by Bodie Thoene
“Now they will let you in to visit Uncle Jambonneau,” Jerome said positively. “They will not even suspect you could be the same fellow.”
Marie, perched on a stack of coiled rope, concurred. “You can tell the poilu at the gate that you are the other brother of Uncle Jambonneau.”
“Jambonneau has no other brother than myself,” Papa said sternly.
“But you do not look the same as that brother.” Marie studied the face of her father. She could hardly see any resemblance to Papa. “Monsieur, you look entirely different from our other papa, who is Uncle Jambonneau’s other brother. I suppose it will not make any difference to Uncle Jambonneau who you do not look like, since he is blind.”
“But Marie! Uncle Jambonneau has only one brother! We have only one papa,” Jerome declared in exasperation.
“Oui, Jerome!” she replied in a haughty tone. “I have eyes to see that. There he is . . . the Monsieur . . . only one person. But all the same, I shall miss the other papa now that he is gone. He was very good, even though he smelled badly and beat us sometimes.”
Jerome and Papa frowned down at her. Papa put his hand to his cheek and sighed. “She is too young to remember me, Jerome. It has been a long time since she has seen me as I was, I suppose.” He knelt beside Marie and smiled into her face. “I will tell you a story that will help you understand that I am he.” He looked upward as though the story were written on the cargo hatch. “When your papa was a boy on the farm he had a pig. He was a very dirty pig, covered in mud from head to foot. Before we took him to market, Papa’s father washed the creature. The skin of the pig was white underneath all the mud, and suddenly your papa did not recognize him because he was clean. But, voilà! It was the same pig! Soooooo.” Papa dipped his head slowly. He held up his hands in a gesture that indicated the story was finished.
“Oui.” Marie thought it over. “So?”
“So, ma chèrie! Think of it! I, myself, even I . . . am that pig!”
Marie pivoted slowly on the rope coil and eyed Papa with grave suspicion. “If you say so, Monsieur.”
Papa smiled with satisfaction, clapped his hands once, and rose to his feet. “There. Take a lesson, Jerome. Speak plainly, and you will not fail in your meaning.”
Monsieur Pierre Mazur was not a religious Jew. He had been an active political campaigner back in the days when the French Socialists like Leon Blum were in power.
How quickly the flower fades!
In France, various popular political dogmas went in and out of fashion about as frequently as the Ritz arcade changed the dresses on their dummies in the shopwindows.
Mazur was definitely out of fashion. He turned his attentions to other matters.
He was a Zionist. He seemed about as Jewish in looks, belief, and habit as bacon on a bagel. The rabbis did not approve of him, and yet when the Jewish Quarter was close to bursting at the seams from newly arrived refugees, they grudgingly agreed to work with him.
The Jewish orphanages, both religious and nonreligious, were dangerously overcrowded. Soup kitchens were feeding many more thousands than could be properly cared for. Occasionally the French became irritated and threatened to burn down a synagogue or shoot a Jew for old times’ sake. In those moments a man like Monsieur Mazur became an important intermediary between the religious Jews and the nonreligious Jews, between all the Jews and the hostile French population.
Today, in the Beth-el Children’s Soup Kitchen, there was great upheaval. The conflict was between the religious children and the nonreligious group of five Viennese Goldblatt brothers who had just arrived via Warsaw and Bucharest.
It was obvious to all the religious males that the children from Vienna were more Austrian than Jewish, no matter what their surnames might be. They looked Austrian. They spoke with rolling German tongues and had arrived in Paris dressed in lederhosen and knee socks.
In the middle of lunch, which was strictly kosher, one seven-year-old Goldblatt expressed too loudly that what he really missed and wanted more than anything was his mother’s bratwurst, sauerkraut, bread and butter, and a tall glass of milk. Did they ever serve such things in this soup kitchen? he wanted to know.
One thing led to another from the religious side of the table. Phrases like “ham-eating goy” grew violently to insults like “pig-kissing Nazi.”
