The Foundling's War

by Michel Déon

  They looked at him, puzzled and anxious. The words ‘foie gras’ and ‘champagne’ aroused a strange reaction in the woman.

  ‘Perhaps the storeroom isn’t very comfortable. We could put him in the boy’s room. He’ll have to leave the shutters closed in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be here to collect him tomorrow before eight,’ Marceline said. ‘He won’t be any trouble. I’ll bring him a change of clothes. Where are your things? At Nelly’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me the key.’

  ‘Knock before you go in.’

  She raised her eyebrows, concerned, and he added, ‘Nelly may not be alone.’

  ‘I’ll know what to do. Go to bed and sleep well. Tomorrow will be tiring.’

  She seemed about to salute as she disappeared with decisive steps down the path. Jean thought that if she came across the two tarts in Rue Troyon again they would be in for another mouthful.

  ‘My name’s Jeanne,’ the woman said.

  ‘My mother was called Jeanne too.’

  ‘I have a son your age. He’s a prisoner in Silesia.’

  ‘He was studying at the Arts et Métiers,’30 the man said. ‘My name’s Paul. We’ll show you your bed. You must be tired.’

  The bedroom smelt of mothballs. Photographs of actresses plastered the walls.

  ‘We’ll have to open a window,’ the man said. ‘You’ll get a headache if you don’t. We have a lot of moths.’

  Jean drank a glass of water, got undressed and lay down. For a few minutes he listened to them tidy the main room without speaking, before they went into the neighbouring bedroom, where he heard whispering. Their bed creaked, and Paul started snoring almost immediately. Jean lay with his eyes open in the darkness. Everything was unravelling. He thought of Julius, who must be mad with rage and anxiety, of Nelly packing a suitcase for him on Marceline’s orders, of Claude assailed by anguish in her drugged dreams. He was distancing himself from her. Another current was carrying him away. His easy life was coming to an end. He felt a satisfaction so keen he sighed with pleasure: it was curious to be joining the Resistance, dressed as a woman, on the day of St Jean himself, to be borrowing the bed of a prisoner of war who, before being called up, had collected the photographs of three German actresses: Marlene Dietrich, Leni Riefenstahl and Brigitte Helm. The smell of mothballs persisted, despite the open window. A pair of cats fought furiously on the path outside until someone threw a saucepan of water at them. Silence fell again. Paul’s snoring subsided. Jean wondered what the couple lived on, old before their time, withdrawn from the world in the heart of Paris in a tasteless neoclassical house, whose imitation Henri II furniture made it nearly impossible to move around. Without a thought for their own safety they sheltered the strangers Marceline brought them at night. In the wake of Madeleine’s soirée they represented another, very different France that one was tempted to forget when one lived in the artificial, glittering milieu he had inhabited up till then. Paul made him think of the man whom he still, out of gratitude, thought of as his father. Albert and Jeanne, Paul and Jeanne. The same preoccupations, the same narrow horizon, but within the limits of its narrowness a generosity and courage that were there when they were needed. Jean hoped their son was aware of their qualities and did not reject them or reproach them for not belonging to the world of lovely film actresses in which he lived in his dreams, far from the braces and slippers of Papa, and the waxed tablecloth and crochet work of Maman.

  *

  He was awoken by the dawn and it took him a while to orientate himself in the unfamiliar bedroom. His first gesture had been to stretch out his hand for Nelly and encounter only the rough, tightly tucked-in sheet, and he immediately realised that from now on he would miss her more than he had expected. He tried to remember their embraces but could only call one to mind, of infinite force and happiness, when they had made love together on the rug in front of the open fire before Marceline had brought Claude back, soaked and bruised and already unhinged. How could he erase the last six months, rekindle the pure flame that had consumed him since the meeting in the café at Clermont-Ferrand? There would never be anything more beautiful than what he had lived through with Claude in the dismal Paris of those years of 1940 and 1941. He had not forgotten any of it and at the same time he felt her, the woman who would always be for him the very image of dignity, slipping away from him. He regretted having made love with her on the spur of the moment, at a stroke putting an end to the rapture which had united them and borne them on, leaving them more wounded than satisfied, overcome by the awful sadness of quenched desires. It had been much more beautiful when they slept chastely in each other’s arms, like children, transported by a desire that only enhanced their tenderness. Blaise Pascal now waited like a spider in his web to pounce on Claude. The thought horrified Jean. The harm had not yet been done, but seemed unavoidable now that Jean had to flee, because, curiously, escaping from the arrest orchestrated by Julius, saving life and liberty, meant equally risking his life and losing his liberty.

