‘I got a train, they wouldn’t let me get off at Rye, I had to go on to the next station. And I walked back. It was only a few miles. It didn’t seem like anything at all.’
‘Oh Laurence. Thank you so much for coming.’
‘Now let’s not get carried away,’ he said, a smile beginning to appear. ‘It wasn’t the only reason I came. It was so clearly a God-given opportunity to see you. Besides, I have some other news.’
‘What?’
‘I am going over tomorrow.’
‘To France?’
‘Yes. It seems they have work for me to do.’
She was too exhausted, too shocked to feel anything; she sat silent, looking at him, then put out her hand to touch his face.
‘I mustn’t ask anything, must I?’
‘Oh you can if you like,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I hardly think you’re going to get on the phone to Nazi HQ. Go ahead.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think I want to. I think I’m going to pretend you’re still safely in London. In my—our house.’
‘Very good! I like our house. I like all our houses. Now. I have a few surprises for you. I didn’t want the whole day to pass in a vale of tears. First is – well, wait there.’
She waited; he reappeared after a few minutes bearing an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne.
‘I brought the champagne with me, I didn’t quite trust them to have it here. But they managed to put it on ice. Now. Take a glass. Here’s to us. What shall be the toast? What would you suggest? Mr and Mrs Elliott?’
‘Laurence—’
‘Now, I have something else for you. Here. I would have given it to you before, but I’ve been having it sized for you. Give me your hand.’
She held out her hand. He smiled at her, excitedly, like a child, produced a small box from his pocket, opened it.
‘Laurence! Oh, but it’s – what is it? I know it’s a ring, but—’
‘It’s more than that. It’s something very special. It is – it was my mother’s. My mother’s engagement ring, given her by my father. Now I think—yes. Perfect. I stole one of your rings, gave it to Cartier—to size it. Your hands are very thin,’ he added almost severely, ‘you should eat more.’
‘I – don’t know what to say,’ she said.
‘Yes you do.’
‘I love you. Will that do?’
‘It’ll do.’
The ring was not the huge solitaire she might have expected; it was a flower of jewels, an aquamarine, set in a circle of small diamonds, on a narrow pink-gold band.
‘My father said, apparently, that he chose the aquamarine to match her eyes. She had extraordinary eyes, my mother—’
‘Like yours,’ said Barty.
‘Yes. Greener, though.’
‘Like Maud’s?’ She spoke without thinking.
‘Can we not spoil the day?’ He was the other Laurence suddenly, scowling, dark; Barty leaned forward, kissed him.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘I know,’ he said, clearly with difficulty.
‘Laurence, I love it so much. And it’s so—so wonderful of you. To give it to me. Your mother’s ring. I can’t think why—I mean, I know what it means to you. I can’t even begin to thank you.’
‘Well, there is no one else in the world,’ he said, sounding slightly impatient, ‘who could possibly have it.’
‘Maybe. I’m very, very, truly, truly overwhelmed. Oh dear, I’m not sounding very articulate.’
‘I love you,’ he said, ‘however you sound.’
‘And I shall never, ever take it off. As long as I live.’
‘Now that is a very good promise.’
She sat, alternately staring at the ring on her finger, and then smiling at him; and then suddenly found herself crying again, crying with the loss of John, who in her way she had loved, though with a gentle, lesser love, with the cruelty of his death and with relief that he had never had to know of her betrayal: she told Laurence so.
‘Do you think that’s very wicked?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, ‘it’s you who are the good one. I am so absolutely wicked, I can’t possibly be expected to tell one act from another.’
‘You don’t really think that, do you?’
‘What?’
‘That you’re absolutely wicked?’
‘Oh yes, I do think so,’ he said, sounding almost complacent. ‘I’ve known it since I was a very young man.’
‘Laurence—’
‘Yes, Barty?’
‘You are not absolutely wicked. I can’t let you say that. So much of you is good, generous and kind and thoughtful and—and loving. It’s a nonsense for you to deny it.’
‘Not bad and mean and cruel and hateful? Surely that is what you think? You’ve told me that. And more than once.’
‘I wish you would forget it.’
‘I can’t forget anything you’ve said to me,’ he said. ‘I remember it all, all you said from that first night in New York, and onwards from there. Some of it good, some of it bad, some of it foolish, some of it interesting. But it is all here, in my head.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Don’t you remember everything I have said? I shall be very upset if you don’t.’
‘Of course. Every single word,’ she said smiling at him. ‘What else can I say? I certainly don’t want to upset you. I know how dangerous that is. But – Laurence, what are you doing?’
‘Drawing the curtains,’ he said, ‘and then locking the door. And then I am going to ask you to remove that hideous tunic. I am getting tired of this philosophical talk. I have never found it amusing. Now, we don’t have very long, remember, only a day. Your commanding officer said so. Only a little over half a day now. Not very long at all. Come here, Barty. Come to bed with me.’
