Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Of course, chérie. Mr Wilding—James. It would be an honour for us.’

  ‘Take Jeanne to America, Mr Wilding,’ came her mother’s voice again, this time breaking into a sob. ‘Take her away from the war.’

  ‘It’s a probability, Mrs Lefèvre.’

  ‘What do you think of all this, Jean?’ came Lefèvre’s voice.

  ‘I think we should invite Jeanne in to see what she has to say. But I think it’s a happy moment. If only my poor daughter could be here with us.’

  The door opened and her mother appeared, her mouth crooked and trembling between a smile and a grimace of tears. ‘Darling chérie, please come in. Mr Wilding has just announced us your wonderful news.’

  Jeanne leant forwards and gave her mother a kiss. She wondered if her mother’s tears were from relief rather than happiness. Relief that her daughter would be spared a life of unmarried shame, relief that the family would keep its reputation intact. Jeanne breathed deeply and stepped into the salon. Vaguely, she saw her father making a nodding motion, Jean Bassouin smiling through his sadness. But they were on the periphery of her vision, almost unreal, onlookers to the focus of her attention, all that seemed true and glowing and lovely—Jim. A smile took hold of her body and seemed to fill her with the sun. She approached him and he held out his hand for hers. They kissed.

  Wilding was to leave that afternoon in the Citroën Lefèvre had lent him. Thankfully, Jeanne’s parents had let them alone for their last hour together. Unable to go up to her rooms, they sauntered around the house and garden and back again, their arms locked, their conversation light and sparse. Occasionally, they came to a hesitant halt and kissed. Twice, Wilding pulled her into a hidden corner and they kissed more savagely, their hands running desperately over each other’s bodies, seeking the slightest breach in their clothing, the smallest of access to bare skin. Their last moments were frantic attempts to hold back time.

  ‘It’s been growing in me steadily,’ said Wilding, on one occasion. ‘A feeling that I was attracted to you, wanted you. But Harry—I couldn’t have done that to him. I’m kind of guilty about that, Jeanne.’

  ‘Yes. I know,’ she had replied, frowning. ‘Me too. In a way, I’ve betrayed him, but I have no regrets—I must live, I must love. And to survive I have to escape this dreadful boredom, this prison my parents have built. Know that I love you, Jim. And that probably, for me too, I have been wishing for this. You are an exceptional man.’

  ‘We’ll go to America one day. When my job is done.’

  ‘How long must I wait, Jim?’

  Wilding shook his head. ‘Not long—I hope. My job has been put aside for the moment and I’m a government man—working for the Yankee dollar, as we say. There are things…things to do with the war they want me to see to.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Jeanne inhaled. ‘Let there be no danger.’

  Wilding laughed. ‘Hell, why should there be? No, the US is keeping out of things in Europe. We just want to make sure our interests are seen to, that’s all. No one has any reason—or right—to harm me. In ten days I’ll be back. We’ll marry as quickly as possible and you’ll be an American citizen. Believe me, Jeanne. In the times that are soon coming, it’ll be the best protection anyone could hope for. Now kiss me and say goodbye, my lovely Jeanne.’

  That evening, while Jeanne and her parents sat in the salon after dinner, she said a silent prayer to keep Jim Wilding safe from harm. He had promised to phone as soon as he reached Casablanca. Jim was full of reassuring gestures like this. He was doted with a sort of feeling for others and planned ahead so that fears were dispelled and doubts transformed into trust. So different from Harry, she found herself thinking, her mind going off at tangents. Harry, poor Harry, was—had been—someone so spontaneous, like a leaf that placed trust in the wind to lead him to the next decision and the next event. She did feel remorse. Her love for him had been so immense, but maybe all first loves were like that—intense, desperate, and unachievable, doomed to magnificent disaster.

  She sipped on her sweet wine. Father had lately initiated her into this evening ritual—cognac or whisky for the men, Muscadet or Rivesaltes for the ladies—an unsaid message that he had accepted her into adulthood. She was one of them.

