Revolution Baby

by Joanna Gruda

  I recovered quickly enough from my disappointment, and a year later I was the only contest participant who was still tending his little garden. Maybe it had something to do with my thieving from the neighbors’ yards; maybe I felt some sort of responsibility toward my plants, because I wanted to give them as good a life as they would have had if I had never kidnapped them.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Grand Duke

  Ever since our vacation on the Île de Ré, I had been dreaming of becoming an animal trainer. Now I had found a new vocation: veterinarian. This was even better, because it would mean truly helping animals, instead of using them for the amusement of humans. This was driven home to me one day when I found a wounded creature on the grounds of L’Avenir Social. And it was no ordinary creature, like a squirrel, or a tit . . . It was an owl. When I found him, he was hiding in the bushes. There was something wrong with his wing, and he held it stiffly alongside his body. There was no blood, just a little patch on the wing where some feathers were missing.

  I looked after my little owl—baptized the Grand Duke—for nearly ten days. In the beginning, I acted the hunter: I found worms for him, and frogs; I even brought him a dead mouse which one of the neighborhood cats had left almost intact. After a while I opted for a simpler solution: scraps of raw meat from the kitchen, obtained thanks to my imploring gaze as an adoptive father. As soon as he was better, I would let him venture out of the cage from time to time. Gros Pierre agreed to lend me his toolshed for a first trial run at setting him free. Roger was chosen as my partner for the operation.

  Roger and I were walking home from school, and I would have liked to discuss the matter with him, but I was afraid of prying ears. I didn’t want the Grand Duke’s stroll to turn into a show.

  “It would be better if we keep the lights off while we watch the aristocracy go by.”

  Roger didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t you think?”

  I was trying to speak code language to Roger, but visibly it wasn’t working. The fact is, we had just had an exam about the French Revolution at school, and Roger was not very pleased with his answers. My subtle message must have his anxiety at being a very mediocre pupil flooding back.

  When we got back to the orphanage, we rushed to see the Grand Duke, who was asleep in his cage. I spoke to him quietly. He moved a bit, but he still seemed drowsy. That didn’t matter, Roger and I lifted the cage and carried it into the toolshed.

  “We’re going to open your cage, your Royal Highness, but it’s just so that you can take a little walk, and after that you’ll go back in for the night. If everything goes well, we’ll try it again.”

  He was listening attentively. He seemed to approve of the plan. I was still hesitating. Roger looked at me, impatiently. Okay, all right . . . I opened the cage.

  Nothing happened. The Grand Duke did not seem to grasp the new possibilities open to him. After a few moments, Roger and I looked at each other, disappointed.

  “What should we do? Maybe we should shake him up a bit.”

  “Yeah, for sure we can’t stay here like idiots until dinnertime waiting for some owl to understand that the door to his cage is open.”

  “I should have brought something to eat . . . ”

  “Maybe he likes it in there so much he’s afraid to come out.”

  “Keep a close eye on him, I’ll be back.”

  I upended every pebble on the path looking for worms. I had just found a sticky little insect when I heard shouts from the toolshed. I rushed over. I tried to open the door, but it was stuck.

  “Careful, he mustn’t get out,” called Roger. “I’m going to crack the door open a bit and you come in very quickly, all right?”

  “Yes, yes . . . Come on, hurry up!”

  Inside, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I could see the cage was open, and empty . . .

  “He’s up there, just under the roof!”

  “Did he fly?”

  “Well, yeah, he didn’t climb up there like a mountaineer.”

  “But then that means that he’s all better! Your Royal High­ness, you’re all better, that’s wonderful! You can fly again.”

  My protégé seemed to be greatly enjoying walking along the shelves in the toolshed. Roger and I stayed there watching him in silence. The dinner gong brought us back to reality.

  “Darn! We have to get him back in his cage!”

  “I found a worm just now, maybe that will attract him.”

  “What are you doing, boys, it’s dinnertime!”

  It was Gros Pierre.

  “We can’t get the owl back in his cage!”

  Then it all happened very quickly. Gros Pierre opened the door, I hurried to close it, I stumbled over a box full of tools, Roger gave a shout, I heard things falling over, a rustling of wings, and I saw a shadow fly through the door of the shed. I stood up like a flash and reached out my arms in hopes of catching the bird. No such luck. The shadow flew away toward the trees on the far side of the orphanage’s stone wall.

  “Grand Duke, come back, please!”

  Too late. He was already gone.

  “Are you coming to eat, Jules?”

  How could I have any appetite! Sometimes Roger is truly insensitive, he really deserves his nickname Robinet the water faucet. I asked him not to tell anyone what had just happened, I was sure that some of the kids would be only too pleased to hear about our misadventure. Like Roland, who looked like an owl, so he didn’t like competition . . .

  It took me a long time to fall asleep that night. I kept thinking about what had happened, and wondered what I could have done to prevent my protégé from escaping; I told myself it would not have taken much for things to turn out differently, and I wouldn’t have this big lump in my throat. The Grand Duke had begun to matter a lot in my life.

