by Joanna Gruda
There was something bothering me, however. The adults didn’t seem to share our joy. To be clear in my own mind about it, I went to see Arnold.
“You are right, my Julot, we’re not too pleased with this peace treaty, or at least I don’t think it was the right decision. If the agreement was signed, once again it is because we’ve yielded to Hitler’s demands, and we’ve allowed him to annex certain territories in exchange for a promise of peace. But how far will it go? Are we going to allow him to nibble away at Europe in order to avoid a war which, in my opinion, will break out anyway if Hitler remains in power in Germany? How can we believe this madman’s promises?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was so disappointed by what Arnold had just told me that I was sorry I had even asked. All my joy and relief vanished.
“Don’t make such a face, Julot. Maybe I’m wrong, you know, most people don’t share my opinion.”
“Maybe not, but you know more about politics than most people.”
I didn’t feel like prolonging the discussion. I told Arnold that I had homework to finish and I went to find refuge at the very top of a tree at the end of the yard. I needed to think about it all. I didn’t know whether I ought to share the bad news with the Binet brothers or whether it would be better to spare them. Pierre had been so happy at the thought he wouldn’t have to go and live with his father.
CHAPTER 16
The Sacrifice
Spring, 1939. Things were not getting better. There were nights I could not sleep from thinking about the war. Now everyone believed it was imminent. And I had no one left to talk to about the events, because Geneviève and Arnold had left L’Avenir Social. One day they simply came to say goodbye. I was so upset, so sad, that I didn’t even ask them why they were leaving. Both of them were very upset.
A gloom settled over the orphanage. We didn’t eat as well as we used to, we were told they had to save money, make sacrifices . . . Fortunately there were still some vegetables from Gros Pierre’s kitchen garden, but the portions were getting smaller and rarer all the time. We children might complain at mealtimes, but as soon as we left the table we didn’t think about it anymore. The grown-ups seemed a great deal more preoccupied. Robert, the cook, who had always been so reserved and shy, was forever losing his temper now, shouting and arguing with Henri.
With the Binet brothers I no longer talked a lot about our escape plans. In fact, I had more or less fallen out with them, because they hadn’t even tried to find their father. If I wanted to talk about the situation in Europe it had to be with Philippe—who didn’t know as much as Arnold did, but he managed to share some news he found God knows where—or with pretty Rolande who never abandoned her optimism, in spite of her fear.
One evening in August I was talking with Rolande when we saw Gros Pierre go by with a shovel in one hand and his rifle under his arm. We were surprised, and decided to follow him discreetly. Other children joined in. Gros Pierre looked really strange, he didn’t turn around even once. When he reached the end of the courtyard, he stopped in front of the orphanage’s two dogs, which were tied to a stake. Before we even had time to grasp what was happening, Gros Pierre lifted his rifle, took aim, and fired at Voyou, the bigger of the two. The dog fell to the ground. He was wounded, but not dead. He howled and struggled and tried to get to his feet. Gros Pierre took aim again and pulled the trigger. He had to repeat the maneuver several times, then do the same with the second dog, Grisou, who was not about to submit and let his short life end in such a stupid way. No matter where Gros Pierre aimed his gun, there was nothing for it: the dog seemed invincible. In the end he finished him off with the shovel and his own feet. All the while I was screaming, and the others as well, but none of us dared go near the gardener, with his terrifying eyes. It was neither anger nor rage you could see there, but rather a sort of disgust mingled with resignation.
Once Voyou and Grisou were dead, Gros Pierre began to dig a grave for them, quickly, not stopping a single time. We stood there watching him. Silence. He tossed the two animals into the hole, covered them over, and then finally he looked at us.
“That’s how it has to be. You have no idea how much food those animals need. And it won’t get any easier when the war starts. That’s just how it has to be.”
And he walked away.
The next morning, before breakfast, I heard shrill cries coming from the garden. I hurried outside. I found a little group of children at the spot where Gros Pierre had buried the dogs the day before. They seemed both frightened and excited. I went closer . . . Two huge dog’s paws were sticking out of the ground! Grisou’s paws. I could see Rolande from where I stood, her face buried in her hands. Other children were screaming or in tears. As for me, I was furious. Those hard paws sticking out of the ground aroused all the anger that had been simmering in me since the day before. I was certain that the order to kill the dogs had come from Henri. Supposedly for our good, so that we could have more to eat, but we all knew that he never liked those dogs and that he often shouted at them. And as usual, he hadn’t asked anyone for their opinion.
My eyes met Philippe’s. We were of one mind: we had to do something, we could not let such an act go unpunished. Philippe had already been talking with some of the older kids, and they too were disgusted by what Henri had done, so they had decided to go on a hunger strike. I liked the idea, even though I knew that I didn’t have a lot of willpower in that respect.
“The main thing is that all of us have to participate. There’s not much time left until breakfast. I’ll go and speak to the kids who are still outside, and you wait at the entrance to the refectory and tell the others as soon as they start to arrive.”
“Good idea. There are bound to be two or three who won’t join in, and we already know who they are, but it doesn’t matter, thirty or more children on a hunger strike, that’s enough to send them into a panic, for sure.”
