The Travels of Daniel Ascher

by Déborah Lévy-Bertherat

  “The Travels of Daniel Ascher is about the power of stories, particularly the ones we tell about ourselves. Within its svelte form, the novel packs in a love story (several actually), a family story, a war story, a mystery, a travelogue, and even a convincingly imagined children’s adventure series. All these strands weave together beautifully in this deftly plotted and deeply moving novel.”

  —GABRIELLE ZEVIN, AUTHOR OF THE STORIED LIFE OF A. J. FIKRY

  WHO IS THE REAL AUTHOR OF The Black Insignia? Is it H. R. Sanders, whose name is printed on the cover of every installment of the wildly successful young adult adventure series? Or is it Daniel Roche, the enigmatic world traveler who disappears for months at a time? When Daniel’s great-niece, Hélène, moves to Paris to study archeology, she does not expect to be searching for answers to these questions. As rumors circulate, however, that the twenty-fourth volume of the Black Insignia series will be the last, Hélène and her friend Guillaume, a devoted fan of her great-uncle’s books, set out to discover more about the man whose life eludes her. In so doing, she uncovers an explosive secret dating back to the darkest days of the Nazi occupation.

  BOOKSELLER PRAISE FOR THE TRAVELS OF DANIEL ASCHER

  “A huge hit in the author’s native France, The Travels of Daniel Ascher is destined to be a crossover YA hit. Join Hélène and her accomplice Guillaume as they unravel the strange and dark past of her uncle Daniel, the man-child with an explosive secret that could change all that Hélène knows about her life, her family, and the past that no one talks about. A fast-paced lyrical work of meta-fiction that is sure to enchant a wide range of readers, fans of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, and The Book Thief will devour this novel.”

  —JEREMY KITCHEN, RICHARD J. DALEY BRANCH, CHICAGO PUBLIC LIBRARY

  “Reading this book is such a rich experience, from the history and cultural nuances to the wanderlust-inducing artifacts and exploration of fiction as refuge. Add a healthy dollop of family secrets and mystery on top, and wow! There isn’t anything else like it out there for teen readers. Emotionally resonant and a captivating page-turner? Yes, please!”

  —MARY CATHERINE BREED, BRAZOS BOOKSTORE (HOUSTON, TX)

  “Hélène is in Paris as an archeology student, and all she knows about her eccentric great uncle, Daniel Roche, is that he is the author of a popular series of books called The Black Insignia. When it is announced that the final volume is about to be published, H. R. Sanders (the pen name) and Daniel Roche seem to need some investigation. What Hélène discovers in the house and about her family make for a delightful adventure.”

  —BARBARA THEROUX, FACT & FICTION (MISSOULA, MT)

  “Déborah Lévy-Bertherat’s slim novel packs a powerful punch. Is Daniel Ascher a respected children’s author? A world traveler? Or a man so grief stricken that he has concocted an elaborate literary mystery? His niece sets out to discover the truth, and in doing so, uncovers a dark family secret. This is a book that both adults and older teens will enjoy as they too seek to find the truth about The Travels of Daniel Ascher.”

  —PAMELA KLINGER-HORN, MAGERS & QUINN BOOKSELLERS (MINNEAPOLIS, MN)

  “The story—or rather, stories—of The Travels of Daniel Ascher are so rich, multilayered, and moving that it is hard to believe it could all be contained in this small book.”

  —LYNN ROBERTS, SQUARE BOOKS (OXFORD, MS)

  “In The Travels of Daniel Ascher, objects are physically hidden in other objects, photographs are not what they seem, there are stories within stories, and a scrap of yellowed paper written in Hebrew may hold the key to everything. I read this novel in a day, in my pajamas, without leaving the sofa. I would recommend the same for anyone.”

