is doing the right thing for France and for Frenchmen. If I am able to help in any way, then I am honoured to do so.’

  ‘By harming vulnerable people?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that Laval and the Maréchal are only arresting undesirables. Jews and criminals.’

  Viviane did not answer but stormed out into the kitchen.

  ‘I think you should go now,’ Alain said.

  ‘We are still friends, though,’ Gerard said. He looked alarmed, suddenly. Surprised at the vehemence of Viviane’s reaction. ‘We three are still friends?’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Alain got to his feet. The sooner he got Gerard out of the house the better
.

  Gerard made for the door but stopped on the threshold. ‘You will think about what I suggest,’ he said. He took a deep breath. ‘Your background, well it makes you a little at risk. You’d be safer as a member of the Milice.’

  ‘I’m not a criminal,’ Alain said in surprise. ‘I deal in the black-market but who doesn’t?’

  ‘I don’t mean what you do. I mean what you are. Or rather, what your mother was.’

  He held Alain’s gaze for a while and then turned and left.

  Alain did not answer. He closed the door behind Gerard and leaned with his back to it. He gnawed on his bottom lip anxiously. What did he mean? Was the fact that his mother was a Gypsy going to cause him problems?

  And then he shuddered. Was his old friend warning him or threatening him?

  He stared at the kitchen where Viviane was making a noise clattering with pots and pans. I’ll not tell her, he thought. She has enough to put up with as it is.

  DAVID’S PAPERS

  Grasse, 11 May 1943

  It was a warm and lovely May. Viviane and the children spent a lot of time outdoors. It was not only because it was more pleasant. Viviane had been feeling increasingly trapped in the house and now that David had authentic looking papers she felt more confident in taking him out.

  Besides this, the Italian soldiers were very friendly, and especially keen on children. They often gave Celeste and David fruit or a cake. She felt more relaxed with the Italian soldiers than with the more conscientious French police. It was the police who would stop her to ask where she was going or demand to see her papers. It was as if they were trying to prove that they and not the Italians were in control. Whether they were trying to prove it to the townspeople, the Italians or to themselves was not clear.

  The French authorities had agreed to meet the German demand for French workers to be sent to Germany and dispatched half a million there in the early months of the year. But this proved not enough. On the 23rd of April the Germans demanded a quarter of a million more be sent in the following two months. The French were swift to obey. Although most men were younger than Alain, he was increasingly worried that he would be included in the quota in the near future. Despite the relaxed nature of the Italians the demands from the French Government were increasingly alarming.

  He had other worries as well. Because Marseilles was in the hands of the Germans his usual supply chains had dried up. He spent much of his time in Nice and Cannes but although he got some leads he was unable to make up for the loss of his previous contacts. For the first time since the end of the war he and his family began to go hungry. He looked increasingly gaunt and increasingly troubled.

  ‘Are we right to keep David with us?’ he asked Viviane suddenly one evening.

  She looked shocked. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because times are hard now. There is less on the market, less of everything. I get some things from Gabriel in Nice but even he’s finding life more difficult.’

  ‘You’re not going back to Marseilles.’ Her voice was strong and determined.

  ‘I won’t. There’s no need to worry about that. The biggest criminals, including Carbone and Spirito, are in league with the Gestapo. It’s not a healthy place for small fry like me.’

  He leaned back against his chair. ‘It’s because of this that I’m wondering whether we should give David up. Food is getting scarce and I’ve noticed that you’re doing without.’

  ‘It’s to keep a nice slim figure for you,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘It’s not a joking matter,’ Alain said. He took her hand. ‘We could take David to an orphanage. Maybe with some nuns. He’d be safer there.’

  ‘Would he? A Jew? I thought you were an atheist. I thought you despised the church.’

  Alain took a deep breath. ‘I do. But not every member of the church.’ He recalled the bravery of Père Benoît and his fellow friars.

  ‘And what would Celeste do without David? They’re like brother and sister.’

  Alain did not answer. He found it difficult to continue arguing whenever Viviane used Celeste to support her case.

  ‘And things are safer now,’ she continued. ‘The Italians are not harsh masters. And they’re not as efficient as the police. Roland says they are continually hampering his efforts to crack down on petty criminals.’

  ‘That’s a good thing,’ Alain said with a smile.

  ‘So we’re agreed then,’ she said.

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘That David stays with us. Where he’s loved and protected.’

  Alain shrugged. He was not going to argue any longer. Especially as he agreed with everything Viviane said.

  Raoul Villiers smiled as he glanced around. Being out and about on such a fine morning was what he liked best about being a policeman.

