Daughter of Catalonia

by Jane MacKenzie

  The letter went on to ask about her and Robert, but Madeleine had eyes only for that paragraph. By the time Elise had got this letter, possibly Roussillon had been liberated, but also Luis was dead. So much hope for the future seemed to be mixed up with so much anguish for how he had been feeling. What was the quote from Voltaire? It lurked somewhere in her consciousness, but she couldn’t bring it to the fore. Something about the folly of despair? She would need Philippe’s library to answer the question.

  She looked again at the jewellery box which had held these letters secret all these years. There were more papers in it, and when she lifted the first of them she realised that they were Philippe’s letters, in his spidery writing. She put the letter abruptly back in the box. I’ll read this later, she told herself, but for now she couldn’t bear to read the news of Luis’s death. She was dazed and amazed by her father living. She had only just rediscovered him. Please don’t kill him off yet, she pleaded dumbly at the little pile of paper.

  She placed the heavy silver bottom back on the jewellery box, but didn’t lock it in place, almost in fear that she might not be able to open it again. For a long time she sat gazing at the wall, not moving, and then a protest in her stomach reminded her that it was lunchtime, and she hadn’t eaten yet today.

  There was a picnic waiting for her downstairs.

  ‘The oven is broken,’ wailed Mme Curelée, ‘and all our other guests have left this morning. I wondered whether you might like to eat a picnic on the beach since the weather is so beautiful? Or I can serve you the same food in the dining room if you prefer? But it will all be cold, alas.’

  To be outside in the sun, with a sea breeze! Madeleine embraced the idea like a deliverance, and within minutes had put on her simplest cotton dress and was walking along the beach to the very end, away from the village, carrying the sheaf of Luis’s newspaper articles and tracts to read over lunch.

  At this end of the beach there were no boats or bathers, since a scattering of rocks broke the water in the shallows and made swimming unsafe. The same rocks formed almost a wall at the rear of the beach, and continued from the end of the beach in a jumble around the coast to the next bay, on the way to Collioure. Madeleine spread a blanket on the rough mix of sand and pebbles, and lay down in the heat of the midday sun, letting its rays seep into her skin and ease her tired nerves. Bread, chicken, a soft goat’s cheese and a cherry tart had been packed in Mme Curelée’s picnic basket, as well as a small flask of red wine, and in the warmth of the sun and the wine Madeleine succumbed to her tiredness and dropped into a soothing sleep. It was no more than a doze, really, but one peopled by dream-like figures. She dreamt of her father as a young boy, in some village in Spain, bare foot and laughing in the street. He looked like Robert as a boy, but tougher and browner, and at one point in the dream he went inside a narrow door into what she knew was his home, and she was sure she was going to see his family, but then she woke up.

  She lay disconnected for a while, gazing at a small cloud working its solitary way across the sky, then she shook herself mentally, and stood up and went across to the big, round boulders which fringed the end of the beach, where a little stream trickled down through the rocks to the sea. She washed her face and hands and drank a little of the water, which was fresh and not too warm. Then she spread her father’s articles around her. Later this afternoon, she thought, they’re going to remind me my father is dead, all these people who knew him when I didn’t, but for now I have him to myself.

  From the intimacy of reading his letters to the woman he loved, it was a different experience meeting Luis the writer – her father as a public figure. Philippe had put together some of Luis’s most passionate pre-war writings, sophisticated, complex pieces arguing the case for France to finance the Spanish Republican army, calling it the key defence against Fascism. Mussolini and Hitler were funding Franco, it seemed, but France had chosen a policy of ‘non-interference’, like lots of European countries. Luis argued that there could be no ‘neutrality’ in this war – to try to be neutral was to advance Fascism in Europe. He praised the thousands of Frenchmen who travelled to Spain to fight against Franco. The souls of the Frenchmen who died, he argued, would call out from the grave to reproach their government, which could have stood with them. It was the soul of her father which Madeleine saw, etched in his writings about Spain. He must have hated not joining the fight himself in Spain. His longing came through in every word he wrote.

