Now Amandine is confused. Why are they throwing dirt on top of the players? Solange is dead.
Barefoot in her tulle skirt and Solange’s yellow sweater, the pussy willow wreath raveled in her curls, she runs to the trench, pummels a soldier about his stomach.
“Pourquoi? Pourquoi?”
Another soldier scoops up the strange creature, quickly throws it down so that Amandine lands on her back, kicking, screeching. A village woman from the watching crowd pushes forward to retrieve her, holds her fast. Amandine burrows into the blue nankeen breast of the woman as she rocks her, whispers comfort. Amandine leans back to look up at her. Her tiny open hands she places upon the wide, wrinkled cheeks of the woman and looks into the chasms of horror that are her eyes.
“Madame, pourquoi?”
The woman pushes Amandine’s head back to her breast, holds her more tightly, asks, “Who are you?”
“I am Amandine, madame.”
“And, and was your mother, was your mother …?”
“No, madame, not my mother, my Solange.”
“And where is your mother, sparrow girl?”
“I don’t know, madame.”
CHAPTER XXXV
April 25, 1941
Krakow
Darling Janusz,
I am leaving Krakow tomorrow. After ten months of waiting for permission from the latest residents of the Czartoryska palace to examine Matka’s things, I was informed two days ago that I would be expected there this morning. Though I was prevented from entering no part of the place, two soldiers accompanied me at all times. I was sickened by the state of things, bullet holes in paintings, mirrors shattered, draperies pulled from their cornices, furniture piled into corners save the pieces on which they must lounge during their leisure. The smell. Two of Matka’s trunks were still in the dressing room on the third floor and seemed untouched. I sat on Matka’s little blue velvet hassock, where I would sit to watch her prepare for her grand soirées and, with the two soldiers standing guard at the door, I looked through piles and boxes of papers. She must have saved every scrap, every letter, every bill, every record. There were two boxes of my drawings, beginning from when I was three. Several hours into the search, I sensed it was an empty one. I proceeded, though, probing, scouring, ransacking. But there was nothing. About the baby there was nothing at all.
Bajka and I will leave for Germany and Switzerland as soon as Vadim can find petrol. I’d been convinced to travel alone by train, but I have since been discouraged, mostly by the colonel. I will say no more so that perhaps the censors shall deem this innocent enough to be sent on to you. Pray for my mission, as I do for yours.
I love you,
your Andzelika
May 21, 1941
Geneva, Switzerland
Darling Janusz,
Many adventures on the road for Bajka and me. Without our Swiss passports.… I shall be reticent about the details. We traveled first to the Black Forest, to Friedrichsbad. You will recall it was in a villa there that Matka and I stayed for seven months and where the baby was born. No longer a clinic, the servant who came to the door claimed it had never been, that it had always been the private estate of a family from Cologne. At first I thought I’d mistaken it, that the place where we stayed must have been another, and so we asked everyone we encountered or whose attention we could capture, but the answer was always the same. No such clinic existed now nor did it in anyone’s memory. After days of this, a woman who worked in the hotel where we stayed and who’d heard us talking approached us, told us that there had indeed been a clinic in the area. When she described to Vadim how to find it, it turned out that it was, of course, the same place I’d remembered from the beginning. The woman in the hotel told us that SS and Gestapo used it as a meeting place. What she didn’t say, but intimated with gestures and rolling eyes, was that it is used as a trysting place.
We then proceeded to Switzerland to search for the clinic where Matka had brought the baby for surgery. In a way, this turned out to be a much simpler assignment, since the directors of the first clinic on our list contacted every other clinic and private hospital and even public hospital to which Matka might have taken her. Even a list of specialists who might have been consulted or who might have examined and treated the baby were contacted. After two weeks I was told by the clinic director who guided the inquiry that, under Matka’s name or any of the other names I suggested she might have used, there were no records. Once the official search was put aside, this clinic official sat me down and told me that he doubted the baby had ever been brought to Switzerland. He said that, apart from both private and public documentation of patient information, there is always someone who will recall a case, especially the death of an infant. As I described Matka to him, he assured me that someone would have remembered her and come forth by now. I asked him if he would be kind enough to keep circulating the plea for some word, but when he patted my hand and nodded, I knew that he was patronizing me. I knew that if Matka had taken the baby to Switzerland, the information—even if she had requested privacy—would have been disclosed to me now that she is dead. And so the second stone wall. We shall make our way into France and, I hope, to Paris. There seems no reason to return to Krakow.
I may soon have a rather grand surprise for you. This time one that will please rather than torture you. All I shall say now is that Colonel von Karajan is helping me.
