by Mary Finn
He took my left hand and pressed it out on the kitchen table, like when we did stretch exercises for our hands. His fingers were as light as twigs.
“Jonas, I will miss you,” he said. “A lot. You can’t imagine. I told you how Berthe would be so pleased I took you in. I’m very glad myself. I like to think we are good friends. I mean that. But because you’re my friend I want you to be safe, and I promise you that you’ll be much safer with papers, and out of Paris.”
He said if I went to Normandy I’d be able to go outside and play and have a normal life like any other boy in France. I could go to school again.
“You’ll learn much more than you ever will just reading my old encyclopedias at the kitchen table.”
“But I like doing that!” I said. “And I really like playing the piano with you.”
“That’s the best bit,” he said. He was beaming. “My friend has plans to start a children’s orchestra in Rouen, even now, in these dark days. You could learn the flute with him. For your mother’s sake. Didn’t you tell me that was what she wanted?”
I didn’t answer that. Yes, Mama had said I could choose my instrument. But I was only going to choose it when she was there.
I wasn’t a bit sure about the plan anyway.
“Why not have Grégoire Volet’s card sent to Paris and then I can stay here and pretend to be him, here? After all, you’re his godfather, right? We could just go on as we are doing now only I could go out to the park.”
The Prof shook his head, slow first, then faster.
“No, no, Jonas,” he said. “It’s not safe for you. Please, please, take my word for it. I’ve thought a lot about all of this. I can’t send you to school anywhere near here. It would be too tricky and you could be spotted by anybody at any time. What about that awful man at the circus? And suppose something happened to me. What would you do then?”
“But what about this Grégoire’s brothers and sisters? They’ll know I’m not him. They’ll tell people about me. And what could happen to you?”
He looked at me as if I’d slapped him. I’d forgotten he was so old. He could die of course. He didn’t say anything for ages. Then he did but his voice sounded a bit peculiar.
“My apologies, Jonas. I forgot to tell you that Grégoire had just one little brother and he’s far too young to remember anything, or even to talk. He’s not even two. Grégoire was eight.”
“But I’m ten!”
We both knew that didn’t matter. I’m small for my age and there’s no getting away from that.
I knew he wouldn’t have an answer for my final question. Because he just didn’t know.
“What about Nadia? La Giaconda said I had to stay put for her. If she’s safe like you say, she’ll be waiting for me to come and get her.”
I was right. He didn’t have an answer. Not a proper one. He just said that if Nadia went to see the Corrados and then turned up here he’d be able to tell her I was safe and sound. “And, if I’m spared, when the war is over I’ll bring her down to Rouen myself.”
He said his friend would be coming to the house in a couple of days, bringing Grégoire’s identity card, and he’d take me away with him then.
“You’re going to escape, Jonas,” he said. “That’s what matters now. You’re not going to be anybody’s prisoner any more.”
And that was the end of it. Maybe it is even a good plan. Anyway, it is all arranged.
LAST CHANCE
The Prof had to leave in a rush this morning. It’s a long way to the Conservatoire and he said the métro hadn’t been very obliging the last time he used it.
Papa hated the métro. He liked to walk or cycle whenever he could. Nadia hated it too because sometimes the noise used to get inside her head. But Mama and I both loved it. I loved the electric smell down there, and the way the trains burst into the station and are so eager to get going again, like husky dogs pulling a sledge, or something. Mama liked the way you never quite know where you’ll come out if you stop at a station you don’t know. She said the métro was a proper Underworld. But I can’t remember when we were last down there.
When the Prof was gone I went upstairs and took my money out of the trunk. I had more than 200 francs, all in coins. I didn’t know what a métro ticket cost any more but that was probably enough for quite a few journeys. I just had to hope the policeman didn’t live very far out of town.
I had one of Robert’s pullovers on, with two vests underneath it. And my suit, which wasn’t scratchy any more because it had got used to me. I didn’t have a coat. I looked inside the Prof’s wardrobe but there was nothing useful there except a grey woollen scarf and one of his hats. I thought the hat might hide my eyes but it was so big it looked like a bucket over my face. The scarf was better. I wound it over my mouth, my nose and my ears and looked at myself in the mirror. Well, it was winter. People wore scarves to keep warm, didn’t they?
I couldn’t do anything much about my eyes or my hair but there’s nothing special about them. Except my hair had got long. La Giaconda was the last person to give me a haircut, the night before I came here. I took the scissors from the Prof’s dressing table and cut right across the fringe. It looked straight enough.
The best thing was to look ordinary. You could disguise yourself completely if you painted a clown face, say, but then everybody would look at you. Besides, certain people had to recognize me or they wouldn’t tell me what I needed to know.
I brushed my shoes with the Prof’s shoe polish set. He was fussy about his shoes so he had a selection of different tins. I hoped the shoes would be all right to walk in. It was more than three months since I’d walked anywhere that wasn’t inside a house. But Mama always said it was a mercy that my feet grow slowly. Jean-Paul’s shoes were always about three sizes bigger than mine.
