Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  ‘But Maréchal Pétain —’

  ‘Is doing nothing. He doesn’t care. Not for the likes of us. Not even though my husband joined the army. He was a surgeon.’

  Sympathy raced over the woman’s face. ‘Where is your husband now?’

  Rachael shook her head. She had no idea, had not heard from him in the two years since the fall of France.

  Then she took a deep breath. ‘Madame, you must help me. Please. I beg you.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ The woman looked around in alarm, in case anyone was near, in case anyone might be listening.

  Rachael pushed her child towards her. ‘Take my little boy. He’s only four. He’ll be no problem. He’s a good boy.’

  ‘But I don’t have enough money to feed my own family.’

  Rachael scrabbled in her purse and handed over a thick wad of notes. ‘It’s my life savings. Use it for the child.’

  The woman looked at the money and then at the little boy. She shook her head. ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘You must take it to pay for David.’

  The woman took a step backwards. ‘I don’t want the boy, either. It’s too dangerous. If what you say is true then it will be a crime to hide him. It will put my family in danger.’

  Rachael wept now. ‘Please take him. You look kind. I can see that you love your daughter.’ She fell silent, wringing her hands. Then she gasped and looked behind her. The foot-beats of the police were getting closer. She turned to the woman in anguish once again.

  The woman opened her mouth and Rachael almost wept, certain now that the woman would refuse once again. But she fought back the tears and stood mute, her whole body pleading.

  ‘You won’t tell?’ the woman asked, at last.

  Rachael’s heart thrilled with fragile hope. ‘Not even under torture,’ she said.

  The woman looked horrified at her words. Then she reached out and took David’s hand.

  Rachael thrust the money at her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, hardly able to speak now. ‘What’s your name?’

  The woman shook her head.

  Rachael understood immediately. ‘Of course.’ Then she bent to kiss her son on the cheek and strode out of the street towards the line of police.

  The little boy started to go after her but Viviane held his hand tightly. ‘Maman’s only gone for a little while,’ she said. ‘She’s gone for a baguette. I’m going to look after you.’

  Then she opened the door to her house, shepherding David in ahead of her.

  ‘Who was that?’ Celeste asked.

  ‘A friend,’ Viviane answered.

  She stared into her daughter’s face. ‘Celeste, you must never tell anybody what has happened.’

  ‘Not even Auntie Odette?’

  ‘Especially not her. Nor Uncle Roland.’

  Celeste shrugged and stared at the little boy who was beginning to snivel.

  ‘Get a cup of water for him,’ Viviane said. And then she glanced at the roll of notes in her hand and gasped. There must have been twenty thousand francs. It would be enough to feed the boy for many years. Then she bit her lip. How could she get food for him without a ration card? Without papers?

  She bent down to the little boy and began to rifle through his pockets.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he wailed.

  ‘I’m looking for your papers,’ Viviane said, forcing brightness into her voice. ‘Did your Maman give you any papers to look after?’

  The boy shook his head.

  Viviane stiffened. There was the sound of feet pounding on the street and then a hammering on the door.

  ‘Open up,’ cried a voice.

  She put her fingers to her lips and gestured Celeste to take David into the kitchen. ‘Don’t either of you come out,’ she hissed to her. ‘And keep silent.’

  She waited until Celeste had closed the door behind her, quickly brushed her hair and made her way to the door. The hammering grew more intense.

  ‘There’s no need to break the door down,’ she said, throwing it open. The policeman was young, barely twenty.

  ‘Pardon, madame,’ he said, ‘but have you seen a woman and a boy sneaking around nearby?’

  Viviane shook her head.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certain.’ She gave him a smile. ‘What has she done? Has she been selling things she shouldn’t?’ She stepped closer to him. ‘You can tell me.’

  The boy reddened. ‘No, I’m not at liberty to.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Viviane said. ‘I know you can’t. I was only teasing you.’

  The boy swallowed. ‘If you see anyone you must report it.’

  ‘Of course. Shall I report to you?’ She touched him on the arm. ‘Or to my brother-in-law, Capitaine Boyer?’

  The boy stiffened. ‘I did not realise you were related to the Capitaine, madame.’ He bowed. ‘Please forgive me for troubling you.’

  He turned on his heel and hurried off. Viviane closed the door and leaned against it, her heart pumping fast.

  Now what do I do, she wondered.

  Slowly, she made her way to the kitchen. Celeste had sat David down with a cup of water and was telling him about her best friend, Monique. He looked terrified, on the verge of tears.

  ‘How about some supper?’ Vivian asked brightly.

  ‘Yes please,’ Celeste said. ‘You’d like some supper wouldn’t you, David?’

  The little boy nodded but did not speak.

  There was half a baguette in the pantry, bought yesterday and now hard and dry. Viviane sliced it thinly, poured a little milk into a saucer, and soaked the slices in it until they had softened a little. Then she put half onto a second saucer and placed both in front of the children. She would not eat tonight.

  Her mind raced, anxious about how she was going to get enough food for the boy when she barely had enough for the family. The sooner her husband returned home, the better.

  In the meantime, she thought miserably, she might have to go to her parents.

