‘Emily,’ she said, ‘For years I have tried to find the answers. I went to Paris myself a few times during my late twenties, meeting with officials, but there was so much confidentiality surrounding those times and getting records and not knowing where to start was very difficult. My parents did receive a letter from the military stating ‘Ultimate Fate Unknown’ after the Second World War, which I later knew to mean that he was missing in action and presumed dead. I, of course, did not really settle with this as an answer and that is why I went to Paris myself.’ Nana put the frame back onto the shelf and said, ‘After all these years I still do miss him terribly. Now, how about a warm cup of cocoa?’
Emily estimated that he must have been about twenty years old in the photo.
‘He’s standing with a cello. Nana, you mentioned last year that you could teach me how to play the instrument?’
Emily hoped her Nana would tell her about the cellos up in the attic, but instead Nana dismissed her words and said, ‘I remember from last year, and yes, I would love to show you the cello and play the cello with you but I have not played ever since my brother left and I don’t know why I happened to say to you that I would teach you but I am not really sure that I can.’
Babu resumed his seat near to the Aga and her Nana stroked the cat next to her, sitting deep in thought as the potatoes simmered on the stove.
The next day, the sun shone brightly and Nana was up early ready for her first piano pupil of the day. Emily enjoyed chatting to the families as they waited in the kitchen during the lessons whilst hearing the faint sounds of voices and piano playing in the nearby music room. Sometimes the visitors to the house were old friends Nana had taught for many years and sometimes children her own age came along and waited their turn in her company.
Emily was keen to walk up to see the horses with her friend Charlotte when she visited the house. Charlotte had been taking piano lessons for the past three years and Emily and Charlotte had become good friends. On their way back from seeing the horses, Bill the gardener, could be heard driving up the hill in his old red truck.
‘Hi Bill, how are you?’ Emily called out.
‘Hi there Emily, you are visiting your Nana again this year! You are getting very tall now!’
‘Yes, I’m staying for the summer, and this is Charlotte. We’ve just fed the horses, and made these daisy chains.’ Both girls twirled round to show their daisy crowns, whilst Bill smiled a toothless grin.
‘Shall I let Nana know you are here?’
The elderly man shook his head. ‘No need. Your Nana has already given me a list of tasks as long as my arm.’
Emily and Charlotte peered into the back of Bill’s truck which was full of tools. They stood back whilst Bill lifted out a long, dangerous looking hedge trimmer.
‘Emily, I’m going back in, I think my music lesson must be about to start,’ Charlotte whispered. Charlotte skipped into the house and Emily stayed outside with Bill.
‘Nana said that the lawnmower is broken, and it needs fixing.’ Emily said.
‘Oh yes, I’ll get to that tomorrow Emily. Today I’m going to sort out the hedge that runs down to the paddock. I do know that your Nana has wanted this cut back for some time,’ Bill paused and rubbed his back, ‘But this is a big old farm and I tackle it one job at a time.’ Emily brought out some tea and biscuits and left old Bill to it.
Emily had the run of the house, seeing as her Nana was teaching. Her mind kept racing back to the cellos and what Nana had said the night before. She took a walk down to the river, with Babu at her side, and threw some small sticks in to watch them float by in the dark water.
‘I wonder if Nana would show me how to play the cello?’ Emily spoke out loud to the cat, as if he would look up at her and answer her questions at any moment. ‘What happened to Great Uncle Leni, and what did he do in the Second World War if he had been a spy? Where would he have worked?’ Fascinated by the fact that he had spoken French fluently, as well as the mystery surrounding his disappearance, Emily wished she could learn more about her Great Uncle Leni. He looked so smart and proud with his cello, she thought. She looked directly at the cat to see him chasing a small spider in the grass. It is such a shame the cellos have been locked away in their cases for so long. They should be played, she thought.
Although Emily had not opened the second case, she knew that cellos came in a variety of sizes and if Leni had had a full-size cello then he must have started with a smaller cello and maybe that was what was in the other case. The perfect size for me to start with, she thought.
