The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon

by Norman G. Gautreau

  “Time to leave,” Àngel Barbera says.

  “No,” says Élodie. “First we must have a photograph.” She reaches into her knapsack and pulls out the Voigtländer we took from one of the Germans she shot after Oradour. and hands it to Àngel Barbera. She assembles the children at the rail of the truck, stands against the side of the truck, calls for me to join her, and nods to Barbera.

  Barbera takes several snapshots before handing the camera back to Élodie and, at last, he and Garriga clamber aboard the truck, grind it into gear, and start off with a lurch. The truck lumbers off slowly, raising clouds of dust that follow after it like swirling dust devils, partly obscuring the children who are staring back at Élodie and me as it grumbles down the road toward the mountains that are soft with a buttery light. One short-circuited taillight winks on and off and Élodie and I watch, unable to tear our gaze away from the receding truck until it turns a bend and is out of sight. And then in silence, feeling useless without the children, we head back toward Andorra from where we will go on to France and whatever awaits us.

  In my cabin aboard the QM2, I stand under the driving shower thinking of that time in Sainte-Aimée when we poured buckets of cold water over ourselves and the children to rinse the soot away, or, another time in the foothills of the Pyrénées when Élodie and I stood naked and shivering under a waterfall. On an impulse, I turn the water to cold, and gasp. I close my eyes and catch a fleeting picture of her standing naked in front of me before the image fades and turns to a green-grey mackle behind my eyelids. After the shower, I shave and splash on some Old Spice and make my way out to the starboard side, forward, on the promenade deck, where Callie and I have agreed to meet to watch the ship steam down the Solent toward our arrival in Southampton.

  Callie is already at the starboard rail, which is the windward side of the ship and her hair lifts from her temples just as I remember it doing when she was a child and running on the beach in Gloucester. She comes forward and hugs me. “You smell good, Papa,” she says.

  “It’s for my return to Europe.”

  Callie gives me a devilish smile. “Where your great love affair blossomed.”

  “Now, don’t tease an old man.”

  “I promise. No teasing if you live up to your bargain.”

  “What bargain?”

  “Don’t give me ‘what bargain!’ You know damn well what I mean. We made a deal you would tell me the whole story about you and Élodie when we got to London and I don’t intend to let you off the hook.”

  I smile. Perhaps it is time.

  In silence, we watch the ship maneuver in the tight channel, complete a full 360° turn so that her port side is parallel to the dock, and then slowly move up against the dock under the power of her bow thrusters and the azipod propellers mounted at her stern.

  Passengers have lined the rails to watch as she arrives in Southampton. Among the people, is a boy about the age Adrien was when he died. I can’t help but stare him.

  “Do you know him?” Callie asks.

  “Who?”

  “That boy. You’ve been staring at him.”

  I shake my head.

  “Something is eating at you,” says Callie. “You have been distracted the last few days. The closer we’ve come to Southampton, the quieter you’ve become.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  “I don’t believe that for a moment. Something’s going on, and I wish you would share it with me.”

  I stare into her eyes for a long moment. It is tempting. I have never, in seventy years, shared my story fully with anyone, not even Anna. And if I were ever to do it, Callie would certainly be the right person. I had suspected returning to France would not only help me remember Élodie but would also dredge up certain misgivings about my time in France immediately after the invasion. It all became fresh when I ran into Pfc. John True. Is this something I want to talk with Callie about?

  Callie turns to face me. “When we get to London, we’ll see the pulmonologist Doctor Clarkson recommended. Then, if your condition allows us to continue to France, we’ll rest up a day, go to a nice restaurant, get a good bottle of wine, and maybe you’ll loosen up and tell me what I know damn well you want to tell me about the war years. Sound like a deal?”

  I hesitate for a long moment before finally saying, “Deal.”

  65 “He went to find our mother. I was too scared.”

  66 “Do not leave us, Adrien. Do not leave us.”

  67 “Oh, my God, no! No!”

  68 “Not technically at war, truly at war.”