  At eight o’clock Marceline marched into the bedroom, carrying a suitcase. She burst out laughing.

  ‘Just look at you!’

  In the mirror he saw his face smeared with lipstick and eye shadow from the night before.

  ‘I forgot that good girls take off their make-up before they go to sleep.’

  ‘It’s a question of self-discipline! I’ve always insisted my girls take care of their skin after work. With all the rubbish they plaster on their faces, by the time they’re thirty they’ve got skin like a sieve. Cleanliness is the key to health.’

  ‘Did you see Nelly?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and I didn’t need to knock either. She was on her own. She’s packed you a suit and some clean underwear herself. She was crying. She wants to see you. Though now’s not the time.’

  ‘I expect you find it all a bit like something out of Corneille.’

  ‘That’s what I said to her. We’ll arrange something later. For now we have to get you out of Paris.’

  ‘I need to go to the gallery and get some money.’

  ‘Constantin’s dealing with it. He’s going to let me have it later today.’

  Jeanne made coffee for him and buttered some bread. In her dressing gown with her bare feet in slippers with holes in them, she looked more depressing than the night before. She avoided looking at him and he realised that she found it hard to cope with the presence of a man of her son’s age. Paul was more friendly. Opportunities to talk were few and far between.

  ‘Did you see Laval’s speech?’ he asked.

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘You should reread it. There’s someone who thinks Germany ought to win.’

  ‘Apparently he’s negotiated a return of prisoners in exchange.’

  Jeanne turned towards him, her eyes sparkling with anger.

  ‘What prisoners? And who’s going to choose them? I don’t believe it.’

  Paul looked down. His choice of subject was unfortunate. But what could he talk about? Everything was getting worse. Rommel had taken Tobruk, the Afrika Korps had crossed the Egyptian border and the Wehrmacht had reached Kharkov. The spring offensive was developing from the north down to the Caucasus. Nowhere was there a glimmer of hope. Paul was silent. He rolled a cigarette and immersed himself in Le Matin.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ Marceline said when they were in the street. ‘They argue endlessly. Every time he opens his mouth she contradicts him. It’s worrying her sick that her son’s a prisoner. I’ve known her a long time. When Monsieur Michette and I took over the Sirène, it was her last year there. She was in a bad state, her legs were giving her trouble from climbing the stairs, and she was going to confession all the time. The priest married her off to Paul. He was working for the post office. They came to live in Paris because people were gossiping and they’d had a son, a handsome boy who’s been scaring them this last year. He’s too clever and he despises them. I’ve got a hunch that they decide
d to be brave so he’ll despise them less. Did you see? Not one question.’

  Jean learnt a great deal that day. He decided he would never laugh at Marceline again, who carried out her clandestine duties with the effective authority and discretion that she had acquired when managing the Sirène. She took control of everything, going to see Palfy who gave her the money Jean was owed, collecting his false papers. From now on his name was Jules Armand. He chose ‘Jules’ in homage to the nickname Nelly had invented. ‘Armand’ made the task of the producers of false papers easier. He kept the same initials and date of birth. The following day he was at Moulins, and that night a guide led him through fields and forests to a French army post south of the line of demarcation. Stationed in a barn which no longer smelt pleasantly of hay but of boots, uniforms and rifle oil, the section was keeping the man on guard duty supplied with wine. Another was cutting bread and distributing a piece to each man with a sardine. On the whitewashed wall the section’s artist had drawn a red devil and written in black letters ‘152nd RI, France’s finest regiment’. A staff sergeant entered. A soldier shouted, ‘’Shun!’, triggering a lazy line-up, the men embarrassed by the wine and bread. The staff sergeant stood in the doorway, hands on hips, looking annoyed.

