‘The problem here,’ said Admiral Dordogne, looking at the faces around him, ‘is one of your refusal to accept authority ...’
‘Not quite that,’ broke in Father Benoir. ‘No ...’ He held up his hand as the Admiral opened his mouth to continue. ‘No ... please, Uncle .... mon President, I must speak as the Church here in the village. Our rejection of authority has nothing to do with it. We simply want to protect ourselves - God’s chosen - from those outside . . . No, no, not, of course, from yourself. But there are many who would mock us, who would hinder our work. The closing of the gates was a necessity.’
‘There were alternatives,’ said the Admiral.
‘Yes, we could have fought,’ said Colonel Lorraine. ‘With what few weapons we have.’
‘Crossbows? ‘ asked Admiral Dordogne.
‘The glory of France has been promoted by crossbows before,’ said Father Benoir. ‘Uncle . . . er Admiral, we are the Lord’s chosen. Not individually, of course . . . Don’t you see .... ? God has chosen France to continue the human race. And, all of us as Frenchmen, are happy to lay down our lives, with crossbows against tanks, spears against artillery, swords and stones against napalm ... to give God what he expects of Frenchmen ... to give the new world the future which God offers through us.’
‘Vive the glory of France, the good God and our leader,’ chanted Colonel Lorraine.
‘Here! Here!’ said the council.
Admiral Dordogne stroked his chin. ‘A compromise is evidently required. Suppose I suggest a sensible one, will you accept it? ‘
‘Perhaps,’ said Father Benoir.
‘Then I have a simple one. Firstly, you will open the gates and you will bridge the gorge ...’
‘But that is how we keep people out, mon Admiral,’ said Barbusse.
‘Quite. But first you will do those things. And then, furthermore, you will promise that under no circumstances will you prevent the passage of any person, official or non-official, into the town. You will give absolutely free access and passage to all ...’
‘That doesn’t sound much like a compromise to me,’ grumbled d’Arle.
Admiral Dordogne scowled at him. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Because if you do all those things, then I will guarantee that no one comes into the town to interfere.’
‘But...’ began Barbusse.
‘By posting an army guard outside your gates,’ continued the Admiral. ‘The guard will stop anyone from coming in.’
‘Ahhhh ... ’ said Colonel Lorraine.
‘I don’t see what difference. ..’ Barbusse scratched his head.
‘Authority is the difference,’ said Admiral Dordogne. ‘Like justice, it must be seen to be done. The result is the same either way . . . but my way is the official way. It is the Government - and the Government is the people of our beloved France - that is preventing people from entering ... it is not the villagers who are keeping people out.’
‘Quite brilliant, mon Admiral,’ said Colonel Lorraine, smiling broadly. ‘An excellent scheme which will please everyone. A bloodless victory for the army - and a moral victory for the village.’
‘Lorraine,’ said Admiral Dordogne, grandly. ‘Like France, like the government, the people are also the army. The victory is only to the negotiators.’
The President of France, Grand Admiral Dordogne, left the village of St Pierre-des-Monts in triumph. The villagers stood beside the open gate and cheered him. As ever, he was the perfect statesman, stopping here and there on his walk to the bridge for a friendly word. Barbusse bristled with pride when the Admiral clapped him on the back and shook his hand. Then the Admiral took his stand once again on the metal bridge, and was lifted, slowly and majestically back across the chasm by the bridge-laying tank.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Barbusse, later in his bar, as he poured glasses of wine for the village defenders. ‘I deliberately starved myself in anticipation of the battle.’
‘You did?’ asked Constable Chaminade.
‘Of course,’ said Barbusse. ‘I thought to myself, as there is to be a battle, with bullets and things, then I may get shot in the stomach. And, if I get shot in the stomach, then it would be better for me if it were empty.’
‘You should have told me that,’ shuddered Constable Chaminade. ‘I consider it most selfish of you to allow all the rest of us to be shot on full stomachs.’
‘Pah,’ snorted d’Arle. ‘It was much more likely, Constable, that you would have been shot in the head. And that, for absolute certainty, is safely empty.’
Barbusse reached into the glass case on his bar, pulled out a thick cheese roll and handed it to Constable Chaminade.