  —LYSBETH ABRAMS, EIGHT COUSINS BOOKSTORE (FALMOUTH, MA)

  “Great-uncle Daniel wanders the world and brings back exotic souvenirs from foreign lands. He has done this since Hélène was a small child and his life has always been an intriguing, if vaguely frightening, mystery … But Daniel is not really her uncle. He was adopted by her family at the end of World War II. He is a war orphan, a Jew, and he harbors a deep and troubling secret.”

  —CONRAD SILVERBERG, BOSWELL BOOK COMPANY (MILWAUKEE, WI)

  Copyright © 2013, Editions Payot & Rivages

  First published in France as Les voyages de Daniel Ascher

  by Editions Payot & Rivages, Paris, in 2013

  Translation copyright © 2015 by Adriana Hunter

  Production editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas

  Case design & illustrations: Andreas Feher

  Painting on this page by the author, inspired by Chaim Soutine.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 2 Park Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Lévy-Bertherat, Déborah.

  [Voyages de Daniel Ascher. English]

  The travels of Daniel Ascher / by Déborah Lévy-Bertherat; translated from the French by Adriana Hunter.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-59051-707-9 (alk. paper) — eBook ISBN 978-1-59051-708-6

  1. Authors — Fiction. 2. Plagiarism — Fiction. I. Hunter, Adriana. II. Title.

  PQ2672.E9525V6913 2015

  843′.914 — dc23

  2014017156

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  v3.1

  To Jérôme, Émile, Irène, and Georges

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  1: Adventures in the Gardens

  2: Under the Eaves

  3: The Giant Atlas

  4: Uncle Daniel

  5: The Anger of the Carinaua

  6: A Shambles

  7: Wielding an Axe

  8: The Black Insignia

  9: A Block of Soap

  10: Sanders’s Bookcase

  11: Under the Pirate’s Watchful Eye

  12: Odessa Passage

  Part Two

  13: Aboard a Junk on the Yangtze

  14: Grandma Guyon Unraveling Her Knitting

  15: Daniel’s Dagger

  16: Two Fugitives

  17: Dinner with Uncle Sam

  18: Mala’s Secret Card

  19: The Doldrums

  Part Three

  20: The Horn-Handled Magnifying Glass

  21: L’Chaim

  22: Marabout Sadi Alfa Maneh

  23: Return to Rue d’Odessa

  Epilogue

  Other Books By This Author

  About the Authors

  “Deep down, Peter, what is it that makes you love adventure?”

  “I don’t know …”

  He looked out to sea, at the gathering clouds. He had spent his life traveling the oceans and continents, and he occasionally had an urge to put away his suitcases.

  Icy sea spray whipped his face. He ran his tongue over his lips. There was the answer: the taste of salt …

  —H. R. Sanders, The Call of Gibraltar />
  That boy might be happy if he would stay at home, but if he goes abroad he will be the miserablest Wretch that was ever born.

  —Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

  PART ONE

  September–December 1999

  1

  Adventures in the Gardens

  WHEN HÉLÈNE THINKS BACK TO THAT FALL, her first fall in Paris, what she immediately remembers are her walks through the Luxembourg Gardens with her young neighbor. Jonas developed habits as inflexible as rituals. The moment they were through the gate, he would run and hide in the park keepers’ empty hut and close the low door, which afforded only a glimpse of the top of his head. He would wait there a few seconds, just long enough for a lion to prowl around the outside, or for Hélène to look for him and pretend to get worried, then he would leap out with a triumphant laugh.

  She used to sit on a bench beside the sandbox and watch him dig; every now and then he would come over to give her a coin he had found and that he wanted her to look after for him. Strolling along the walkways, he picked up smooth, glossy horse chestnuts, filling his pockets and then Hélène’s. When there were no more chestnuts, he made bouquets of dead leaves for his mother, and they brought the smell of earth and rain from the gardens right into their home.

