Revolution Baby

by Joanna Gruda

  A few weeks before my thirteenth birthday, the time came for me to go back to my life of wandering, after a painful farewell in Breteuil, where the Buisson family had accompanied me, on foot.

  In Paris I went to live with Francine, Michel, and their son Pascal. They lived on the border between the 16th arrondissement and Boulogne-Billancourt. Francine was a tall, calm woman, with little round eyes, serious and gentle. Michel was an Egyptian of Greek origin, and in the beginning his intense gaze made me uncomfortable. But I soon discovered that it concealed curiosity rather than judgment. As for little Pascal, he didn’t seem too happy to see me suddenly move in. I tried to make friends with him, but before long I gave up, because my silly pranks and goofiness didn’t make him laugh at all. Like Olga, they were communist sympathizers who hadn’t joined the Resistance but were prepared to help those comrades who had.

  To start with, I had to enroll in the lycée. It was not as simple as sending a child to the local school in a little Norman village. This time, the school authorities, in addition to my birth certificate, asked for the family records booklet. Francine already had an idea how to get around this. She knew the director of the Collège Jean-Baptiste-Say, in the 16th arrondissement, and she was hoping to use this connection.

  “He’s a fairly nice man, but he has certain principles that he always abides by. He supports de Gaulle, and doesn’t like the Germans, but he doesn’t like communists, either. I think if we play our cards right, we should be able to manage without having to produce a fake family booklet.”

  “Maybe we can stick with my story that I’m the eldest of six children, but change some of the details,” I answered, hoping I’d be able to re-use all those children and their invented names and ages.

  “I have a simpler idea. As Monsieur Couturier is a Gaullist, we’ll say that your father, or even both your parents, are Gaullists, too. I think it would be better to say you’re an only child, otherwise it will get too complicated. So your father, Armand Binet, works for a newspaper in Normandy—we have to justify that little Norman accent you have, and the fact that you got your diploma in Breteuil. Since the Occupation, your father has no longer been able to write what he wants, so he convinced your mother to flee to England and join de Gaulle’s government in exile. As the journey was too dangerous to take a child along, they asked me to take care of you, because I’m, let’s see, your father’s cousin. What do you think?”

  “That’s all right by me. And do I get news from them, sometimes?”

  “Let’s say that sometimes you get news, enough to know they’re alive. And obviously, they took the family booklet with them.”

  “Could we change my father’s name so it’s Robert Binet? And my mother could be Olga, like in the family I lived with in Normandy?”

  “If you want.”

  “I could say I went with them as far as Dunkirk, but then with the bombing and everything, they decided not to take me with them to England. So they put me on board a train for Paris. I could tell the other children all about the bombing, and how frightened I was for those few days in Dunkirk . . . And you, Francine, you were waiting for me when I arrived at the station. What station do you arrive at from Dunkirk?”

  “Listen, let’s just agree on the broad outline, and as for the details, you can fill them in as you like, but keep us informed of what you make up. The main thing is to have a watertight story, but to never—”

  “—anticipate questions. I know. But that’s just what I’m doing, I’m constructing my watertight story.”

  Our plan worked a charm. Monsieur Couturier was delighted to be able to help people who were fighting for a free France.

  I started at the lycée three weeks after classes had begun. In the beginning, I acted mysterious, because I figured my parents would have asked me not to reveal anything about their escape. I was evasive: “My parents can’t look after me for the time being, but I can’t tell you anything.” Then I divulged a few additional details. “My parents are in London. They’re going to come back, but it’s impossible to know when.” I had learned my lesson, and this time I would leave nothing up to chance. Every evening before I fell asleep I went back over the details of a story that no one knew yet, adding new details. I knew the names of my grandparents, where they came from, the exact age of my mother and my father. I made up some old friends, and a dog that I had loved a lot but which we had had to kill. No one would ever even need to know most of these details, but I didn’t want to have to suddenly improvise some vital aspect of my life ever again.

  Several weeks went by before I made my first friend, Jérôme. During those weeks, I had time to devour a dozen novels about Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin, my new heroes. Jérôme and I complemented each other well. He was very good at drawing and he often gave me a hand in that domain. I helped him with composition. He was very small and shy, but my jokes made him laugh and he embraced all my suggestions for games enthusiastically. He didn’t mix with the others, just smiled shyly and was quick to blush. With me he loved running, jumping, and having thrilling adventures—something which didn’t interest most thirteen-year-old boys anymore: they preferred to annoy the girls, play hooky, or do nothing at all.