‘Thanks,’ grunted Chaminade. ‘It is poor payment for d’Arle’s insults.’ He began to take a bite at the sandwich, but Barbusse snatched it back again. ‘That, Constable, cavern-guts, is for the Jewish prisoner. By now, he is almost certainly starving, and he wouldn’t eat the ham I gave him last night.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaminade. ‘He didn’t eat it. It was still on the side of the rack, this morning.’
‘Then take him that, and a glass of wine,’ ordered Barbusse. Chaminade grunted and turned towards the door. He stopped, then turned back to the others. ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘In the dungeon, of course,’ snapped Joliot.
‘No, he isn’t,’ said Chaminade. ‘I brought him out and took him up to the battlements for exercise.’
‘That’s right. I saw him there,’ grunted Barbusse. ‘He refused to take a crossbow and help defend us. What did you do with him then, Chaminade? ‘ His tone became ominous.
‘I, er . . .’ stammered the Constable. ‘I er, went to greet the Admiral with the rest of you. Didn’t you hear me cheering? ‘ D’Arle groaned. He took the cheese roll from Chaminade’s hand, and as the Constable began to protest, he reached up and wedged it into Chaminade’s mouth. ‘You may as well eat it, you blundering imbecile. Obviously, your prisoner has escaped.’ Barbusse sighed. ‘Perhaps it is just as well,’ he said, heavily. ‘Josephine has been telling me about diets for Jews. It might have been rather difficult for us to keep him here, anyway.’
There was a strong breeze blowing along the avenue. It caught and tore the leaves off the trees, and tossed them past the Grand Admiral’s office window.
Admiral Dordogne stood at the end of his conference table. His back was stretched so taut that he was barely on balance, and he could clearly see his nose as he stared at the members of his cabinet assembled before him. He cracked the knuckles of his hands behind his back.
‘There, gentlemen! The matter is simply solved. I cannot understand how you permitted it to develop into such a monstrous crisis. A little tactful treatment in the early days would have averted the whole problem.
‘My villagers are trusting, loyal, loving, unimaginative. The backbone of France. But they’re idle peasants. And they have to be treated like idle peasants.
‘And you, gentlemen, are fools. I work eighteen hours a day. Not only must I govern the Common Market, rule France, negotiate on all major issues for the great powers, advise our new colonies, supervise the election campaign, keep guard against the threat of Communism - and write my own scripts for my television Cordon Bleu cookery course - but you expect me to carry out your work, as well...’ He prodded a bony finger at the cabinet members. They blushed.
‘Is it not possible for me to delegate even the simplest responsibility? Gentlemen, I am going to give you one clear piece of advice for the future. Never again, under any circumstances, threaten the people of my beloved France ... my children of the soil, my friends, with military action . . .’he paused, ‘just three weeks before I’m up for re-election.’
‘Give me that bloody ‘phone, I want the pleasure of firing him myself,’ roared the Editor of the Morning Star of David. ‘If he were not my sister’s boy, I would have done it long ago.’
The pale-faced news editor, who doubled as theatre critic, and trebled as the paper’s sports columnist, swallowed and slid the telephone a
long the narrow desk, in the direction of his chief, who occupied the position of honour and authority at one end.
‘Morry!’ he shouted into the receiver. ‘I don’t care whether you are a failed medical student or not... nor that you are my favourite sister’s offspring. Nor that your father is a major shareholder in this company. You are this time positively fired. All the time we are here working our fingers to the marrow, while Playboy Cohen takes advantage of his position to take a week’s holiday on the Riviera when he should be writing about the Air Force.
‘You didn’t go to the Riviera? Good . . . that pleases me. After all, you went to the Riviera last time. Italy, perhaps? No, let me guess. You went to Barcelona? Not quite ... ? You went to St Pierre-des-Monts! Good ... everybody should go there at least once in their lifetime. With the President? Marvellous ... everyone has excuses, but only a Cohen would claim to have spent a dirty weekend with the President of France.