  Her mind meandered, back and forth to Jim journeying north and Harry—ironic this—probably a prisoner in the south or already bones bleaching in the sun. Perhaps there were people, she thought, that were necessary encounters before the real and total happening occurred. Even if she had thought her love for Harry everlasting and strong, even if they had given each other their whole souls; even if they had written those beautiful words—it was only part of a process, a step towards Jim Wilding, a trial in which she had learnt the bittersweet taste of love and the incredible folly of passion and desire. It had awakened her, made her realise who she was and prepared the path towards her destiny, the encounter with Jim at a moment she was at her lowest.

  Sitting in her armchair, she distantly watched her father switch on the wireless set. A faint noise of music and fritter and the strange other-worldly noises as he fine-tuned the frequency reached her ears. She saw it now: her destiny with Jim as the future Mrs Jeanne Wilding, a life in America, studies perhaps or a devoted mother, a large house, sunshine but not the fierce dry heat of Morocco. No dust, no sand whipping in on the desert winds. America. Newness and comfort and safety. When would her parents pay visit? she began to wonder, when her father held up a hand and called for silence. The news was about to begin.

  The tremulous, tinny voice—that of the institutional radio speaker, Pierre-Maxime Deschamps—crackled from the radio cabinet. Lefèvre turned up the volume.

  ‘It is with great chagrin, but also relief for millions of French people in this time of suffering, that on this day of the 22nd of June, 1940, the Armistice has been signed. France is in defeat before the German forces. But it is also in honour. For our patrie has in part been saved. From the Spanish border to Franche-Comté to the border with Switzerland, a Free Zone has been declared. Members of the new government together with Marshal Pétain state that the Empire will remain intact and under complete French rule, as well as the Fleet which is required to protect it…’

  The announcement was brief, concise and with no mention of the torn remnants of the French army, the hundreds of thousands of prisoners or the rest of France occupied by the Nazis. It ended abruptly with news that the German government had offered a peace treaty to the British. And then the strident, martial anthem of the Marseillaise began to play. Jeanne and her parents remained silent, motionless for a few seconds. And then Lefèvre stood up, followed by his wife and Jeanne, as the anthem ran its course. There were tears in her mother’s eyes and she broke into a sob as the hymn reached its final, tragic and glorious chorus.

  ‘I wasn’t informed,’ said Lefèvre, shaking his head dumbly. ‘They gave me no idea of the scale of what was happening. Why?’ His voice rose, filled with incomprehension and almost pity, for his own plight or that of his country or both. ‘Why, in God’s name?’

  ‘And what about De Gaulle?’ said Jeanne, promptly clasping a hand over her mouth. Her father turned abruptly to her.

  ‘De Gaulle? Who told you about him?’

  ‘Jim,’ she replied, somehow feeling not in the least intimidated by her father anymore. She felt grown up. ‘He talked a lot about the situation. I know quite a few things, actually.’

  Lefèvre let out an irritated gasp: ‘Good God, my own daughter knows more than I do—the Administrator officially in charge of this damn area! I don’t believe it!’ Again he shook his head, a gesture that reminded Jeanne of a dog emerging from a river and shaking off the water. ‘And yes—what about De Gaulle, indeed? I wonder if Bassouin knows—Le Guédec, too.’

  ‘Can I suggest the BBC,’ offered Jeanne.

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, Jeanne,’ said her mother sharply.

  ‘No. No, she’s right,’ said Lefèvre.

  ‘What?’ Her mother looked as t
hough she’d received a slap in the face.

  ‘Of course she’s right,’ added Lefèvre, frowning at his wife as though confronted with a village simpleton. ‘But it’s in English, damn it!’

  ‘I can understand,’ said Jeanne, daring to interrupt. ‘I can translate.’

  Her father stood with his mouth open for a few seconds. ‘Good God. Quick—the tuner. What’s the frequency? Chérie—’ He shouted over his shoulder to his wife—‘Get a glass of whisky for me—double. And a glass of wine for our daughter!’

  An hour of listening later, including much re-tuning as the radio crackled and spat and struggled to keep hold of the BBC, and they had a much different picture of what was happening. There were many other people in the salon now. Lefèvre had summoned the other expatriate officials and notables and events strangely took on an atmosphere of a festive working group. Those who had trouble understanding English strained to pick up the odd word and waited impatiently for Jeanne to give her translation. She felt elated in her new and important role and knew from the nods and smiles of encouragement from her father that he was proud of her—at last.