Nana continued teaching her piano lessons the following day, but instead of Emily welcoming visitors into the kitchen and chatting, she went back up to the attic and opened the second case. As suspected, there was another cello in the case. She closed her eyes and drew in a long deep breath through her nose taking in the dense richness of the old wood. What a lovely smell, she thought. Emily knew she had to tell her Nana that she had found the room and the cellos and that she so wanted to hear what they sounded like.
Nana had prepared a lovely log fire that evening, and after bath time, Emily came back downstairs to sit in front of the fire so that her Nana could brush her long brown hair. Her hair would always dry nicely in front of the fire before going to bed. The flames settled to a warm orange hue.
‘Nana,’ Emily said and turned her head looking upwards. Emily hesitated to find the right words but her thoughts came out in a flurry. ‘Babu took me to the room upstairs and I found the cellos in the attic.’
Her Nana smiled warmly, resting both her hands gently on Emily’s shoulders.
‘Curious cat our Babu. I’m not surprised he took you up there.’ Her Nana resumed brushing her long hair with slow, long strokes. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about my brother recently. He started learning the cello around about your age and when he developed his playing, he showed me how to play. I was never as good as him, of course, but he had a gift for playing the cello. He picked up that instrument and made it sing! He was a great composer too, always making up his own tunes and I would play them on the piano with him when he wrote them down. We had so much fun. Always fun with my brother.’ Her voice trailed off and Emily looked ahead into the fire, tuning into the crackling sound that was making her feel sleepy.
‘Nana, I think we should bring the cellos down to this room and dust them down and I think you should show me how to play. It seems such a pity them being up there and I’m sure you would enjoy hearing them again.’
Taken with Emily’s longing to learn the cello, her Nana remembered her brother’s inquisitive mind and self motivation that he applied to everything he did. When he got to thinking about something, he wanted to follow his heart and there was no stopping him, she thought. Her Nana loved to see this quality in Emily and knew it was only right that these cellos come out of that dusty attic room and be brought down and be given their place in the music room again. She too had long wanted to hear them, if truth be told; their resonance and deep tone created such a wonderful evocative sound.
Leni’s cello sang to her in her dreams of late, the low register and the music coming back to her with her brother playing so beautifully. Maybe if she played the cello again her brother would come back to her more in her dreams, she thought wistfully. This was her last thought as her head rested into her rich goose down pillow that night.
Chapter 3
Emily awoke early and dashed downstairs to help herself to a bowl of cereal. A fresh, cool breeze was blowing through the house. Emily took her bowl and sat down on the front step and munched at her breakfast.
‘Morning Emily,’ Nana called from the end of the garden, where she was already busy picking wild raspberries and blackberries ready for a fruit crumble later in the day.
The sunny, clear day, soaked up the early morning dew and Emily fed the cats, leaving a bowl outside for the country feral cats that never came inside the house but loved getting fed, nevertheless.
When Nana came back int
o the kitchen, she set a bowl brimming with fruit on the table. She went over to the Belfast sink and washed and dried her hands before turning to Emily.
‘Emily, follow me.’
Nana opened the door to the music room and ushered Emily in. Next to the piano were two chairs, a music stand and two beautiful cellos lying on their side on the carpet with their bows placed on top.
Emily shrieked with excitement and jumped with joy. She hugged her Nana and rushed over to the cellos.
Nana pulled out some of the old cello books from the shelf she had used when she was a little girl. Opening the first one, Emily saw the lovely handwriting with the name ‘Leni’ written in the top right-hand side of the page. The books were very old but so beautifully preserved.
‘Can we play them now, Nana?’
‘Soon, my dear, first we need to get them back into good working order.’