  ‘What’s that?’ he roared, pointing at Jean.

  ‘He’s just crossed the line,’ the corporal said.

  ‘Have you got papers?’

  Jean handed over his new identity card. The staff sergeant read out his details.

  ‘Well, well, class of ’39 … You’re eligible for service. You’ll stay with us, in the armistice forces. Your lot hasn’t been demobbed yet. Go and get yourself some kit.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jean said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of a rest. I’ll get the kit later.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what you wouldn’t mind. An orderly will escort you to the command post.’

  He summoned a bewildered-looking private, squeezed into his tunic, his jaw pinched by his chinstrap.

  ‘Take this man to the command post.’

  ‘Yes, staff.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ the staff sergeant yelled. ‘Sir, you ignoramus. It’s a gold stripe, can’t you see that? I’m in the cavalry, not the infantry. Nothing to do with you horrible lot. About turn … right wheel.’

  Jean followed, dismayed. Behind him the section was laughing, restoring the staff sergeant’s good humour.

  ‘And when you go through the woods, be careful of the wolf!’

  Was he falling out of the frying pan into the fire? The memory of his army experiences made bile rise in his throat. He would not be part of that company of clowns.

  ‘He’s a nasty bastard!’ the soldier said as they plunged into the undergrowth, whose delicious smell, heightened by the dew, enveloped them.

  ‘And he doesn’t care who knows it!’

  ‘Find a way not to be in his section. He’s always like that. I call him “staff” on purpose. Just to hear him scream that he’s in the cavalry.’

  ‘What’s the captain like?’

  ‘The cap’n? No better. There’s no escape here. What’s it like in the occupied zone?’

  ‘So so.’

  ‘The Fritzes all right?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Given the choice, I still prefer it here. I’m from the Ardennes.’

  Jean got out his cigarettes.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘Do I? They don’t call me the locomotive for nothing.’

  He pulled on his cigarette with relish and attempted a smoke ring in the still air. A squirrel crossed the path and bolted up a tree, disappearing immediately in the foliage. A little further on, in a clearing, some young people in battledress khaki were chopping wood and piling it up in a stove.

  ‘They’ve got a cushy number, those Chantiers de Jeunesse,’31 the private said. ‘Reselling charcoal on the black market. Their mess tins’re always full. And ciggies, you want ’em, they got ’em!’

  Jean saw his chance.

  ‘Do you want the packet?’

  ‘Do I want it? You bet.’

  His hand was already greedily outstretched.

  ‘Not so fast! Maybe we can come to an agreement.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To get away.’

  ‘Oh yeah! And I’ll be on a charge. Two weeks, one in solitary. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You’re right, that would be shitty of me. Let’s keep going. Is the CP far?’

  ‘Another two kilometres, on the edge of the forest. Just outside Varennes-sur-Allier.’

  Coming towards them rapidly, with a supple stride, was a young man in blue shorts and a short light-coloured jacket and white socks, his beret pulled down over one ear.

  ‘He’s one of the chiefs,’ the private said. ‘They’re all chiefs there.’

  The young man stopped.

  ‘You’ve just crossed the line! I can tell without asking. Good: we can always use another pair of hands to rebuild France. Are you Chantiers age?’

  ‘I suspect I may be a bit too old.’

  ‘In that case it’s the Armée de l’Afrique for you. You’re in luck!’

  He shook Jean’s hand and strode away to rejoin his group, who could be heard singing in their clearing.

  ‘They’re funny, that lot. Roll up their sleeves. Salute the colours. Sing songs: “Avec mes sabots …”, “Maréchal, nous voilà”. Roll on demobilisation! So what about those fags?’

  Jean turned round. The young Chantiers leader was disappearing through the trees. The soldier held out his hand. Reluctantly, Jean drew back and punched him on the chin as hard as he could, muttering, ‘Sorry, mate,’ as the private crumpled to his knees, his eyes staring, a trickle of blood flowing from his split lip.