A food fight ensued. The kosher soup kitchen was devastated. The nonreligious culprits, who should never have been brought there in the first place, were deposited in the Zionist Office of Welfare.
Thus they came to the attention of Monsieur Mazur. They stood, covered in dried lentil stew, waiting for some more suitable place to be found for them, someplace where eating bratwurst and drinking milk at the same meal was not a transgression against the Eternal and an affront to fellow Jews.
Monsieur Mazur spent a long time on the telephone. Who in the Jewish neighborhood had even one square inch of space left for five little boys?
No one. No room at the inn, it seemed. The door of hospitality for these wild Deutsch-cluckers was unequivocally closed once word got around that they had done battle against fellow Jews with all the fierceness of miniature Wehrmacht troops. Spoons and tin plates had banged little Jewish heads. Not even the rabbinical students in attendance had been spared the indignity of black coats splattered with food.
“What am I going to do with you?” Mazur glared at them.
The five brothers were without remorse. They glared back. Mazur thought what very good pioneers they would be in Palestine. What wonderful soldiers they would make against the Nazis if only they were older.
Their papers were stamped with the large J for Jew. They were among those who had left Austria just in time. They had been sent to temporary safety in Warsaw and then had managed to escape there as well. From Poland they had journeyed to Rumania. Why had they been sent to Paris?
Mazur asked the question.
They shrugged. “Where are we supposed to be?” replied the eldest, who was eleven and already bitter.
Mazur leaned his cheek upon his hand. He stared at the documents that allowed temporary residence in Paris for these stateless persons. His brain ached. He could not send them to the Catholics. Boys like this would turn the Catholics upside down or die trying. Such a move would be bad politics—sending Jewish delinquents to the priests.
Who was strong enough to handle such a force? And yet soft-hearted enough to see the deep wounds in the soul of each boy?
A light came on in Mazur’s mind. He held up his finger in mental exclamation. “The American sisters! Madame Rose and Madame Betsy!” He grinned as five sets of eyes narrowed in doubt.
Mazur picked up the telephone and dialed. He spoke to the defiant ones as the telephone of Rose and Betsy Smith buzzed.
“Madame Rose is an interesting woman. She has arms like a Titan. Once I saw her capture a thief who was attempting to steal the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. She tossed him to the ground and sat on him until he turned blue. I believe he died. In the 1924 Olympics, she threw the shot put. After that she boxed a Russian bear in the circus for a living. She does not like boys, but perhaps she will accept you so you will not starve.”
6
You Will Be Well Cared For
Uncle Jambonneau was very ill indeed. He was so ill that Papa brought Papillon, the white rat, home in a box and gave him to Jerome to care for.
“It is Uncle Jambonneau’s last request that you take care of his dog. Of course, if Uncle Jambonneau does not die, he says you will have to give Papillon back to him.”
Jerome accepted the solemn responsibility. Now Papillon perched on his left shoulder and tickled Jerome’s ear with his whiskers. Jerome could not understand one word that Papillon spoke to him, however. But all the same, the dog that was a rat made very pleasant company for a small boy.
Marie got used to the new papa, even though she often spoke wistfully about the old one. This papa was very solemn, and he was not often drunk and jolly. He combed his hair and stared int
o the mirror for long periods of time as though regarding someone he did not know. He reminded Marie of the self-portrait of the artist named Rembrandt who Uncle Jambonneau said had cut off his ear and given it to a lady. When Marie pointed this out to Jerome, Jerome said that Papa did not look anything like Rembrandt. Rembrandt had red hair, and his skin was yellow and green. Papa had black hair, white skin, and two ears. Marie replied that Jerome just did not know what part of Papa she was thinking of.
After each visit to the hospital ward of Uncle Jambonneau, Papa came home and talked about things he had never mentioned before. “Do you know that your uncle, my brother, has very good care at des Invalides? And it is free.”
Jerome and Marie had known this for a long time. They missed their free lunch visits.
