by Martin Lake
‘But his papers will show he is a Jew.’
‘Not the real ones,’ Dorothy cried. She looked at Viviane as if she were an idiot. ‘You’ll have to get fake ones, forgeries.’
Viviane shook her head. ‘How can I do that?’
‘From what I hear, your husband should be able to arrange it.’ She paused. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t thought of it already.’
‘Alain doesn’t have much patience with authorities, with regulations and papers and such-like.’
‘Well he’d better learn to. The right piece of paper can be worth its weight in gold.’
In that case, Viviane thought, there may be a problem. But then she remembered the money that David’s mother had given to her.
She would ask Alain to try to get papers. They had rarely talked about who he did business with but she suspected that some were on the fringes of the criminal world at the very least. If anyone could help them, surely they could.
WHOSE BASTARD?
Grasse, November 1942
Odette Boyer listened to her friend Jeanne Greuze with only half a mind. She was relating her usual tales of who had bought more butter from the shops, who had been sold a better piece of meat or fish, who had been allocated two baguettes instead of one. Normally this was of the utmost interest but now Odette had other things on her mind.
Since he had come home with the news of Viviane’s marriage, she had grown increasingly suspicious of Roland. He was hiding something, she knew that. A woman did not stay married to a man for thirteen years without realising when he was lying.
The problem was that Roland was a consummate policeman and, as such, adept at withholding information whenever he believed it necessary. She felt sure that he was doing so with her.
Her mind gnawed at how he had forbidden her to gossip about David because his mother was unmarried.
‘Whose bastard is he, then?’ she murmured to herself.
Jeanne stopped her complaints mid-flow. ‘What did you say?’ she asked.
Odette was surprised, not realising that she had spoken aloud. Now a cold smile came to her face. ‘The child my sister has taken in,’ she said. ‘I’ve found out he’s a bastard. Only I don’t know who the parents are.’
‘I thought the mother was Viviane’s old pen-friend.’
Odette’s lips pursed. ‘Do you really believe that? Would you, dear Jeanne, take in the child of a woman you had no contact with since school days? Who you’ve probably never actually seen?’
‘I certainly wouldn’t.’ Jeanne hugged herself with pleasure as she leaned closer. This was far more interesting than talk of baguettes and butter.
‘And would a child be taken across France,’ Odette continued, ‘crossing the demarcation line to boot, just so a stranger could take care of him?’
‘It does seem implausible.’ Jeanne became hesitant now. She had a brother who she didn’t particularly get on with but she would never cause him real problems. It was different with Odette and Viviane for they loathed each other. A little shiver came over her as she wondered if either sister might actually wish the other harm.
The more Odette thought about it, the greater her doubt grew. She gave a sudden gasp of certainty. ‘Of course the child hasn’t come from Paris. It would be impossible. He must be from somewhere nearby.’
‘Sylvie Duchamp opens her legs to all and sundry,’ Jeanne said. ‘It’s likely her bastard.’
Odette pondered this. Jeanne might well be right. Viviane and Sylvie were as thick as thieves, always had been. But why would Sylvie seek to offload her son? And why would Viviane take him in?
‘Sylvie wouldn’t want a young child around,’ Jeanne continued. ‘Not when she’s…engaged in business.’ Her eyebrows almost shot off her brow.
‘Perhaps,’ said Odette.
Somehow, however, this did not quite ring true. Surely, if Sylvie had given birth to a son it would be common knowledge? Such things could not remain secret in any town or village. No, the child could not be Sylvie’s.
And then it came to her. Of course. It was blindingly obvious. Her breath was almost sucked from her body.
Why hadn’t she realised this before? She felt dizzy at her own failure to realise the truth.
The child must be Alain’s, fathered on some hussy who he had met on his travels. She had always suspected he bedded whoever he took a fancy to. He had persuaded Viviane, or threatened her, into taking the boy in. For the briefest moment she felt sorry for her sister but such feelings were so attenuated by a life-time’s dislike that it flamed for only an instant before dying.