  69 “Follow me.”

  Chapter 14

  You Must Make It Sing!

  Vera-Lucia Ribó is there to greet us as we pass through the main street of Andorra la Vela on our return journey to France. Wrinkling her nose, she invites us to her home. “You must each enjoy a warm bath,” she says. No doubt, she could tell we’d been many days without bathing.

  “Thank you for the kind offer,” replies Élodie, “but we must try to get to El Pas de la Casa and to the French border just as the sun is setting.”

  “But why?”

  “We will be approaching the pass from the west. If there are German border guards, they will be blinded by the sun, but they will also be lit up by the sun, so we should be able to see them and know what to do. We may have to abandon the trails and climb over open country.”

  “Well, I will fetch a bar of soap for you to take with you.”

  Élodie and I both laugh. “We’ll be quite grateful,” she says.

  The woman goes across the road into her house and returns moments later and hands Élodie the bar of soap, and we bid her farewell, and set out for El Pas de la Casa. We arrive in the early evening and, by the time we approach the border, the sun is setting just as Élodie had anticipated. We see no activity, no French citizens, no German guards, but we decide to abandon the trail anyway, and trek through open country, until it is too dark to walk. And then we bivouac for the night.

  In the morning, we begin the fifty-kilometer trek east to Prades and our route takes us through valleys with rocky escarpments on both sides. This had once been a land of medieval castles and even the stones seem to carry memories of them where shadows play tricks and give the illusions of fortresses recessed into the hillside and vertical columns of rock that look like turrets or giant trilobites impressed into the rock face. Erupting from the land are limestone outcroppings, knobby as rheumatoid knuckles, where the earth wears its skin thinly on the bone like a half-eaten, partially flensed, carcass, and every so often the shadow of a griffon vulture rolls and swells across the undulant, fractured stone. The valleys through which we trudge, between the escarpments and the outcroppings, burgeon with purple and white saxifrage which flower from cracks and crevices of rock, blue trumpet gentians, white alpine butterwort, and blue and yellow monkshood. Butterflies flit before us and birdsong sweetens the air—rock thrush, red-backed shrike, woodpecker, finch.

  “The war couldn’t be further away,” I say.

  Élodie shakes her head. “No, my love. On the contrary, the war is inside us.”

  I stare at her for a long moment. There is a sadness in her eyes, a sadness so deep, tears will not come.

  Soon, we arrive at a small commune called Vilanova in the late afternoon and go straight to the little stone church to ask sanctuary from the priest. I watch as the priest and Élodie engage in a long, heated conversation. Finally, the priest stomps off, and Élodie turns to me and says, “He’s not very happy.”

  “I can see that,” I say. “What’s his beef?”

  “He’s afraid of reprisals, He says we put the whole village at risk. We can stay in the church, but he wants us out of here first thing in the morning. At least, he’ll bring us some food.”

  We pass a fitful night, and the following morning we leave early after finishing the last of the baguette and cheese that the priest brought us.

  “I stink,” says Élodie. “And by the way, so do you. We can’t
appear on Maestro Casals’ doorstep like this.”

  “What do you plan to do about it?” I ask.

  “I know a place where we can wash ourselves and our clothes. It’s a waterfall only a few kilometers north of Prades. And we have the soap Senora Ribó gave us.”

  “Lead on, Macduff,” I say.

  “It will take us a good six hours to get there, but it will only be another one or two hours to Prades. We’ll be able to rest while our clothes dry because we don’t want to enter Prades during daylight.”

  We move much faster without the children and arrive at the waterfall before noon. It is in a small, rocky ravine that has the internal volume of the nave of a country church. At the head of the nave, where the apse would be, is the waterfall, scintillating behind a standing rainbow and spilling its water into a clear stream. We climb down into the ravine and scramble over boulders until we come to a slab by the edge of the stream, flat as an altar, and there we strip off our clothes and we grasp each other’s hand and we step into the stream and wade to the waterfall and step under it with gasps and shivers.

