Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

Blanche wrung her hands, begging, ‘Louis-Edmond, please …’

Some customers in uniform were waiting. They left with some drawings and a sheaf of photographs, the last pictures of Alberto Senzacatso, who had been arrested at the request of the Italian authorities. (He had not been taken into custody for his modest photographic output but for political ideas that he had long since abandoned in favour of his definitive study of Mannerism. A visitor to the gallery and admirer of his, always dressed sombrely in plain clothes and afflicted with a strong German accent, had expressed sympathy for the photographer’s predicament and promised to look into his case.)

Watched by his customers, La Garenne swept into the ‘bosom of bosoms’ and shut himself inside. His no was final. Jean took the money he was owed from the till. Blanche kissed him, genuinely moved.

‘I’ll sort things out,’ she said. ‘Go away and don’t worry. The important thing is for your friend’s little boy to get some colour back in his cheeks. Nothing else matters.’

‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t sort anything out. I’m not worried; I’ve got enough to live on for three months. To be honest, I never want to see La Garenne again.’

‘I know he exaggerates, but deep down he’s a generous man! It’s just that he’s so proud he doesn’t want anyone to see his noble feelings …’

It was a mystery why Blanche persisted in such a grandiose view of this person whose only attractions were his madness and the secret of his ancient ex-courtesan of a mother, now bedridden and snorting like a sea lion: ‘ Arrh, arrh… oowowoowow …’ But it would have been cruel to rob Blanche of her illusions.

At Gare de Lyon they boarded a second-class carriage on a packed train that left an hour late and stopped repeatedly to let Wehrmacht transports through. Matériel and men were rolling back northwards, carriages full of blank-faced young soldiers eating and smoking, their jackets undone; artillery and tanks under tarpaulins.

They were eight in their compartment and no one spoke. Cyrille had a reserved seat. A fat man was so close to squashing him that Jean and Claude sat him on their lap rather than protest. The travellers watched each other with sidelong glances in an atmosphere that was suspicious rather than hostile; each clutched on his or her knees a basket or an attaché case too valuable to be put up in the luggage rack. A young couple facing Jean held hands without saying a word. Their appearance was so similar — the same yellow, gaunt complexions, the same big black eyes and full lips — they might have been taken for brother and sister, but their intertwined hands bespoke a deep and anguished love. In the seat nearest the corridor an old woman with wizened cheeks plunged her hand repeatedly into a basket from which she pulled out bread, apples and biscuits which she chewed slowly, her gaze deliberately vacant so as to ignore the covetous looks of her travelling companions. Cyrille was fascinated by her. After watching her for a time, he held out half a bar of chocolate that he had been nibbling.

‘Are you hungry, Madame?’ he said.

She took the chocolate with a delighted smile and mumbled her thanks, then, unable to avoid the astonished looks around her, felt she needed to justify herself.

‘The food coupons we get, we old ones are in a lot more danger of kicking the bucket. It’s all for the young these days …’

No one reacted, and she closed her basket and fell silent.

At Tournus, at the line of demarcation, people’s faces stiffened as they did their best to give nothing away, despite their anxiety. They all knew that no one’s papers were ever entirely in order, and that each day some of those who hoped to cross the line after weeks and sometimes months of effort to do so would be refused. The Feldgendarmen , huge, in gleaming helmets, with steel plates hung around their necks on chains, wearing brown wool gloves and giving off a strong smell of leather and homespun, blocked the corridors and pushed back the sliding doors.

‘ Papiere! ’

They examined the Ausweise one by one, comparing the identity photograph with the traveller’s face, then passed the permits to a man in civilian clothes, a file in his hand. A glance at this, and the Gestapo inspector returned the permit. Or he kept it and the Feldgendarme ordered the traveller to collect their luggage and get off the train. As they had feared constantly since they left Paris, the man and woman who had been holding hands were called out of the carriage and ordered onto the platform. They were seen entering an office with a German inscription on the door. A sentry stood guard. Jean felt sure he had seen another emotion besides resignation on their faces, almost an expression of relief, like the one articulated two years later in Paris by Tristan Bernard in an admirable phrase when he was arrested: ‘Until now we were living in fear, from now on we shall live in hope.’