I left a note for the Prof on the kitchen table. I wouldn’t be able to get inside the house again until he got back. I had no key. I didn’t want him going crazy with worry about me so I wrote just a short thing.
Dear Professor,
I’ve gone out to see if I can find out more about Nadia and get a message to her. Don’t worry, I’ll be very careful. I’ve taken one of your music cases to look like a proper student and I have your map of Paris inside it in case I need to go somewhere I don’t know.
I’ll be back before it gets dark. If you’re not in when I get back I’ll walk around the park – inside if it’s open, outside if it’s locked.
See you later (and don’t worry again).
Jonas
PS There are some things in the trunk you should look at if I get delayed for a long time.
I opened the front door but before I even got a chance to look at anything I had to close it again. It wasn’t the cold air. And there wasn’t anything wrong with my plan. During the night I’d thought of pretty well everything. If someone were to stop me, I’d explain that I just didn’t have my papers right then. I was visiting my godfather and somehow he forgot to give them to me because he’s pretty old. But I would have them tomorrow.
The trouble was, the minute I opened the door I knew my story was useless because I hadn’t found out enough facts.
Oh, your name is Grégoire Volet, is it? Spell that for me, I’m a Nazi. What school do you go to in Normandy? What station did you arrive at in Paris? Do your parents have a telephone? Why not, if they’re music teachers? What are their names?
It was no good. There was nothing I could do about any of that now. What I could do was go out and give it a try. Or I could stay in, like every other day, and nothing would happen. The truth was today was my last chance. I took six deep breaths and opened the door again.
Grégoire Volet would have to be the most stupid boy in France. Or maybe the most scared. After all, one of the Kamynski girls hadn’t been able to speak for a week after a soldier stuck his gun in her back to frighten her. It wasn’t hard to play scared.
But why should Grégoire be afraid? He had nothing to worry about. (Except that h
e’s dead.)
I’d already made up my mind which way to turn, because it wouldn’t look good if I didn’t know where I was going when I came out of the house. But in case there was something going on outside I tipped all the music out on the step, just to get a few seconds to look around.
I hadn’t asked the Prof which side his mean neighbour lived on. But that was all right. If he was looking out, at last he’d be able to see who’d been making all that awful noise on the piano this past while. And what would he say?
That’s a very nervous boy. Look at him fumbling with those pages. What’s the matter with him?
I’d checked the map last night. It was much shorter to go left, down the street to the river, and cross at the bridge. The long way was to go right, up the street, turn into the park and go all the way through it until you came to the same bridge. That way was nicer and there would probably be no soldiers. Plus I’d see my lion. But suppose I ran into someone from my old school? It would be no help having the scarf wrapped around my face like a bandit. We used to do that all the time when we played cowboys and we always knew who everyone was.
I turned left.
My legs were pretty wobbly, a bit like they’d been after I had the measles. But at least my shoes didn’t pinch too much. There was ice on the pavement slabs but the shoes had good thick heels, which was just as well. A woman coming up the road slipped and went down. When she got up again her shoe heel was broken.
There were two potato bugs standing outside Prussian Boots’s house. But there was no flag. The stupid man probably thought nobody would know about him if there was no flag. I moved the music case to my left hand so the soldiers could see it. I just stared straight ahead when I passed them, like any proper French person would. They didn’t care. They were laughing at the woman who had to limp by in her broken shoe.
Then I was at the bottom of the street and the bridge was ahead. There was no checkpoint. I should be safe until I got to the fairground.
THE WOMAN IN THE FUR COAT
On the bridge it was much colder because the wind was whipping hard along the river, turning over little grey waves below. I had to keep the music case down by my side so that everybody could see it, but I kept my other hand stuffed into my jacket pocket to keep it warm. I kept going by thinking of the hot air that was waiting for me in the métro station.
I was halfway across, when a woman coming towards me stopped right in the middle of the path and looked at me. She was big, and she was staring really hard at me. I moved to pass her but she grabbed my shoulder to stop me. She had pointy black leather gloves, like claws.
“Why are you not in school, dear?” she said. “Do you live near here?”
She was a German! She wasn’t one of the ones in uniform, she was just an ordinary woman. But you could tell she was German by the way she spoke French – very loud, and moving her mouth too much.
A man stopped to watch, even though it was so cold on the bridge. The German woman looked rich. She had a long fur coat on and lots of red lipstick. Why had she stopped me? I hadn’t done anything. I was just walking. It wasn’t this woman’s business that I wasn’t in school. She wasn’t a school inspector, was she?
Maybe she was.
I lifted up the music case to show her. “I have to do my piano exam today,” I said. “At the Conservatoire.”
I didn’t know if I should call her “Madame” or if there was another word you should use for German women. The Prof would know that kind of thing. But if I was being rude she didn’t seem to notice.
“Surely you’re not going to walk all that way, child?” she said. “That thin tweed isn’t fit for this weather. Look at your knees. They’re purple! What was your mother thinking to let you out like that?”
“She’s in hospital,” I said. “Anyway, I have my father’s scarf. I’m not cold.”
