The Tiger Claw

by Shauna Singh Baldwin

  “God will look after them,” Monsieur Durand said to Noor.

  A blade pierced her side again.

  “He saw his father, his wife … everybody,” whispered Gabrielle. “I didn’t see the children, thank God.”

  The three began walking back to the boarding house.

  “We did see Monsieur le Missionnaire,” she said to Noor. “He was on the last bus, poor man.”

  “He’s a good man. God will look after him,” said Monsieur Durand. “And your husband, Mademoiselle Régnier?”

  “I didn’t see my husband.”

  Alhamdulillah.

  Self-loathing welled and Noor’s eyes dampened. How could she rejoice for Armand even as other prisoners were being sent to Germany? But then—had she missed Armand? Perhaps he had been on the far side of a bus.

  Banish the thought. Believe your eyes, only your eyes. You didn’t see him. So he’s not gone, he’s still alive, he’s still in the camp.

  She joined Gabrielle in helping Monsieur Durand up the stairs. At their urging he lay down on the bed in Gabrielle’s room. Gabrielle kept up a steady stream of fantasy as comfort.

  “Don’t worry. People in Germany live like kings—they take our wheat and coal there because they have to feed prisoners of war in the camps. Don’t worry, the Red Cross inspects German camps for foreigners—they can’t be all that bad.”

  Noor contributed one too. “Remember the Geneva Convention. Please don’t worry …”

  Gabrielle brought a bucket from Madame Gagné and water from the lavatory. Noor helped her clean, swab and scrub till all traces of the mauled rabbits were gone. Gabrielle took the skins away to sell, the cage to be repaired by Claude and the bones to bury in a flower bed. Then Noor led Monsieur Durand back to his room.

  The problem struck her as she stood gazing at the camp again from her window. With Monsieur le Missionnaire gone, how could she know if Armand had received her tiger claw, or that he was still at Drancy?

  Noor stood in the doorway of the garage, caught in the abrupt change of light from bright afternoon to murky interior. Smell of grease and acetylene welding. A light shaft from the clerestory window lit a table beside the automobiles. One of the two figures with lunch packets and bottles of cider open before them looked like Claude. The other was an older man in overalls.

  “Salut, Monsieur Claude!”

  The boy came towards her, a lopsided grin adorning his face. A muscular arm rubbed against her shoulder, leaving an odorous dampness. He stood a little closer than she liked, but she let him.

  “I have one more favour I must request.” She spoke softly enough that he bent closer.

  “Mademoiselle, what is it?”

  Noor twiddled her watch about her wrist. It was too difficult to make up a tale after the events of that morning. She would begin from the truth and diverge a little for the sake of persuasion.

  “Claude, Gabrielle delivered a parcel to the camp for her little niece and nephew—and I took the opportunity to send a small gift to a friend there.”

  “Oho.” Claude stroked his beardless chin. “A friend?”

  “Yes, a family friend.”

  Another lie; her family had never considered Armand a friend. Perhaps Anne-Marie Régnier’s family considered him a friend.

  “And so?”

  “I must find out if he received my gift.”

  Claude gave a low whistle. “C’est tout?!”

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  Claude’s guffaw began falsetto then cracked to bass register. “Ask Monsieur le Missionnaire.”

  “Regrettably, he was sent on one of the buses this morning.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Claude hunched his shoulders and stared at the ground. Then he said, “Mademoiselle, I can sell you Pall Mall, Brut champagne, Algerian wine, Scotch whisky, apples, quinces, truffles, tripe, even oysters—but only a Resistance group can get a message in and out of the camp.”

  “You must know someone in the Resistance? Enfin, you look like a man who would be fighting in the Resistance—even the German officer suspected so.”

  It was unmistakably a compliment; she hoped he would take it as one.

  Claude stood a little taller but said, “Non, mademoiselle, my mother says if one is going to fight, one should be in French uniform, not creeping around doing sabotage in the night or hiding in the hills like the Maquis. And if I were caught, who would look after her?” But he did look disappointed to be left out of the adventures.