In the end, at breakfast all the children refused to eat. The owl wasn’t there, I don’t know if he ate in bed or what, but of all those children present, not a single one dared to defy the mobilization order. We didn’t even have to intimidate anyone, the importance of the cause was enough to convince them all.
When Henri came to ask us for an explanation, there was confusion, everyone had their own version, some of us demanded he buy more dogs, others that Gros Pierre be dismissed. Before long Philippe stood up and waited for things to calm down. His confident and determined manner quickly imposed silence.
“The children of L’Avenir Social have unanimously decided to go on a hunger strike until they obtain compensation for the crimes committed yesterday, the villainous murder of the two dogs, Grisou and Voyou. The strike, which began this morning, August 16, 1939, will be unlimited in nature.”
Henri’s face went purple, and his lips were pinched.
“And could you explain to me what you mean by compensation? Do you want us to buy more dogs?”
“We want to be taken seriously. The decision to go on a hunger strike was not made lightly, and we know the possible consequences of such an act. We want to see the representatives of the CGT in Paris.”
Henri was fuming. He raised his eyes to the sky and walked away, not adding anything. As we had nothing to do there and the kitchen smells were a terrible taunt to our stomachs, we went out into the yard. The atmosphere was solemn. Little groups formed, children speaking among themselves, and some of them questioned Philippe’s authority, whether he had the right to speak on behalf of the others; then there were some children who were proud of the composure he had shown in answering Henri.
At lunchtime, a few of us stood outside the refectory doors to talk with any eventual strikebreakers. But not a single child dared to venture into the lair filled with mouthwatering smells.
In spite of the hunger that made my belly rumble, I found it easy to be on strike. I pictured myself as a knight heading off to conquer enemy ter
ritory, never letting hunger get in the way of his mission. I recalled my Aunt Karolka, too, the determined air she had kept about her in prison. The sudden appearance of her face in my mind was overwhelming. I tried to prevent other images from surfacing, but it was as if I couldn’t control anything anymore. Fruzia was there smiling at me, and Hugo, too, doubled over with laughter because I had bitten the policeman. I wanted to tell them about our hunger strike, I wanted them to see me as I was just then, so that they would be proud of me. Then it was Emil’s turn, whom I had always thought of as a revolutionary. If he was truly my father, that meant I had revolutionary blood in my veins. I must not yield. I just hoped that the people from the CGT would arrive soon, because I knew that our immediate future depended on them.
Suppertime went by. Once again, everyone stood fast. We were beginning to prepare ourselves for the idea of sleeping on an empty stomach. Suddenly Louis came running into the courtyard where we had set up our headquarters.
“I saw some cars, with people in them, and Henri went to meet them, I think it’s them!”
Louis had just shouted the news when we saw a strange man and woman walking toward us. Henri wasn’t with them. The woman, who had very short ginger hair, walked up to us.
“Hello, we’re the representatives of the CGT, which oversees L’Avenir Social. We came as quickly as we could when we heard what was happening. We want to talk it over with you. I imagine you have good reasons for deciding to go on strike. I heard your director’s version, and now I’d like to hear yours.”
“I can explain the situation. Last night—”
“Could you start by telling us who you are?”
“My name is Jules, I’m nine years old.”
“We’re listening, Jules.”
“We had two big dogs, Grisou and Voyou. And we liked them a lot. Last night, Gros Pierre shot and killed them before our eyes and buried them. This morning, Grisou’s paws were sticking out of the ground and some of the children were crying. Henri was the one who gave the order to kill the dogs. He didn’t say anything to us beforehand. He didn’t even ask us our opinion. He never asks us our opinion, he runs this place like a dictator, he has no consideration for the children. We want his immediate dismissal. All the children here have agreed not to eat anything as long as this fascist is at the head of L’Avenir Social.”
“Is that all?”
“My name is Philippe and I’m thirteen. I’d like to add that while we are aware that there were difficult decisions to be made, given the times we are living in, we would nevertheless have liked to be included in the decision process. The carnage could certainly have been avoided if our opinions had been taken into account, and if we had been allowed to suggest some more creative solutions.”
“Thank you very much for your explanations. We’ll go back to Paris now, and pass on your demands to our superiors.”
Long after the people from the CGT had left, my heart was still pounding. I was very proud of myself, for having dared to speak up like that before strangers. I had no more doubts about my ability to become a true revolutionary. Rolande came up to me, smiling. I thought I could see admiration in her eyes. Which didn’t help to ease the pounding of my heart.
The next morning we learned that Henri had handed in his resignation. The news was greeted with a great shout of victory and everyone ran to the refectory. Breakfast was a chaotic and joyful affair. We threw bits of bread from one table to the next, sang revolutionary songs, and nobody went on sitting for long in the same place . . . and of course everybody devoured the meal, however ordinary it was, that was set down before us.