  These passionate pieces contrasted with some very simple World War Two tracts which Philippe had included in the bundle. The Civil War was lost, and Spain was beyond saving for now, but there was still a fight to be won here in France, and Luis’s efforts had moved to wartime resistance. The tracts were single propaganda sheets urging people to keep faith, giving the frequencies for Radio London, telling them the Allies were winning the war, and that Maréchal Pétain’s promises of a good life under the Germans were already being terribly betrayed. The tracts were in plain language, crudely printed, and must be the same as tracts appearing all over France, Madeleine thought. They revealed nothing about Luis himself, except for the risk he took in producing them.

  Next to these, and very different again, were the newspaper articles Luis had written during the war – his carefully maintained ‘cover’, written for a Perpignan newspaper which was firmly under Vichy control. These articles talked about the best way to grow vegetables, how to help children to learn discipline, how to follow simple German rules, and how to reduce fuel consumption in your home. These were Madeleine’s favourite pieces, so tongue-in-cheek as they were. They were so innocuous as to be laughable, but she wondered how they could have fooled any Vichy official, given Luis’s public record of radicalism before the war.

  Most of these articles had been cut out from the newspaper, but in two cases the rest of the page had been left intact, and these full pages made interesting reading. A Perpignan man had been caught stealing and sentenced to two years detention – he would undoubtedly have joined the forced labour being sent to Germany, Madeleine thought. The River Têt had flooded again, damaging some close-lying farms. The local mayor had spoken at a school prize-giving, and had awarded a special prize for ‘public service’. It all seemed quite safe and parochial, except for a small piece reminding readers to be alert for the activities of Jews and Communists, and to report any Jews still working in forbidden professions. ‘We cannot be too much on guard,’ the article said. ‘All around us there are Jews and Bolshevists plotting to bring down our beloved France.’

  She lost herself so much in Luis’s working world that it came as a huge shock when she found one final sheet, typed on the most basic imaginable machine, presumably from his resistance hideout. ‘Freedom is coming,’ it declared. ‘The Allied invasion is imminent, and we will liberate our beloved Roussillon from the German oppression. It will be over this summer, and they will flee our land and leave us free again. Hold faith and watch for ways to help us. Every man and woman will have their chance to serve France.’

  Suddenly the world of the Perpignan press receded, and the paragraph full of hope and redemption he had written to Elise swam before her eyes. Here he was again just before his own end, and reading the tract all Madeleine could see in her mind was the camp and the German rifles advancing towards the shed. The impudent, eager, radical Luis, who had been so alive, was dead after all.

  She put the paper down sadly, checked her watch and realised it was gone half past three. It was time to go to the next confrontation, and God knew what it would bring. Slotting the sheets of typed paper back into the envelope, she rose quickly, suppressing emotion, and walked back along the beach. In a last gesture towards her previous mood, she took off her sandals to walk in the shallows, digging up the tiny pebbles with her toes.

  She returned to the hotel to change, and sat by her window for a moment before setting off for the café, looking out at the bay, raw nerves taking over as she listened to the cackle of the seagulls. Philippe bel
ieved that the allegations against Daniel could not be true. She had so much faith in Philippe, and she desperately wanted him to be right. But jagged nerves sharpened their edges nevertheless against her stomach wall.

  I don’t want to go, she thought to herself, then, Or is it that I don’t want to know? God help me, can’t I live for just a while in the world where my father is alive, and writing and working and hoping?

  But she had asked for this meeting, for these answers. She was the catalyst and the ferreter of news. There was no point in giving in to weakness now. Philippe would be waiting for her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Philippe was at the café when she arrived, painstakingly assuring Colette that his back was better, and that he had eaten a decent lunch. He was standing as straight as possible at the bar drinking a tiny coffee when he spotted Madeleine. He gestured to her to come forward, and immediately broke through Colette’s anxious questions.

