The Foundling's War

by Michel Déon

  Eventually she asked Jean to step onto the terrace, where she gave him a sealed letter.

  Dear Jean,

  Between men such as ourselves one doesn’t use the post, one uses a messenger. The divine Marceline is perfect for our purpose. She hides her messages in her bra, where of course no one’s going to go looking. Actually, I’ve got nothing to tell you except that things are going well, so well in fact that I’m rather annoyed you’re not here to be part of it. You’re dozing down there … Wake up. Now’s not the time to be bleating about love. Come back before the war is over. There are opportunities here for the taking. Tomorrow it’ll be too late. Give our heroine a note and let me know the day of your arrival. I’ll pick you up at Gare de Lyon. I have a car and driver. And that’s just the start. Tibi, Constantin

  Jean went inside to write his reply. Palfy was right; he had to go back. When he returned he found Madame Michette talking to Antoine.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Monsieur sold his house to someone I know. Monsieur Longuet. It’s such a coincidence. Madame Longuet is an absolute saint.’

  ‘So our priest says.’

  ‘What a small world.’

  Antoine agreed without protest. Madame Michette drank a large glass of grappa, which reddened her cheeks without distracting her for a moment from her mission.

  ‘I must go!’ she announced.

  ‘How?’

  ‘By train.’

  ‘You ought to rest,’ Marie-Dévote said, unsettled by this obsession with travelling.

  ‘Later! I’ll rest later.’

  ‘“Later” never comes. Life’s for living now.’

  Madame Michette disagreed. Our lives did not belong to us. Superior forces allowed us a few years, provided that we returned them one day, in good condition and with the interest due. The tone of the discussion rose. Madame Michette believed in destiny. Marie-Dévote did not know what it was.

  Théo drove her back to Saint-Raphaël where she caught the evening train. Jean felt sorry for her and found himself thinking: why did Palfy play his pranks? So that the august figure of Madame Michette, who had lived behind closed shutters for so long, discovered a meaning to life? But Palfy was right: he had to get back to Paris. He’d had more than one reminder that his too-happy existence rested on fragile foundations. That night he found his grandfather in the Bugatti. They had run out of grappa, so they drank champagne.

  ‘Not marvellous!’ Antoine said at the first mouthful. ‘I’ve never quite managed to educate Marie-Dévote on the subject of champagne. She used to order hers from passing salesmen who’d palm her off with the vintages they couldn’t sell to anyone else. They’re back now, but they’re not selling any more; they want to buy up our reserve instead. I soon put a stop to that!’

  ‘I’m not as fussy as you. Anyway, being here’s what counts.’

  They had left the door of the shed open, and through the windscreen they could make out the sea and its swell silvered by the moonlight.

  ‘Let’s give ourselves a treat,’ Antoine said. ‘I’ll turn the headlights on, and we’ll hope the gendarmes don’t jump out of the bushes and nab us.’

  He started the engine and switched on the headlights, which lit up the bushes, the beach and the mother-of-pearl surface of the water. After a moment he switched the engine off again.

  ‘So you’re off?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘No change?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever met a woman I didn’t understand. Until now their intentions have seemed so obvious to me that I had a tendency to simplify them, to reduce them to their appearances. Is it really possible there are complicated ones too? I’ll have to revise all my theories! But I’m too old to backtrack now. I’d rather go fishing.’

  They finished their two bottles of champagne and went their separate ways before daybreak. The decision was made. In any case, Jean’s money was running out. Every week he gave Marie-Dévote a small amount to cover their board and lodging. But the biggest reason was that he could not go on. He had become obsessed by his desire. Whether Claude covered herself up or walked around their bedroom naked, she had everything he wanted – except openness. He could only look, and see the grace in her movements, her voice and her words. He had begun to slip into bad moods with her. She had accepted them resignedly. The person we love must sometimes suffer, for obscure reasons that are also the mark of a passion grown too intense. Wounded by her distance, Jean could not forgive himself for causing her pain.

