The Foundling's War

by Michel Déon

  ‘What?’ The warder was astonished a prisoner should refuse even the minimal distraction of a lawyer’s visit.

  ‘I said I refuse to see him.’

  The major got to his feet, his képi in his hand.

  ‘Jules, you’re digging yourself in deeper. You have to fight.’

  ‘Lawyers are part of a system I disdain.’

  ‘Defend yourself! That’s an order.’

  Jean was touched by his severity and not brave enough to explain to him why he felt there was no point in playing the game.

  ‘In that case, stay, please, Major.’

  The lawyer came in. We have said that he was a busy young man, intelligent, brilliant even, but overworked. The officer’s presence threw him into confusion and prevented him adopting the patronising tone he had prepared.

  ‘My respects, Major …’

  Jehan de la Ferté-Mondragon nodded without replying.

  ‘My friend, I have good news for you. The examining magistrate has advised me that you are to be transferred to London to be interviewed there. Of course I shall go with you. It’s a simple matter, there and back.’

  ‘I thought you were very busy.’

  Jean was not stupid. Maître Deschauzé had gauged from the unusual turn of events the level of interest his client was arousing. It was no longer a case of yet another small-time thug working for the Gestapo, the kind of case he had coming out of his ears, but a defendant whose alleged actions had had repercussions as far away as London.

  ‘It’s an international matter,’ the lawyer said to the major. ‘A tangled web indeed. If Jean Arnaud were willing to help me, I could do something for him.’

  He saw, on the table, the medal the major had brought with him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Resistance medal.’

  ‘And you didn’t think fit to tell me?’

  ‘Let’s not get things confused,’ Jean said. ‘I’m accused of distributing counterfeit notes, which has nothing to do with my activities for Major de la Ferté-Mondragon.’

  ‘Major, are you prepared to be a witness for my client?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Jean felt distinctly bad-tempered.

  ‘Maître, I didn’t choose you. You were appointed by the court. I did not want a lawyer, and I warn you that if you make another such crude error, I will dismiss you in open court.’

  Maître Deschauzé should have left. We know, however, that despite his self-satisfied exterior and certain mannerisms with his cuffs and his mop of hair, he was no fool. He had underestimated Jean, keen to be done with a complicated case and a difficult character. Quite suddenly, he had discovered his client. Instead of storming out and slamming the door, he stayed.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in a more measured tone.

  ‘Jules,’ the major said, ‘you’re doing the opposite of what you should. Let me embrace you before I go. If I’d married, I should have liked to have had a son like you.’

  He hugged Jean and left unhurriedly, saluted by the warder.

  ‘When do we leave?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. An inspector will accompany us.’

  The lawyer began to walk up and down the visiting room, furnished with two chairs and a pine table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very sorry … Don’t judge a book by its cover. I’m also a human being. You’re not angry with me?’

  ‘Not in the least!’

  ‘I’d like to get you out of here.’

  ‘It’ll be complicated.’

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘If you put it like that, all right.’

  They shook hands. The warder took Jean back to his cell. Jean put the medal on the table, opened his notebook and wrote:

  15 November 1944: I must write before my fingers freeze again. It’s getting dark. Three lights have just come on in the ‘recreation’ yard. I long to hear the sound of children playing down there: it’s so sinister. I’m lucky if I can make out the sound of police vans and the slamming of doors as they’re locked. I’ve never been forced to reflect so much. Not self-reflection, reflection on others. And so, just as I decide definitively and for ever that the human race is rotten, the major comes on the scene with a little cross in his hand. Balzac’s young lions will do anything to win their cross, and I’m no young lion. There’s no relation between that cross and what I did. Yet the major’s attitude, his embarrassed words, his shy but genuine warmth give meaning to these two years. And then to cap it all, and show me how simplistic my generalisations are, the lawyer takes off his mask and I discover a young man like me, who makes a mistake and recognises it. So every day I have something to understand, something to learn. In the opposite sense, there was the day I went to see Cyrille (oh yes, that boy I loved so much and who two years later didn’t recognise me and as I held out my arms to him asked, ‘Who’s he?’, a little voice showing how much was lost, already forgotten) and Anna Petrovna kept me there with her honeyed phrases while her son went to fetch the police, far outstripping the lowness of which I thought that woman capable. In short, because I might have solicited the intervention of CP and R von R in Claude’s ordeal, I was myself a traitor in the pay of Germany. Since her mother informed on me, my love for Claude has become horrible, impossible. But in any case, what could I do to save her from Anna Petrovna’s machinations and Blaise Pascal’s lust? The real answer, yet again, lies in that far too general idea that women slip through our fingers and that the great art is not to try to stop them and not to suffer from that fact. Talking of fingers, mine are freezing now and I’m going to stop.

