Michel Déon - The Foundling's War

*

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 decided 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?’