Jeanne grabbed her by the hand, her face bright with excitement. ‘Odette, do you know who the parents are?’
Odette’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have my suspicions. But, like you, my dear, I’m not one to engage in tittle-tattle.’ She gave her friend a smug smile and departed.
Jeanne watched her go, seething in fury, her mind a cauldron of questions about the boy’s parentage and resentment that Odette had not shared her suspicions. And then she smiled. For she too, imagined that she might have the answer.
Odette hurried off to her mother’s house. She threw open the door, took off her coat and hung it on her accustomed hook.
‘It’s me, Maman,’ she called. She tried to keep the note of triumph from her voice.
‘Hello, dear,’ her mother said, offering her cheek for the ritual kiss. ‘How is Roland? He must be so busy nowadays. I never see him.’
‘I hardly see him, either. He is happier with his cronies at the police station than at home with his wife.’
Marthe gave her a sympathetic look and went into the kitchen, returning shortly afterwards with two cups of lukewarm coffee.
‘Maman,’ Odette began, ‘what do you think about that boy that Viviane is looking after?’
‘He seems a normal enough child,’ Marthe said. ‘A little reserved, perhaps.’
‘But don’t you wonder where he comes from?’
Marthe frowned. ‘Didn’t Viviane say he was an orphan? The son of her old friend?’
‘Pen-friend, Maman. Don’t you think it odd that a little boy should be sent across the whole of France to be brought up by his mother’s pen-friend?’
‘I hadn’t really thought.’
‘Well think about it now.’ Odette could barely keep the irritation out of her voice.
Marthe sipped at her coffee. ‘I suppose it is a little odd, now I come to think about it.’ She frowned suddenly. ‘Do you think Viviane is lying?’
‘Why do you seem so shocked? She’s hardly knows the difference between truth and falsehoods.’
Marthe did not answer. There was much in what her eldest daughter said.
‘So who do you think the boy belongs to?’ Marthe asked. ‘One of her friends? Sylvie Duchamp perhaps?’
Odette shook her head, sat back in the chair and sipped at her coffee. This was a moment to be savoured, more especially as it kept her mother on tenter-hooks.
‘It’s obvious, Maman,’ she said eventually. ‘The boy is Alain’s bastard. He’s always away, on so-called business. Now we know what that business entails. He must have girlfriends from Marseilles to Menton.’
Marthe blinked repeatedly, her mind galloping over this new information. She had never trusted Alain, never liked him. She always said he wasn’t good enough for her daughter. Now she had been proved right.
And then she gasped. ‘The mother must be a Gypsy.’
Odette hadn’t thought of this but it seemed a possibility. She gazed at her mother, annoyed that she had reached this conclusion before she had.
‘She’s probably one of his cousins,’ she said, eager to outdo her mother in vitriol. ‘There’s enough of them, and Gypsies like to breed with their own kind.’
She gave a dramatic pause. ‘And he’s always been far too close to his sister.’
‘Don’t be so filthy,’ Marthe cried sternly. ‘I won’t have such ideas in my home.’
Odette shrugged, cont
ent that she had planted the suspicion in her mother’s mind. ‘We’ll never be certain, that’s for sure,’ she said.
Both women fell silent, pondering what they had conjured up. Their dislike of Alain waxed stronger with every second, thickening and strengthening like a scab on a wound.
‘So what do we do now?’ Marthe asked finally.
‘It’s Viviane’s business and not ours,’ Odette replied. ‘We do nothing. For the moment.’
A moment later, Georges Loubet stomped in from the kitchen, put on his coat and grabbed his crutches.
‘Where are you going?’ Marthe said in alarm. He rarely ventured out lately.
‘I thought I’d go to the bar,’ he said. ‘I need the fresh air and company.’
‘But you’ve got company here. With me and Odette.’
