by Elaine Young
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When he arrived home he poured himself a glass of whisky which he downed in two gulps. Then he dug out the leather bag his father had given him and unpacked the contents. He hadn’t looked at these things for many years and had all but forgotten about them. The family papers his father entrusted to him were in a strong brown envelope. There was the photo of his family; he had thrown out the frame long ago. His only connection to his mother, a grubby skein of red embroidery thread, lay amongst the papers. He remembered how he used to sleep with it under his pillow. Its soft silkiness felt so like her dear face. Money and faded ration coupons were there too, a mute testimony to his father’s love and provision. He had put his father’s watch in there for safekeeping. He took it out now and wound it. To his astonishment, it started ticking away and he decided that he would use it.
He had put away the wallet when he first got to Scotland and never looked at it again. It had been too poignant a reminder of his father, but now he opened it and looked at all the papers, counting the old franc notes. Suddenly he realised there was a letter tucked in the back, written on flimsy blue paper in a strong but feminine hand:
My dear friend,
Rémy is dead. He joined up with the maquis, as you know, and ten days ago they went out on a mission, to where I have no idea, and he was shot. One man, Jacques, brought his body back saying that he had been shot by a German patrol and we buried him during the night. Jacques and some of the others have moved in here, to protect us, they say. They are not local men. I think they are from Paris. The others, Rémy’s friends, are also chary of these men, but when I asked them about his death, they agreed it was a German bullet that had killed him. I think they are afraid. I don’t trust any of them now. Rémy was always a bit suspicious of this Jacques. We wondered if he was a collaborator, because when the Germans came here to commandeer the farm, he intervened, showing them a Nazi Party identity card to get them to leave us alone. When we asked him if he was a Nazi he just laughed and said it was a fake document that got him out of trouble. He has also been flirting with Adelina and I have feared that he was jealous of Rémy and may have tried to get her away from him. That leaves a big question mark. I would like to know who really killed my son and why. Don’t send any more people this way as we are no longer safe. Please destroy this letter. Adieu till we meet again when the world is rational once more.
Agathe Gaillard
There was that name again. Jacques. Could it have been the same one? Ari remembered vividly the last time they had all cycled out to the Gaillard’s farm. He and Matthieu had enjoyed getting out of Paris on Sundays and how good the Galliards had been to them. They used to play with their son Michel, ranging all over the farm. It was wonderful after the confinement of a Paris over-run by the German army. That last time they’d ridden out there, the old lady Mme. Gaillard had sent them away because of some trouble at the farm. His father had wanted to stay and help, but she gave him a letter which, Ari now remembered, he’d folded and put in his wallet. He’d never shown it to the boys or discussed it with them, but after that they never went back.
He sat on his bed and thought about those days, while the awfulness of that day when his father had been taken away came flooding back, bringing an almost physical pain to his chest. He heard his father’s deep voice encouraging him to be strong and not give up.
The truth is, Ari Mayer, you did give in. You didn’t find Papa’s vision of Zion in Israel at all, and you didn’t bring down any enemies. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above his dressing table. Look at you! Stuffy, bloated . . . he pressed his fingertips hard against his lids to prevent the tears from falling. With a sigh he tucked everything back into the leather bag, and after another glass of whisky, went to bed with a heavy heart.