The Paris Children : A Novel (2020)

by Goldreich, Gloria

  “Chantez. Sing.” He closed his eyes and drifted back into the odd half-sleep that she knew would very soon end in death.

  She hummed quietly and then lifted her voice in the lullaby her grandfather had so often sung to her. Ever aware of her hearing difficulty, he had enunciated each word clearly and she had committed the lyrics to memory. Like many with hearing deficits, music and melody presented no difficulty for her.

  “Entends-tu le coucou, Malirette? Do you hear the cuckoo, Malirette?” she sang.

  Pierre added his strong tenor to her sweet alto. In tender duet they lovingly caroled Alfred Dreyfus into his final sleep. Their voices grew ever softer as his breath rose and fell until, at last, it ceased. Lucie entered, glided across the room, placed her hand on his heart, pressed her cheek to his mouth and her lips to his pale eyelids in a farewell kiss.

  “He is gone,” she said, her voice breaking. “He has left us.”

  Pierre enveloped her in his strong arms, and she rested her head on his shoulder. They stood together in silence, united in their shared sorrow, in the enormity of their loss. Madeleine, in turn, placed three blossoms, one red, one white, one blue on her grandfather’s heart, its beat forever stilled.

  Through the open window, she heard the tolling of church bells and counted them. Une. Deux. Trois. Quatre. Cinq. She would remember always that at five o’clock in the afternoon, on the twelfth day of July, with the sun still high in the sky, death had come to her grandfather Alfred Dreyfus.

  * * *

  It was at Lucie Dreyfus’s insistence that the funeral was held on Bastille Day.

  “Our people honor the dead by burying them as soon as possible,” she said firmly and her family nodded obediently. Her quiet serenity vested her with an authority that her children and grandchildren recognized and accepted.

  “I am glad that your grandfather will be buried on Bastille Day,” Pierre murmured to Madeleine. “You know how dearly he loved his France.”

  “I do,” Madeleine replied as she carefully placed the flag of France across the plain pine coffin.

  The funeral cortege left the rue des Renaudes at daybreak and proceeded slowly from the Champs-Élysées to the Montparnasse Cemetery across the Seine. Even at that early hour the streets were thronged with holiday crowds waving tricolored flags. Red, white, and blue balloons soared through the air. Children rolled their hoops; young couples danced to the music of wandering musicians, but they paused respectfully as the hearse rolled slowly by.

  At the Place de la Concorde, cavalry troops halted their exercises and turned their horses to face the vehicle that carried the hero of Monmorency to his final resting place.

  At the cemetery, Madeleine and Simone, wearing black linen dresses, with black straw hats perched precariously on their carefully swept-up hair, stood beside Simone’s fiancé, Anatol, and listened as Rabbi Julien Weill intoned the traditional Hebrew prayers. It was Madeleine who moved forward to support her grandmother as Lucie swayed slightly, her lips moving in silent repletion of the liturgy.

  Pierre Dreyfus intoned the mourner’s Kaddish, and Madeleine was deeply moved by the cadence of the prayer and the lilting strength of her uncle’s voice.

  “Amen,” the small group of mourners intoned as Pierre concluded, his head lowered, tears streaking his cheeks.

  “Amen,” Madeleine repeated and very softly added the words so meaningful to Alfred Dreyfus: “Liberté, égalité, fraternité.” Liberty, equality, fraternity. His credo, her heritage.

  One by one, family members stepped forward to lift the shovel, heavy with the dark earth that would blanket the pale wood of the coffin. It was a Jewish tradition, the final act of love and respect a family accorded a departed loved one.

  “Your turn, Madeleine,” her brother Jean Louis said and handed her the shovel.

  She shook her head and chose instead to kneel beside the open grave. Lifting a clump of moist soil and dropping it onto the coffin, she murmured, “Au revoir, Grand-père. Shalom, Grand-père.” She sat beside Simone on the journey back to the rue des Renaudes where Lucie Dreyfus would now live alone.

  “Are you all right, Madeleine?” Simone asked.