  “My god, it’s cold!” Élodie cries.

  “You bet your sweet ass it is!” I say. “Jesus!”

  “Speaking of my ass,” Élodie says, “Here. Get to work.” She hands me the bar of soap.

  Quickly, we pass the soap back and forth and lather each other up, lingering in the intimate places with groans of pleasure, as the sun ignites diamonds in the cascading water. Soon, we are finished, and we emerge from the waterfall and wade back to where we left our clothes. The sun is now at its zenith, and its light penetrates the ravine fully, heating the rocks which, in turn, trap the heat in their embrace. We wash out our clothes like village washer women and then lay naked under the sun on a flat rock slab hidden from the world.

  Élodie asks, “Do you want some of my perfume?”

  “You mean that horse stuff?”

  “Mon dieu! Horse stuff! You mean Nuit de Longchamp?”

  “Longchamp is a horse race track, isn’t it?”

  “That doesn’t make the perfume ‘horse stuff,’ as you call it.”

  “Now if you had some Old Spice,” I say. “I’d take that.”

  “Is that an American men’s cologne?”

  “Yup. New. It came out a few years ago.”

  “Well, I don’t have any. You’ll just have to make do with your natural scent.”

  She gives me a teasing smile, but it quickly fades and her lips part and she holds my eyes in a fierce gaze and strokes my arm and says, “I want to have a baby with you.”

  I am stunned. For a moment, I am speechless. Finally, I take her in my arms and murmur, “Yes,” and we make love, and in the unfolding of the afternoon we lie together, bodies golden under the warming sun and we make love again and I whisper, “As soon as the war is over, we’ll get married.”

  “Yes.” She trails her fingers up and down my chest. “And I’ll wear something white.”

  Several hours later, as we stand on a hill on the outskirts of Prades, Élodie and I have a clear view of the peak of Canigou with the light of the setting sun refracting from the sharp ridges of its summit. Below us, Prades lies in the murk of twilight. We see no activity in the streets. Nevertheless, Élodie says, “We should wait until it is fully dark. The last time I was here, there were Vichy police, but they were not much of a threat. However, if the Gestapo has taken over, that’s a different story.”

  “Then, let’s wait,” I say. “I have no desire to run into those bastards.”

  “I’ve never approached his house in the dark, but I think I can find it. It’s called Villa Colette and there’s a woman who lives with the maestro named Señora Capdevila. I believe she’s a kind of administrative assistant. At least that’s the post she held with The Orquestra Pau Casals in Barcelona. It was an orchestra he founded some years ago. I played with them once.”

  A half hour later, the light has completely disappeared. The moon is yet to rise, and we have difficulty stumbling down the hill and into the town and finding Casal’s house. Once or twice we sense movement in the distance, and pause, and hold our breaths until it seems clear again. At last, Élodie says, “There it is! Quickly!” She grabs my hand and we take off at a run.

  The house is a modest two-story affair. We must have been seen from the inside, for as soon as we approach the door, it opens and a handsome woman hurriedly ushers us inside and looks left and right before she closes the door, turns, and nods to Élodie. “Mademoiselle Bedier, Maestro Casals sera heureux de vous voir.” 70

  “This is Henry Budge,” Élodie says once we’re inside. “He’s American.”

  “Ah, then I will speak English,” the woman says. She admits us to a small front room with two 19th century French tapestry armchairs and a Moorish rug in muted reds and blues. Against the wall, in the far corner, is an upright piano.

  Footfalls sound on the stairs and Pablo Casals rushes to greet Élodie. “I heard,” he says. “We must speak English. How are you my sweet? As Señora Capdevila said, I am so happy to see you. Were you seen by others?”

  “I don’t think so,” replies Élodie.

  Casals walks to the window, draws the curtain an inch or so and peers outside. Apparently reassured, he returns and says, “The Gestapo have been troublesome. Sometimes, they watch the house. We’ve been visited several times by them. I must ask you to hide your weapons out back in the trees. If we are visited by the Gestapo, it would go badly for all of us if your weapons were discovered.”