After a two-hour wait the train set off again, at a snail’s pace. Through the windows passengers glimpsed the blue uniforms of French gendarmes, policemen wearing képis at a rakish angle, even a squad of soldiers in khaki on their way to relieve their comrades. The travellers put their packages in the luggage rack, and the fat man spread his backside further across the space left by Cyrille. The old woman with wizened cheeks said dismissively, ‘They were Jews!’

The fat man, biting into a sandwich, stopped with his mouth full.

‘It’s understandable that the Germans are angry with them. The Jews have done so many bad things to them! You should have seen what Berlin was like after the Great War. The cess pit of Europe …’

No one reacted. With the line of demarcation behind them the passengers had succumbed to nervous fatigue. At Lyon-Perrache some of them got off. The old woman who couldn’t stop eating disappeared down the platform in search of food. She returned with some cakes made from millet flour, which she dusted with sugar.

‘Will you give me one, Madame?’ Cyrille asked.

‘Oh, little boy, they’re not very good. It’s millet, you know, those little seeds you used to give to the birds.’

‘What do the birds eat now then?’

‘They get by. They eat worms and usually think they taste better. You don’t need to worry about them.’

‘Worms? If they’re so good, why don’t you eat them?’

She shrugged and stared out of the window at the badly lit platform, the busy railwaymen tapping the bogies with their hammers, soldiers and police, travellers in search of their carriages, their shoulders sagging from the weight of their cheap cardboard suitcases. Three pushed their way into the compartment, cramming their belongings into the luggage racks, trampling on Jean’s feet and claiming that Cyrille had no right to a reservation. A conductor had to be called. At last the train steamed off into the night. Cyrille fell asleep, his head on Claude’s lap, and she dozed off leaning against Jean. Dawn light awoke them just outside Marseille. Two years earlier Jean had covered the same route with Palfy, travelling in comfort on the Blue Train. Flashing through most of the stations without stopping, it had connected Paris with Saint-Raphaël, Cannes and Nice in a matter of hours, usually spent drinking and eating in the dining car. On that occasion he had not known where he was going and had let himself wallow in the pleasurable wretchedness that had been gnawing at him since Chantal de Malemort had run away. Each turn of the wheels, carrying him further from his too hurtful memories and useless regrets, had broken his heart a little more, proving how painful we find it to abandon the things that hurt us most. Now the same monotonous rhythm was taking him further from Paris again, but also binding him a little closer to Claude, whose simple, calm, sleeping face reflected her tiredness after the last twenty-four hours on the train. He did not move for fear of waking her. Her hand held Cyrille’s, the little boy still sleeping, pale and open-mouthed. In her corner the wizened old woman opened her basket and bit into a sandwich, her gaze once more vacant. The compartment stank of soot, cold food and the passengers being prodded from their stupor by the first glimmer of daylight, with their unshaven cheeks and strong breath. It was cold, and rain lashed at the dirty windows. Beyond Marseille they glimpsed the Mediterranean, as grey as the English Channel. At Saint-Raphaël the rain was pouring down in an icy deluge that streamed through the gaps in the badly maintained platform awning. A horse-drawn carriage took them to the port, where they found a room with twin beds. A cot was brought for Cyrille. The restaurant had just closed and would not be serving food until seven. Jean went out to look for a corner shop and came back with a loaf of bread and three oranges. The rain would not stop, and gusts of wind tore across the surface of the port between bobbing helpless yachts, bending the tamarisks double along the empty quayside. The storm went on for two days. They shivered in their icy room. The hotel had no extra blankets to offer them. Every room was occupied. Claude took Cyrille into her bed. He had started coughing again and stayed with his forehead resting against the window, watching the boats rolling and pitching all along the harbour wall. A screen concealed the washbasin. Claude was first up and splashed herself with cold water. From his bed Jean watched her, naked, in the wardrobe mirror: her fine ankles, her maddeningly lovely bust, her womanly hips and, at the base of her back, a downy softness so sweet that he had to close his eyes, unable to bear it. On the second day, glancing in the mirror, she realised that if she could see Jean in the wardrobe glass, he must be able to see her behind the screen.