Afterwards, she could see what they had been doing: learning one another by heart. So that for the rest of their lives, and for however long that might be, they would remember, remember the feel, the sight, the sound of one another. That time, that day became always; not one afternoon but a lifetime.
Slowly, sweetly, they explored one another, as if it had never been done before: as if it was the first time. They looked, touched, smiled, wept; joined, moved, rose, cried out with pleasure—and afterwards laughed with joy.
‘That was love,’ said Laurence, holding her, kissing her, ‘that was love, here in this room, we had it, we heard it and we saw it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling into his eyes, ‘that was most certainly love.’
Lying there, they talked: a great deal. They contemplated their lives, and what they had accomplished with one another, all that they had enjoyed and achieved, the things that they regretted. They told one another things hitherto unshared, with anyone; looked at each other, astonished, at these new discoveries; and it was a long journey they took together, back into their troubled, difficult past, and thus forward to their hopeful present, their tremulous future.
‘I regret only a few thousand things,’ Laurence said, lifting one hand, kissing the fingers one by one.
‘A few thousand? So many?’
‘Yes. The few thousand days I have not spent with you. Everything else is unimportant.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I think it is.’
Finally, the time spent, they left; he walked her back to her camp, kissed her briefly, told her he loved her—and walked away. And she watched him and she was still so full of the happiness and the pleasure of him, she could not feel anything else.
Not even afraid.
CHAPTER 43
It had been forbidden when they were small: it was felt to be in some way unsuitable. They had done it just the same of course, had been punished for it if they were caught, smacked quite hard on their small bare bottoms by the first nanny—the one who had done other bad things, so bad in fact, like ill-treating Barty, that she had been sacked, without any notice—and then been forbidden sugar on their porr
idge, stories at bedtime, threatened with their mother’s wrath by the beloved second nanny.
It had all been quite useless. They had wanted, had needed even, to sleep together, in each other’s arms, curled into bed like puppies, for quite a long time, and had gone on doing so in times of trial right through their childhood. And tonight, Adele had needed that and Venetia had known it and welcomed her with wordless sympathy and held her all night long, sleepless, weeping, grieving with her, the letter lying between them on the coverlet of the bed.
It came one day early in October; she had been waiting for it so long that she hardly recognised its credence as it lay on the hall table at Cheyne Walk. It seemed like yet another figment of her imagination, a fragment of hope, a piece of a dream.
But it was real. It was absolutely real.
She had read everything about the liberation of Paris of course, had devoured it, not so much the triumphal entry of the Allies, the pretty girls climbing on to the tanks, kissing the American soldiers, the ecstatic crowds, the bursting doors in the metro, the dancing in the streets, de Gaulle’s proud march the next day up the Champs-Élysées, the service of thanksgiving at Notre-Dame, the replacement of the swastika by the tricolore, and of course the rumours that the sewers had been mined, that General Choltitz had been ordered to first torch Paris, then to blow it up as he left (but disobeyed).
It was the darker things that haunted her: the rough justice of the witch hunts, the acts of revenge, the punishment of the women guilty of the collaboration horizontale, of sleeping with the Germans, the shaving of their heads (referred to with harsh Parisian irony as la coiffure de 44), and the branding of swastikas on their breasts, as they were paraded through the streets; the execution of the black marketeers and informers and corrupt government officials, and of George Suarez, editor of Aujourd’hui and Jean Herold Paquis, the ‘radio traitor’; the brief arrest of Coco Chanel, famous for her anti-semitic views, and the longer detention of Sacha Guitry the actor, and that of the actress Arletty, who had had a German lover, but who was released (her head shaven, or so it was said) to film Les Enfants du Paradis; and perhaps most of all the establishment of the Bichot Hospital at the Porte St Ouen, where survivors of the camps were being sent.
Was Luc there? Was he still in hiding? Was he not in hiding at all, had he managed to survive those years? Was he in one of the detention camps? Was he alive anywhere at all?
She tried: she wrote to Mme André, she telephoned their apartment endlessly, she tried writing to, cabling, telephoning the Constantine offices, while knowing it was pointless, useless, that they had gone before the fall of France.
She was restless, wretched, more unhappy still than she would have believed. She couldn’t sleep, and when she did, she had wild dreams, in which she saw herself waking with a start to see her bedroom door opening and Luc walking in, or running to the telephone and hearing his voice. Only, of course, in reality, she saw nothing and heard nothing.
Nothing at all.
She had left the factory and returned to do some occasional photographic work in London; but a sadness pervaded her work, she had no relish for it and it showed. She still spent most of her time at Ashingham, keeping her grandmother company, taking her part at least notionally against the pompous, heavy-handed new Lord Beckenham. Lucas had no idea of course, that Paris had been freed, that their father might now be restored to them, but Noni could read the papers and had asked her several times if they could now go home. Home! That was so much part of her trouble: she had no idea where it was.
And then the letter came.
It was from a neighbour of Luc’s—he said. Although she did not recognise the address, in the thirteenth arrondissement, far from the Place St-Sulpice or even from Passy.