  The Levy sisters, from childhood on, had sensed each other’s moods. Dearest of friends, devoted sisters, they were mutually protective of each other. Their interests and inclinations, their desire to work for those less fortunate, were shared. Simone was already completing a course of study in social work and Madeleine, newly graduated from the Lycée Molière, would continue her studies there.

  “No. Not yet. But I will be,” she replied.

  “Yes. You will be,” Simone agreed.

  The sisters busied themselves in their grandmother’s kitchen, arranging platters of hard-boiled eggs and circular pastries, the traditional post-funeral foods that symbolized the continuity of life even in the face of death.

  Madeleine carried a tray into the dining room and then went into the study and closed the door behind her. The windows of the dimly lit, book-lined room, where she had spent so many happy hours with her grandfather, were tightly shut; the summer heat hung heavily in the air. She opened them and a fragrant breeze, sultry with the scent of primroses, brushed her cheeks. She looked down at the street, teeming with celebrants waving their flags and singing with sweet spontaneity. A group of dancing children in the portico of the building parted to admit visitors arriving to pay their respects to the mourners. She thought it both strange and wondrous that the joy of the dancing children and the sorrow of the newly bereaved could meld with such ease. It was an awareness that had come to her that very morning as she and her grandmother had set the table for the meal of consolation that would follow the funeral.

  Lucie had cautioned her to handle the gold-rimmed Sevres serving platters with care.

  “My very first wedding gift,” she had explained. “I was afraid to touch them. I was such a silly girl. A bride at nineteen. So happy, so in love. The same age as Simone is now. And Alfred was perhaps a year older than Simone’s Anatol. We could not stop smiling, Alfred and I.”

  Madeleine had nodded, marveling that on this sad day, her grandmother remembered herself and Alfred aglow with joy. “Simone has made a wise choice,” Lucie had added. “Don’t you think so, Madeleine?”

  “I do.”

  Her answer had been honest. She thought it wonderful that Simone had found love and contentment with Anatol, a brilliant young law student, but she herself yearned for the adventure of an independent life, a career vested with meaning that might, in some small way, make the world a better place. She wanted to be challenged, to be tested by life.

  She picked up the framed drawing of the Dreyfus family home in Mulhouse, shaded by a pear tree. It was the work of an unknown itinerant artist, but Alfred Dreyfus had treasured it. Madeleine studied it, lifting it toward the light just as the door opened and Claude Lehmann entered. Wordlessly, she held the picture out to him and he smiled. By odd coincidence, he was a son of Mulhouse, and his family and the Dreyfuses had been neighbors.

  “Ah, the pear tree. I climbed it often enough. In the summer I would pluck a fruit and suck it dry as I sat in its branches,” he said.

  “And I too climbed it during our summer visits. Perhaps you were hiding in the leaves then and I did not see you,” she countered.

  “Perhaps.”

  He smiled, the endearing smile she had noticed at their very first meeting when she had been new to the Éclaireurs Israélites, and he had spoken with that rare combination of passionate seriousness and wistful humor.

  “Scouting is a great tradition,” he had said. “It teaches us to be self-sufficient and to confront nature in all its beauty and all its challenges. And we, as Jewish scouts, will soon face situations that will require all our courage and all our skills. What is happening to Jewish scouts in Germany, the Blau-Weiss, may soon happen here in France, and as scouts, w
e must be prepared for such danger.”

  Even as he spoke, there was a murmur of dissent.

  “France is not Germany. What is happening there could never happen here,” a tall boy shouted defiantly.

  Claude smiled that wonderful, tolerant smile.

  “Let us hope not,” he said. “But there is no harm in preparing for that which may or may not happen.”

  He then led the assembled scouts in the spirited singing of “La Marseillaise” followed by “Hatikvah,” the anthem of the Jewish people.

  Claude had come up to her and held out his hand.

  “I hope my words did not frighten you,” he said.

  “No. I hope that we will not face such dangers, but I agree that we must be prepared. Fear must have no home in our hearts,” she replied gravely.

  “I do not think that you frighten easily.”