  “Yes, your mother is right,” said Noor. “But this is not to help France or Germany. Nor is it anything illegal. It’s just to find out if a small packet was received. And it’s not as dangerous as selling whisky and tripe on the black market.”

  Claude looked away, half his face in shadow. A shout came from within the garage; Claude’s break was almost up. Noor let a questioning silence lengthen.

  Claude looked back at her. “You know, mademoiselle, it is a strange thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Last week, the curé was so tired of hearing me confess my sins about the black market that he didn’t give me novenas as penance. He said I must do one deed that did not benefit myself, and remember the feeling. And when I asked which deed, he said it would present itself to me. He didn’t say it would be something so difficult.”

  “I know it is difficult. But you will try?”

  He jerked his head in assent.

  Subhan-allah!

  Noor touched Claude’s hand lightly, then pressed the hundred-franc note into his palm a second time. This time he put it in his pocket, mumbling about possibly having to pay someone.

  Noor showed him a small card with Armand’s name. “Memorize this,” she said.

  He nodded after a second. She put the card back in her pocket and gave him a look that said they shared a secret. A bell rang. Claude touched his beret and loped off into the gloom.

  Pforzheim, Germany

  January 1944

  Metz, Madagascar! I must forget what I have learned since that day at Drancy about conditions in German concentration camps to remember how we felt then. As long as we—Monsieur Durand, Gabrielle and myself—continue to believe the Germans took the Durands and others to work in Germany, we can hope to reunite with them when the epidemic of destruction has passed.

  But now, here in my prison cell, I am not so sure. They could be starving my beloved—how can I know? What work is a musician fit for but to create music?

  And there are stories I cannot believe, frightening stories.

  But I still believe there are deeds an educated populace cannot do, that literate people will not countenance. I think of French friends I grew up with—our neighbours, Josianne Prénat and her family—polyglot, self-critical. Josianne with her bantering sense of humour, helpful, willing to learn from the world, not only France. Can Germans be so different?

  Europeans living in their not-Asian and not-African fortress are a people who had an “Enlightenment” and ever since call themselves “civilized.”

  I must continue believing this.

  I wrote to Zaib that night at Drancy. I know it was a Wednesday, and it was June 23, 1943:

  My dear sister,

  Writing brings us closer, if only on the page. How much suffering has this world experienced—still experiences—one person’s suffering is nothing, and yet it is everything.

  I may ask you, Zaib, what I may ask no one else, for you held me through the long night at Madame Dunet’s, when fear of shame overcame my courage. Little sister, you comforted me when Kabir refused to give permission, permission our Abbajaan would surely have granted. Yesterday I sent a message to A. Pray he forgives me. The German Raj and Vichy cannot outlast my hope, my love—still, say a du’a for me.

  Avec love, avec pyar. Forget me not,

  Noor

  PART FOUR

  CHAPTER 18

  Paris, France

  Thursday, June 24, 1943

  THE MOSAIC DOME of La Mosquée pressed into milky s
ky. The café nestled in the shadow of the grand mosque seemed to wake, as a few people entered its cedar-trellised courtyard. A fezzed garçon brought tea in a cone-lidded pot. Noor poured it into a demitasse and glanced at her watch.

  Early, for a change. At 15:00 hours Professor Balachowsky would be waiting in the Jardin des Plantes, a short walk from La Mosquée.

  A fine mist rose from the marble baths within the mosque compound and scented the summer air with an attar of rose. In the distance, the sound of oud strings joined the slow rhythm of a zikr ilahi. It was past Zuhr, but even if she had intended to say her Asar prayers, Noor couldn’t enter the mosque, mindful of her orders not to return anywhere she might be recognized. The café close to Allah was her compromise.

  Snatches of Moroccan Arabic, close enough to Urdu and Qur’anic Arabic for her to piece together meaning: old men were passing a water pipe along with stories of their years of resistance to the French Protectorate. A few tables away, a calligrapher bent over his ink pot and paper, labourers hunched over a chessboard. A group of men talking in French bemoaned the difficulty of sending money to Tunisia and Algeria. Curious glances flicked in her direction from time to time.