  ‘Colette,’ he cut in. ‘Can you tell me where Daniel is? Upstairs? Well, Madeleine here has been doing some research into Luis’s death, and there are a couple of things we need to ask him. I’d like you to come with us too, if you can. Can you leave the bar now?’

  As Colette nodded in bewilderment, he called to the barman that Madame was going up to her apartment for a while, and led her ahead of Madeleine up the steep stairs. Philippe in command! Without him Madeleine knew she would never be climbing these stairs.

  He was equally decisive when they reached the apartment. They found Daniel cleaning his shoes in the homeliest possible fashion. Madeleine was intensely relieved that there was no sign of his father. She was not sure how she would have faced Jean-Pierre Perrens right now.

  Daniel rose to greet them, kissing Madeleine on both cheeks, and Philippe asked after the fishing before suggesting they should all sit down.

  Confronted with two bewildered faces, he launched straight into speech.

  ‘Daniel and Colette. In the last few days Madeleine has been learning a lot about her father’s death. I took her to his grave, but I also introduced her to the son of the man who was with him when the Germans attacked him. This young man Jordi took her to the camp where Luis was living, where he was shot. And he told her some things which his father had said. Madeleine, I think you should tell again now what you heard from Jordi.’

  All eyes turned to Madeleine. Colette was gripping one hand in another. Daniel’s face was unreadable. Madeleine’s stomach was churning now, and she wished she could sound one fraction as assured as Philippe.

  ‘It’s true,’ she began, ‘that Jordi was able to tell me some things. You see, his father was captured by the Germans that day and tortured, and they taunted him with information about who had betrayed them.’

  She looked towards Colette, in desperate apology. ‘They told him that Monsieur Perrens was the man who had denounced the camp to the Germans.’ She was relieved that her voice didn’t seem to be trembling. Colette reached for her son’s hand, and cast an anxious eye towards the hallway, as though her husband might appear at any moment.

  Madeleine continued. ‘Tonton Philippe has told me that you found out, and tried to warn my father. That you sent him a letter, but it didn’t reach him. He told me …’ Now her voice was trembling after all. ‘He told me that Daniel carried the letter up to him at Amélie-les-Bains.’

  Colette held Daniel’s hand as if frightened to lose him. She tried to speak, and failed, then looked over at Philippe, who nodded.

  ‘Just tell her, Colette,’ he said, almost tenderly. ‘She knows anyway, and she just needs you to confirm it’s true.’

  Colette held his gaze for a moment, then looked musingly at her son’s hand in hers. ‘I am so sorry, Madeleine.’ she spoke in a whisper. ‘I’ve lived for many years now with the shame of what my husband did, and the anguish of knowing I didn’t manage to warn Luis in time.’ Colette looked at her son. ‘I think Daniel has understood over the years what his father did. He has said some revealing things sometimes, hasn’t he, my son?’

  Daniel looked down at the floor and answered in a mumble. ‘Yes, Maman, I have understood.’

  Madeleine didn’t know how to continue. But there was only one way to the truth, and that was to speak.

  ‘But that’s the main point of what I wanted to say,’ she blurted. ‘You see, the Germans who tortured Jordi’s father told him one other thing. They said that Monsieur Perrens denounced the camp, and then his son showed them the way to it.’

  There was silence. Daniel looked up, startled, and Madeleine felt a huge wave of relief. This is news to him, she thought. He didn’t do it.

  Colette made to speak but Philippe stopped her.

  ‘No one is saying Daniel did anything wrong, Colette, if he did what his father told him to at the age of nine. But there was a clear assertion from German guards who had no reason to know of Daniel’s existence. For myself I can’t imagine that Daniel would have known the way to the camp, but I’d like to hear Daniel tell us what happened without anyone speaking for him.’

  Daniel still looked as startled as before, his eyes now fixed on Philippe. He said nothing, and the silence stretched between them.

  ‘Just tell us, Daniel, what you did that day. You came up to Amélie-les-Bains with the letter. You had a lift with Paul the market gardener, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then more silence.

  ‘So tell us.’ Philippe’s voice was insistent.