God keep you safe,
your Andzelika
June 10, 1941
Krakow
Darling Janusz,
As it turns out there was magnificent reason to return to Krakow. I am writing to tell you that you are a father. (Oh dear, as I write this I see my faux pas since I said previously that Colonel von Karajan was helping me. Well, it is not that sort of help that he provided.) But you are indeed a father. What the colonel accomplished (with untold hazard to himself) was to save a twenty-one-month-old boy who had been (here I shall refrain for obvious motives of fear). His name is Aleksy, and he is as blond and beautiful as you. But that’s only half the news. There is also Eljasz, who was one year old a few days ago. He is less healthy than Aleksy seems to be, very thin, but still there is something fierce and even brave in his eyes. Healthy, thin, fierce, they are our sons, they have been saved and they are ours. “Friends” of von Karajan are preparing papers for them. As soon as Vadim can find enough petrol (von Karajan is working on that as well), we’ll be on our way back to Paris. I asked him (von Karajan) to not stop at two. He will find us more, I know he will. This is the best way for me to … Ah, how to explain this feeling? I believe that adopting these children is the best way for me to become her mother. Our little girl’s mother. Can you understand that?
Bajka helps so much to care for them, but I must tell you that I am already a jealous and possessive mother. I hold them both at the same time and, can you imagine this? Aleksy caresses Eljasz and coos to him, and the three of us fall asleep together. Loving them makes me feel closer to you. And to her.
Please write to tell me that you are happy.
with our love,
your Aleksy, Eljasz, and Andzelika
July 1, 1941
Paris
Darling Janusz,
The boys and I and Bajka fare well. When they sleep, we are either sewing nappies from hotel towels or washing the soiled ones or queuing for rations or begging the hotel kitchen for a few vegetables or fruits before they transform them into some wartime abomination. We always have eggs and milk and even cheese, and both boys seem to thrive. Eljasz is walking and running, and Aleksy shadows him so fervently. I am trying, though, to help Aleksy to understand that he must not worry so for his brother. Character is character, though, and Aleksy, I think, has one very like yours.
The colonel writes that there is a nine-year-old boy who witnessed and was very nearly victim of an “event” in Bydgoszcz a while back. I wonder if you’ve heard about it. I shall not say more about it here, but the colonel says that his “friends” are
trying to save this boy. Of course I said that we would take him. I don’t know his name. It seems that the colonel has business in Paris, so that he will accompany the boy, bring him here to me. Three sons, my love. Perhaps another daughter next.
all my love,
your Andzelika
July 9, 1941
Paris
Sergiusz is his name, your third son. My darling Janusz, I am at a loss to tell you how dear he is. Certainly his suffering shows, he is timid and sensitive, rarely speaks except when spoken to. But even after two days, I see him gaining confidence with our little tribe. Bajka adores him, too, and thus we have become rivals in our desire to care for him. He loves music and says he studied the piano from the time he was four until… His parents were killed early on, and it was his older brother who cared for him, the same older brother who he saw shot in Bydgoszcz. His life from that day… I shall wait to say more.
When will this war end, my love?
your Andzelika
CHAPTER XXXVI
“MAY I LOOK INSIDE YOUR VALISE? JUST TO SEE THAT YOU’VE TAKEN everything.”
Dominique and Amandine are in the salon, the same salon where they sang and danced and ate and slept on the night Solange died. The room they’ve continued to share for the eight nights since. Amandine on the chaise longue, Dominique on the sofa, neither has slept nor, for the first three days, spoken more than half sentences. When Dominique tried to soothe Amandine, encourage her to talk, Amandine would open her eyes, shake her head, sometimes she would smile as though to comfort Dominique. Always, then, Amandine would retreat into her thoughts. And for hours, Dominique would sit beside her, caress her back, her arms. Try to feed her.
It is Amandine’s thoughts of Claude, the little girl, the five-year-old Algerian girl who’d been staying with Madame Aubrac when Amandine and Solange were there, it is her thoughts of Claude about which Amandine first speaks.
“Maybe I should go back to Madame Aubrac. I could help with Claude. Her parents are lost and she was going to live in an orphanage. If I go to help, maybe she won’t have to go to an orphanage.”
“That was a while ago,” Dominique says, “and I would think that Claude has already gone from Madame Aubrac’s. But I think it’s wonderful that you … Will you tell me some of the other things you’re thinking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“No words?”
“No out-loud words.”
“Do you want to tell me some of the words that you say only to yourself?”
“Alone. Scary. Maman. Solange. Sometimes I say boche.”
“It’s strange but, these past days, I say the same words to myself. The same ones. I also say Amandine.”
“I guess we’re not so different.”
“Not at all. No matter how different we may seem to one another, the truth is that we’re not. None of us are. So different from one another.”
“Not even the boche?”
Dominique smiles, shakes her head but doesn’t speak.
“I think I’m hungry,” Amandine tells her.
Among Solange’s things, Dominique finds the brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied with white string. Attached to it is a small white card on which is written a single word: “Amandine.” Dominique turns it over in her hands, wonders about it. Finishes the task of looking through Solange’s clothes, folds them neatly, replaces them in the valise. She puts Solange’s identity papers in an envelope, seals it, places it, too, in the valise. She picks up the parcel and carries it downstairs to the salon, where Amandine sits by the fire.
“I found this in the valise. I thought you might like to put it away yourself, so you’ll know where it is.”