‘A story? Tell it to me . . . make me laugh. I haven’t had a laugh since Wienberg charged me cotton prices for my mohair suit. You parachuted ... a shame it opened ... into the village. You did? And they put you on a rack. Excellent. It shows that the French villagers have a true sense of justice. And then? ... I don’t want to know about a ham sandwich. What else? My God. You’re certain? This isn’t a Cohen joke, my boy?’
The Editor looked up and flicked his fingers at the cub reporter. ‘Get the recorder. I want this taped . . . quick . . . through the other extension. Hurry.’ The young reporter ran across the office to the small desk beside the window. He picked up the telephone receiver and stuck the tape recorder microphone to it with a rubber sucker.
‘Go on, repeat the story,’ said the Editor into his receiver. He listened for ten minutes. ‘Good boy,’ he grunted. ‘Good boy. I am pleased, and your mother and father will be pleased. Yes, you can have a by-line - as a reward. Now hang up ... business talk is finished. Any extra time you pay for yourself.’ There was a click as his line went dead.
The Morning Star of David for the first time in its entire history, scooped every other French national newspaper, but only by one edition. The editor had taken the precaution of covering his costs all ways by selling the information to the Paris news agencies.
Charles Grouflier smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. The noise of hammering, from below the deck of the ark, was drowning the instructions he was trying to pass on, from the silent Moreau, to the village workmen.
‘Who’s down there? ‘ he asked irritably. ‘Constable, go and look.’
Chaminade shuffled along the deck, kicking aside the piles of wood shavings, and disappeared out of sight down the companionway. The hammering stopped.
‘Ah,’ said Grouflier, lowering his voice. ‘Now ... as I was saying ...’
‘I’ve caught him ...’ shouted Constable Chaminade, his head appearing above the deck. Grouflier sighed in exasperation. ‘I’ve got him again . . . he’s back.’ Chaminade pushed Morry Cohen ahead of him up the companionway steps. ‘He surrendered himself to my lawful authority.’
‘Tell him to leave me alone, or I’ll punch him up the crutch,’ threatened Morry, shaking himself free. ‘I’m not a prisoner. I could quite easily have escaped when you left me, but I didn’t. I’ve decided I want to stay with you.’
‘Well,’ said Barbusse, ‘you’re half right. You’re certainly staying, but I can assure you that you are a prisoner. You can either walk peaceably back to the dungeon, or I can carry you there myself and elongate you by half a metre on the rack.’ He reached forward to take hold of Morry’s arm.
‘Don’t you touch me, fatty,’ said Morry, stepping backwards, and picking up a bulky piece of timber. ‘The days when Jews could be pushed around and persecuted by any half-witted fascist Crusader are long gone. I’ll poke this right up your nose if you come near me.’ He swung the piece of wood menacingly.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ asked the voice of Father Benoir from behind the crowd. The workmen parted to let him through. He looked at Morry still swinging the length of timber around his head.
‘I’ve decided I’m not a prisoner any more,’ panted Morry. ‘I’ve decided that I’m staying here as a free Jew.’
‘Put down the club. You can’t talk while flailing that thing around,’ said Father Benoir, quietly. ‘No, Barbusse, give him a chance to say what he has to say.’
Barbusse unclenched his hands. Morry rested the piece of wood on the deck. ‘I want to come with you on the ark,’ he said.
‘Over my dead body,’ glared Barbusse.
‘If that’s the condition, I’ll be happy to oblige,’ growled Morry, swinging the club over his head again.
Father Benoir’s arm stayed him, and Morry lowered the weapon a second time.
‘Well, for one, you ought to have someone on board with a knowledge of Jewish history,’ said Morry. ‘You never know, one of the children might grow up wanting to be a Jew. It could be unorthodox, I admit,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but you can’t be certain that it couldn’t happen. And, then, I’m a good reporter. I can report anything ... I can chronicle things for you. At worst, I bet I could even write a Christian sermon for you, Priest. And . . . er . . . then there’s the bit that the Bible says - your man it was -who said suffer everybody to come to me. He was Jewish at the time, so he meant other Jews, and I’m Jewish, too, and ... er. .. er...’ Morry ran out of reasons.
‘You haven’t done very well,’ said Henri Laplace, unsympathetically.
Morry sighed. ‘And I can’t swim, either.’
Barbusse laughed. ‘And you’re a lousy salesman, too.’