  Daniel looked at him helplessly. ‘Tonton, I came up with Monsieur Paul, as you said. And I came to the house – your house, mon oncle – before lunchtime. You were at the school.’ He seemed to be struggling with himself, and then with a deep exhalation of breath he continued.

  ‘I wanted to take the letter to Tonton Luis, and I thought I knew where the camp was, but I was wrong. I got lost and never found it.’

  ‘But why did you want to take the letter to Luis?’ Colette broke in. ‘It was addressed to Philippe, not to Luis! You didn’t even know it was for Luis!’

  There was another long silence, too long, while Daniel’s eyes were fixed on his mother, and then he spat words at her, words that sounded as if they were being wrenched from him. Words that fell between him and Colette with a meaning all to themselves as he withdrew his hand from hers.

  ‘I knew it was for him. I heard you and Papa arguing that weekend. I knew everything, Maman! Everything, do you hear? I knew what was in the letter. Not just that Papa had betrayed him, but the rest as well. I heard you …’

  Colette looked aghast. ‘My son!’

  ‘Yes, but not your only son, Maman.’ The words exploded from him. ‘I had heard what Papa said, but I could hardly believe it. I wanted to see Tonton Luis myself and ask him if it was true. I used to hear you, you know, you and Luis, in the front bedroom, talking as if you didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t know what you were doing, but I knew somehow that I mustn’t go inside. But I didn’t really understand how that could have made you pregnant.’

  The word ‘pregnant’ was torn from him, and Colette just sat, her face set in horror. Madeleine felt slightly sick, and held the arm of her chair to steady herself. Philippe sat quietly, watching them all, a look on his face which might, incongruously, have been one of peace.

  A skim of tears filled Daniel’s eyes as he continued. ‘I heard him as well, telling you that he was going to be moving to a new camp on the road above Amélie-les-Bains, and that if ever you needed to reach him you could find the camp up that track, and to look out for a turning on the right. So I went up there and looked, but I must have missed it. It was all just trees. I was looking for ages, and seemed to climb halfway up the mountain, and then I was scared, and I knew Tonton Philippe would be finishing school, and that I ought to get back. So I gave up, and just went back to Amélie-les-Bains and gave the letter to you, Uncle. You never knew that I had come up from Vermeilla in the morning, not the afternoon. But I never found him. I never found him, I tell you! And I didn’t lead any Germans to his camp!�
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  Madeleine could see the young child, deeply disturbed, with all of his simple faiths shaken to the core, combing a mountain path in the heat of a June day, becoming more and more distressed as he floundered, lost and alone, gripping that all-important letter in his sweaty young hand. And the letter? It warned of Jean-Pierre’s betrayal, but did it also tell Luis that he had made Colette pregnant? Colette his mistress? Suddenly, the real meaning of that quote from Voltaire came back to her, ringing out clear as a bell from her schooldays. It was not despair, but the weakness and pathetic errors of man he was writing about, and the first law of nature he was calling upon was that man should forgive and understand, because we were all weak together. Was that what Luis was writing, an admission to Elise of his affair with Colette? Was that his weakness?

  Colette’s face told the truth. She looked bleak and inexpressibly tired, and frightened. She looked at Daniel, who had his eyes fixed on the floor, and then at Madeleine, whose eyes were fixed on her. She raised her hand as if to ward off Madeleine’s gaze, and then finally she spoke.

  ‘What my son is saying is true, Madeleine. The reason why Jean-Pierre denounced your father is because he discovered I was pregnant, and he knew very well that it wasn’t him who was the father. He was unable, Jean-Pierre, to be a real husband after the accident. It was a lonely life, on my own running the bar, keeping everything going. And for your father … for Luis life was also very lonely, with his wife and children so far away. It was just for comfort, you know. Just for comfort. He used to talk to me of Elise, and I knew how much he loved her. He came down sometimes to Vermeilla to scout for information. He maybe came once every three or four months, no more. And sometimes we would snatch some time together.’