Getting dusting cloths from the kitchen, Nana and Emily proceeded to take great care and dust each of the instruments. Emily touched the curved smooth edge of the cello lightly. There was a little mould on the spike of the cellos so the spikes needed to be taken out and properly cleaned. The strings were very old and the cellos needed new sets which had to be bought to replace them. Charlotte’s father, who owned the music shop, had agreed to drop round two new sets of strings the following day. Once replaced, the cellos were ready to be tuned by Nana.
Emily took up her seat opposite Nana Rose, and plucked each string in turn.
‘This is an A, this is D, this is G and the big string is a C,’ she said.
They plucked each string together and Emily said the string names out loud to herself.
‘Nana, will you play me a tune?’
Nana thought for a moment, closed her eyes, picked up her bow that had been rosined and dusted down and played a short melody.
It was as if she was going back in time all those years ago playing alongside her brother sitting opposite her. The sound was vivid and clear, and when she played, the memory of her brother was so real to her as if she pictured him playing wearing his navy blue jumper, making jokes and grinning at her. It was such a pleasure to be playing the cellos again.
Chapter 4
The train drew into Gare du Nord at precisely 2:15 in the afternoon on the 4th May 1943. The shining green doors swung open with an outpouring of soldiers, army officers, civilians and children hurriedly crisscrossing with their suitcases off the train and onto the platform edge. The sound of clattering high heels and loud footsteps peppered the air as a floodgate of passengers walked out from the murky gloom towards the ‘sortie’, meaning ‘exit’ in French.
Henri Berger was one of the last few passengers to step out onto the platform. He placed his suitcase down and stood up straight, positioning his hat with a crisp newspaper held under his arm. He was striking, tall and dashingly handsome. His dark brown hair was now hidden from view and he wore a bespoke tailored suit. He walked relaxed and dapper, his stride long and languid. He continued walking past two train attendants who were shortly to finish their shift. ‘Pardon,’ a woman with bright red lipstick and blushed cheeks apologised as she accidentally knocked into him on her way to platform three. Her accent was from southern Paris, he thought to himself.
‘Ausweis,’ a German officer demanded. This sinister figure stood at a pillar with a blank expression on his face, asking passengers for their relevant papers which everyone had to carry with them in Paris at that time as they moved about the occupied city.
The day was grey with the threat of rain. A sea of coats and scarves moved in the grand square at the station’s main gates. Henri stepped into a waiting car and was driven to his apartment. For nearly a year, he walked between his small apartment and his office. Twice a day he made the route across the Jardin des Tuileries; always deliberate in his stride and giving little consideration to the small crocuses blooming at the side of the walk ways.
Henri was awaiting a specific day that eventually arrived. He knew that his apartment was most probably being bugged with listening devices and never at any moment did he let down his guard. Even singing in the shower, his favourite past time back home, had to be eradicated in order that not a hint of his true origin could be given away. Every movement and every trait were considered and acted out. He was the authentic Frenchman and not even a local batted an eye.
‘Bonjour Monsieur Berger.’ An elderly lady who mopped the stairs every morning, spoke quietly in the echoey corridor. Henri nodded politely, tipped his hat towards her and smiled charismatically. He strolled lightly past her to the foot of the stairs, his fragrance dense and rich which hung in the air for some time after he had passed her by.
Henri walked his usual route across the park but unlike any other day, he stopped four benches away from the East Gate and sat down. It was now one o’clock. He had not looked at his watch since 12:45 but knew the exact time to the last second. He brought a jam sandwich out from his left pocket and unwrapped it. He was to wait four minutes and leave if a woman with a pram did not pass him. At precisely 13:03, a tall and elegant lady wearing a grey woollen jacket walked in front of him, pushing a large pram before her. She took a seat at the other end of the bench. She picked up her baby from the pram and cradled her on her lap. The woman lay a tiny brown envelope down to her right-hand side and Henri reached out to touch the baby’s arm, leaning over to look directly into the baby’s big blue eyes as she bounced gleefully on her mother’s knee. Her tiny white ribbons fluttered in the breeze.