  At Varennes-sur-Allier he caught a bus that took him to Clermont-Ferrand, where memories of Claude came flooding back. He felt ill: there was Rue Gounot where she had stood with the sunlight shining through her dress, Place de Jaude where they had met again, thanks to the net cast by the girls at the Sirène. He wanted to cry. He could not stay. At the Sirène Monsieur Michette did not recognise him, but Zizi threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’

  Palfy had left a lasting impression. Zizi no longer ‘went upstairs’. She deputised for the patron and shared his bed. Business was not what it had been, but they could not grumble. Other trades had been worse hit by the restrictions. No, Jean did not need to stay. He was leaving for the Midi, where he planned to spend a few days before returning to the occupied zone. He had brought a letter from the patronne. That afternoon they found him a suitcase and a change of clothes that made him look like an ordinary traveller. A train took him to Lyon and another stopped the next morning at Saint-Raphaël, from where he telephoned Théo.

  ‘Jean! We hoped you’d find a way to get down here, but we didn’t expect you so soon. Where are you? Saint-Raph? Raining there, is it?’

  ‘No. Lovely and warm. I feel like diving in the sea.’

  ‘It’s not the time or the place. Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you.’

  Half an hour later Théo was at the station, at the wheel of his wood-gas truck. They thumped each other on the back.

  ‘It must have caused you a lot of pain,’ Théo said.

  And so Jean learnt that Antoine had died the previous day.

  ‘The doctor was too late. Antoine, he was red, all tensified. It looks like it was a stroke … We sent you a telegram straight away, but you never know nowadays if telegrams get there. It’s a real mess … Poor Antoine, he loved life, his Bugatti, Toinette … Ah my, Toinette, he adored her …’

  Jean reflected that he had loved Marie-Dévote too and Théo had refrained from saying so.

  ‘Just yesterday, before it happened, he was fishing his long line in front of the hotel and brought back two rockfish. We’re having them for lunch. Can’t let ourselves go without, these days. The funeral’s at five o’clock. Have you got a black suit?’
/>
  ‘No.’

  It really was a day for wearing black. Antoine, now stiff and cold, had deserted Jean, and he could not stop the tears welling up in his eyes. He had come to talk to the man who had been his childhood accomplice, and for the first time Antoine had failed to be there. How could you believe in death on the shore of this lovely blue bay bordered by maritime pines under a bright and carefree sky? Antoine must have thought he would never die.

  ‘It happened so quick Marie-Dévote didn’t understand what was going on. She was sewing in her bedroom. He went up to see her for a chinwag and he suddenly said, “I don’t feel well.” She told him, “Lie down.” She went to get him a glass of water when he went all tense. Then he went red too. And that’s it, he was dead. Completely dead, just like that. He didn’t even say “huh”. All over.’

  They buried Antoine that afternoon in the cemetery at Saint-Tropez. Théo had ordered a ‘mausoleum’ that would be ready in a week’s time. Until then a wooden cross, earth and armfuls of wild flowers picked by Toinette in the hills covered the body of this man who had chosen to live as he liked, scorning inherited wealth and the milieu he had been born into. Death had taken possession of him with a swift, neat discretion that was not its habit. Théo’s explanations notwithstanding, Antoine had probably succumbed while making love for the last time to the beautiful, voluptuous Marie-Dévote. A happy ending that mingled the heat of desire and the coldness of death.

  Toinette had cried so much before the service that she remained dry-eyed and dignified at the cemetery as the coffin disappeared under the gravediggers’ spadefuls of earth. In her lovely, melancholy profile Jean looked for signs of the du Courseau line, but Marie-Dévote’s Saracen blood and Antoine’s Celtic blood had mingled so well that there were no individual traces left of either. Her grace was cooler than her mother’s, and at the same time it was possible to detect a more highly strung will than her real father’s. Several times during the ceremony Jean gave in to distraction, drawn by her faultless figure in black dress and stockings. He remembered by heart the note he had received in 1939 just after he had enlisted.