  One afternoon, when Toinette had taken Cyrille for a walk, he found himself alone with Claude as she undressed in their bedroom. As she took off her shirt, he felt a hunger so violent he thought he was going mad. Did she see the look in his eyes? She stood rooted to the spot with fear, naked to the waist, exposing her lovely breasts, almost untouched by motherhood, pale, soft, trembling fruits that made him want to throw himself to his knees each time she uncovered them.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, ready to hit her, stun her in order to satisfy his desire for a body that would at last be defenceless. She stiffened.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He let go of her naked shoulders, which a moment before he had wanted to bite until they bled. His fingers had left white imprints on her tanned skin. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘You’re the only one I love!’ she said.

  ‘I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘We’ll never part, and I’ll never forget these two months.’

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Is it always going to be impossible?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When, then? When?’

  She threw herself into his arms, pushing her head into his chest, and he smelt the fragrance of her hair and caressed her bare neck.

  ‘I promised Georges that I’d wait till he came back before I decided.’

  ‘Where did you promise that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  He could not persuade her to say any more. She had gone as far as she could. So Antoine’s conclusion had been correct. Jean would ask no more questions. Claude slid to her knees, still holding him. She pressed her cheek against his legs with such unselfconsciousness that he felt hope, for a moment, that one day they would throw aside their clothes and come together. He let himself slide down beside her onto the tiled floor, and they became like two children, kissing each other’s lips and face with as much wonderment as fear.

  On the wall of Palfy’s office a map of Europe bristled with red and black flags.

  ‘You’ll get the idea straight away,’ he said.

  He picked up a ruler and drew a line in the air between the black flags in the west and the red in the east.

  ‘The war has entered its final phase. Leaving the fools aside, who thankfully are legion, for the rest of us the outcome is clear. The Wehrmacht is on the brink of taking Odessa, Kiev and Smolensk, and is approaching Leningrad. Its advance is irresistible. The Baltic is already under Axis control. By the end of October we can look forward to a German Ukraine and Moscow encircled. There are three million Soviet prisoners that no one knows what to do with, dying of starvation and wretchedness. The USSR is losing its bread basket. Its lines of communication are cut, its high command in chaos, Stalin no longer trusts anyone. So what does he do? He purges, purges and purges again to forget his own blindness. You have no idea of the panic in the Kremlin. Neutral representatives are sending back reports that leave no room for doubt. They have understood Hitler’s plan: to establish a line from Arkhangelsk to Astrakhan beyond which, from his armchair, he will use his air force to annihilate the Siberian industrial complexes, leaving Chiang Kai-shek a free hand in Mongolia and eastern Siberia. It’s as clear as day, as elementary as two and two make four.’

  ‘What about England?’

  ‘She’ll win the last battle, a
s she always does. It’s the one thing we can really be certain about.’

  Palfy’s assurance beguiled and deceived. Jean felt baffled.

  ‘So who will win?’

  ‘Stalin, of course.’

  ‘You seem to be saying the opposite.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me.’

  ‘You said the outcome was clear.’

  Palfy shrugged his shoulders. His office windows overlooked the Champs-Élysées, where the Sunday crowds were queuing outside the cinemas. Jean could see the enormous letters on an advertisement for one of the cinemas on the far side of the avenue: ‘Nelly Tristan in The Girl and the She-wolf’. Palfy followed his friend’s gaze.

  ‘Remember her?’

  ‘Yes, at dinner at Madeleine’s. Absolutely legless.’

  ‘Highly successful at the moment. We’ll be having dinner with her shortly. Your handsome Midi tan is bound to please her.’

  ‘We’re changing the subject … You were saying that the Germans have won the war …’

  Palfy raised his arms heavenwards.

  ‘You haven’t been listening. I said, “clear outcome”.’

  ‘Excuse me, I haven’t read Clausewitz or Liddell Hart.’

  ‘Stop trying to be clever. I’m not talking about Clausewitz or Hart, I’m talking about Napoleon. I hope that name means something to you!’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Well then, like the soldiers of the Grande Armée, the Germans are advancing everywhere. They would already be at Moscow now, at the end of July, if Hitler hadn’t coveted the Ukraine like a greedy little boy. Guderian warned him not to, but Hitler doesn’t listen to anyone. He’s already finished.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so to look at him,’ Jean said.

