by Joanna Gruda
“Yes. I think that before long I’ll have read everything interesting in the orphanage library. And at school I’m not allowed to borrow the books for grown-ups.”
“At your age, I didn’t like children’s books either. But I shall still have to advise you, because some of them won’t be interesting for a boy your age, even as sharp as you are . . . Here, I have a big bag of full of candy, there’s too much for me, if you want some, help yourself.”
Too much candy! What an idea! I knew you shouldn’t allow yourself to be bought by the enemy, but since Geneviève had always behaved kindly toward me, it was hard to remain defiant around her. I could have a piece or two of candy . . . no one would be the wiser.
“You know, I’m impressed to see how well you have kept to the line of conduct you set for yourself, even though it can’t be much fun not to play or speak with the other children anymore.”
Something inside me whispered a warning to be careful when answering.
“When you have convictions,” I said, “you have to be consistent. I think I shouldn’t have to apologize for wanting to find my owl; I looked after him for a long time and perhaps he wasn’t ready to be set free again.”
“Of course . . . but you could have gone about it differently. If you had talked about it with an instructor, we could have put together a search party with all the children from L’Avenir Social. It might even have been more efficient.”
This had never occurred to me.
“If every time one of the children thought they had a good reason to go outside L’Avenir Social they climbed over the wall, can you imagine what it would be like for us? I am sure Henri was very worried. He must have been afraid he might never find you again.”
“But he really overreacted, all the same. It was horrible to be beaten by all the children, it was like being in a Roman arena. And he really enjoyed watching the kids hit us. I’ll never forgive him.”
“I understand that it must have been painful, humiliating, I understand . . . ”
Geneviève broke off; she seemed to be hunting for her words.
“I’m not saying I agree with what he did. If Arnold and I had been there, we would have been against it, believe me, this session of . . . But we can’t have the children jumping over the wall in secret. If you promise me never to run away again, I think I’ll be able to convince Henri to put an end to your punishment.”
We talked a little bit more, about my punishment and a few other things, and in the end, after I had eaten some more candy, I had to admit that Geneviève was right. And I promised not to climb over the wall. A promise I would keep from that day on . . . Well, almost, except for one time when out of solidarity I went with the big kids who refused to get their heads shaven when it was the only remedy for the lice epidemic raging at L’Avenir Social. But I won’t go into that story, because it is time to get back to more serious things: politics.
CHAPTER 14
Here Come the Russians
After our participation in the demonstration in support of the Republicans in Spain, the political fervor of a number of children at L’Avenir Social increased. Naturally I belonged to this politicized elite. We often talked with Arnold about the evolution of the situation in Spain. Unfortunately, the news was always bad.
Arnold didn’t only talk about Spain, he also taught us about the situation elsewhere in the world. We were proud to be considered old enough to understand what was at stake in the modern world. We were proud to be on the right side, that of communism, and we intended to do whatever it took, as long as we had to, to get France to join the Communist International alongside the USSR.
One day we were told a great event was in store, the very next day: a visit from some Soviet dignitaries. Roger and I were enchanted: real flesh and blood Soviet Communists in our orphanage! Philippe too was thrilled with the news. For the rest of the day, we saw him walking around with a book in his hand, even outdoors; while everyone else was playing, he had his nose buried in his book. It was as if he were studying to take an exam to enter the Supreme Soviet (I didn’t know exactly what that was, but I thought the term “Supreme Soviet” was full of grandeur and nobility, however contradictory that might seem).
The next day I got up earlier than usual and I left the dormitory without a sound, because I wanted to be sure not to miss the arrival of the Soviets. I came upon Philippe, who was sitting on a bench near the front door, still completely absorbed by his reading. The orphanage was silent; clearly the dignitaries would not be arriving anytime soon. I sat down next to Philippe, curious to find out what sort of book could be hypnotizing him to such a degree.
“What do you want, Jules?”
“I haven’t seen you once without that book in your hand since yesterday. I just wanted to know what it was.”
“I’d be surprised if it interested you.”
“Well, I am interested, since I asked you.”
“No, what I mean is . . . Anyway, suit yourself. The book is The Communist Manifesto. I want to be well prepared, I want to show that even children can have an enlightened vision of politics.”
“And is it interesting to read? Could you lend it to me?”
“‘But not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons—the modern working class—the proletarians.
“‘In proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e. capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed—a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labour increases capital. These labourers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce . . . ’”
I didn’t dare show him that I was all at sea. As I had, regardless, a solid political background—I knew, for example, that the bourgeois were on one side and the proletariat on the other, and that we communists believed in the might of the proletariat—but I didn’t expect to feel so stupid upon hearing this famous manifesto . . . I wanted to ask Philippe to explain it to me somewhat, so that I would be ready, too, to meet the Soviets, but to do that I would have to admit I hadn’t understood a thing, and something inside wouldn’t let me do that.