  The next morning, Gros Pierre came to see me straight after breakfast.

  “Hey there, Julot, how are you? Ah, you’re looking a bit bleary-eyed. I might have some good news for you. There were people in the village this morning talking about some owl hooting all night long and keeping them awake. I thought it might be the Grand Duke, perhaps he was sad not to be here anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if he came back.”

  “And where do they live, those people who didn’t sleep all night?”

  “Near the Dumoutiers’ farm.”

  “Yeah, that’s not that close . . . ”

  “For the Grand Duke it’s nothing, just a few flaps of his wings and he’ll be here.”

  Well, if the Grand Duke wasn’t that far away, then I had an idea that might work. I absolutely had to talk it over with Roger.

  “The problem is how to catch him. He won’t let just anybody do it. You’re the one who has to do it . . . ” said Roger.

  “Yeah, but what if he doesn’t want to go back in his cage?”

  “I think he misses you.”

  “I don’t know . . . ”

  “You know what? We’ll climb over the wall tonight and go looking for him.”

  It didn’t take much for Roger to convince me.

  An hour after bedtime, Roger and I tiptoed out of the dormitory. It was a magnificent night, the moon was almost full, casting the brilliant light we needed for our mission. We went to the spot where the wall was a little lower. Roger gave me a leg up, and I helped to tug him up after me.

  For a while we walked without speaking, like two hunters on the lookout. Roger was the one who broke the silence.

  “What do we do if we find him?”

  “Well, that will depend if he’s high up in a tree or within reach. There are too many factors to be taken into consideration, we’ll see when the time comes.”

  Roger did not seem the least bit convinced by my answer, and I got the impression that the cold air was getting the better of his faith in our
undertaking. But because he was a good sort, he strode on with determination, looking all around him like a warrior in enemy terrain.

  The night was very calm. From time to time a gust of wind rustled a few leaves along the pavement, a dog barked as we went by, or some shutters banged at their window . . .

  When we reached the woods, we skirted them to the path that led into them. Still no sign of my bird. I suggested we split up, and I headed toward the river while Roger went into the heart of the woods. Perhaps if the Grand Duke saw me on my own he would rush up to me. But the ambient silence did not leave me much hope. Roughly an hour later, we met up again. Roger was discouraged.

  “He obviously isn’t in these woods. I’m willing to look some more, but we have no idea which way to go.”

  “Follow me. We can’t give up yet, I sense that he’s not far away.”

  “If you say so . . . ”

  And off we went again. There was even a certain thrill about walking around in the middle of the night and visiting the hidden recesses of Villette-aux-Aulnes. We went down muddy paths into forbidden fields, and saw a baby hare that seemed to have lost its mother. And when dawn broke, we were on the road leading from Villette-aux-Aulnes to Mitry-Mory, a good hour away from the orphanage.

  “I’m hungry. We should try and get back in time for breakfast, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. I had to face the facts: The Grand Duke was nowhere to be found.

  “You looked after him so well that he doesn’t need you anymore. You should become a veterinarian later, you have a real vocation.”

  Roger can be really kind.

  A pink light appeared behind the blue clouds at the end of the road. The world was beginning to wake up, we could hear the sounds of animals in the farms, roosters proclaiming the arrival of the new day, and the engine of the first car heading down the road. We were nearly there when we heard shouting. Darn! The children were out looking for us, we had arrived too late for our absence to go unnoticed.

  “We can’t climb over the wall now, we’ll be in for a terrible thrashing.”

  “I’m so hungry!”

  “If we go back now, they’re not going to welcome us with open arms or offer us anything to eat. Let’s try and find something in the neighbors’ fields or gardens.”

  We turned our back on the orphanage and headed off again.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Punishment

  By nightfall we couldn’t take it anymore: we had hardly eaten a thing all day, and that night was looking to be colder than the previous one. I was so hungry I couldn’t even think straight or come up with a plan. So I followed Roger docilely and agreed to all his suggestions.

  “When everyone is in bed, we go over the wall and we run and hide in the toilets at the end of the yard. Afterwards, when everyone’s asleep, we’ll sneak into our beds.”

  “All right.”

  I don’t know whether we really believed that the strategy would enable us to return without suffering any consequences. We were two eight-year-old boys who had been missing for over twelve hours. Maybe we were being driven by some sort of magical thinking, like an ostrich that believes he’s hidden when he puts his head in the sand, and we imagined that the next day our lives would pick up where they had left off before our escapade.

  Our mission “Return to L’Avenir Social” failed because we were just too tired and hungry. We couldn’t wait the time we should, and we went to hide in the toilets before nightfall.

  After a few minutes, there was a loud muted sound at the door.

  “Come on, out of there, right now!”

  Hoping for some sudden reversal of the situation, Roger and I stopped breathing, moving, or even thinking.

  “Roger and Jules, I know you’re in there, don’t be stupid, come out at once! If you force me to break the door down it won’t make things any better for you!”

