Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  Two cups of a liquid - which bore no relation to coffee but which only tasted mildly of acorns - later, there was still no sign of Andrzej. Sylvie began to fidget. Andrzej was normally punctual. She sipped some water and tried to still a nagging worry. There was nothing wrong. He had only been delayed. But the mixture of waiting and worry collided in her with another, a deeper anxiety. Jacob. She had still had no word from Jacob. Sylvie pushed her chair violently back from the table and signalled to the waiter. As she counted out some change, she asked, ‘There hasn’t by any chance been a message for me from Monsieur Antoine?’

  ‘Are you Mademoiselle Sylvie?’

  Sylvie nodded.

  The old man laughed. ‘You should have said so sooner. He’s been delayed. He wants to know if you can manage a picnic. On Sunday. Meet him at the turn off to Bertin’s farm at nine. And he says to bring as much food as you can in your bicycle basket. It’s a party.’

  Sylvie suddenly giggled. ‘You men, you never seem to have time to do any shopping.’

  ‘Et c’est comme ça,’ the waiter shook his head sagely and watched her saunter gaily off.

  Sunday dawned with a crisp autumnal clarity. Sylvie, her bicycle laden with two baskets, wound her way slowly over the hills towards Bertin’s farm. She had woken with a flash of ill temper. She knew what lay at its root. They had been expecting her today at the house on the hill and Caroline’s displeasure on the telephone when she had announced she wasn’t going to be coming had irked her. Irked her doubly, because even if she had made the visit, she would not have been able to bring any more than extra ration tickets and the continuing promise of suitable papers for any of the inhabitants. Despite her growing range of contacts, this was still something which eluded her.

  She would tackle Andrzej on the question today. He must be able to help. And help with locating Jacob. Despite herself, worry about him encroached on her consciousness with increasing frequency. If only she knew where he was. If only she could send him one of the photographs she had received of Leo. Other women she knew had had letters from husbands who had been taken prisoner. But for Sylvie there was still no sign. Today. Today there would be a whole day to talk it over with Andrzej and see what could be done.

  Sylvie slowed down to let a lorry pass and then, the wind in her hair, sped down the final incline before the turn-off to Bertin’s farm. She scanned the countryside for Andrzej, but there was no sign of him. All she could see were two figures busy with the vines in a nearby field. She turned off the road and waited, hoping he wouldn’t be too long. And then suddenly, she heard a rustle and he was there, leaping out of a roadside gully, embracing her, kissing her on the lips with a ferocity which confused her. She drew back.

  ‘Quiet, Sylviecka,’ he held her to him, whispered in her ear. ‘Today we’re lovers. You know how to treat a lover. Especially one who might be being watched.’ His eyes laughed as he stroked her chin playfully. ‘The name by the way is Guillaume Pacquette. Got that?’ He kissed her again, with a great show of passion, but his lips were oddly impersonal.

  Sylvie grinned and only then noticed that his left arm was in a cast. Her concern formed itself into a question which he stopped. He nuzzled her hair, ‘Don’t worry. Just a little veteran’s paraphernalia. Guillaume has been in the wars. And if you look over his shoulder, you’ll see how those two over there are distinctly interested in his lovemaking. The Gestapo are sometimes found to be wearing strange uniforms these days. So another embrace, please. Make it look good, Sylviecka.’

  Sylvie giggled. ‘And here I thought we were going on a picnic.’

  ‘We are. Of sorts. A picnic with a purpose.’ Andrzej gave her a mischievous glance, pulled his bicycle out of the gully and tried to strap one of her baskets onto it. Sylvie helped him solicitously, letting her hand linger on his shoulder.

  ‘I know the most wonderful picnic spot. Stream, woods, fields. It’s only about twenty kilometres away.’

  Sylvie’s face dropped.

  ‘All for a good cause,’ Andrzej nuzzled her ear again and whispered.

  They set off at a leisurely pace, peddling over hills, coasting down steep cypress clad inclines, stopping occasionally for a drink, always ostentatiously playing the lovers Andrzej had designated them as. The roads, as the morning progressed, held their usual Sunday complement of cyclists and walkers and Sylvie began to feel she was playing to an ever growing audience.