  Every twenty minutes, the BBC was re-broadcasting De Gaulle’s speech of 18th June—the call for continuing struggle against Nazi Germany. Given little attention earlier on in the month, the speech had now gained in importance. Jeanne felt shivers run through her when De Gaulle’s voice, solemn and charged with emotion, urged them to fight on as Free French Forces, the forces of Good against evil, fighting for the free world. He told them to make their way, by whatever means, to England. It was all so confusing, thought Jeanne, looking at the faces around her for signs of fellow incomprehension. Everybody seemed to be calling themselves Free French, though for completely different reasons. It was her father who eventually dropped the volume on the radio and called for attention.

  ‘The question now is what to make of all this,’ he declared. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘With all due respect, the last question shouldn’t have to be asked at all,’ said one of the gathering. It was the otherwise jovial bachelor, Fresquin, head of the Poste et Télégraphe services. He wasn’t so jovial now and the change made Jeanne feel quite uneasy. ‘The order is clear. Our government, with the Marshal probably at its head, has ordered us to carry on as we were.’

  ‘But who is our government?’ said Bassouin. ‘And to what degree are the Marshal and Free France under German influence?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? The official French sources clearly said that our loyalty is to France and our empire. An upstart in London, a Colonel who suddenly promotes himself to general and proclaims himself the saviour of France, isn’t going to tell me what to do.’

  ‘A traitor,’ came a comment from the rear. ‘He didn’t stay in France for the rest of the campaign. Many troops were killed because they believed that defeat could be avoided. De Gaulle evidently thought that all was lost as early as mid-month.’

  ‘Some would call that intelligence, courage and insight,’ returned Bassouin.

  ‘Look, Jean. We are all aware of your Jewish origins,’ said Fresquin. ‘If you’re afraid that we’ll suddenly change into Nazis and hand you over just because we choose the Vichy government, you’re mistaken.’

  ‘My religion has nothing to do with it!’ It was the first time Jeanne had seen Bassouin angry. ‘Just remember that my son-in-law has died for France. I’m sure he wouldn’t like to see half of our country suddenly swallowed up by Germany.’

  ‘Try to look logically at the situation,’ added a young army captain. ‘I urge you to stop taking a personal stance in all this.’

  ‘I am not—’ began Bassouin.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. Calm and order. Calm and ORDER!’ rose Lefèvre’s voice, struggling against the sudden outbreak of shouting. He gave his wife an urgent glance. ‘Get the food in, chérie, get the food in, for heaven’s sake!’

  But cakes and sweet wine did not calm the storm. There were several arguments, rather heated, going on between groups of officials. Someone—Le Guédec, perhaps—gave someone else a push and received a push in return. A glass was broken. Suddenly, a loud electronic wail, rather like a police siren, filled the room followed by a deafening screech of feedback. It was Lefèvre at the radio, volume knob turned on full. When he switched it off, a high-pitched ringing remained in the air. Faces slowly unfolded from creases of pain. Lefèvre breathed deeply and exhaled.

  ‘I propose we continue this at the office. Gentlemen—please. We cannot allow ourselves to get emotional in such a crisis. Some of you were ready to kill each other, it seemed!’ Several listeners laughed and Lefèvre held up a hand. ‘Colonel, Captain. Inform your men to wait until morning for clear orders. For the moment, everyone must keep calm. Monsieur Fresquin—I’m placing a platoon of legionnaires around the telegraph system for protection. Let’s proceed to headquarters now and leave my ladies to peace. Is everybody in agreement?’

  There was a general nodding of heads, followed by a raised hand. It was the young captain. ‘But what do you think, sir? As Administrator—’

  ‘To be discussed later,’ said Lefèvre.

  ‘No,’ came another voice, surprisingly Bassouin’s. ‘As head of this region, your opinion would serve as general guidance for us all.’

  Lefèvre hesitated, shifting uneasily for an instant. ‘You put me in a difficult position, Messieurs.’

  ‘We insist,’ said the captain, followed by murmurs of agreement from the others.