  We shall not recount the journey to London because all that matters is the result. Jean became certain there that the British knew practically nothing about the currency trafficking that Berlin had launched on the foreign exchange markets in the middle of a war. A rumour was circulating, which they were doing their best to verify. Rudolf von Rocroy, tracked down in a POW camp, had been interrogated at length by the secret service. Jean was brought face to face with him and hardly recognised him in his grubby uniform. Emaciated and feverish, Rudolf no longer resembled the worldly colonel who had stuffed his pockets in occupied Paris. His detainee status and the interrogations he had been subjected to for two months had restored some character to the craven profiteer. He denied the whole affair, and in particular having used Jean to sell counterfeit notes in Lisbon manufactured by his superiors. The second surprise was produced by Urbano de Mello. The young inspector, having been promoted as expected, was now working at an international level. Summoned to London – which had at last clarified his connection with MI6 – he identified Jean and lied brazenly: the accused had not come to Lisbon to deal in counterfeit currency but to establish contact with a foreign intelligence network. Urbano expressed himself succinctly in bad English. Not a word betrayed what had passed between them. Jean was cleared.

  Back at Fresnes prison Jean wrote in his notebook:

  25 November 1944: Delightful trip to London, glimpsed through the windows of the car sent to meet us. I emerged from it in one piece, thanks to Urbano who, though he had no reason to, lied outrageously to save me. In short, I now stand accused only of having helped Claude escape from the clutches of the Gestapo. What wickedness! My brief is gloomy. He was dreaming of a big trial and now all he’ll get is a piffling little one. Having said that, just as I start scoffing most loudly, convinced that I’ve found the key to the world – constant ignominy, basically – I’m confounded by examples of virtue. Virtus! In virtus we find vir, man. Among my women friends, I still have: 1. Marceline, the transvestite dragon, and 2. Nelly, who leads her life like a man. The balance sheet of what I owe to women goes something like this: 1. sorrow (necessary!), 2. tenderness (pleasant but not indispensable), 3. pleasure (divine!), 4. the art of slipping away (essential!), and 5. an apprenticeship in lying by omission (useful!). In short, I owe them everything, and I haven’t been any better than they have. So nothing is as simple as I’d have li
ked it to be, with myself and a clear conscience at the end of it. There are nuances to everything. It’s all so difficult! However gloomy he is about my ‘innocence’, Maître Deschauzé is very free with advice. There may be no big trial at which he can play the great criminal lawyer (though there would always have been the risk of me wringing his neck in open court and he knows it), but I interest him. He thinks there’s something going on and would very much like to be in on the secret. He won’t be, and will have to make do with a swift little trial in a lower court. Yesterday he said to me, in a low voice so he wasn’t overheard, ‘I never really thought you were guilty …’

  Liar! He didn’t think so, he hoped so! But I’ve also learnt to dissemble (see above). In London he spent all his time swanning about. Was worried though when I asked him to put his liberty to good use and find Salah. The idea of meeting a black person – a former chauffeur, the former secretary to a prince, and living in my mother’s house at Chelsea – rather startled him. Of course Salah made such a strong impression on him that he forgot he was dealing with a black man. The collection of paintings and sculptures played its part. It seems that even though she left the house five years ago, you can still smell Geneviève’s perfume there. Maître D fell in love with her portrait. Obviously he had no idea what Salah was talking about when he asked him if I had thought about using the prince’s letter. I don’t even know where the letter is any more, and, since Palfy had the cheek to open it, I wouldn’t think of sending it to its intended recipient, now living next door. I saw him yesterday in the corridor, Monsieur Low-down Longuet. He’s been arrested for commercial collaboration. His son, who changed sides just in time and got in with the FFI, will get him out. Nothing hangable in Papa’s case; he just topped up his bank account by building bunkers for D-Day. His cellmates benefit from his generosity, which doesn’t seem to stop him being a sitting duck for the warders: ‘If Monsieur le marquis de La Sauveté would do us the great honour of slopping out for everybody …’, or the other prisoners: ‘Hey, Longuet, when are you going to slip us a free ticket to one of your whorehouses?’ Even if I had the magic letter, it would be addressed to thin air. The only person I can count on is me.