  Guillaume often went along with them. Hélène had not known him long, he was a student in her class at the Institute of Archaeology, where she had finally enrolled after three interminable years studying history in Orléans. At the beginning of the semester she’d immediately noticed how tall he was, and she used to sit two or three rows behind him in class, occasionally letting her eyes settle on the nape of his neck and his very low hairline. They probably shouldn’t have become friends. Hélène wanted to seem older than twenty years, she swept her hair up in a chignon, and wore high-heeled shoes and scarlet lipstick. Guillaume was two years older than her but was still passionately connected with anything that reminded him of his childhood: when they went to the Luxembourg Gardens, he’d pay for Jonas to have a ride on the carousel just for the pleasure of watching him. The child would wave excitedly, waggling the stick he was holding to scoop a ring off the peg on the way past. The ring, Guillaume would cry, catch the ring. He wished he, too, were four years old, so he could ride on an elephant. He bought crocodile-shaped candy at the refreshment stall, and ate most of it himself. He told Jonas adventure stories about being lost in the jungles of Burma or the forests of the Amazon; he taught him to mimic the sound of a twin-engine plane in free fall, and Jonas tried so hard to get it right, it made him splutter.

  It was on one of these walks, halfway through October, that Guillaume first mentioned The Black Insignia. They were sitting on park chairs along the pathway beside the orchard, with their feet up on chairs too. Jonas had lined up lots of gold nuggets he had collected and was counting them methodically. Guillaume then remembered all the collections he’d had as a child, the stamps, the bird feathers, the stones with holes through them, the cherry pips, the cartoons, Tintin, Blake and Mortimer, and other book series, his favorite of which was The Black Insignia. He especially loved the first book, it started with a plane crash in which the hero, the only survivor, was seriously injured. Jonas abandoned his counting to listen to the story.

  Hélène stood up because her back and buttocks were stiff from sitting on a metal chair for too long. She walked a little way away and noticed one of the gardeners picking apples on the other side of a fence up ahead of her, how amazing, apples in the middle of Paris. She called the boys over, come and look at this, you won’t believe it, but they didn’t listen. The gardener filled his basket and went on his way; it was the end of the day, Hélène said it was late, they should go home, they’d soon hear the whistle for closing time. Guillaume headed off toward his neighborhood, promising the child he would carry on with the story next time. Hélène helped Jonas put his pebbles in his pocket and took his hand for the walk home.

  2

  Under the Eaves

  SHE HAD JUST MOVED INTO A LITTLE BEDROOM under the eaves of a building on rue Vavin, very close to the Institute of Archaeology on rue Michelet. Her father’s uncle had loaned it to her; he lived on the ground floor, but she hadn’t seen him since she arrived, he was away traveling. She didn’t have much in common with him, so his absence rather suited her. Her room had a low ceiling and was so narrow that the bed filled its entire width at one end, but it did have a proper window that you could open by kneeling on the bed. From there you could look down into the building’s inner courtyard where there was a small tree with a pockmarked trunk and a crack on the wall the shape of an old man’s profile; and looking up over the zinc roofs of Paris, you could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower.

  She knew Paris a little, but not this neighborhood, between the Montparnasse metro station and the Luxembourg Gardens, and when she first arrived in late September she did a lot of walking around, making the most of the fine weather. In fact that whole fall turned out to be very mild, people should have been wary, but who could have guessed that such violent storms were brewing? Hélène explored the area, looking in shop windows on rue Vavin and rue Bréa: secondhand books, Chinese delis, the woman from the candy store waving hello to the man from the hardware store who was hanging multicolored pails under his awning. In among the dusty bushes on rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, the rough-hewn statue of Captain Dreyfus hid its face behind a broken saber. Her wanderings gradually took her farther and farther afield.

  The neighbors thought she was Mr. Roche’s niece, his great-niece, she corrected them, oh, I’m sorry, he seems so young. He hadn’t told his family where he was, but his neighbors knew he’d gone to Tierra del Fuego and would be back on October 24, so brave, such a remarkable man, they seemed to her to be talking about a different person. In the early days, one of the neighbors had asked Hélène if she could pick up her son from nursery school, and she had gotten into the habit of taking Jonas to the Luxembourg Gardens twice a week.

