by Martin Lake
She flew to him, plucked him up and mumbled words of comfort. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the look in the faces of several women, disgusted that she had left such a small child.
‘No better than she should be,’ one of the women muttered. ‘Her mother must be ashamed.’
She ignored them and hurried after her sister, desperate not to draw any more attention to herself.
She reached her parent’s street just in time to see Odette stride into their house, comfortable, confident, pushing Celeste ahead of her. She glanced up the street, caught a glimpse of Viviane and slammed the door behind her.
Viviane stared at the door angrily as she marched up to it. She hesitated on the door-step, the familiar lump in her throat. But then she took a deep breath and walked in.
‘What’s this Odette’s told me?’ her mother demanded, hand pressed angrily against her hip. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Good morning to you, as well, Maman,’ Viviane said.
‘Enough of your cheek, young lady,’ her mother said. ‘Odette says she found Celeste wandering the streets on her own. And who is this child?’ Her finger pointed like a stick at David’s face, making his face pucker up.
‘He’s the son of my old pen-friend,’ Viviane said. ‘She and her husband died in an air-raid and one of her neighbours brought him here for safe-keeping.’
‘Where was this air-raid?’
‘Near Paris.’
Her mother’s face took on a look of disbelief. ‘And this neighbour came all this way, crossed the border from the Occupied Zone. To bring him here? To you? I don’t believe it.’
‘That’s your prerogative. But it’s the truth.’
Her mother’s eyes drilled into her face. Viviane knew she could not withstand such piercing scrutiny for long and she turned towards Celeste.
‘Have you kissed Grandmaman?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Celeste answered, brightly. ‘She said we could have breakfast here.’
‘That’s very kind, Maman,’ Viviane said. She held out the baguette, hoping she would not take it.
Her mother snatched the bread without a thank you and flung it on the table.
‘So what are you going to do about this boy?’ she demanded.
Viviane rubbed her forehead wearily. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought.’
‘That’s no surprise. Well, you need to think, at once. You can’t look after the child so what are you going to do with him? Send him home?’
‘He has no home, it was destroyed by the bombers.’
‘Then he should go to an orphanage,’ Odette said. ‘The nuns at the convent will take him.’
Viviane did not reply. She was not a believer, but she didn’t think it right that a Jewish boy should be brought up by Catholic nuns. On the other hand, it might be the best solution.
‘Or won’t your Satanic beliefs allow you to send him there?’ said her mother.
If there was one thing which caused Viviane to adopt one path instead of another it was the views of her mother. No sooner had her mother taken one stance, then she would take the opposite. She took delight in opposing what her mother advocated and it was a response she no longer tried to control. Sometimes, when she was being charitable, she thought that her mother acted in the same way to her.
‘It’s nothing to do with my beliefs,’ she snapped. ‘It’s what’s right for the child.’
Her mother sighed. ‘Has he got a ration card?’
Viviane shook her head.
‘And yet you think it’s right for the boy to go hungry and poorly clothed? How on earth do you think you can support him without a ration card or money. And with such a feckless husband as yours.’
‘Keep Alain out of it, Maman.’ Viviane was aware of the anger in her voice.
‘I suppose the fool is all for keeping the child.’
‘He’s still in Marseilles, Maman,’ Odette said. ‘With his seedy friends, no doubt.’
Viviane did not respond. Arguments about Alain took a well-worn, predictable path and one she had never yet negotiated successfully.
‘Leave the girl alone,’ came a gravelly voice from the kitchen.
Her father came into the room, in his vest, with a towel around his neck which was bleeding from the blunt razor he had just used.
David stared wide-eyed at him. He was on crutches, and his right leg swung above the ground, trousers tied just below where his knee should have been.
‘Had an eyeful, young feller?’ he said.
‘Where’s the rest of your leg?’ David asked.
‘In Verdun,’ he answered. ‘Along with my dreams.’
‘We don’t want to hear about your war, Georges,’ his wife said. ‘This one is bad enough for all of us.’
‘The boy looks as though he might be interested.’
David took a step closer. ‘Were you a soldier?’ he asked, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘My grandpa was a soldier but he died in the fighting.’
Viviane’s throat clenched in fear. David’s grandfather would have been in the German army, not the French.
She ruffled David’s hair fondly. ‘Let’s not talk about war and horrible things,’ she said. ‘My mother has a pussy cat, called Gingembre. Would you like to see her?’
David nodded.
‘Take him into the yard,’ Viviane told Celeste. ‘See if Gingembre is there.’
‘She will be,’ her father said. ‘Lazing in the sun. Just like all the females I’m responsible for.’
He lowered himself into his chair. ‘Now, Viviane,’ he said, ‘what are you getting your mother all vexed about?’
Viviane told the story about her pen-friend once again. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he believed it as little as her mother did. When she finished, he reached for his pipe and began to clean it. He worked slowly, carefully but, although he seemed to be concentrating fully on the job in hand, his wife and his daughters knew he was carefully thinking things through.
Finally, he put the pipe on the table next to his chair.