Nor did she recognise the name: Bernard Touvier. But it was addressed to her at Cheyne Walk, presumably given to him by Luc as the surest way of finding her.
It was in French. She had come in from a long day, working with Vogue; she was tired and she felt strangely calm as she took it into the morning room, even pouring herself a glass of sherry, before beginning to read.
Dear Mam’selle Adele,
Forgive my calling you by this name; but it was how Luc always spoke of you, and it will persuade you that this letter is truly from a friend.
I am afraid there is no easy way of saying this; I am so very sorry to have to tell you that Luc is dead.
From the Autumn of 1942, he was in hiding. He and the friend and colleague with whom he had been lodging, Jean Marc Triolet together with Monique, Jean Marc’s wife, moved down into the cellars running beneath their street. They were not alone down there, there was another family in another section of the cellar, although I did not realise that then. There were many such hiding places set up by Jews at this time: and many brave people helping them. I would like to tell you I was one of those, helping Luc and Jean Marc, but I was not; although I did from time to time procure food for them, and books and newspapers, so essential to people in hiding. They had a very good friend, a shopkeeper called Edouard leClerc, who occupied another apartment in the building; it was he who took them food each day, and other necessities of life. He was part of a large Resistance organisation, working within Paris.
Luc and the Triolets had been there for nine months when they were betrayed. I believe it was the concierge, as it so often was; if so, she has now met a deservedly appropriate fate and has been imprisoned herself.
It happened one Sunday morning, it was 24 June, I think you would wish to know the date. The scene was one we came to know well. I only witnessed it because I had been suffering during the night from a severe headache and had decided to go out for a walk and to get some fresh air.
The Gestapo arrived, in three lorries. They gained access to the building easily, and then we heard them beating on doors, shouting. They always did it in areas by buildings, and streets. They would have a list and work through it. Usually at night, sometimes like this, early in the morning. After only a few minutes, there were many people on the street, all wearing their yellow stars; families, couples, old people on their own. Luc was not with them, or Jean Marc, I thought perhaps they were safe. But then there was some delay and suddenly they had Luc. And Jean Marc and Monique too. They were all very quiet, very controlled.
The Germans started pushing people into the truck; Luc was at the side of the group. A man and his wife were told to get in, and as they did so, they glanced back. The Germans did not see that glance, they were too busy hustling people into the trucks, checking off names, but I did and so did Luc; there, almost hidden in the doorway was a small girl, perhaps five or six. Her parents had obviously hidden her when they heard the Gestapo coming and she had been told to stay where she was, but was too small and too frightened to obey. There was a small truck just by the door; a truck with a tarpaulin over the back. I looked at it, and I noticed so did Luc.
Suddenly, there was a diversion; another truck-load of Gestapo arrived, shouting, obviously with orders or instructions for the first; Luc was still standing on the street on the edge of the group of prisoners, they were all looking at their lists, shouting at one another, counting, almost relaxed, sharing cigarettes.
Everyone was distracted just for a moment; in that moment he did it. It was so brave, so futile and yet it could—perhaps—have worked.
He moved backward, picked up the child in the doorway, and threw her into the truck, under the tarpaulin. All in one swift movement. He might have got away with it even then, had she not screamed; but they heard that and realised what he had done.
They shot him: there and then. The only comfort I can offer you, Mam’selle, is that he died at once. His fate might have been much worse. I am sure it is hard for you to accept that, but from what we have learned since, of the conditions at Drancy, where the Jews were sent, and worse, after Drancy, I can say that with confidence.
He loved you very much, Mam’selle. I never had a conversation with him that did not lead to you, his
Mam’selle Adele. More than once he asked me to notify you if anything should happen to him. So I am sorry to bring you this news, but I fear I must do so.
If you ever come to Paris in the future, do please visit me.
Your friend,
Bernard Touvier
She read it once more, then sat in the growing dusk, waiting for Venetia to come home.
Venetia understood it all so very well: there was no need to explain anything, not so much her grief, but her rage, her furious impotent rage; and after that, her pride in Luc.
‘That is what you have to feel the most,’ she said, holding Adele while she wept and railed, ‘you have to feel proud. It was so brave, what he did, so amazingly brave, and you must make sure the children know that too, how brave he was.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Adele, her voice raw with pain, ‘that will make it all all right, won’t it? “Now listen, children, I want you to know that your papa was very, very brave. You’ll never see him again, he’s dead, but he was very brave. And you never said goodbye to him because your maman saw to that”—Venetia, how could I have done that, how could I have not even let them say goodbye to him?’
‘Because if you had, you’d never have gone. And if you’d not gone, you’d have been imprisoned within weeks. And your fate would have been as bad, worse than his.’
‘But that’s not the point. I didn’t leave because the Germans were coming, if I had we would have said goodbye, I left because I was so angry with him and so hurt and all those absurd things. I behaved as if I were just having a fit of pique and would go back when I felt better or he sent some flowers, instead of taking his children away from him for ever.’
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