The man who’d stopped to watch laughed. “Fighting words, son!” he called out to me. “Now ask the lady about the lovely weather her mates have in Russia.” Then he ran off, laughing.
The woman looked after him. There were two red spots on her cheeks. If she’d had a whistle I bet she’d have blown it to get soldiers to come and chase after him. But she had only me.
She wrapped her fur coat even tighter around herself with one hand. The other one still gripped my shoulder. Until she let it go and pulled at my scarf instead.
“I want to see your face,” she said. “Maybe I know you if you live near here.”
I stared back at her. Maybe there was a photograph of me somewhere, like the gangster photographs policemen had in American films.
Have you seen this Jewish boy?
The woman took the ends of my scarf and wrapped them around my head, covering my ears. I could smell the leather of her gloves. The fur cuffs brushed my face, the way Grimaldi’s tail did when you stroked him. She fastened the scarf inside my collar at the back, pushing it right down.
“Don’t snivel, boy,” she said. “You’re a musician. It’s written all over your face, even though you’re so young. And music is a privilege.”
She started fumbling inside her fur coat. She wasn’t holding me any longer but I didn’t dare move. Even though she was quite old I’d say she’d have caught me again, I was so petrified.
“But it’s shocking that you’re not better cared for. Here, I’m going to give you something.”
She took out a purse and from it a banknote. She pressed it into my hands.
“Here, boy. Take the métro. The train will take you straight all the way.” She pointed. “Over there. If you don’t do that you’ll get so cold you simply won’t be able to perform at all. Believe me, I know these things. Good luck with your exam.”
She was gone before I could say anything, even thank you.
I looked at the banknote. It was so long since I’d seen one. Fifty francs. There were some words right under the person’s picture. They were printed to look like old-fashioned handwriting and they were spelled in a funny way. But guess what they said:
“Nothing is impossible for a willing heart.”
Mama’s words. It was a message. Not from the wireless but from a real live German.
GONE, GONE, GONE, GONE, GONE
But there was no yellow van at the Foire du Trône.
There was just a shape cut into the ground where it had stood and where the grass was still flattened. There were no Corrados.
I went down the street, looking at all the other vans. I recognized the ones that belonged to the strongman, the fortune teller, the tumblers. But none of the vans was the nice yellow of a fried egg on a pan and they all had their doors closed. Even if I wasn’t supposed to be in hiding I’d never have dared knock on one. It was much too early. There were only a few people walking on the street and just a couple of men coming along the path on bicycles. Where was Papa’s bicycle now?
I felt sick.
The kiosk at the top of Cours de Vincennes was open. I could see Violette inside, with her big yellow hair. She was talking to an old man, giving him cigarettes. When he moved off I pushed the scarf down from my face and went over to the kiosk.
“Where’s Alfredo gone?” I asked her. “The Corrados’ van isn’t there.”
She looked at me as if I had something wrong with my head.
“Don’t you know? They’ve gone off to Neuilly. This place wasn’t good enough any more, they said. Truth was, everybody was sick of their stupid tricks. That greasy tramp, the one whose name you mentioned, can go and jump in the river for all I care. So don’t come talking to me about those people.”
It was a really bad word she called Alfredo. It wasn’t tramp.
“How do you get to Neuilly?” I asked. “Is it in Paris?”
But suddenly Violette wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on something behind me and she looked a bit frightened. I turned round.
Pimply Arms.
Not that you could see his arms now, because he was dressed in a long black coat. It was open
at the front and there was a long stick hanging from his belt, like the ones policemen wear. I didn’t need to see his arms. I knew his face straightaway, even though if you’d asked me a minute before what he looked like I couldn’t have said. It was just the worst face.
He came right up and put his hands round my neck until the fingers met at the back. He didn’t even have to squeeze to do that, his hands were so big. Then he took them away and held tight to my arm.
“Welcome back, little flea-boy – Jonas Alber.” he said. He tipped his cap to Violette. “Thanks for that, Violette. You could have told him to scram, and he might have made it.”
Violette began pulling down the wooden shutter of the kiosk. She was nearly crying. “I did nothing to help you, you creep! Nothing!”
Pimply Arms laughed. “Better keep the place open for the troops, Violette! They won’t like to see you all closed up so early.”
She banged the shutter closed. “Devil!” she shouted. Already she sounded far away.
“It was good of you to come out of your mouse hole,” Pimply Arms said to me. “Important people were looking for you. Now we’re going to take a little walk. And on the way you’re going to tell me where you’ve been all this time. And who was stupid enough to take in vermin like you.”
He started pulling me along with him towards the big roundabout at Nation. My feet must have been doing something to keep up with him but I couldn’t feel them moving. My brain wasn’t working at all. It was frozen.
“You don’t know my real name,” I managed to say. “Jonas Alber is just a stage name.”
He laughed again but not as much as before. “Don’t try to be smart. It won’t help you.”
“Do you think Madame Fifi’s parents called her that when she was a baby?” I asked. “That’s a stage name.”
He pinched my arm. “Funny that the rest of your family was called Alber. I wonder where they’ve all got to now, don’t you?”