  At last, when the sun stood high in the sky they turned off onto a small dirt road which led only to a field and beyond that into a dense wood. Where the grass met the trees, they spread the blanket Andrzej had brought and rested.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’ Sylvie asked as she handed him a glass of wine.

  ‘About?’ Andrzej looked at her impishly. ‘Why it’s about a little innocent lovers’ outing, perhaps a little foray into the woods for mushroom picking. And for picking up other wondrous produce of the forest.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Sylvie’s tone was skeptical.

  ‘That’s all you need to know, my pretty one. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’

  Sylvie gave him a little girl’s grimace.

  He raised his glass to her and then reached to caress her hair.

  From the corner of her eye, Sylvie saw two men walking their bicycles towards the top end of the field. She smiled, brushed Andrzej’s cheek with her lips.

  When the men had disappeared over the crest of the hill, Andrzej rose. ‘Now put your arm around me and we start on our mushroom picking. Lots of mushrooms and even more cuddles.’ He embraced her again, his free arm moving up and down her back. But his eyes were scanning the middle distance and the new tension in his body had nothing to do with the proximity of hers.

  After the clear sunshine of the field, the dense woods felt sombre. They stooped every so often to pile mushrooms into one of the baskets. Andrzej was silent, sniffing the air around him as if he were following a mental map. The springy carpet of earth and moss gradually brought them to a little rivulet. Andrzej’s face lit up. He quickened his pace. They followed the winding of the stream to a small clearing dominated by an ancient cypress.

  ‘Here, Sylvie. What do you say? It’s a fine spot for a picnic.’ Without waiting for her to reply, he spread the blanket beneath the old tree. While Sylvie laid out the food she had brought, she saw Andrzej scatter an obscure heap of dried leaves and branches and glancing furtively around him, bring out from the loosely piled earth a rectangular case. He opened it quickly. Sylvie’s breath caught. A wireless transmitter. And then another. Small. No more than 30 centimetres wide. For a moment he met her eyes. His own were gleaming. Then with deft movements, he took a tiny screwdriver from his pocket and dismantled one of the radios. Valves and wires disappeared amidst the copious harvest of mushrooms in the basket. Andrzej gave her one of his reckless smiles, swallowed a few mouthfuls of food and then urged her off the blanket, which neatly folded, now served to cover the second radio and the remains of their food.

  ‘So this is what you call a romantic picnic, my poor little wounded hero?’ Sylvie teased him in a whisper.

  ‘A romantic Polish picnic,’ he squeezed her hand. ‘Brilliant aren’t they? Have you ever seen anything so small. Perfect. Made by Polish hands.’ His tone changed, ‘When we get back to our bicycles, the baskets go on mine. If by any chance we’re stopped and anything happens to me, tell the patron at Le Petit Poucet.’

  Sylvie looked at him seriously. ‘Nothing will happen. But we take one basket each, otherwise it looks odd. And if we’re stopped, let me do the talking, Guillaume Pacquette. Your French still leaves something to be desired.’

  ‘Oui, Mademoiselle Latour,’ Andrzej bowed, chuckling. ‘And don’t forget, we’re still lovebirds.’

  Their bicycles lay innocently where they had left them. No one was to be seen in the surrounding fields. Gaily, they strapped their baskets onto their bikes, adding the bathing suit Sylvie had brought, some tools, an empty bottle, into the gen
eral jumble. They set off whistling.

  Three kilometres along the road in the dip of a hill they suddenly saw a straggling queue of vehicles and people. And police.

  ‘Damn,’ Andrzej swore beneath his breath. ‘A security check.’ He glanced quickly at the lay of the land on either side of the road. ‘Shall we try and get round?’

  ‘Too late,’ Sylvie murmured. Two more cyclists were gaining on them from behind. They looked eerily like the two men she had seen in the vineyard earlier. ‘Just remember to act the wounded soldier,’ she said to Andrzej sternly as they neared the road block.

  No sooner had they joined the queue, than Sylvie put her arm round Andrzej and started to grumble in a voice loud enough for all in the vicinity to hear. ‘It’s terrible. You fight for your country. Get wounded. And they still harass you at every turn. It’s not fair.’ She turned to the man nearest to her, an old farmer. ‘He’s just out of bed, you know, his first outing. Poor thing. Here, Guillaume, drink this,’ she passed Andrzej a flask of water. ‘He looks awfully pale, doesn’t he?’ she looked for confirmation to the others.