With sleight of hand, Henri lifted the envelope and wrapped it into his napkin with the remains of his half-eaten sandwich. Looking up at the sky, he signaled rain as a gesture to the stranger by his side before standing, smoothing down his jacket and continuing his regular path to the office.
As the storm took hold, Henri’s dark figure darted across the puddles and he raised his lapels higher to shelter himself against the stiff breeze that had whipped up. A little tune fleetingly crossed his mind and he hummed it to himself in the rain. After reaching the offices, he spent the afternoon working. Later in the day, Henri had to meet someone north of the city, so he decided to walk on foot through the streets passing shops and vendors, blending in with the local people with his flawless ability to speak the native language whenever he had to talk to others.
Shutters began to close ready for the night’s curfew and people began to desert the streets, heading inside their homes and dwellings. The apartment blocks were tall and dark. He picked up his walking pace and went down the dark steps into the depths of the Metro at Porte de la Chapelle.
There was no warning. The deafening loud crack from above was split second in timing. The hit was direct. The allied bombings devastated the Metro station and the surrounding area. There was little time for people to escape and run away to safety. Many people lost their lives that day in the Paris underground. Fires broke out and buildings such as warehouses, offices and apartment blocks burned to the ground. It was to be the worst bombing in Paris during the Second World War.
Chapter 5
The hospital room was white. Henri opened his eyes for the first time since the blast. He could hardly move and when he tried, he felt a terrible pain in his chest.
A kind nurse had seen that he had awoken and gently placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder before calling the doctor. ‘It’s okay, you are in hospital and you will be fine.’ A tired looking doctor entered the room with a clipboard tucked under his arm. The doctor walked over to the patient’s bed.
‘I am pleased to see you awake,’ the doctor said. ‘You are a very lucky man.’ The doctor took out a small torch and peered into each of Henri’s eyes. ‘Can you tell us your name?’ the doctor asked, putting the torch back into the top pocket of his white coat.
Henri’s head was aching and so too were his chest and legs. Henri opened his mouth but realised that he did not actually know what his name was. He closed his eyes to think but nothing came. ‘I don’t know,’ he said frustrated. ‘I re
ally don’t know who I am.’
‘Do you remember what happened to you?’
Henri thought again and shook his head. ‘I don’t remember anything, what is wrong with me?’
‘You were caught in a bomb blast and took a serious blow to your head,’ the doctor explained. ‘It is important you get some rest and we will talk again when you have slept a little more.’
Henri’s recovery was slow and he lay quietly most of the day to begin the healing process whilst trying to recall who he was and what had happened to him. More than two weeks passed by and Henri began to sit up and speak to the other patients in the ward listening to their stories. A young man told him that Porte de la Chapelle had been severely bombed and that there had been many people killed. He himself had had a very bad injury to his left arm and leg and had to have both limbs bound up in bandages.
Although his headaches had subsided, Henri could not remember what had happened to him and the hospital staff explained that he had suffered loss of memory and that they were unable to find any form of identification to find out who he was. Once he had fully recovered from his injuries and was allowed to leave the care of the hospital, he was provided with new identification papers with the new name Bertrand Poitier.
Chapter 6
During the days that Nana was busy teaching, Emily did not practise her cello but instead chose to read, chat to the many visitors to the house or lay in the garden. Bill, the gardener, managed to fix the lawnmower and Emily kept him company, helping out with the weeding in the herb garden and collecting some of the hedge trimmings into a wheelbarrow before wheeling them over to the compost heap at the back of the garden. She made them both tea and baked some current slices which she shared with everyone at the house. Emily wore her Nana’s apron, which went down below her knees, gardening gloves and wellies most of the time and picked flowers for her Nana’s vase on the kitchen table. She replaced them every day or every other day depending on whether they had wilted. There were two house martin nests in the eaves and Emily could see the little chicks popping their heads out from time to time chirping when they were being brought food.
The Cellist's Notebook Page 2