  “Yes, of course,” Élodie says and leads me out the back of the house.

  When we return, Élodie says, “Perhaps we should not have come. We don’t want to cause you trouble. We should leave.”

  Casals nods. “It is best. I have found a safe house where you can wait for the children. The word has been sent back along the line.”

  “You are wonderful! Where is this safe house?”

  “Mosset.”

  “Perfect!” Élodie turns to me and says, “The waterfall is halfway between here and there in the same direction. We’ll pass it on the way.”

  “But not until we play some music together,” says Casals. “Then, at the right time, we will drive you there.”

  “You can get petrol?”

  “Not much, but, yes. On rare occasions, the Germans allow me to take food to the prisoners at Rivesaltes.”

  “Rivesaltes?” I ask.

  “It’s a concentration camp just north of Perpignan,” Élodie says.

  “So many prisoners,” says Casals. “And they send many from there to the death camps. When will it all end? When?”

  Suddenly there comes a pounding on the door.

  “The Gestapo!” whispers Casals. “Quickly, the two of you out the back door! Hide in the trees.”

  Élodie and I hesitate for a moment. “But what about you?” Élodie asks.

  “Go! Go!” Casals says, urging her with a gentle push in the back. “We’ve handled this before. We know what to do.”

  “No, wait,” Élodie says. “They must have seen us. How will you explain that nobody is here?”

  Casals gapes at her but has no answer.

  Élodie says, “Henry, you go out back and hide. We’ll say there was only one of us and I … and I came with my violin for a lesson with the maestro. Go! Now!”

  More pounding on the door.

  “Go, Henry!”

  I hesitate for only a moment, then bolt out the door. I crouch in the bushes next to where we hid our guns. If it becomes necessary, I will make sure the Gestapo man “discovers” them in the most unpleasant way possible.

  Élodie later tells me, in detail, what happened while I hid outside.

  As soon as she was certain I was well hidden, Élodie told Señora Capdevila to open the door. A man in plain clothes—which included the clichéd leather coat and Trilby hat of a Gestapo agent—entered. He was accompanied by a soldier wearing a grey SS uniform consistent with the practice of the Gestapo i
n occupied territories. The Gestapo agent marched up to Casals and asked, “And who is this junge Dame?”

  “She is Élodie Bedier. She is a student of mine.”

  The man asked Élodie, “And who was with you when you came here?”

  “Nobody. I was alone,” she said. And when the German expressed disbelief and insisted he and his man saw two people, Élodie angered the man by saying, “It is dark. Perhaps you are mistaken.” She then thought quickly and said, “Perhaps you saw my violin. I’ll show you how I carry it.” She described to me how she slipped the strap of the violin case over her shoulder and turned her back to the man and asked, “Do you see how it could look like a second person? In the darkness, I mean.”

  The man said nothing for long moments. Finally, he ordered the soldier to search the other rooms in the house. They waited in silence while the man searched. Finally, he returned and said he found nothing. But they weren’t out of the woods yet, because the Gestapo agent said, “Show me. Teach Fräulein Bedier a violin lesson.”

  Élodie told me it was through an almost miraculous bit of silent communication that she and Casals conceived of a subterfuge. “Pablo looked me in the eyes,” she said. “He asked if we should play ‘Song of the Birds’ again together. But he said I should play with more vibrato than the other day.” Élodie said she had all she could do not to smile, and opened the violin case, and lifted up the violin and tucked it under her chin, and purposefully neglected to check its tuning. And as she was making a show of doing all this, Casals took his position in a chair and propped his cello between his legs and they began to play. Élodie tried quite hard to play without enough vibrato, to play emotionless and, after several bars, Casals said, “No, no, no! More life! More vibrato,” and he played several bars to demonstrate. Élodie played the same measures, this time with more vibrato, but still she deliberately held back, until Casals said, “More! You must make it sing!”