CHAPTER 17
Departure
We were at war. The Germans attacked Poland. France and England declared war on Germany. And Arnold and Geneviève were not there to explain what was happening. I felt very alone, and I didn’t understand a thing. It would seem that our friend, the Soviet Union, had signed a nonaggression pact with Hitler. But Germany and the USSR wanted to divide up several countries. We spoke a lot about the situation, but nobody, not even Philippe, or any of the older kids, had even an inkling of an explanation. Maybe it was a strategy. One thing was clear, we didn’t know what to think or to want, other than a quick end to the war.
And one day everything fell apart. Albert, the secretary at L’Avenir Social, came to inform me that Lena was coming to visit. I was in the middle of playing dodgeball, and the arrival of this woman I was now obliged to view as my mother was never exactly a source of delight. I had long ago given up any hope of ever getting any interesting presents from her. At least she didn’t come too often, so I agreed to receive her. She was waiting for me in the dormitory.
When I got there, she was folding my clothes and putting them in a suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“Hello, my little Julek, how are you?”
She spoke French now, with a fairly indefinable accent, but she still called me by my Polish first name, and that annoyed me.
“I asked you a question!”
“Yes, my dear, I know. Listen, you have to come and live with me in Paris. They are going to close L’Avenir Social. The other children are going to leave too, either with their parents, or to a holiday camp. But you are coming with me.”
“And why can’t I go to the holiday camp?”
“I’ll explain later, we have to hurry, the bus is coming in fifty minutes.”
“Are you crazy or what?”
Lena looked at me in a way that made it clear there was no room for discussion. And that is how in less than an hour I was made to leave the life I had known for almost four years. All the children came to say goodbye. Rolande threw her arms around me, sobbing. Roger and Pierre came running just as we were about to go through the gate and leave the property. Roger could not speak. Even Philippe seemed upset to see me go. As for me, I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t crying. And yet I was very sad. But there was a war on, and I understood that whatever I might be feeling was of no importance.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 18
Wartime in Paris
I had a new life: wartime Paris. After she came to get me at L’Avenir Social, Lena took me back to 9 rue Aubriot, in the fourth arrondissement. Her apartment was tiny, very dark, with Turkish toilets on an outdoor landing. It was on the fifth floor of a building located in the rear courtyard of another building, and it gave onto a tiny little street that I could cross in two long strides.
With Lena, things were very simple: we spoke when we had something specific to say, she let me do almost anything I wanted, but when she did forbid me from doing something, I had to obey and not ask any questions. Even though she was very active in politics and also, I suspect, in clandestine work, we never referred to it. Sometimes she would run into someone in the street, as if by chance, and I had to stand to one side to let them talk. It never took very long.
I went to school on the rue Moussy, five minutes from our house, with my gas mask dangling from my belt, like the other kids. We had been warned: it was not a toy, nor a disguise . . . Every day I wondered if this would be the day when at last I would have to use it. Whenever I thought about it, I got all cold in my belly and I had trouble breathing. I don’t know if it was from excitement or fear. Or maybe both.
I didn’t like school. It was too serious. Monsieur Francheteau, our teacher, was very strict. He looked down on us, as if we were inferior beings that had to be trained by making us learn a whole bunch of stupid things by heart. He was always exasperated by the extent of our ignorance. In my opinion, he underestimated us. I sometimes thought I ought to make more of an effort. But any desire to do so faded very quickly. My grades were not bad, but not great either. In any case, there were other things to worry about besides my report card.
The children from L’Avenir Social went to a holiday camp in Royan, or to their parents’, the ones who had parents, that is. R
olande gave me the address of the camp so we could write. I told her about my new life: the gas masks, Monsieur Francheteau (I drew his picture in the letter, with a big nose and big ears), and the other kids in the class, but there weren’t many interesting things to tell her. I asked her to send her news. And I made a confession, a sort of declaration I won’t go into here. Then I waited for a reply. Every day I asked Lena if there was a letter for me. And every day she said no, seeming more and more exasperated. One evening, just before bedtime, Lena’s face lit up.
“Ah, yes, your letter. You got one. Now, where is it?”
I focused all my efforts on not looking excited. I think it was a waste of time, because I could feel my ears burning and I couldn’t keep from blinking. My mother was too busy looking for the letter to notice. When eventually she found it, it was all I could do not to snatch it from her hand. And I left the room: reading it in front of her was out of the question.
Once I was outside, I crouched down against the wall of the church of the Blancs-Manteaux and set about opening the envelope. I tried to remain calm as the envelope resisted my assault. Finally, I managed to get the letter out. My heart was beating fit to burst. I began reading. Rolande told me about the camp, and which children from the AS were there. None of the instructors had gone with them to Royan. She described the beauty of nature, and the seaside, and she added that in spite of everything she was bored. There, I stopped reading; the dull pounding of my heart made me lose my concentration. I stood up and took a few steps, breathing slowly the way Geneviève had suggested I do whenever I got agitated. Then I went on reading. After that, nothing but banalities. Rolande sent me her greetings and wrote that she hoped to see me again someday. Not a word about my declaration! No reference to it at all! No answer! And yet she had been truly weeping in my arms when I left L’Avenir Social. I didn’t dream it. I really could not figure out what girls were about.