She brings the parcel to Amandine, sets it down on the table near the chaise longue.
Amandine picks it up, studies it as though she does not recognize it. Then “I’m not supposed to have this until I’m thirteen. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something that was left for me with Solange.”
“That was left for you? A gift?”
“Like a gift.”
“From whom?”
“A lady with eyes like a deer. That’s what Solange said.”
“Eyes like a deer. Beautiful. And you have no idea what’s in it?”
“No. Do you think it would be okay to open it? I promised, but …”
“I think it would be okay. I think you should open it.”
Amandine looks at the parcel, looks at Dominique, begins to untie the string.
Dominique reaches out to take the parcel. “Here, let me help you.”
“I can do it. I want to do it.”
Amandine slides the string, first off one corner, then another, slips the parcel free. She sits up straighter, unfolds the soft brown paper to reveal a small black velvet envelope with a stiff back, the three corners of it fastened with a velvet button. She loosens the button and, one by one, opens the flaps. Held against the stiff part of the envelope, a pendant is hung. To her it looks like a small bottle made of some purple stone. She notes that the tiny bottle has a stopper made from a lilac-colored pearl. Still hung on the stiff board, she turns the bottle over, holds its weight in the palm of her hand.
“Oh,” she says. She says it again.
“May I see it?”
Not noting Dominique’s request, Amandine continues to turn the tiny bottle over and over, looking at it from every angle.
“It’s attached to a ribbon,” she says, lifting the ribbon from its hooks, difficult to see since it is made of the same black velvet as the envelope.
“Is it a necklace?”
“I think it is.”
Dominique kneels by Amandine’s chair, looks at the piece, which Amandine holds up, letting the pendant swing on its ribbon.
“Yes, a wonderful necklace. Very old, I think. Splendid, actually. Shall I fasten it for you? You hold up your hair and I’ll tie it in the back.… Go ahead. Wait, let me tie it more tightly so the stone falls right, wait, right there.”
Dominique rises, stands back to better see the effect.
“Amandine, it’s wonderful. Who was the lady who left it for you? The lady with the …”
“Solange said she didn’t know who she was. A lady who came to visit her grandmother one day. She wasn’t my mother. Solange said she wasn’t. She said she was someone who knew my mother. At least that’s what she thought.”
“It’s a magnificent gift.”
“Solange called it a symbol.”
“Of course, a symbol.”
“I don’t understand. But I like it.”
“I think that Solange must have meant it was a symbol of your mother’s affection. Her love.”
“I guess. Claude had symbols, too. She had letters and photographs waiting for her at the orphanage. I heard Madame Aubrac telling Solange.”
“Another sort of symbol but—”
“Do you know one of the reasons why I want to go home? I mean to Solange’s home.”
“Tell me.”
“So that I can ask her grandmother about the lady with the eyes like a deer.”
“Yes, well … Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“That also you have eyes like a deer.”
“Amandine, I’ve been asked, my friends have asked me about your school. About the convent. I told them what I know about it. Of course we don’t know yet even if it would be possible for you to return to live there, that is, we have yet to make contact and so don’t know if the school has remained in operation. But it does seem the best place to begin…”
In the garden, sitting in a metal chair, her cheek laid down on a small cloth-covered stone table on which there is a cup of tea and a plate of bread, Amandine stays quiet.
Dominique tries again. “Madame Aubrac, I mean if the convent school is … Well, we think that surely she, that Madame would …”
Amandine raises her head from the table, looks up at Dominique. “Not the convent. Not Madame Aubrac. I want to go home.”
Dominique walks from where she has been standing in the doorway from the salon to the garden, kneels on the spring-softened ground, on the new-sprouted weeds and grass, tries to take Amandine from the chair into her arms. Amandine resists. Dominique rises, paces near the table.
“You know that you can’t stay here. I can’t stay here. I should have been gone—”
“Can you take me home? Jouffroi is their name. Avise. A farm near Avise. Solange told me that we were close enough to walk.”
“Solange’s papers, I’ve looked at them. I know the family name, where they live, and we have been trying to reach them, to tell them—”
“About Solange?”
“Yes. And about you. But so far, we have not been able to—”
“If you show me the road, I can walk—”
“Foolish girl, do you really think that I would … It’s only that they might have gone away. You know that so many people have left their homes and—”
“Solange said they would never leave.”
“I know that’s what she said, what she believed. But her mother, the family, they may not have had a choice.”
“Please, Dominique, please keep trying. Jouffroi.”
“There is another possibility. There is a person who is connected to us. He lives farther north. Not nearer to Solange’s family than we are here. Northwest. But still north. This man lives in the center of a village. A big house, a garden surrounded by a stone wall. This man, he has land just outside the village. He keeps goats and he makes cheese.”
“Solange’s mother keeps goats and makes cheese.”
“I didn’t know.… This place that I’m talking about, it’s on the river Oise. In the Val-d’Oise. Have you ever heard of it?”
Marlena de Blasi Page 24