And Papa would continue. “Did you know that when a French soldier is killed in battle, his wife and orphans also receive a pension?”
Jerome and Marie did not know that.
“So,” Papa said, as Uncle Jambonneau grew stronger, “a French poilu receives fifty centimes a day. And there they sit. Warm clothes, new boots, socks, hot food, and grog every day. And what do they do for it, I ask you?”
Jerome thought about Uncle Jambonneau and his burned eyes and all the old soldiers without arms or legs or other body parts. “A poilu is a soldier, Papa. Soldiers go to war and get hurt and killed.”
Papa wagged his finger in disagreement. “That is only when the war is real, Jerome. I have two ears, you know.”
Jerome nodded and gave Marie a look to remind her how foolish she had been to compare Papa with the crazy painter Rembrandt. “Yes, Papa. Marie and I have noticed your ears.”
“These ears have heard some very interesting things about the Funny War, Jerome. They say at des Invalides that there will not be a war. No one is killing anyone at the front. A very boring affair as wars go. Perhaps very soon everyone who is mobilized will be called down, and then it will be over.” He checked his image in the mirror. “It will be over, and everyone else will get pensions. Everyone else will come back wearing new boots and warm coats. When they are old and sick like Uncle Jambonneau, they will live in luxury at des Invalides and get free cigarettes and wine and food every day while I am here on the Stinking Garlic, trying to catch a bottom-sucking fish for my dinner.”
Papa appeared very sad at that thought. Jerome had never heard Papa speak so rudely about the fish he caught for dinner in the Seine.
Jerome tried to console him. “Marie and I will be here, Papa.”
“No, you will be grown and gone. It is the way of life. A man must think of his old age. I will be fifty.”
“When?”
“In twenty years, if I live so long.”
“But you are only thirty now.”
“Opportunity passes me by.” Papa sighed. “Not even the gendarmes think I am a good enough Communist to arrest. Every worthy Communist is in prison for seduction against the government or has fled. I have no employment. My children are ragged and hungry. If I perish now, where would you be?”
Papillon sensed the seriousness of the discussion. He ran up Jerome’s arm and tickled his ear. “The same place we are now,” Jerome said.
“This is what I mean.” Papa scratched his head. “I could enlist and send you my pay. And then when they disband the armies in a few months, I come home with the same rights as my brother. You see how it works, Jerome?”
“But what about Stalin?” Marie was very worried now at this crazy talk.
“He would only take our boat from us,” Papa said with conviction. “It is a very difficult world we live in, Marie. There are times a man must join an army and fight for important things. Security.”
“Like Uncle Jambonneau,” Jerome said. “And the old men at des Invalides.”
Papa took one last glance at himself in the mirror. “They will not refuse my enlistment.” He licked his palm and smoothed his hair. “I will look fine in the uniform of a poilu.”
Marie’s face puckered in consternation. “But who will take care of us if you enlist in the armees?”
“Who indeed!” Papa scoffed. “I have given the matter some thought. Madame Hilaire has just been evicted from her establishment.”
“Madame Hilaire!” Jerome and Marie blurted in unison.
“Well, what is wrong with her?” Papa frowned, although he knew the truth.
There were a million things wrong with Madame Hilaire. A former circus performer, she had been shot from cannons from her youth and was stone deaf by the age of thirty. Being deaf herself, she believed that the whole world was hard of hearing, so she shouted every word she uttered until one’s head ached. Her hair, singed by constant exposure to black powder, stood out from her head in a permanent frizz. At the age of thirty-six, she grew too large to fit into the cannon. She tried working in the concessions, but her shouting made small children cry, which was bad for business. After leaving the circus, she took up the oldest profession in the world. Unfortunately age, strong drink, and her ear-piercing voice made her unattractive to all but a blind man. Uncle Jambonneau was thus her only friend and customer.
Jerome and Marie sat in grim contemplation of living with Madame Hilaire in the small confines of the Garlic.