  ‘Well, I.’ Lefèvre cleared his throat. ‘I repeat that it is essential we discuss the subject at headquarters, but if you want a quick personal opinion, my instinct tells me that De Gaulle is right. My head says wait and see. The question is: how long before Germany takes over what Pétain has managed to salvage? How long before the Italians invade Algeria from Libya? How long before officials arrive from Vichy, under pressure from the Boches, and begin implementing those heinous policies that we have so far managed to stop?’ Lefèvre stopped and in the silence audibly drew breath. ‘I am a hard man, gentlemen. You are all aware that I will tolerate no opposition to French interests here or anywhere else. But I am no fatalist. I cannot accept that France is defeated for good. I cannot accept that even the smallest square metre of our fair country is occupied and controlled by foreigners.’

  ‘So you are with De Gaulle.’ It was Fresquin again.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You are ready to revolt against the Vichy government, our government—the government of France.’

  ‘No! No, I didn’t say that! Gentlemen, please keep calm,’ said Lefèvre in an attempt to stop the speculation. But it was too late. Once more, there was an outburst of shouting from the gathered men. Lefèvre gestured for his wife and Jeanne to go and as they closed the door behind them Lefèvre began to plead for the men to take leave. In the hallway, Soumia appeared, looking worried.

  ‘A telephone call, Madame. From Mr Wilding. I hope we are safe.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Soumia,’ said her mother, as composed as ice. ‘Jeanne—you may take the call upstairs away from the broohah. Now, let’s get the gentlemen’s coats ready, Soumia. And make some sandwiches for Monsieur Lefèvre. The night will be long, I fear.’

  Jeanne ran upstairs, suddenly uplifted with the thought of talking to Jim. Good, true Jim—he had promised he would call. She went into her parents’ bedroom with its sad, over-orderly decoration and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Jim. Hello, my darling. It’s me, Jeanne.’

  Wilding’s voice came back to her, weak in volume from the distance, but nonetheless deep and reassuring. ‘Hello, Jeanne, my love. I’ve just arrived—no problems on the road. The checkpoints took one look at my papers and passport and let me through without any hassle.’

  ‘Hassle?’ said Jeanne. It seemed a nasty-sounding word.

  ‘Trouble,’ corrected Wilding. ‘Problems. I’m to meet several officials here starting this night. I need to rest a little before. And I’ve just heard
the news in the hotel lobby. France is defeated.’

  ‘We listened in earlier. And to the BBC. Father convoked his colleagues.’

  ‘Is everything ok? You sound a little nervous, Jeanne.’

  Jeanne sighed. ‘It turned into a very big argument. The BBC is re-transmitting De Gaulle’s call for resistance. He wants us to side with him.’ Jeanne heard Wilding make a humming sound, as though he were thinking aloud.

  ‘What’s your father’s standpoint, Jeanne? Forgive me, but it’s important.’

  Jeanne hesitated, struggling for a few moments to clear her mind. ‘He’s quite objective—as usual,’ she said. ‘But he really seems to think that De Gaulle is right. It caused quite a row.’

  ‘Jeanne, my dear, listen to me. I don’t want to alarm you, but you have to listen. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes, Jim. I am,’ replied Jeanne, a pinprick of fear entering her. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You can expect trouble. When such a situation arises and beliefs are involved—political ones, national ones—then there’s bound to be a little upheaval.’

  ‘Do you mean demonstrations? Shooting?’

  ‘Maybe not. But I wouldn’t say no, either. I’ve also spoken to the American embassy here in Casablanca. They’re telling any American citizens in the country to stay at home and keep off the streets just in case.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Jim. I’ll be doing that too.’

  ‘But your father’s position makes you and your mother potential targets, Jeanne. I think it’s more than just staying inside the house. If your father has declared his standpoint, then sooner or later his hierarchy will send someone down to make him change his mind. If he doesn’t…’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘But that’s not for now. No panic. See how things go. But please prepare your bags and be ready to leave at the slightest sign of danger. Your father may be setting himself up as a potential enemy of the Vichy government. Jeanne?’

  ‘Yes, my love.’ Her voice almost a whisper.