  “Nor do you, I would guess.”

  That first exchange had been the foundation of their caring friendship. Their eyes had locked in mutual recognition and understanding.

  Simone, ever sensitive to her sister, had taken note of their closeness.

  “Are you and Claude perhaps more than just friends?” she had asked Madeleine teasingly, looking away from the pad on which she was sketching designs for her wedding invitations.

  Madeleine leaned over and admired her sister’s skillful calligraphy even as she shook her head.

  “Claude and I are good friends, no more than that,” she asserted truthfully.

  His friendship was important to her, but he was not the center of her universe. Her life stretched before her, an unexplored sunlit road leading to an unknown and unknowable future.

  Still, on this sad day of her grandfather’s funeral, she was grateful that Claude was with her, offering his quiet support and his tacit understanding of her grief.

  He took the drawing from her and studied it intently.

  “Perhaps, one day, we will climb that pear tree together, Madeleine,” he said. “We will reach its crown, look down on the valley, and gather enough pears to make a sweet Alsace compote. It will be a happy day.”

  “Will we ever be happy, Claude?”

  The question came unbidden and filled her with shame, but it did not surprise him. He smiled that wonderful whimsical smile, and taking her hand, he stroked it gently, slowly, calming her with the tenderness of his touch. He understood her. He recognized the source of that sudden sadness; he shared both her fears and her hopes for the future. On this day of loss, he offered her his strength and his condolence.

  They went to the window and watched as the sun began its slow descent. Bastille Day had come to an end. All of Paris was enveloped in the melancholy azure of l’heure bleue, the enchanted hour between twilight and the advent of darkness. They turned to each other, silently acknowledging that the day of sadness had ended and a new beginning awaited them.

  One

  Thirty days passed, each day emphasizing the Dreyfus family’s new reality. Alfred was gone. On that thirtieth day, known in Hebrew as shloshim, the family gathered again to observe the ancient Jewish tradition of the second phase of mourning.

  Dutifully, if reluctantly, the family assembled in the rue des Renaudes apartment where Lucie greeted them with her usual serenity. The scent of her famous lamb cassoulet drifted in from the kitchen. Madeleine, delayed by her interview at the Institute of Social Work, entered the crowded room and felt the swell of affection as the family welcomed her. Despite the assault of death, the Dreyfuses were united, alive, and enduring.

  The room hummed with the murmured melody of memories. Her cousins spoke with lilting sweetness of the happy Sundays they had shared in the salon. Aline Dreyfus, Pierre’s younger daughter, recalled Alfred teaching them the spirited tanzette a la schellette. Seizing Etienne’s hands, she and he sprinted merrily across the room in the rapid Alsatian dance.

  “Grand-père smiled when he taught us that dance,” Jean Louis said. “I remember that because he did not smile often, did he, Madeleine?”

  “No, he didn’t,” his sister agreed. “He was often very sad.”

  “He had every reason to be sad. France, his beloved France, had disappointed him. Because he was a Jew, vulnerable and unprotected,” Pierre muttered.

  The bitterness of her uncle’s tone surprised Madeleine. Pierre Dreyfus, himself a hero of Verdun, inducted into the Legion of Honor, had always been a vocal patriot of La République.

  Times had changed. “France now values and protects its Jews. Our children will never know fear and hatred,” her father asserted.

  Pierre shrugged.

  “Would that I could believe you, Pierre Paul,” he said bitterly. “But I believe that the curse of anti-Semitism remains very much alive in the hearts and minds of many of our fellow citizens. Soon, all too soon, the hatred that infects Germany will spill across our border and those who persecuted my father will persecute all Jews. You are a doctor, and you know that cancer is not easily contained or ever cured. Anti-Semitism is a cancer, and we have already seen its symptoms. Only last week there were anti-Jewish demonstrations on the Grand Boulevard. Such demonstrations will spread. A mitosis of irrational hatred. One rally this week. Two rallies next week. A contagion of evil.”

  He poured himself a large glass of brandy and drank it with his eyes closed.