  ONE AFTERNOON TOWARD THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER, she met a very old couple by the mailboxes in the entrance to her building. The man raised his Prince of Wales checked hat, revealing an archipelago of age spots on his balding head. He shook her hand, so you’re the archaeologist, welcome to the building, Daniel must have mentioned us, Colette and Jacques Peyrelevade, but the name meant nothing to her. The woman gave her a kiss on the cheek, Hélène, the famous Hélène, she had a voice like a young woman’s but she struggled to find her words, and her bun, like a loosening halyard, had let a hank of long white hair escape. They were thrilled because inside their mailbox they had just found a postcard with a magnificent image of the mountains of Patagonia, sent from Ushuaia, Daniel never forgot to write them, he sent a card on every trip. Hélène opened her mailbox, it was empty, she’d never received a postcard from her great-uncle, nor, as far as she knew, had any member of her family.

  DANIEL WASN’T SEEN AT MANY ROCHE FAMILY REUNIONS because he spent part of the year traveling to the four corners of the world. On his rare visits, he would arrive late with unkempt hair and one end of his shirt collar poking out from his perennially crumpled and worn beige parka. When Hélène was a child, she was fascinated by that coat with its countless different-sized pockets, on the inside and the outside, even on the sleeves.

  When Daniel did attend big family meals, he always sat at the children’s table, far away from the adults. The kids begged him to tell stories, and he would embark on hare-brained tales of adventure, rolling his eyes, mimicking voices, accents, and animal calls, describing fantastical situations, stringing together puns and suddenly roaring with laughter when no one could quite see why. The crust of a baguette split in two became the jaws of a caiman chasing him through the muddy waters of the Orinoco, and he would stand up and mime swimming a crawl to get away. Or it was the middle of winter deep in the taiga, his lamp was about to go out, he was surrounded by howling wolves, and he stood his cutlery upright, quivering under his napkin like tent posts in a blizzard. The children’s par
ents tried to get him to stop, can’t you see you’re scaring them, but he never listened and kept going on and on, for as long as the kids wanted him to. Hélène’s brother laughed really loudly, but she knew she’d hear him talking in his sleep that night, he always did after these sessions.

  At the end of the meal, Hélène’s grandfather clinked his knife against his glass to get some quiet and said a few words in his resonant voice that was accustomed to reverberating around schoolyards. After that everyone started singing and the kids got down from the table. Left alone, Daniel sat in motionless silence, staring into space, occasionally touching his left breast pocket. Whatever the circumstances, he always wore shirts with buttoned pockets, and the left-hand one, which was invariably buttoned up, housed something the size of a cigarette case but it was impossible to guess anything more about it through the fabric.

  SHE LEFT THE PEYRELEVADES IN THE ENTRANCE HALL with their postcard from Patagonia and went up to her room on the fifth floor. She undid her chignon, took off her high-heeled shoes, how she twisted her ankles in them, and walked about barefoot for the sheer pleasure of feeling the cool floor tiles. She’d soon got used to how small her room was, compensated as this was by the view over the Paris rooftops, and she really enjoyed being free to eat what she wanted when she wanted. In the evenings she lay on her bed resting her feet on the windowsill, with a bag of figs within reach, reading a book borrowed from the institute’s library.

  The only thing about the room that had bothered her at first was a framed reproduction hanging on the wall, a portrait of teenage girl in a white dress with a menorah behind her. In this black-and-white copy, which was probably smaller than the original, the image felt sinister, the girl’s body was misshapen, her eyes startled, her fingers clutching hold of her knees. It was worst in the evening when the setting sun was reflected on the glass and set the dress ablaze so the girl appeared to be contorting amid the flames. The frame was nailed to the wall and so couldn’t be taken down. After a few days, unable to look at it any longer, Hélène had taped a photo over it, a picture she’d torn from a magazine, of the earth from the air; and she’d thought no more of it.