  ‘If you’ll allow me, I shall enlighten you … Have a seat …’

  In his room with its large bay windows overlooking the middle of the Champs-Élysées Palfy had assembled an elegant desk and some Louis XVI armchairs, an admirable Lancret, and in a bookcase a complete collection of the reports of the Fermiers Généraux.16 The company name displayed on the door, ‘La Franco-Germanique d’Import–Export (FGIE)’, had little outward connection with the interior’s Louis XVI style. Is it necessary to spell out what was taking place here? That, without going into details, the so-called FGIE was a cover for the substantial commercial dealings to which Julius Kapermeister and Rudolf von Rocroy were key?

  Jean sat.

  ‘Hitler,’ Palfy said, ‘is a genius. His pan-Germanic socialism is a psychological weapon as effective as the idea of liberty that preceded Napoleon’s armies. Everywhere he is greeted as a “liberator”, like the soldiers of year II.17 The sad thing is that this shy impulsive man does not think he is loved, or perhaps he cannot accept that he is loved. So he crushes, exterminates, imprisons. In the Ukraine they were expecting a saviour and they got Attila the Hun, bombing the triumphal arches prepared for his victorious arrival. Not a very effective way to make yourself loved …’

  Palfy raised his index finger.

  ‘He could have half the population of the USSR with him if he wanted: the Byelorussians, the Don Cossacks, the Muslims in the Caucasus, the Balts … Alas, this oversensitive, sexually inhibited vegetarian teetotaller prefers to be alone, like a god. In addition to which he possesses an unfortunate array of physiological defects which cannot help but eventually have a deleterious effect on the situation. Of course you’re aware that he is pathologically flatulent. Not one of those ordinary farters we all remember from our classrooms at school, but a truly high-powered professional – despite not, so far as I know, amusing himself by blowing out candles, like the famous Pétomane at the Alhambra. The awful thing for him is that he simply can’t control it. Imagine – you who are such a sensitive boy – the anxiety of the Führer at Nuremberg, stepping forward to address tens of thousands of men, to exalt the Third Reich – and suddenly, in the middle of a superb flight of oratory, the microphone amplifies a triumphant fart, echoing through the loudspeakers to every corner of the rally! No dictator could live down the gales of laughter, the ridicule. He has always had a problem with gas, ever since he inhaled ours on the Western Front, but in the last few years it has deeply wounded his self-esteem and dignity. He has found only one remedy that works: strychnine pills. Pitifully ignorant as you are, you nevertheless know that strychnine taken in regular doses is a poison that causes burning in the stomach wall. So there is our Führer, caught between two ills: ill-timed effusions of gas and intolerable cramps. But just at that moment, nothing less than a miracle occurs! A certain Doktor Morell arrives, a magician whose services are in great demand in Berlin society. He tampers with pharmaceutical products and cures incurable patients with cocktails of his own invention. He has been charged several times with quackery, but powerful figures have had the charges dismissed. Emma Göring is one of his protectors. What does Morell suggest to Hitler? A modest white pill and a daily injection. The cramps subside and the gas is tamed. Hitler is reborn and full of good cheer again. He can speak to the crowds without fear of public ridicule. Doktor Morell becomes his personal physician. He accompanies the Führer everywhere. Naturally the prescription has to be gradually increased: two, then three and four pills a day. At this stage we are up to five pills and two injections to stop him falling asleep. Morell is with him constantly, syringe in one hand, pills in the other. Three times a day he takes his baby’s blood pressure. The leader of the eternal Reich is so perforated he’s turning into a sieve! Needless to say there are those around him who try to put a stop to this madness. Nothing doing. The Führer no longer farts. That’s all that matters to him. Unfortunately the active ingredient of the heaven-sent pills is methamphetamine, a euphoric and stimulant whose chronic use is known to cause Parkinson’s disease-like symptoms and episodes of psychosis resembling schizophrenia. Which is why, despite appearances, despite the admirable achievements of von Brauchitsch, von Rundstedt, Rommel, Guderian and a few others, all of them true military geniuses, the divine Hitler will not survive an extended campaign. And all because of his farts! Human nature is truly a petty thing! There’s nothing to laugh about. Germany deserved a leader with better health. Amen. Having said that, in the light of this ultra-secret information, we need to row our boat intelligently while the German rearguard – including those souls on the somewhat tipsy Paris gravy train – continue modestly to celebrate their victory. I know a number who are already looking forward to ordering their caviar and getting their boots polished for the big review on Red Square. Let us not rain on their parade. When a man feels the euphoria of victory, he is open to interesting offers. He can be a gentleman, so long as it doesn’t cost him too much …’