  Andrzej did indeed have the grace to look pale. ‘I’m alright,’ he murmured. ‘Ca va, Sylvie.’

  ‘Poor darling,’ she kissed him lightly. ‘Does your arm hurt? Here, let me hold your bike. Why don’t you go and sit down by the side of the road, over there.’

  Andrzej was about to comply, when a voice from the front of the queue rang out, ‘Come here you two, you can have my place. I’m not in a hurry. Here, let these two go first,’ the man who had an austere wrinkled face addressed the motorist and two other cyclists in front of him with an air of authority. ‘The boy’s not well. He needs to get home to rest.’ He dropped his own bicycle by the side of the road and came to take one of the two Sylvie was holding. Then he urged them both to the front of the queue.

  ‘Oh, vous êtes trop gentil, monsieur. Too kind,’ Sylvie thanked him. She kept one hand on her bicyle and one protectively on Andrzej’s shoulder. When they reached the police, she carelessly all but dropped her bicycle on the gendarme who asked her for her papers. He looked at her carte d’identité cursorily, glanced at her face and waved her through.

  Sylvie took hold of her own bike and Andrzej’s, ‘He’s not feeling well,’ she said to the gendarme. ‘His arm, you know.’ She gave him a sweet smile which bore a trace of pride and waited impatiently while the police examined Andrzej’s papers. This time the check was more thorough. Andrzej’s identity card was passed from one gendarme to the next and finally to a third. Sylvie’s pulse raced. She felt her knees growing weak. They couldn’t be stopped now, not after she had got through with the radios. ‘Quand même,’ she heard herself addressing the gendarmes, ‘vous n’allez pas lui faire des problèmes quand il est faible comme ça,’ she looked into the tallest policeman’s eyes and tapped her foot impatiently.

  The man, looking a little shamefaced, motioned Andrzej through.

  Sylvie patted him maternally on the back. ‘Ca va cheri?’

  Andrzej nodded.

  They did not speak until they had pedalled for some ten minutes, then Sylvie pulled off the road. ‘I have to stop for a moment. I’m exhausted.’

  Andrzej grinned. ‘Hardly surprsing, Sylviezcka. After that grand performance.’

  ‘Did they suspect you were you?’

  He shrugged. ‘They probably put up the block because they found out there was a drop the night before last.’

  ‘A drop?’

  ‘Some goodies from the Brits. Our basket contents amongst them.’

  ‘I see,’ Sylvie breathed. ‘So that’s who you work for.’

  ‘I only work for Poland,’ he flashed her a dark look and then burst into laughter. ‘And you are a distinct asset, my Sylviezcka. But we have to get on. Otherwise those two thugs who were behind us will catch up.’

  ‘Thugs?’

  ‘SS. They daren’t make themselves public since this is supposed to be Pétain’s Free and independent-of-the-Germans France,’ he chuckled grimly. ‘But they’re here and a good half of the French police are in cahoots with them. And if we don’t carry on, we may find them on top of us. Which wouldn’t be pleasant. Don’t worry, Sylvie,’ he intercepted her frightened look. ‘They haven’t got much on me yet, particularly since our baskets are still with us. And they’ll want more before they pounce. You, my dear, have been more than a perfect foil, a lover beyond any suspicion.’ For good measure, he gave her a kiss.

  She left him at the gateway of a large house outside Marseilles.

  It was only as she was making her way back to the Hotel du Midi and reviewing the day’s events that she considered how odd it was that Andrzej’s kisses had never moved her beyond the excitement of creating their shared spectacle. Comrades in purpose, Sylvie thought. Her brother in subterfuge. How different it all was from her last meeting with Jacob.

  And then she remembered. The day’s adventure had obliterated her intention of speaking to Andrzej about locating Jacob. Anxiety suddenly replaced exhilaration. All the nervousness she had kept at bay during the day pounced on her in her solitude. She imagined Jacob in the hands of the SS. Imagined him lying in some dank prison. Almost, she reversed her direction and turned back to find Andrzej. No, she couldn’t do that. But tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would leave a message for him. At the café. Jacob had to be located.