  Probably wondering what kind of woman she was, and what a girl of Noor’s age, alone and unclaimed, was doing here in public. With only a headscarf as hijab. Like Uncle Tajuddin, none of them would find Noor “Muslim enough” for their liking. Still, there was an unspoken bond she could rely on with Muslim strangers, even disapproving ones, and it was ingrained in them never to call a gendarme, German or French, for any reason.

  Because of Ramzaan, only travellers were dining. Maybe she shouldn’t have ordered tea? But even without fasting, Noor was faint from lack of food. Worry for Armand and Madame Lydia had dulled her appetite at Madame Gagné’s table that morning. The tea might settle her stomach.

  Monsieur Durand hadn’t come down to breakfast. Gabrielle said she would check up on him later. She scooped up Noor’s share of jam and threw two tobacco ration tickets across the table at her, saying anyone could have them, she didn’t need them; what good were they to anyone with Monsieur le Missionnaire gone?

  Gabrielle had second thoughts this morning—like Noor. She might not have seen the children on the buses because they were sitting or because they were too small. Because they were facing the other side, because they were going too fast, because … because … Gabrielle would present herself at the gate today and ask for the children’s laundry. If the guards gave her any, the children were still within.

  Such a simple and effective verification, that laundry request. Couldn’t Noor do the same? But wilfully presenting herself anywhere identification would be scrutinized more carefully than at street checkpoints was dangerous to her mission, to the network—no, she couldn’t.

  Mint tea stung Noor’s tongue, burned all the way down.

  Her clothes smelled of the tobacco-filled night of waiting, muscles remembered her panic-stricken running beside bus after bus. The rabbits’ blood had washed off her hands, but the image of skins tented over bones was indelible. Worst was the memory of Monsieur Durand’s eyes, his empty hands and his faith. “God will look after them.”

  His dignity guided by example, guided her through the not-knowing.

  Allah, you who know the suffering of Al-Hallaj, let not my Armand suffer hunger, wound or pain. Allah, if he has been sent to Germany, don’t let them treat him harshly. I would take his place, Allah. Let them take me, not him.

  Now, more than ever, she must trust Allah to keep Armand safe, and hope Claude would confirm Armand had received her message. She took smaller sips and distracted herself with memories.

  So many visits to this grand Moorish-style mosque when she was a child. There were so few Muslims in France in those days, and so few from India, that a glimpse of another Indian in the café at La Mosquée crinkled the tributary lines at Abbajaan’s eyes. Brimming with questions, he’d invite perfect strangers to his table and in mellifluous Hindustani or Urdu say, “Where are you coming from? Near Bombay? We are coming from the Kingdom of Baroda.”

  Uncle Tajuddin, on the other hand … Uncle, whose duty to his half-brother’s legacy compelled his presence in this land of infidels, compelled him every day to wear his one pair of European shoes. Uncle was far too haughty to chat with Indian Muslims who frequented La Mosquée. To him Maghriben Muslims from North Africa were entirely beneath his noble station. And as for non-Muslims of all kinds—they were dhimmis, redeemable only by conversion.

  All Abbajaan’s inclusionary ideas were “non-Muslim” for Uncle. He was shocked to find Abbajaan teaching that Islam was one way but not the only way to God, shocked that Abbajaan permitted his daughters, wife and women followers to dress and “express themselves” as they felt, and to imbibe wine. While Abbajaan searched for seven levels of meaning, deep metaphors and symbolism behind the words of the Qur’an, his half-brother was a Qari, a reciter for whom the Qur’an was a set of sounds and commands with a single interpretation—his own. For Abbajaan, Islam laid down unattainable ideals that everyone could aspire to; for Uncle, it was not simply a religion but an ideology from which there was no dissent, only heresy.

  Allah would be merciful, but his representative in the Khan family was not.

  Oh, she should be kinder to Uncle even in memory. He banished himself from his home and family and the comfortable life of a raees, a landed gentleman in India, to be exiled in France—a country with ways he didn’t comprehend, speaking a foreign language he considered crude; to run a school of Sufism preaching in English about tenets he didn’t believe, all to feed and care for his half-brother’s family. Thankless family, too. Each resenting him for not being Abbajaan, resenting him, poor man, for not even coming close.