‘Male company. Sometimes a man needs to talk with his friends.’
He shut the door behind him and looked through the window as he passed. A little rumble of discontent sounded in his chest. He cared for both his daughters of course, but he found that he liked Odette a little less with each passing year. He blamed it on the war. It brought out the worst in people, set friend against friend, children against parents, sisters against sisters.
He passed the bar without as much as a glance. His old friend Jacques called out to him but he called a curt hello and did not stop.
GEORGES INTERVENES
Grasse, November 1942
Georges hammered on Viviane’s door.
‘Papa,’ she said in amazement. ‘What’s wrong? Is Maman ill?’
Georges shook his head. ‘She’s fine, there’s no cause for alarm.’
He followed Viviane into the house, wondering what he was going to say, wondering what he actually wanted to say.
She was the youngest child and, although he rarely admitted it, had always been his favourite. He loved her wild, rebellious streak even though he knew it created problems for her mother. And, as she grew older, it increasingly caused problems for her: at school, at work, within the family.
Odette, on the other hand, had always been harder for him to love. More serious, more austere, more calculating. She was a pessimist rather than an optimist, and rarely given to any spontaneous act. In many ways her character chimed more with his mood, ever since the first war had taken his youth and hopes.
And perhaps that was why he liked Viviane the best. She was like the promise he had lost, the dreams which had been snuffed out on the killing fields of no-man’s-land.
He settled himself into a seat while Viviane poured him a glass of wine.
He went over in his mind the conversation he had overheard between his wife and daughter. He burned with shame at how they had relished Viviane’s predicament. They should have supported her, not denigrated her. If the boy was Alain’s bastard she should be pitied, not reviled.
He watched David playing in the yard. He was dark, it was true, as dark as some of the Gypsies who travelled the byways of the region. Like Alain and his mother, in fact. But then again, many French people had dark complexions, olive or tanned, especially in the south.
He sighed to himself. Could Odette’s suspicions be true? Could the boy really be Alain’s son? A son, perhaps of a Gypsy mother? He dismissed out of hand any notion that Alain had slept with his sister or even a cousin. But some other woman? It was possible, especially for a man of Alain’s ebullient, larger than life nature.
‘So why have you come?’ Viviane asked.
‘Can’t I visit my daughter?’ he countered.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You never do. Is there some problem?’
He pursed his lips. How to say it? If the boy was Alain’s bastard then she should be praised for taking him in. Few other women would do so, although it did not greatly surprise him that Viviane would.
He thought to talk about it in a circumspect way, be gentle and cautious.
He opened his mouth.
‘Is David a bastard?’
Viviane did not reply for a moment. ‘What makes you say that?’
He berated himself for his clumsiness and gave a little shrug. ‘I’ve heard rumours. That is all.’
‘Odette? Roland?’
He did not reply, not even with as much as a gesture.
‘I thought so,’ Viviane said.
He frowned. How could his silence give him away so readily?
‘I’ve told you already,’ she continued. ‘David is my old pen-friend’s son.’
‘But his father? You’ve never mentioned his father.’
‘I didn’t know his father. Why would I?’
He exhaled a huge breath.
Viviane’s mouth opened wide. ‘You think he’s Alain’s child!’
He held his hands up in front of him, as if to shield himself.
‘How could you Papa, how could you?’
He began to mumble, meaningless words over which he had no control, but stopped himself almost immediately.
‘It’s not you who says this, is it?’ Viviane said. ‘It’s Odette.’
‘It doesn’t matter who said it,’ he answered. ‘If you say it’s not so, then I believe you. As will your mother.’ He paused, wondering what to say next. ‘The boy’s papers should prove he’s legitimate. Prove who his father is.’
Viviane did not reply.
His heart lurched. So Odette had been speaking the truth.
He watched his daughter as the spirit went out of her.
‘Don’t fret yourself, child,’ he said. ‘It’s noble of you to take the boy in, courageous. Not many women would do it.’