  And then, miraculously, that very night, as her eyes perused the gathered clientele of the hotel, Sylvie saw him.

  The lights were low in the large ball room of the Hotel du Midi. On starched white tablecloths, candles flickered, reflected a thousand times in ornate mirrors. She was standing just to one side of the pianist who now accompanied her several evenings a week. As was her way, she let her gaze rest on different men in turn, following the rhythmic dictates of a love song, half spoken, half crooned. One of the men her eyes fell on in this way was sitting alone at a table in the corner of the room. There was something in the set of his shoulders, in the aloof yet intent cast of his head which drew her gaze again. Sylvie missed a beat. She felt rather than saw the slight mocking inclination of his lips. She raced through another number, then cut short her set. Only the sheer habit of professionalism made her slow her steps, exchange a few bantering words with regulars as she moved implacably towards the corner table. Jacob, at last.

  He spoke before she did, stopping her exclamation.

  ‘Mademoiselle, vous chantez fort bien. Je vous felicite.’ With a polite formality, he congratulated her on her performance.

  Sylvie was taken aback, at a loss for words.

  Then, he smiled, the smile she remembered which began in his eyes and gradually worked its way to his lips. Imperceptibly, she was not sure she had seen it, he winked. And again, before she had a chance to say anything, he began to list the numbers he preferred, warming her with his enthusiasm, yet keeping her distant. ‘And do you know,’ he continued his litany, ‘A l’hôtel d’Alger, je vous ai rencontré?’ He hummed an unrecognizable bar of music and then filled in some words, ‘A l’hôtel d’Alger, je vous ai rencontré; c’était minuit, plus ou moins Samedi.’

  Suddenly the glaze lifted from Sylvie’s eyes. He was making a date with her, tonight, at that vast ramshackle Hotel d’Alger on the other side of the harbour. It was her turn to smile and she made it a dazzling one.

  Of course she thought as she meandered back to the small stage. Andrzej had more or less warned her early on. It was better if she weren’t known as Mme. Jardine. Jacob, too, must be aware of that. Or perhaps he had his own reasons. She asked the pianist to play a familiar tune. Then she leaned sensuously against the high-backed piano and improvised, her lips curling lazily over the words which seemed to shape themselves of their own accord.

  ‘A l’hôtel d’Alger

  dans un autre pays,

  je l’ai rencontré

  c’était le Samedi

  l’homme de mes rêves

  mais seulement le Samedi.

  Dimanche il était
parti.’

  Jacob, watching her, felt the moisture in his palms. She had understood. But trust Sylvie to take his own coded words, and fling them back at him with a twist in the tail. He loosened his collar a little. Indeed, he would be gone tomorrow. But they had the space of a night. It had been too long, far too long. He had forced himself to wait, stay away from her until everything was in place, until work brought him here. In Marseilles, there was always the danger that he might be recognized and there was no point running unnecessary risks. It had taken a while to establish his new identity in Montpelier, to become Dr. Jules Lemaître with a post at the hospital, and some part time work with a local GP who needed the help. The first gave him access to the dying and with the dying came official papers which could with a little cooperation from colleagues be tampered with. The second gave him access to people’s homes, a sense of who was on whose side. Both were useful in terms of the real work - moving Jewish refugees to safety.

  He had begun on the Princesse’s suggestion by helping Dr. Weill with his children’s line to the hinterlands. Then had come the establishment of a line to Switzerland which had, only a few weeks back, taken him as far as Grenoble. He preferred to check out the contacts himself. He found the work exhilarating. Saw that people trusted him, listened without questioning. Were infused with his seeming calm. And now, the establishment of a line through the Pyrenees. It was necessary: anti-Jewish measures were now flowing fast and furious both from the Occupied Zone and in Vichy France.

  It was this last line which had brought him here, with papers for three of the inhabitants of his father’s house. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come himself, but he could no longer stay away from Sylvie. In the last weeks, he had dreamt of her repeatedly.

  There had been news of her, of course, through that underground network which now worked with greater efficiency than the telegraph system itself. He had known where she worked, what she was engaged in both at the hotel and in lesser measure in her clandestine activities. That knowledge when it arrived had fueled his hunger for her and had both fed and assuaged his anxiety for her safety.