  ‘Come on children,’ she said brightly, time for a wash and then bed.’

  She poured some water into a basin and watched as Celeste gave herself a quick rub down. ‘Your turn, David,’ she said.

  ‘But I always have a bath before bedtime,’ he said. ‘And where’s Maman?’ He gave Viviane an imploring look. ‘You said she’d gone to the shop.’

  Viviane couldn’t think what to say.

  ‘Perhaps David’s Maman’s gone to his auntie,’ Celeste said. ‘Have you got an auntie, David?’

  ‘Auntie Ursula.’

  ‘Well that’s it then,’ Viviane said, kindly. ‘She’s gone to see your Auntie Ursula.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  David heard this with suspicion. ‘Will Maman be back soon?’ he whispered. ‘Auntie Ursula lives a long way away.’

  ‘She won’t be back tonight,’ Viviane said. ‘Tonight you’re going to sleep in Celeste’s bed.’

  David nodded, his face wobbly with distress.

  She took the children up the stairs and tucked them both into Celeste’s bed. She kissed her daughter on the forehead. She wondered whether to do the same to the boy but decided not to. She snuffed out the candle, shut the door behind her and went downstairs.

  She flung herself into her chair and wondered what on earth she had done.

  She went to bed eventually but sleep eluded her for a long while.

  She dared not dwell on what she had done in taking the boy in. She must have lost her mind. It was such a risky, foolish thing to do. She had placed herself and the whole family in jeopardy.

  To take her mind from such thoughts, she went over all the food she had in the house. A few tins of peas, a chunk of saucisson, an old brie which was oozing so much it seemed like butter, a bottle of olive oil, two tomatoes and half a pepper. If she bought bread tomorrow, there would be enough for two days.

  Perhaps I should take him to the police she thought as she finally drifted int
o sleep. But it was a troubled sleep, with dreams about houses which she could not leave because they had no doors, rooms full of strangers with staring eyes and a clock with hands which raced around the dial.

  She woke, sweating from the heat. The city streets beyond her window seemed to pant like a wild beast.

  The image of David’s mother came into her mind. What must she be going through now? What horrors await her? Perhaps she would go to prison or be sent to a factory to work.

  But no, surely she was wrong. The Maréchal would not allow such a thing. It was all a terrible mistake which he would rectify in the next few days. Or perhaps it was a rumour set running by the English or the Americans, a rumour designed to blacken the Maréchal ’s name. These things might happen in the north, she decided, in the part of France occupied by the Germans. But not here. Not in the Free Zone.

  THE FAMILY

  Grasse, August 1942

  Viviane got dressed quickly. It was very early, five in the morning, but she knew that she had to be out soon in order to get any chance of buying food. She pressed her ear to her daughter’s bedroom door. Celeste was singing quietly and in the background came the sound of faltering humming from the little boy.

  Viviane felt sick, a flood of nausea which swelled across her stomach and then, just as abruptly subsided, then swelled once again. What had she been thinking when she took the boy? How could she jeopardise them all in such a way?

  She pushed her fingers through her hair and hurried down the stairs to the living room. She was horrified to see a little backpack by the table. Where had that come from? It must belong to the child. He must have brought it with him when he entered the house although she could not for the life of her remember seeing it. She picked it up and put it on the table. Inside were neatly packed clothes, of good quality, some tiny children’s books and a teddy bear. He must have been distraught last night not to have asked for it.

  At the bottom of the bag was a picture. It was of Rachael holding a baby beside a short, dark man with pencil moustache and wide grin. She turned it over. Someone had written on the reverse, ‘Our new family, June 3rd, 1938. Aaron, Rachael, David.’

  So that would make David four years old. He was small for his age but bright and articulate. I hope he doesn’t remember too much of his old life, she thought. It would be bad for him and dangerous for us. The sooner he forgets his family, the better.

  She racked her brain to recall Celeste at that age. How much had she known at the time, how much did she communicate? She remembered her ceaseless chatter but not what it was about. Probably little more than endless questions and comments on whatever was happening around her.

  A smile came to her mouth. Not so very different from now in fact. Her heart welled up with love for her child. And was replaced just as swiftly with terror for her.

  She closed her eyes, aware that she now seemed to accept that she would keep the boy, despite the risks. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

  What would be the punishment for hiding a Jewish child? If Rachael had been right then the Maréchal’s government was working with the Germans. And the Nazis were said to hate the Jews. She groaned a little.

  But then she heard the patter of feet coming down the stairs, Celeste already dressed and David in the underpants he had worn in bed. He looked desperate and glanced around the room. ‘Maman?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s not here yet,’ Viviane said. ‘She must still be with Auntie Ursula.’

  David wailed in despair. Celeste looked distraught. Viviane, without thought, stepped over to the boy and picked him up, hugged him close and rocked him gently, crooning nonsense words all the while. After a little he stopped crying and looked up at her.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.

  ‘Then I’ll go to the shops and get some bread.’

  She told Celeste to help David dress while she went to the bakers. Celeste grew fractious at this for she loved going to the baker with her mother, to gaze at the bread and the increasingly rare sweet bun or tart.