“So, my Julot, what do you think?”
“Yeah, well, there’s nothing very new in it, however . . . ”
“Maybe not, but I think it shows very clearly why we are bound to win and why the bourgeoisie is doomed to perish.”
“Indeed, it does show that . . . ”
While we were talking, the orphanage gradually began to stir. First we could hear the sounds of dishes clattering in the refectory, and then a crescendo of children’s voices: they were clearly very excited by the thought of the great day we were about to experience. Philippe paid no more attention to me and went back to his reading.
At breakfast Albert came in and whispered something in the director’s ear. Henri took his handkerchief, quickly wiped the corners of his mouth (I was always impressed to see how he concentrated when performing this useless act, given that he was hardly the type to make a mess while eating), whispered something in Arnold’s ear in return, then stood up and left the refectory. Arnold swallowed his coffee in one gulp and got up in turn.
“Arnold, have the Soviet comrades arrived?”
“Yes, Jules, I’m going to meet them. Since I speak some Russian, Henri wants me to be with him during the visit.”
“Are we going to be able to talk to them?” asked Philippe, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining.
I started laughing hysterically to see Philippe looking so colorful.
“Hey, why are you laughing like that, you idiot?”
“Whoa, calm down! I have to get there right away, but I promise to pass on your request to Henri. Would anyone else like to talk with them?”
&nbs
p; Five or six children raised their hands, including Roger and me, of course.
“I’m glad that you’re so interested. I can’t guarantee anything, I don’t know how long they intend to stay, but I’ll see what I can do.”
After Arnold left, everyone got even more excited. We were all speaking at the same time, and throwing things across the refectory at each other.
“Hey, Robinet, do you think the Soviets have water faucets?”
“I bet you can’t even find the Soviet Union on a map. If you had to lead us there for a meeting with the comrades, we’d all die of shame before getting close!”
“Did you see what a bright red color Philippe’s ears were? It was to impress the Communists!”
Philippe didn’t answer, he just took on his air of an adult who is disappointed by a child’s puerile behavior, and got up to take his plate to the basin full of dirty dishes. I decided to follow him; I didn’t feel like goofing off with the others and giving L’Avenir Social a bad image.
After leaving the refectory Philippe headed toward the director’s office. I acted as if it was perfectly natural for me to trail along behind him. The door to the director’s office was closed, and we couldn’t hear any voices. Philippe and I looked at each other, hesitating. “Maybe they’re outside?” I said very quietly, in hopes I’d be forgiven for my incongruous hysterical laughter earlier. Philippe didn’t answer, but headed toward the door leading to the garden. We went outside. Henri and Arnold were there, with four strange men, and they were showing them Gros Pierre’s garden (and my little plot at the same time). These gentlemen were . . . how to put it . . . very disappointing. Maybe I was naïve, but I thought they would be wearing their shirts open at the collar, like the revolutionaries in Russian films. No, they were wearing suits and ties. And while Arnold was waving his arms, showing them things left and right, all they did was nod their heads from time to time, halfheartedly.
Philippe and I, and then Roger and his brother Pierre, who came to join us, followed them around during their entire visit, to be sure to be the first to speak to them if the opportunity arose. The opportunity never arose and, in fact, it was better that way, because we no longer felt like talking to these individuals who looked like civil servants, like bureaucrats, with their gray complexion and their dull eyes.
That night, while he was next to me washing his face, Roger said, “What did you think of them, then, the Soviets?”
“Well, I’d imagined them differently.”
“Me too . . . maybe those were the only ones who were available, maybe the other ones, the real ones, were too busy doing more important things for the Revolution than visiting an orphanage in a little village in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it’s just because they couldn’t understand Arnold’s Russian that they looked so miserable.”
“Maybe . . . ”
Roger was making a desperate effort to keep that handful of men in ties from ruining the fine image he had of our Soviet brothers. For the time being I was too disappointed to try to rescue anything with my imagination. Maybe they sent us the dullest ones because the others, the real ones, didn’t have time. But who was to say they weren’t all like that? I fell asleep very quickly, I didn’t want to have to think anymore about the day gone by.
CHAPTER 15
War And Peace
The grown-ups were talking more and more of war. According to some, war was inevitable. I tried to grill Arnold about it, but contrary to his usual manner, he was very vague with his replies. I understood that we were against Germany and Italy, the two countries supporting Franco in Spain. But who would attack who, and why? These questions remained unanswered. Arnold adopted his “it’s not for children” air as soon as I tried to scratch the surface, and this surprised me because, frankly, it wasn’t like him. I remained unruffled and decided to ask Geneviève, whom I suspected—even though she rarely talked politics with us—of knowing at least as much about the question as Arnold did. One day when I was returning a book she had lent me, I asked if I could stay in her room—something I hadn’t done since her candy victory—to discuss something important.