  A few days after his return from London Jean was moved back to a cell with six other prisoners.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ Maître Deschauzé told him. ‘You’re no longer a special prisoner. It’s the first sign of your acquittal. You’re being brought back into society.’

  Jean did not care for his return to society. He began to despair. Perhaps he was even afraid. Prison weighed on him. He clung to a letter from Nelly.

  Darling Jules-who, I won’t write to you to tell you I miss you and I love you. You know all that. No. This is better. I’m looking after you. Your major came in last night after the performance. He looked as if he’d gone down into hell. Backstage, all those bare shoulders, all those painted ladies terrified him. He wouldn’t look at them. So why me? To find out who I am and if I’m worthy of you. I don’t think I passed the exam very well, even though I didn’t say ‘shit’ or ‘prick’ once. That man loves you like a son. He’s tortured by the thought that you’re mouldering away in prison. I reassured him, told him 200 press-ups every morning isn’t a man who’s mouldering. We were trying to work out who could help you when Marceline turned up. She’s here all the time. I adore her, she’s my nurse. I think if I cheated on you, she’d kill me. The major has the greatest respect for her. Did you know she’s going to stand for the Assembly when the war’s over? As a Christian democrat. At Clermont-Ferrand she knows her clergy and notables inside out, so to speak. While she’s waiting she’s cooking up something at the Justice Ministry. She’s talking about getting the brothels closed. Anyway, she swears she’ll have you out of there for New Year’s Eve. I’ve written to Maman to send us our liberation supper. To cut a long story short, the major was reassured as he left to go back to war. Your lawyer tried to put his hand on my bum. I said no. I’m fed up with the Théâtre Français; I may go back to the cinema when it gets going again. One producer’s no big deal, after all. I saw Jesús at his exhibition. He talks about you very fondly, but I don’t think he’d raise his little finger for you. Laura takes care of him. We didn’t know she was a member of the Communist Party, did we? She’d stand up for you, but party discipline forbids it. She and I have had some bittersweet exchanges. As for your dear friend Palfy, it’s better for him if he doesn’t set foot on French soil for some time. He’s a clever man; he’ll find other places to go. Marceline swears to everyone that he was France’s first ‘resistant’. Some people rather doubt it. That’s all the friends’ news. Darling Jules-who, don’t despair. I’m waiting for you.

  The same day Jean wrote in his notebook:

  12 December 1944: a heaven-sent bout of flu has seen me off to the infirmary. I’m getting away from the atmosphere of the cell, of the past they keep harping on about endlessly around me, though with a good dollop of mistrust where I’m concerned. We’re all in the same boat, but the guard went and told them about the medal the major brought, so they probably think I’m a grass. Which doesn’t bother me. Yet every favour separates me from them. So: the day before yesterday the guard came to fetch me to meet a prison visitor. ‘Politicals’ aren’t entitled to this treat. I had no desire whatever to go, but to get the others’ backs up I accepted. Surprise, surprise: there was Michel in the visiting room, very soberly dressed, very serious look on his face. The conversation went something like this:

  Me (aggressive): What are you doing here?

  Him: I belong to a charitable organisation whose members visit prisoners. In reality I shouldn’t have the right to see you. Our charity’s interests lie with common criminals.

  Me: Sadly I haven’t killed anyone.

  Him: Of course I’m not criticising you for that. Anyway, I was able to play on our possible relationship.

  Me: What do you mean, possible? It’s definite.