  ‘I still have a question to ask you.’

  ‘I know what it is. How do I know all this? Well, my dear boy, there are one or two realistic soldiers left. It happens. I suppose you also want to know how I heard about Doktor Morell? From the same sources. Some believe that this shady character with a dubious past is actually an agent of British military intelligence or the American OSS. What a wonderful thought! There would never have been a war if those two organisations of espionage and counterespionage had possessed the slightest intelligence. A plan like that would have been brilliant. Just as if the German Sicherheitsdienst had managed to supply Churchill with his daily bottle of whisky …’

  The summer night was falling. The avenue with its blue lamps was fading into shadow, pierced by the occasional headlights of a car. A Light 11 – Palfy apologised: there was really nothing but Citroëns to buy at the moment – was waiting at the entrance. The chauffeur got out, took off his cap and held the door open. The day before, he had been waiting for Cyrille, Claude and Jean at Gare de Lyon, where he had piled their luggage into the boot: a mute figure with a pear-shaped head and a bovine expression, happy to drive a privileged individual while the unhappy populace crowded into the Métro.

  Dinner was in a bistro that had a notice on the door: ‘Closed on Sundays’. They
made their way down an unlit side passage and Palfy knocked twice, and twice again. A door half opened and a bald man with a plump red face appeared in the gap.

  ‘Ah, Baron, please come in! You’re the last to arrive. And late! Fortunately the petit salé can wait …’

  ‘Louis, this is Monsieur Jean Arnaud.’

  ‘Monsieur Arnaud, our friends’ friends are our friends.’

  He moved aside to let them pass through into what must have been the back room of the restaurant, a small room that opened into the kitchen, wallpapered in a design the colour of mud. The ceiling light, which had a tasselled lampshade, lit a round table around which, already seated, were Madeleine, Marceline Michette, Nelly Tristan and as always, her producer, Émile Duzan, and Rudolf von Rocroy. Madeleine kissed Jean.

  ‘You’re a deserter. We never see you. But your complexion reassures me: the sun suits you. Julius will be sorry to miss you. He left for Berlin yesterday. He’ll be back tomorrow …’

  Rudolf had sufficient good manners to recognise the young salesman from the Montmartre gallery whom Blanche had told him about: ‘He’s a very honest and intelligent boy. He’ll do well.’ We shall spare the reader the details of the menu. They will have already guessed that in this den of initiates the cuisine was considerably above the usual Paris standard for the time. Louis, a former café owner, and his wife, a skinny, raw-looking woman from the Auvergne, cooked for a select clientele: foie gras from the Landes, petit salé with lentils, cheese and nègres en chemise.18 A proper wartime menu, with champagne to go with the foie gras, a 1929 Bonnes-Mares for the petit salé, and a modest Anjou with the dessert. Seated between Marceline Michette and Nelly Tristan, Jean would have had a boring evening if it had not been for Nelly deciding, several glasses into the petit salé, to pick a fight with Rudolf von Rocroy. Émile Duzan cringed in shame and fear. Rudolf thought she was teasing him and laughed heartily at her insults, not understanding them. Palfy scribbled a note and had it passed to Jean. ‘She says everything I think about him. Isn’t she divine?’