  I recognized the voice of Georges, one of the instructors. No two ways about it: we were trapped like mice! Roger was the one who gave the signal to surrender, by clearing his throat. I opened the door to the shed, and we both walked out, heads down, waiting, resigned, for whatever came next.

  “Follow me!”

  Georges grabbed us by the arm and shoved us, or pulled us, I’m not sure which, toward the orphanage and then up to our dear director’s office. He knocked on the door. From the other side came a resounding and not very inviting “Come in.” But maybe it just sounded that way to me because I was so aware of how precarious a situation we were in.

  “Aha! So you found our two little runaways! Where were they hiding?”

  “I saw them come over the wall and hide in the toilets at the end of the yard.”

  “So, you went for a little stroll, and when you had had enough, you simply returned to the fold. I hope you weren’t expecting a warm welcome! The police are out looking for you! Don’t you think they have other fish to fry? Georges, would you please go and inform the police that our two good-for-nothings have come back?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense? Would you like to explain what was going on in your little heads, or at least try?”

  We were both speechless.

  “Very convincing . . . ”

  I focused all my attention on the director’s scarlet cheeks. I knew their color was not a good sign, that he was surely in the mood to give us a spectacular thrashing. But I was wrong, because he was in the process of fomenting a far more diabolical plan, one which would make me regret the thrashing I did not receive.

  “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

  He locked the door behind him as he went out.

  “Couldn’t he give us something to eat first and yell at us afterwards?” moaned Roger.

  It was pointless to reply, even though I agreed with him. Any punishment would seem welcome after several mouthfuls of a good hot meal.

  After what seemed like ages, Henri returned. “You two, come with me!”

  We followed him down the corridor. We were not very surprised to see we were not going in the direction of the refectory. Henri led us out into the courtyard, where all the children in the orphanage were lined up in rows. Not saying a word, he shoved us into the center of the courtyard and left us alone, facing the children. What were we supposed to do? Apologize to the others for having obliged them to spend the day looking for us? Maybe if we apologized there and then, we could move onto something else. I lifted my head a little and my gaze fell upon Bernard, the first in the row. When his eyes met mine, he looked down. He seemed unhappy, or ill at ease. This was not a good sign, I could tell.

  “Go ahead, Bernard, we’ll start with you.”

  That was Henri speaking. What would start with Bernard?

  Bernard walked over to Roger to start with, still looking at the ground. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he slapped him a few times on the back, then very quickly came over to me, gave me something vaguely resembling a punch—except it didn’t hurt at all—then ran back to the other children.

  “Next!” shouted the director.

  Then it was Daniel’s turn. He was one of the littlest kids; he advanced forward and went through the same rigmarole.

  I don’t know how long that strange session of public punishment lasted, perhaps an hour, perhaps far less, but there are two things I know for sure: most of the children did not want to hurt us—except for Roland and two or three other boys who got carried away—and the physical pain was nowhere near as unpleasant as the burning feeling deep in my chest which I would only be able to put a name to much later: humiliation.

  I would never forgive Henri for that cruel punishment, which contravened all the progressive rules regarding education that were in force at L’Avenir Social. Would Geneviève and Arnold, who were away on vacation when it happened, have been able to curb Henri’s zeal? Most of t
he instructors at L’Avenir Social must have been at odds with our director’s pedagogical vision . . . and most of the children, too.

  When all is said and done, this adventure had a positive effect on my life. For a start, as I’ll explain, it sealed my friendship with Geneviève—a friendship that would last until well after the war and my departure from Europe. And it would reinforce my pleasure in reading. Because Henri did not stop there. After all the children had beaten us, we were deprived of any verbal contact with them. No one was allowed to speak to us until we had asked forgiveness for our misbehavior and promised never to do it again. Roger quickly accepted the director’s conditions; I did not hold it against him, everyone has their own values. But for me it was out of the question to ask anyone for forgiveness: no one had been willing to listen to our story, and in my opinion it did not warrant such a punishment, so I was prepared to wall myself up in silence until the end of time. Our escapade had shown me that I was not a good candidate for hunger strikes, but I was pleased to discover that I had a certain talent for resistance.

  Since no one was allowed to speak or play with me, I spent all my free time reading. My resistance lasted the length of two and a half novels: Tarzan of the Apes, which I was reading for the third time; Jack London’s White Fang; and half of The Jungle Book. It was Geneviève who called an end to my mutiny. To do so, she got out the big guns: candy.

  I was sitting in the visitors’ drawing room pretending to read—in fact I was listening to the shouts of the children, who had organized an acrobatics contest—when Geneviève came in and sat down next to me.

  “Jules, I have something for you in my room. Will you come with me?”

  “Uh, I guess so.”

  I went with Geneviève up to the third floor. This was the first time I had ever seen one of the instructors’ rooms. Geneviève’s was small, with almost no decoration, but it was full of books and magazines: on the shelves, on the night table, on a tiny desk, on the floor . . . Geneviève sat down on the bed and motioned to me to take the chair next to the desk. She smiled and said, “If you like, I can lend you some books. Would you like that?”