“It will not be so bad,” Papa said. “I will send money home from the armee, and you will all eat well. Uncle Jambonneau says she is an excellent cook, and she is the only woman I know who is fond of Papillon. It will not be for long, my little chickens. You must remember that this is not really a war at all. We will all be better off for it.”
The terrible news had come the night before.
The wire from the Ministry of War arrived at the tiny studio flat above the bookshop at No. 26 Rue St. Severin just after 9 pm.
Michelle Fain had put young Claude and Jean to bed. She sat down to write the weekly letter to her husband, Jean-Paul, who served France at the Maginot.
There was a sharp, official rapping at the door. She called out to ask who was there.
The reply was chilling. “War ministry telegram for Madame Michelle Fain.”
It was all so cut-and-dried:
Madame Fain,
We deeply regret to inform you that Private Jean-Paul Fain perished in an artillery attack. . . .
And so ended the life of her dearest Jean-Paul and all Michelle’s hopes for happiness. Only last autumn she had married Jean-Paul, a young widower with two small sons. They were good boys, but they were not her own. What could she do now?
This afternoon she packed a small wicker basket with the clothes of the children. It was the same hamper they had packed with lunch and carried to picnic beside the Seine last summer.
Were they going on a picnic, little Claude wanted to know?
Michelle did not reply at first. What could she say to Claude, who was five, and little Jean, who at three was already so much like his papa?
“I am going to be with your papa,” she replied at last. “You will be well cared for.”
Claude fought back tears. He was too old to cry, was he not? And little Jean did not understand, so he played with his blocks on the floor and paid no attention to anything.
After sunset Michelle led the boys by the medieval church of St. Severin, past the ancient well of the pilgrims and the gnarled tree in the courtyard. It was very dark, but they were not far from Rue de la Huchette. They walked up one narrow lane and down the next, until they came at last to the heavy arched gate of No. 5.
“Why have we come here, Mama?” Claude asked, peering up at the black wood of the gate. He always called her Mama because his papa said he should.
“There are lots of children here,” she replied in a detached voice, as though she were already somewhere else. “You will be happy here.”
She put her hand on Claude’s shoulder and her other arm around Jean.
“When will you come back for us, Mama?” Claude asked.
She touched his cheek. “I am going to be with your papa.” She placed the basket on
the ground. “Stand on the basket, Claude.” She helped him onto the lid of the hamper. “Can you touch the rope?”
He reached up and grasped the frayed end of the bellpull. “Oui, Mama.”
She kissed him and embraced Jean. “Take care of little Jean. They will help you here.” She tucked the hand of little Jean into the larger hand of Claude. “Count to one hundred and then ring the bell. Keep ringing until they open the gate. It will be good for you here. Better for you than with someone who has no money, no job. Adieu, cheri.”
Claude began to count. “Un, deux, trois, quatre . . . ”
Michelle left them there and retreated along the dark street to a narrow space between two buildings. She hid and watched unseen as Claude counted slowly. She should have told him to count to fifty. It would have been quicker.
“Quatre-vingt-dix . . . cent!”
“Good boy!” she whispered with relief when he skipped impatiently from ninety to one hundred.
The bell began to clang, loud and insistent. True to her instructions, he did not stop ringing until the latch of the massive gate clanked back and a sliver of light escaped, illuminating the two young boys on the street.
“What is this? Lord in heaven!”
A large woman stepped out from the courtyard and peered up and down the pitch-black lane in hopes of seeing some movement. Then she bent down very close to Claude. “Are you lost, little man?”
“No, Madame. We are brought to you.”
“Where is your papa?”
“At the war.”
“Where is your mama?”
“Our first mama is gone to heaven. The other one goes to join Papa. She cannot keep us, Madame. She has no money.”
Good boy! From her hiding place Michelle cheered him. The large woman clucked her tongue in sympathy, asked their names and if they were hungry now. And then, with one more look out into the blackness, she turned and led them in behind the safety of the gate.