‘Are you sure you want to take the boy?’ he asked.
‘I have an obligation to my old friend.’
‘I don’t even recall you having a pen-friend,’ her mother snorted, glancing at Odette for support.
But her husband held up his hand for silence, all the while staring thoughtfully at Viviane. ‘And, even if you believe that you have an obligation to your friend, do you want to take the boy in?’
‘Yes.’
‘It might be for years.’
‘Nevertheless.’ She gave a quick nod.
Her father picked up the pipe again, sucked on it, then began to pack it with some shreds of tobacco.
‘Have you thought about what your mother said?’ he asked, finally. ‘About how to feed and clothe the boy?’
For a moment, Viviane did not know how to answer. Then she rummaged in her purse and brought out the rolled up bank-notes. The family stared at the money in astonishment. Then Georges whistled.
‘The boy must have been greatly loved,’ he said. ‘You’d better be sure you can live up to that.’
‘I’ll try, Papa,’ Viviane said.
Her mother snorted with contempt but realised that this was now an end to the matter.
Georges turned to David. ‘Would you like some breakfast, boy? With some honey from my brother’s bees.’
David nodded eagerly.
‘We’re all victims of wars,’ Georges said, although as much to himself as to the others.
GERARD PITHOU
Grasse, August 1942
Viviane could not wait to leave her parents’ house. Despite eating little the day before, she could barely swallow the few bits of bread she put in her mouth. Finally, her father beckoned her to give him a kiss. ‘You’re a foolish girl,’ he said. ‘But a good one.’
She smiled and called Celeste and David.
‘Au revoir, Maman,’ she said.
Her mother nodded curtly and looked awa
y. Viviane made for the door. The ordeal was over.
The streets were filling up with people now, housewives searching for any shops with food to sell, men lounging on street corners, a few people sitting over coffee or wine at one or other of the cafes which still remained open.
She cursed that all her bread had been eaten by the family; she had planned on it lasting for a few days. Perhaps she would go back for more later today. But no, she thought, Monsieur Blanche will be suspicious that she’d eaten so much. In the past, before the war, he would not have cared how much anyone ate, as long as they paid. But now he had to pay heed to rations and regulations as well as having his own finely-tuned belief in giving people fair shares, no more, no less. He was a good man and without him, she felt sure they would have been much hungrier.
One of the market stalls had a small mound of peppers, onions and two courgettes. She could make a stew out of these, she thought, and reached into her bag for some money. Fruit and vegetables were still off ration although they were in short supply and she always took the opportunity to buy some, when she had the chance. She could not remember a time when she had last eaten a good piece of meat.
She paid for her purchases and hurried home. The sooner she got David off the street, the better. She realised that she would have to tell Celeste the story about his parents dying in an air-raid without him over-hearing. And firmly tell her not to repeat the story to him. At least, not for the present.
They spent the day in the house, not an unusual thing in the heat of the summer. The children played in the tiny back-yard, laughing with pleasure at their games. Viviane had to go out frequently to tell them to keep quiet, fearful that the neighbours would hear David’s voice and grow suspicious.
Time after time, she counted out the money that David’s mother had given her. She had never seen so much. She kept doing the sums in her head. It would feed and clothe David for a couple of years, she thought. Would that be enough? Could things really stay so bad for so long?
Most people thought that once Britain was defeated the Germans would moderate their demands and things would get back to normal. There would be more food on the table, regulations would be eased, perhaps the Germans would even end the occupation of the north and France would be whole again.
But Britain refused to surrender.
The Nazis claimed that London had been destroyed, that the Royal family had fled to Canada and there was looting on the streets of Britain.
But whenever Alain listened to the broadcasts from the BBC the British never admitted to any of this. They remained defiant. And now, since the Americans had joined the war, almost exultant.
She put her head in her hands. She couldn’t see what would be for the best, for the allies or for the Germans to win. She just wanted this horrible war to be over.
She looked at the money once more. It might be enough to feed and clothe David but how would she buy the things he needed if he didn’t have his ration book? There was the black market, of course, which was, after all, how Alain made most of his money. But that was normally only just enough to keep starvation at bay. And David was going to get bigger and hungrier all the time.
What would happen if the war lasted another ten years, she thought, the panic beginning to build in her throat. She could never keep David a secret for that long. Never even feed him.
A heavy knock sounded on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, trying to quell the anxiety in her voice.
‘It’s Gerard.’
She sighed. Gerard was one of Alain’s oldest friends. She slid back the lock and let him in.
He was a big man, tall and broad, and very ungainly. He seemed to fill any room he was in, and she always felt anxious for her few ornaments when he moved about.
He was always very polite, punctilious in fact, although he sometimes seemed nervous in her presence. Occasionally she caught him staring at her which made her feel both amused and a little uncomfortable. But she would immediately chide herself for such a reaction and never mentioned it to Alain. Celeste was very fond of him because he spoilt her terribly.
‘Is Alain here?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘He’s still away.’
‘He must be doing a good deal of business.’
She smiled. ‘Let’s hope so.’