  That and the opportunity to watch the little dramas of life. He grinned as he saw the little boy come tearing down the road in hot pursuit of a cat. The cat almost seemed to be playing with him, slowing to a walk until he got close and then suddenly leaping ahead. Finally it appeared to tire of it all, turned to face the child, made itself look huge and hissed savagely.

  The boy took fright and burst into tears.

  Villiers chuckled to himself, reached the cat in two strides and landed a kick in its side. It sailed across the road and, howling in pain and outrage, disappeared up an alley.

  Villiers bent to the little boy and took his hand.

  ‘No need to cry, little man. You scared the cat. You defeated it.’

  ‘He scared me,’ the boy said, wiping his nose with his cuff. ‘He was very angry.’

  Villiers tousled the boy’s hair and glanced around in search of an adult. ‘Are you out on your own?’ he asked, gently.

  At that moment a woman turned the corner at the top of the street, her face frantic with worry. Then she saw the little boy and ran down towards him. A small girl hurried after her.

  ‘You should keep a better eye on him,’ Villiers said sternly. ‘He shouldn’t be running around the streets alone at his age.’

  ‘My daughter fell over,’ she said, angrily. ‘She cut her leg and while I was tending to her, he ran.’

  ‘I was after the pussy cat,’ the boy wailed.

  ‘It’s alright, David,’ the woman said. ‘There’s no need to be upset.’ She glanced up at the policeman and was suddenly overwhelmed by panic.

  ‘I have his papers,’ she said, rummaging in her bag and thrusting them into his hand.

  Villiers was surprised and, without really intending to, gave them a casual glance. He was just about to give them back when he stopped, pursed his lips, and looked at them more carefully. Then he smiled although he did not give them back to her.

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Viviane was suddenly brittle and defensive.

  ‘Yes I do. You’re Viviane Loubet.’

  ‘That was my maiden name.’

  Villiers shrugged. ‘Which means that you are the sister-in-law of Capitaine Boyer, my boss.’ His voice took on a cold edge.

  Viviane tensed. She was always wrong-footed when Roland was mentioned. Now she felt really concerned. She knew that he could be a real stickler for discipline and if he had been hard on this young policeman then it might mean trouble. He might take dislike of his boss out on her. Even more so if he recalled that she was married to a man who always sailed close to the wind where the law was concerned.

  She tried to give a winning smile. ‘I haven’t seen my brother-in-law for a while. Do give him my regards.’

  ‘A close family, I see.’ Villiers laughed. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Wait a minute. Aren’t you living with Alain Renaud?’

  ‘We’re married,’ she said.

  ‘Alain and I went to school together. He was older than me. He didn’t like me.’

  ‘Boys will be boys. But then they grow up, of course.’

  ‘As do little girls.’

  Viviane’s eyes glinted. She w
as not sure if he was referring to Celeste or to herself. A sick feeling oozed into her stomach. The police were getting more undisciplined with every passing year. They were hungry: for food, cigarettes and for wine. All too often they sought to slake this hunger on the one commodity which was never in short supply. Young women were now more wary of the police than of the criminals they were meant to protect them from.

  ‘My husband works from home,’ she said, hoping that this would dissuade him from trying to take advantage. ‘He hasn’t been sent to Germany, thankfully. Perhaps if you’d like to call round, you can chat about the past over a bottle of wine.’

  Villiers tilted his head. ‘And I’m sure that he has many fine bottles, Madame.’ He gave a wide grin. ‘Your husband’s entrepreneurial activities do not go unnoticed at the police station.’

  She did not know how to respond and said nothing.

  ‘Anyway,’ Villiers continued, ‘you need to go home and bandage up your daughter’s leg.’

  She turned to go but he spoke again. ‘And do keep a better eye on the boy. After all, he’s not yours, you’re only taking care for him for a while.’

  ‘Everything’s perfectly in order,’ she said. Her mouth was suddenly dry as dust. ‘The boy’s mother was my friend.’

  ‘Of course.’ His tone was ironic, mocking.

  She was about to leave when she felt his hand upon her arm.

  ‘These papers, Madame,’ he said. ‘Where did you get them?’

  Viviane saw to her horror that he still had the papers in his hand.

  ‘From his mother,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, from her friend who brought him here from Paris.’

  Villiers nodded but there was a deep frown on his forehead. ‘And where did this friend get them from?’

  ‘From his parent’s home, I presume. Why do you ask?’

  Villiers pursed his lips. ‘Because they’re not actually that good a forgery.’

  Viviane felt her head grow dizzy. Her ears were filled with a terrible booming noise, fierce waves crashing on a cliff. She could see the policeman standing in front of her but nothing else. Her whole world had shrunk down to this tiny space of utmost danger.