“Of course you can, my little Julot.”
“Good. You have to explain this business about imminent war with the Germans and the Italians, well, against them, I mean.”
I tried to imply that I already knew quite a bit, so no need to handle me with kid gloves.
“Is that all you want?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“You know, it’s never that simple, a matter like this. First, you have to know what a dictator is.”
“I know what a dictator is, they’re like Hitler and Mussolini, they’re people who do whatever they want, who think they’re the king and they don’t care about the will of their people.”
“In a way, yes. Listen, I’ll do my best, but it’s complicated.”
“Take your time, I’m not in a hurry.”
“Okay, fine. In fact, the reason everybody thinks that war is imminent is because Hitler keeps on threatening different countries. Every time it’s for a new reason—he claims, for example, than such and such a territory should belong to Germany, and if they don’t give it to him, he’s going to go to war. He’s already annexed Austria, and now he wants to do the same thing with Czechoslovakia, or with part of the country anyway. Do you follow?”
“And does he want to annex France, too?”
“He hasn’t said so for the time being, but there are parts of France that used to belong to Germany, so, obviously . . . In any case, we can’t just let him do what he wants in Europe without stepping in.”
I was glad that Geneviève had agreed to try and explain it all to me, but I still wasn’t satisfied. Fair enough, we couldn’t let Hitler do as he pleased, but was that really sufficient reason to go to war, when children might die? On the newsreels at the movies I had seen pictures of the bombing in a little village in Spain. You could see a whole lot of dead children.
When we went back to school in the fall, this war business continued to worry me. Even Liliane, our teacher, who was not particularly clued in on politics, decided she had to talk to us about it. We even had an entire class about the Great War. You couldn’t say it was exactly reassuring. I made some skillful calculations: I was almost nine years old, and if a world war generally lasted four years, I would be roughly thirteen when the next one was over. So I had to survive to the age of thirteen, and after that things should be okay. This became my main goal in life.
All week long, when we walked home from school, war was the only topic of conversation. Because of the images of Spain on the newsreels, we all knew that children were the first ones who were attacked when there was a war. So an orphanage, you can imagine! It became clear that we needed a plan to save our skins, we had to react very quickly if war broke out, because the orphanage could be bombed on the very first day.
Should we hide in the cellar? Or run away? It was an easy decision: most of the children thought we should run away. But should we run away all together? Or in little groups? Or each of us on our own? And where should we go? Into the forest? Should we hide in the countryside, under the haystacks? Seek refuge with the farmers?
Together with Roger and his brother we came up with an escape plan. Like me, Roger and Pierre were not actual orphans: they had a father who lived not far from Paris. Given the fact that he was an alcoholic, we figured the Germans would have no reason to fear him or to attack him, so we could go and hide with him. They hadn’t had any news from him for a while, so for the first stage in elaborating our escape plan Pierre was charged with finding out where he lived. Then we would have to find out the various ways to get there, because some of the roads might be cut off or impassable because of the bombings. We had already packed some nonperishable food in Pierre’s rucksack. Of the three of us he was the only one who had a rucksack. My job was to find two more.
One
day at the end of September, in the midst of this tense atmosphere, a small group of children from the orphanage, myself included, took the bus to go to Paris to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
When we got to Paris the bus had to take a detour—its normal route was blocked off because of a massive demonstration. It was as if everyone in Paris was out in the street. Accompanying us on the outing were Geneviève and Simone, an instructor who had arrived at L’Avenir Social not long before. They seemed surprised to see so many people in the street. As the bus hadn’t moved for quite a while, Geneviève asked the driver to let her out, so she could go and find out what was going on. After a few minutes she came back.
“Children, I don’t think we’re going to make it to the movie in time. I suggest we get out of this bus and try to catch another that will take us back to the orphanage.”
“But what is the demonstration for?”
“A peace treaty has been signed with Germany.”
We greeted the good news with shouts of joy. We could forget our plans to run away, no need to leave L’Avenir Social, no need to go looking for Old Man Binet! The joyful atmosphere that reigned in the streets of Paris infected us, and as we left the bus we raised our voices in unison with the other demonstrators. I noticed that Geneviève did not seem as carried away as we did, but I was too happy to dwell on the fact or try to find out why she was so halfhearted.
In the days that followed the peace treaty, the atmosphere at the orphanage was euphoric and relaxed. We were able to admit how frightened we had been by what had seemed an inevitable war, how vulnerable we had felt as orphans or abandoned children, and how happy we were now to be able to go on living at L’Avenir Social with the people who were our true family.