He did not answer and the silence grew heavy. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ she asked although she had little left.
‘Thank you,’ Gerard said and threw himself into a chair which creaked in complaint.
She came back from the kitchen a little later to find he had left the chair and was standing at the window staring out at the yard.
‘Who’s the little boy?’ he asked with a frown.
‘The son of one of my friends,’ Viviane said lightly. ‘It’s not very good coffee, I’m afraid,’ she added quickly to divert his attention.
‘We must all make do in these troubled times,’ Gerard said. ‘Did you read the latest announcement from Monsieur Laval? It seems that the relève is not working as well as it might.’
‘I don’t know what the relève is.’
Gerard looked surprised. ‘The plan to release one of our prisoners-of-war in exchange for every three men who volunteer to go to work in Germany.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘There are too few patriots nowadays. Not enough men are volunteering to go so our soldiers must continue to be captives.’
‘And you?’ Viviane asked. ‘Have you volunteered?’
‘Not yet.’
Viviane nodded but made no comment.
Gerard gestured to the window. ‘Why is the boy with you? Where is his mother?’
Viviane took a deep breath. ‘She’s dead, I’m afraid. And his father.’ And then she told him the story she had concocted.
‘And you’ve informed the authorities?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. I’ll wait until Alain comes home. It will take hours at the Mairie and the police station and the children will fret if I take them with me. Alain will tell them.’
‘It will be necessary.’ He frowned at the boy. ‘He’s very dark,’ he said.
‘His father was as well,’ she said. ‘I think he may have been from Corsica.’
Gerard drained off the coffee. ‘If you want, I could go to the authorities for you.’
Viviane put her hand on Gerard’s arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘I wouldn’t want you to go to the trouble. And Alain will be home soon.’
Gerard nodded, drained his cup in one loud gulp and made for the door. But as he stepped over the threshold his glance strayed once more to David.
‘I won’t forget, Gerard,’ Viviane said, shutting the door behind him.
She looked through the window at the children. They were shrieking even more loudly now. Perhaps it would be best if she took them out. They could go for a walk in the countryside to the north of the town.
She rapped on the window. ‘Come on, children. We’re going for a walk.’
DOROTHY
Grasse, August 1942
‘Maman,’ Celeste cried, ‘there’s a sick lady here.’
A car was parked awry against the side of the road. She grabbed Celeste and David and raced over to it.
There was only one person in the car, a middle-aged woman, slumped against the driving wheel. Viviane pulled open the door and shook her. She groaned, then lifted her head and stared at Viviane with glassy eyes.
‘Madame?’ Viviane said. ‘Are you hurt? Did you crash?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Neither. I just blacked-out, fainted.’ She groaned once more and rested her head in her hands. Her voice sounded slurred and her accent a little hard to understand.
‘I should get you to a doctor.’
‘No need,’ the woman said. ‘It’s a health problem, darling, not a crash. It happens all the time. I think I may have forgotten to take my pills.’
She looked up and smiled at the children, gazing wide eyed at the car. ‘Nice kids,’ she said.
‘
My daughter found you, madame. She brought me to help you. Please let me.’
‘You wanna help me?’
‘Of course.’
The woman shuffled into the passenger seat. ‘Then drive me home.’
‘But I’ve never driven a car before —’
‘Nothing to it,’ the woman said. ‘You just put your foot on the gas pedal and steer the wheel. I’ll do the clutch and stick.’ She beckoned to the children. ‘Hey kids, fancy a ride in an automobile?’
Viviane tried to object but the woman would not be contradicted. Although still a little confused, she was very clear in her instructions on how to drive.
A few minutes later Viviane was driving, white-knuckled, along the road leading out of Grasse.
‘It’s only a couple of miles,’ the woman said.
‘What’s a mile?’
‘Distance. Two miles is four kilometres, I guess.’
Viviane looked horrified at having to drive so far.
Ten minutes later the woman told Viviane to turn into a driveway. She did but steered too wildly and the woman had to grab the wheel to straighten the car up.
‘Go easy, girl,’ the woman said. ‘It’s not a race. My name’s Dorothy, by the way.’
Viviane nodded. For the moment she couldn’t even recall her own name. She got out of the car and gave her hand to the woman who waved her away and made for the villa.
Viviane stared at it in amazement. It was a grand villa. She had never seen such a magnificent place. There were half a dozen rooms downstairs, each of them as big as the ground-floor of their own little home. It was beautiful yet rather overwhelming.
‘Welcome to Villa Laurel,’ Dorothy said. ‘Come into the garden-room and I’ll order some tea.’
The room looked over a beautiful garden with a view to Grasse and beyond to the sea. The furniture in the room was astonishing. The sofa and chairs were covered with the most exquisite fabric, a large table polished until it gleamed and a huge chandelier caught the sunlight in a thousand sparkles.
Dorothy rummaged in a drawer for a bottle of pills. She swallowed a couple and slumped into a chair.
A young woman entered the room, carrying a large tray. She gave Dorothy a look of concern.