  ‘If I don’t go this minute there won’t be anything left,’ Viviane said. ‘So you just do what you’re told and I’ll be back in a moment.’

  She grabbed her purse and unlocked the door, peering up and down the street nervously before stepping out. She shut the door behind her and, after a moment’s indecision, decided not to lock it. Celeste would do as she was told, she was certain of it, and to lock the children in was too risky. There had been several fires this long, hot summer and too few firemen to put them out.

  She turned right and made quickly for the Place aux Herbes. There were already a long line of market stalls setting up although there were pitifully few items being loaded onto them. Her husband’s place stood vacant as it had for the last three weeks. She sighed, angrily. She knew that he was working hard for them in Marseille but she missed him. She needed him here, immediately, more than ever.

  The boulangerie already had a queue of half a dozen women outside the door. She took her place in the line, nodding at the old lady in front of her. There was only the most subdued conversation and she felt suddenly bereft.

  In the past, before the war, there would have been lots of talk: about how slow the queue was, how much the shopkeepers were charging, gossip about neighbours, about how young people were so loud and had too much money, about how bad or good the mayor was, according to a person’s politics. How the perfume factory was going from bad to worse or good to better, according to the position one’s husband held in it. About the forthcoming dance or fête. About the doings of the church and how Father Sebastian seemed to be turning senile, and the fine young priest the bishop had sent to assist him. The priest who seemed to be perpetually blushing because of the looks that women gave him, women who should have known better, did know better, but could not help themselves.

  She neared the counter and was relieved to see that there were three baguettes still on the shelf. ‘There’s no more,’ Monsieur Blanche called to the women at the back of the queue. ‘I’m baking again later but there won’t be much even then.’

  Madame Couset stepped up to be served and Viviane held her breath. She had plenty of money and was known to brazenly attempt to buy anything left in the shop. But before she opened her mouth, Monsieur Blanche held up one finger. ‘One baguette only, today, Madame,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all I wanted,’ Madame Couset said, although no one in the queue believed her. She almost flung the money at Monsieur Blanche and strode out of the shop like a woman who had endured the foulest of insults.

  The old lady next in line bought half a baguette and smiled sweetly at Viviane as she left.

  ‘A half or a whole one, Viviane?’ Monsieur Blanche asked, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  The boulanger grinned and wrapped a slip of paper around a whole baguette. It was hot from the oven. She paid the money and smiled sweetly at Madame Dernier who was immediately behind her in the queue. She would have to content herself with half a baguette she thought.

  ‘Is your husband still away?’ Madame Dernier asked, with a glance at the baguette, insinuating that Viviane had no need of a whole one.

  ‘Yes. But I’m expecting him back today or tomorrow.’

  The woman stared at her coolly, unconvinced.

  Viviane ignored her and walked out of the shop. She gasped in alarm at what met her eyes. Celeste was standing on the far side of the place, holding David firmly by the hand. Even worse, her sister Odette was marching towards them.

  She flew across the cobbles, dodging through the stall holders who were busy setting out their wares, banging into two old men who moaned at her for being so clumsy. But she was too late. Odette had approached the children and was already questioning Celeste.

  ‘Hello,’ Viviane said breathlessly, as she reached them.

  ‘Why is Celeste out on her own?’ Odette demanded. ‘And who is this boy?’

  Viviane forced a
smile. In the hours she had lain awake she had come up with an explanation.

  ‘He’s the son of my old pen-friend, Simone Legarde,’ she said. ‘We started to write when we were at school.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a pen-friend.’ Odette’s tone was hard and suspicious.

  ‘You don’t know everything about me,’ Viviane said.

  ‘So why is her son here?’ Odette said.

  Viviane took her to one side and lowered her voice. ‘Because he’s an orphan. His parents died in an air-raid.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where they lived.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Near Paris,’ she said desperately. She was sure there had been a big allied air-raid on the automobile factories west of the city in the spring, raids which had killed many civilians.

  Odette looked unconvinced but decided to let it go for now. ‘So why is the child with you? Why isn’t he in Paris?’

  ‘Because Simone had no family, nor her husband. Her friend brought him here and asked me to look after him. It’s better than him being taken to some orphanage.’

  ‘And you agreed?’ Odette asked in astonishment.

  Viviane nodded. Antagonism to Odette was flaring with every word her sister spoke.

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Odette said. ‘We’re going to Maman’s.’ She grabbed Celeste by the hand and marched off.

  ‘What’s it to do with Maman?’ Viviane demanded, hurrying to keep up with her.

  ‘If it involves Celeste it involves Maman.’

  ‘Celeste is my daughter.’

  ‘Then you should have better regard for her.’

  Viviane swore quietly.

  ‘And speaking like that in front of her is part of what I mean.’

  Viviane gave her a filthy look and then her heart quailed. Where was David? She turned to look behind her and she gasped. He was nowhere to be seen. She started back the way she had come, her feet stumbling on the cobbles. And then she saw him, sitting in a gutter, howling in distress. Two old women were hurrying towards him, arms wide with concern.