  Madeleine glanced at Simone, who shook her heard warningly. They said nothing, unwilling to contradict their father although they recognized the truth of their uncle’s words. Only days earlier they had attended a performance of a new play entitled The Dreyfus Affair. The drama critic of Le Monde had called it a sympathetic portrayal of Alfred Dreyfus’s innocence and his unwarranted ordeal. They had clutched each other’s hands as the actress who played Lucie had moaned, “Our children should be pitied.”

  Those “children” had been Jeanne, their mother, and Pierre, their uncle. Simone and Madeleine had wept but were jerked from their sorrow by the vitriolic reaction of the audience. A cacophony of fury exploded in the theater.

  “No pity for those Dreyfus children. Did the Jewish traitor pity France?”

  “Down with the Jews!”

  Simone and Madeleine had rushed from the theater, fleeing that chorus of ignorance and hate. Seated now in their grandmother’s salon, the fear they had felt that night was reignited.

  Pierre strode to the window and stared moodily down at the street. Their father sat in grim silence.

  Jeanne Levy spoke at last, turning to her brother, her voice melding plea and assertion.

  “Pierre, surely you realize things will get better. There is a great deal of economic uncertainty in our country now so people look for someone to blame. But as soon as commerce picks up and the franc is strong again, everything will be all right,” she said.

  Her skin was mottled. She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously, as though trying to convince herself of the truth of her own words. Pierre sighed. It was difficult, Madeleine knew, for siblings to deceive each other. When he spoke to his sister, his eyes were soft but his words were harsh.

  “Face the truth, Jeanne. France is a box of dry kindling. A few sparks of hatred from the German border, and the fires of anti-Semitism will blaze again. The Jews of France, the Jews of Europe, are an endangered species. Things will not get better. No. They will get worse. Much worse.”

  “Pierre, enough. This is not a time to quarrel. Not a time to discuss our plans.”

  Marie Dreyfus placed a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder. He nodded mutely but turned to his mother as her quivering voice shattered the uneasy silence.

  “Pierre, you cannot mean that you are thinking of leaving France. How can you think of emigrating? You and your family are safe here. You are a hero of the Republic, a decorated veteran. Would you abandon me? Look around the room. Would you leave Jeanne and her family, your cousins, everyone who is
dear to you?”

  Pierre strode to his mother’s side and embraced her.

  “I’m sorry, Maman, but yes, we probably will leave France. Not immediately, but if the Germans invade, we will not hesitate. I have already visited the United States Embassy and obtained visa applications for my own family and for you and Jeanne and her family. For now, such visas are an insurance policy, but we will use them if we must,” he said.

  Madeleine, ever the peacemaker, was determined to break the tension in the room, the tense silence. Smiling, inviting their approval, she shared her news.

  “I want you all to know that I have been officially accepted by the Institute of Social Work. Just as Simone finishes her certification, I will begin my own training,” she said.

  Her eyes were bright, her face flushed with pride.

  “Mazel tov!”

  Lucie Dreyfus embraced her granddaughter.

  “That is wonderful. You and Simone have chosen such important work. Your grandfather would have been so proud of you.”

  Peace was restored. They relaxed and gathered at the elegantly set dinner table where they spooned Lucie’s fragrant casserole onto their plates and exchanged family memories.

  Pierre turned to his sister.

  “Do you remember, Jeanne, how we used to hide in the doorway of this very room and eavesdrop when Maman and Papa held meetings of Le Comite de Bienfaisance, the Committee for Jewish Charity?” he asked.

  “I remember how I choked on the smoke from Monsieur Rothschild’s cigar,” Jeanne said, smiling. “You had to leave the window open all night after he left, to get rid of the odor, Maman.”

  Lucie laughed.

  “I forgave Baron Rothschild and tolerated his smoking because he wrote us very large checks to support the refugees from those terrible pogroms in Eastern Europe. Your grandfather was a great believer in what he called ‘charitable action.’ He wrote as much in his journals.”

  She motioned toward the small pile of moleskin notebooks that she had placed next to her own table setting and opened one, the place marked with a red ribbon.