‘He’s not Alain’s child.’
He shook his head wearily. ‘Then whose child is he?’
‘His parents are Jews. He’s a Jew.’
Georges stared at her in utter horror.
Finally, he spoke. ‘Are you mad? Those bastards in Vichy are hunting down the Jews. They’re doing the Germans work for them. You’re in terrible danger.’
‘I know. But what else could I do. David’s mother was being hunted by the police. She begged me to take him. What else could I do?’
Georges closed his eyes. This was madness. This was terribly, dreadfully dangerous.
He looked up and gazed into his daughter’s eyes. He realised at once that it would be futile to try to argue against her. She had made up her mind. The wild, rebellious child.
‘What do his papers say?’ he asked, finally.
‘I have no papers. And what would they say? That his parents are Jews. That he is a Jew. I have no papers.’
He reached out and took her hand. ‘Then we must get some.’ He reached for his wallet and gave her a thousand francs, all that was in there.
‘I have enough money,’ she said. ‘David’s mother gave me lots.’
Georges brushed away her attempt to give it back. ‘And now your father gives as well.’
‘We have to get identity papers and a ration card for David,’ Viviane said to Alain when he returned home.
‘I have contacts,’ Alain said. ‘I can get clothes for the boy.’
Viviane sighed. It was true that Alain’s adept use of the black market had kept them better fed than many in Grasse but she foresaw a different problem.
‘I know you can get clothes for him but that’s not good enough.’
She told him about what her father had said.
Alain frowned. ‘Maybe you’re all worrying too much.’
‘You don’t know this town like I do,’ she said, fiercely. ‘You don’t know women, either. People will see he is dressed well enough and fed well enough but they will begin to wonder why I never use a ration book for him. And then the police might hear and they will ask for his identity papers.’ She picked up a comb and dragged it through her hair. ‘I wish his mother had given us those as well as the money.’
‘The papers would have a yellow mark on them,’ Alain said. ‘To show he is a Jew.’
Viviane frowned. ‘I didn’t know.’
Alain po
ured himself a second cup of coffee. His mind began to work at the problem, and his love of thwarting authority began to flame.
‘He will need a ration book and a birth certificate,’ he said. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘And a record of baptism as well.’
Viviane looked shocked. ‘Baptism? You even refused to allow Celeste to be baptised.’
Alain gave a rueful grin. ‘Celeste is not a Jew. David will need all the documentation we can get.’
Viviane took his hand. She suddenly felt sick to the stomach. ‘Should we baptise Celeste as well?’
‘There’s no need. She’s French.’
‘But if the police discover that David is Jewish, they might decide that Celeste is his sister and she would be in danger.’
‘Roland would never let that happen.’
‘I think you’re coming to put too much faith in Roland,’ she snapped. But, to be honest, she was more worried about what her sister might do. Or her mother.
‘Roland is a stickler for the law,’ Alain said. ‘He lives by the book. There’s no harm in him.’
‘But if the book changes? If the law changes?’
She could hardly believe what she was saying. She had always had faith in Maréchal Pétain, always thought of him as the father of the nation, a shield against the Nazis. Now, she was beginning to have her doubts. Doubts she was reluctant to entertain.
‘It’s the Maréchal’s deputy I don’t trust,’ she heard herself say. ‘Pierre Laval is like a little German, he’s the one who is betraying us.’
‘I don’t trust any politicians,’ Alain said. ‘Laval’s no better nor worse than any of them. At least he used to be a socialist. Unlike Pétain.’
‘Maréchal Pétain saved us at Verdun,’ Viviane said.
It was a while before she spoke again. ‘And I believe that he’s saving us now. Or trying to.’
Alain shook his head violently. ‘There’s no point in putting our faith in politicians, officials or anybody else. We can only put faith in ourselves, and in our friends.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Gerard was around here when you were away.’
‘He’s a good friend.’