  Him: Not legally. It’s a question of blood.

  Me: You don’t say!

  Him (disconcerted): You don’t need anything?

  Me: Nothing. Nelly sends me parcels and my lawyer brings me my post.

  Him: I’ve been to see all the friends who could be useful to you.

  Me: That can’t have taken long.

  Him: The major’s the most likely one. An admirable man, a saint … Jesús is very busy with his next exhibition … La Garenne …

  Me: Not that madman.

  Him: Don’t be cross with him, he’s having a difficult time. As for Blanche de Rocroy, I didn’t know she was a resistant …

  Me: No one did. Not even her.

  Him: She speaks quite harshly about you.

  Me: That hanger-on? Bugger her.

  Him: Jean, you mustn’t become embittered.

  Me: I’m not embittered, I just want to get out of here.

  Him: That’s understandable, and I came to offer you moral support. It’s impossible to forget our childhood.

  Me: You hated me.

  Him: I still reproach myself for that.

  Me: Tell me about the abbé Le Couec, Antoinette …

  Him: The abbé’s in prison with a lot of other Breton separatists. Antoinette’s married. Someone very decent. A widower to whom she has brought a dowry of her very fine qualities …

  Me: Are you working on an exhibition?

  Him (embarrassed): The opening’s tomorrow.

  Me: That’s a shame for me.

  Him: It’s a very Christian exhibition. Quite painful, in other words.

  Me: Well, thanks for the news. I won’t hold you up any longer.

  Him: I’ve brought you a book, something to think about in prison: the Confessions of Saint Augustine.

  Me: Keep it for a pickpocket. I’ve read it and reread it these last two years.

  Him: You’re discouraging.

  Me: Then I have good news for you: I have absolutely no wish to see you again.

  Him: I’m not offended. I’m just d
oing my duty.

  Me: A great satisfaction, I’m sure. Goodbye, Michel. We have nothing in common and, to be frank, I’ve only put up with you because of Antoine. Since he died I’ve no reason to go on.

  Him: That’s it: get it off your chest, insult the people who wish you well, trample the past … Afterwards you’ll feel better and we’ll talk more freely.

  Me: We won’t talk. I don’t want to see you. There are lots of people I don’t want to see again. My life is elsewhere. I made it myself and I’m proud of it. Don’t make me say something unpleasant – I’ll regret it later.

  Him: I’ll pray for you.

  Me: Then ask for my flu to last a bit longer. I’m more comfortable in the infirmary than in a cell for six.

  Him: I shan’t say any more. You’ll always find me ready to help you when you need me.

  Me: Thank you, dear Michel. Now goodbye.

  He left, wrapped in the arrogance of his deep humility. He’s the sort of person who’s permanently sheltered from reality. He deflects it. What’s the point of telling him what I think of his relations with Senzacatso when he feels secure in going up to the altar every day for a perfect communion? It’s obvious that he can only despise someone as decent as the abbé Le Couec. There’s nothing Jansenist about him, in his cassock and wide-brimmed hat, with his huge boots on his feet and the ribbons of his Military Medal and Croix de Guerre on his chest. And now here he is, compromised again, yesterday’s thorn in the side of Vichy, today’s enemy of Gaullism. He’ll never be acceptable. Nor me. So we’ve won, he and I.

  On the morning of 31 December, as a result of sensitive judgment by a magistrature eager to have its changes of allegiance forgotten, Jean found himself a free man. His case had been dismissed: a most rare favour. Maître Deschauzé informed him that his release was the fruit of combined efforts by Marceline and the British Embassy, alerted by Salah. From the front line the major found a way to send a congratulatory telegram to Nelly’s apartment. What is there to say about that first morning of freedom? There was no one waiting for him at the prison gates. It was a lovely winter morning, with a pale sun shining over the bare branches of the trees. The deserted streets, the vacant looks of passers-by and women with shopping baskets on their arms, the queues outside the cheese shops, their windows daubed with offers, the pavements strewn with dead leaves, and, pervading everything, a weariness and sad drabness, contrasted with the warm, sunny days of the Liberation. A tramp stepped in front of him, his hand outstretched.