  “Duty! Honour!” he’d remind Kabir each morning, in a melancholy voice.

  Mother put aside her own yearnings for casseroles, peach cobblers and the like, tolerating Uncle’s need for goat curry and Surati lentils—but then, she couldn’t survive without him even so far as to write a cheque; and without his guardianship and lectures there would have been no Sufi school. But no amount of experimentation or employing of immigrant chefs helped her prepare pilau or okra the way he liked it. The only “Indian” cookbook Mother had in those days was by an Englishwoman who gave recipes for mulligatawny soup and “keggeree.” When Noor or Zaib tried to help, it only extended Uncle’s lengthy lectures on cooking—though he couldn’t even boil an egg for himself. Nine years of those lectures, till Dadijaan’s arrival in 1938.

  Dadijaan’s cooking soothed her half-son’s culinary cravings, but Mother had to live with her constant disapproval. Still, Dadijaan was a fount of fascinating stories of when Abbajaan was young, stories Noor translated for Mother. And Dadijaan’s faith in Allah called to Noor’s as Uncle’s never could.

  Mother and Dadijaan will see one day they had someone they both loved, in common.

  The calligrapher was fanning his ink dry. The labourers finished their chess game, traded colours, lined up their men again and began anew. If she weren’t concerned about attracting notice, she might have moved closer to watch the nuances of play. But the men might be like Uncle—so unaccustomed to the presence of unrelated women, they’d be highly uncomfortable if she so much as took a step towards them.

  Noor glanced at her watch. She would wait ten minutes more.

  Uncle Tajuddin’s reactions were extreme and individual, unique to him. The chess players might be quite unlike him.

  Uncle couldn’t see much individuality in the French. “What is individual about these bourgeois Parisians?” he would ask. “If they questioned themselves ‘why?’ before they bought a new dress or coat, instead of ‘why not?,’ wouldn’t they have more for the poor? Women buying long jackets one season then short the next, all at the same time. Women with finger curls today, no finger curls tomorrow, as if they shared one brain among them! Men taking mistresses instead of helping indigent women by marrying them! French women willi
ng to live out their lives in ménages à trois but gasping in horror at polygamy. The challenge,” he said, “is to find happiness within the constraints of your society, not to throw off all restraint. Creativity,” the courtly old gentleman would pronounce in his flowery Urdu, “requires the constraints of form to find expression.”

  But the constraints Uncle spoke of were those of his childhood in Baroda, not Paris, and the customs he wanted to re-create were the idealized feudal life of the fifteenth century, customs no longer practised even in India except in the courts of nawabs. By twelve, Noor had read and discussed the Qur’an enough with Abbajaan to know that restraints on women’s conduct and marriage were inventions not of Allah but of the mullahs who succeeded the Prophet. And so from the age of fifteen, when Uncle arrived, Noor’s creativity, and that of Zaib, lay in finding detours around his limits.

  Noor sipped her tea almost to its dregs.

  For instance, when, to Uncle’s horror, Zaib “expressed herself” on her eighteenth birthday, in the hammam behind this café, by henna-dyeing her hair auburn, Uncle promptly punished Noor for “allowing” it. Reprisals were always his way. But the corner of Noor’s mouth rose recalling how Zaib stubbornly kept to her auburn hair, even in London, long after Uncle had returned to India. Putting it in Christian terms for Mother, Zaib said her disobedience was a sin but one Noor had already redeemed on her behalf.

  Noor and Zaib would chat for hours in the steamy women’s hammam and afterwards order tabouli, lamb kebabs and flaky honey cakes. None were available today—not only because of the war, but because of Ramzaan.

  Noor swirled the tea leaves gathered at the bottom, then decanted the dregs into her saucer. The clumped, dark leaves were supposed to guide, but assigning meaning to their random shapes required a gymnastic imagination. Letters referred to names of people. Was there an A? Not that she could find. All she could see were flags or squares—warnings. But warnings of what? When? All in a clockwise spiral: events were coming towards her, around her.