Morry grinned at him, feebly.
Father Benoir turned to Grouflier. ‘What about accommodation for him? Could we fit him in somewhere? ‘
‘It’s all right . . .’ Morry interrupted him, cheerily. ‘That’s what I’ve been doing. I, er ... moved the pig sty a bit. No, just a few inches. And I built a modest tabernacle. And made a place for a hammock . . .’
Father Benoir frowned at him. ‘A tabernacle? And a hammock next to the pig sty? ‘
Morry grinned. ‘What else could a Jewish refugee ask for? ‘
‘I suppose you could ask to become the ship’s moneylender,’ said Yves d’Arle, sourly.
‘That reminds me,’ said Morry, looking at Barbusse again. ‘I owe you for a telephone call. I’d have left the money on your bar, but you took all my cash away when I arrived. It was eleven minutes-to Paris.’
‘Oh,’ said Barbusse. He thought for a moment. ‘Eleven minutes ... daytime call... will be eight francs and...’ He stopped speaking and frowned. ‘A telephone call? To your mother?’
‘No. I rang my newspaper about the ark.’
‘God Almighty,’ grunted Barbusse. ‘The Colonel will have me shot.’
‘What has been done, has been done,’ said Father Benoir. ‘The fault is ours, not his.’ He indicated Morry. ‘We should have kept him locked up. And, now, as he has asked to stay with us, I see no reason why he should not. One more on the ark is neither here nor there.’
‘I can earn my keep,’ promised Morry. ‘I know a bit about medicine. And I did a midwifery course in my first year at university ... I’ll be useful with so many pregnant women around.’ ‘Pregnant women? Where? ‘ asked Yves d’Arle.
‘Here, of course. There are a lot of them, I’d say,’ said Morry. He looked over the side of the ark and pointed. ‘That woman, for a start... I can tell by the look on her face ... Of course, I’d have to make tests to be positive, but I’m reasonably certain.’
‘Oh, good Lord, that’s my wife,’ groaned Henri Laplace.
Yves d’Arle looked horrified. ‘You said others?’
‘Lots,’ said Morry happily. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many radiantly pregnant women in one village.’
Barbusse burst into laughter. ‘Josephine ... my Josephine,’ he chuckled.
Farmer Joliot glared at him. ‘You bastard. You are an even more stinking bastard
than I imagined. Look what you’ve got us all into.’
There were murmurs from the other men.
‘What ... him? One man? ‘ began Morry.
Father Benoir took Morry by his arm and led him away from the sad-faced group of men ranged around a rather pale Barbusse. ‘No, it’s not quite that. But I think we should leave them for a few minutes,’ he said. ‘A certain internal village problem has arisen that I would prefer not to hear about.’
Morry nodded understandingly.
That evening, in the bar, Barbusse put his arm across Morry’s shoulders. ‘I like you. You’re insolent and you’re a bit too pushy. But you remind me of myself twenty years ago. Only I was stronger and you have a larger nose.’
The weight of Barbusse’s arm was making Morry sag a little. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘There are other differences between us, though, that you haven’t mentioned.’
‘There are? ‘ asked Barbusse.
‘Yes. You are a dumb ox, and I am a man of learning,’ said Morry. ‘You choose violence rather than use the few brains God endowed you with . . . though, on further thought, I suspect that what brains you do have, were accidental rather than deliberate on the part of your creator. You resemble the baboon in the square far more closely than any human being I have ever met. You are the most unwashed, unshaven, dirty, sweaty and unwholesome individual I have ever encountered. I am equally certain that your war triumphs you keep boring everyone with were due to the enemy fleeing in terror at the thought of any form of contact with your disgusting person ...’
There was a clatter and a scuffle as Yves d’Arle hurriedly slammed down his glass and moved himself out of the way, in anticipation of Barbusse’s reaction.
Barbusse laughed. ‘That’s what I mean,’ he spluttered. ‘You are so confident you don’t even consider the terrible revenge I could take. That’s why I like you. In fact, because I like you, you can stay here with me, instead of in that draughty old dungeon. And, in return, you can help me with a little occasional work.’
Beyond The Rainbow Page 14