  The problem with Jérôme was that his father was a policeman. And for that reason, Francine and Michel wouldn’t allow me to invite my friend home. I explained to him that my father’s cousin and her husband didn’t like children very much, that we wouldn’t be allowed to speak loudly, or listen to music at their house, because Michel was a writer and needed an almost religious silence in order to write his books.

  “I really wouldn’t like living with them. Couldn’t your parents have chosen someone else to take you in?”

  “They didn’t have much time to look into it . . . But it’s not so bad, because I just find myself a quiet corner somewhere and I read, it doesn’t bother me not to make any noise.”

  “I could ask my parents, maybe you could come live with us, it would be more fun.”

  “Oh, no, if my parents chose Francine and Michel, I don’t think they’d be very happy to find out I’m living somewhere else.”

  I was proud of my presence of mind. Francine and Michel were not the cold, distant people I made them out to be to Jérôme. While Francine was not as warm as Olga, she was always ready to sit down and talk with me and she practically treated me as an adult. With her I spoke mainly about politics. And while she was a communist, unlike my mother she had a great number of reservations regarding some of the policies of the Soviet Union. With Michel I talked about literature and music. He had me read one of the books he had written, called Sébastien, l’enfant et l’orange, and I didn’t understand a thing. The story . . . well, in fact, there wasn’t really a story . . . There were characters, yes, but as for the rest . . . Michel explained to me that his writing was modern, and that was why I didn’t have any familiar points of reference, but that one must know how to avoid the trap of traditional narration in order to encounter language and meaning, or something like that.

  Michel also introduced me to classical music. One evening Francine and Michel had some people over for dinner, with a lot of wine, and they stayed until late. Michel asked me to help out, and put me in charge of the record player during the meal. He brought me the six records that made up a recording of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, the Pastoral. My job was to wind up the machine, replace the needle when the sound began to get scratchy, and change the records. I spent the evening at my post, concentrating on Beethoven’s notes—or as Arnold used to call him, “the great Bay-tov.” And he won me over in the end: as I had nothing else to do, other than concentrate on the music, once the evening was over I had to admit that that Mr. Beethoven came up with some pretty good stuff.

  CHAPTER 30

  On the Biniaux Family Farm

  My first year of lycée was over. Paris was still under German occupation, but our life as a besieged population wa
s not very different from life during peace-time, other than the food, which was in short supply, and pretty much always the same (oh, those rutabagas and Jerusalem artichokes!). Fortunately, I was now in a new category. Like all young people between the ages of thirteen and twenty-one in possession of a ration card, I was now entitled to a J3, the best kind of card. I was allowed 350 grams of bread a day (compared to 275 with the J2), and 125 additional grams of meat per week. There was no more milk, but I was allowed one liter of wine a week! That was pretty nice, but still I was always just a little bit hungry.

  Another summer, 1943, another departure for the countryside. To Champagne this time. As for the war, there was no end in sight; the Allies had landed in Italy, where they were advancing at a snail’s pace. I stuck little flags on a map of Europe to show the cities that had been liberated by the Soviets. I knew there were comrades fighting in secret for our liberation. They were my heroes, even more than Arsène and Sherlock. Somewhere among them was my father, Emil, a valiant soldier in the Red Army.

  “How do I get there, to Champagne?” I asked my mother.

  “Lise will go with you, remember? She’s the one who took you to Volnay.”

  “Do I need to take warm clothing, do you think?”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe a few things . . . I don’t know.”

  The train journey went very quickly. During the few minutes we were alone in our compartment Lise explained to me that she often found homes for children from Jewish families and for those whose parents had gone underground.

  “When everything is going well, we prefer not to move the children, and have them stay as long as possible in the same place. Because it’s not always easy to find people you can trust. But on the other hand, the longer a child stays somewhere, the greater the risk he might be found out. So we try to take the right decisions at the right time, but it’s not always easy to know . . . ”

  “And did you ever . . . did you ever make a decision you regretted?”

  “There’s no way of knowing what would have happened if we had decided differently. But one time, yes, I did regret it.”

  I waited for her to tell me more about it. But a woman came into our compartment. We said hello. And now Lise was looking out at the countryside, and her expression was troubling. A great bleakness had settled over her face. In the end, I preferred not to know.

  When the train stopped at Épernay, Lise regained her spirits. She took me by the arm and led me confidently toward the bus stop. After the trip by bus, we still had ten minutes to walk to reach the Biniaux farm. Lise explained that the reason she knew the way was because she had brought another child here, Louis, a few weeks earlier. When we got to the farm, we didn’t see anyone. I left my suitcase outside the door and I went with Lise to look for the Biniauxes. We came upon Louis.

  “Hello, Louis. How are things?”

  “’Lo.”

  “Look, you’ll have a friend now. He’s a little older than you, but now you’ll have company. What do you say? His name is Roger.”

  The little boy didn’t say anything.

  “Go on, tell me where Monsieur and Madame Biniaux are. Don’t you know?”

  The little boy nodded with his head toward the barn. That was where we found the couple who were to take me in for the summer.

  “Oh, hello there, Madame Lise! Are you bringing us the new little man? I hope he’s made of sturdier stuff than little Louis. Looks more vigorous at least.”

  “Don’t worry, I know how to work, I’m used to it.”

  “Louis is very young, Monsieur Biniaux,” said Lise.

  “Here in the country if you’re eight years old you’ve already been working for a long time. My wife will show the new boy where he’s going to sleep. What’s his name?”

  “Roger . . . ”

  I settled into the tiny garret room that I shared with Louis. With his pale, gaunt face and dark curly hair, I suspected that Louis wasn’t his real name, either.

  Even by the end of the very first evening there I realized I was not there to have fun. I was entitled to a good meal, but little Louis wasn’t, because he hadn’t worked hard enough. They made it clear to me that they would give me a hearty meal that evening, but from then on what I got to eat would depend on how much work I got done. I didn’t expect this sort of welcome, I thought that the people who took in refugee children were generous and good by nature. But these people seemed to be short on manpower. Louis didn’t look at anyone, and didn’t say anything throughout the entire meal. And afterwards he went straight to bed. When I went to join him in our tiny room, I tried to start up a conversation, but after a few unsuccessful attempts I realized that he was sobbing into his pillow. And he went on sobbing for a long time, until at last he fell asleep.

  I lay on my back. I couldn’t sleep. I had never seen a sadder child. Why didn’t he want to take advantage of the fact that he now had a companion in misery? I was not too happy with the idea of staying there all summer long. I consoled myself by thinking that if I worked hard, the time would pass quickly. That night I dreamt I was on my bike, going up to Breteuil from Condé. Little Louis was in the cart behind me, lying among the branches of dead wood. Mémé was pushing us, but she kept slipping, so we all ended up stuck in the mud.

  The next morning when I woke up I found that Little Louis was no longer in the room. I dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen. There was no one around, but on the table I found a plate with a piece of buttered bread. And a glass of milk. I looked around, and called out. Still no one. So I sat down and ate.

  “You finished there yet? Are you coming to work or not?”

  Monsieur Biniaux’s voice made me jump. I hadn’t finished, but I stood up and showed I was ready to do whatever he expected. My first task consisted of weeding the vegetable garden, planting stakes, and removing branches that were in the way. It wasn’t a hard job, and not very interesting either, but oh well, I wasn’t at a holiday camp now, that much was clear. Madame Biniaux was kinder than her husband, but she didn’t say much. She explained quickly what I had to do, and she left me alone with a lot of tools I didn’t know how to use. I didn’t see Louis all day long. From time to time, Madame Biniaux came to see me to give me new jobs to do. Every time she cast a critical eye on the work I had just done.

  By nightfall I was still working in the fields and was hungry as a wolf, because I hadn’t eaten a thing since that morning. No one came to tell me I could stop working. After a certain time had gone by, I decided I couldn’t do another thing until I had eaten something.

  As I came nearer to the farm, I could hear Monsieur Biniaux shouting. “Lazybones! Good-for-nothing! Who sent me such a fucking lazy kid!” He was shouting so loud I thought his voice would break. And then there was the sound of a slap, then another, and I heard little Louis cry out. I had a huge knot in my stomach, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t dare go and see what was happening, but I couldn’t walk away again either as if nothing had happened.

  “What are you doing here?”

  It was Madame Biniaux. I turned around. She was giving me a hard look, then motioned to me to go into the house. I followed her inside, sat down at the table, and started eating. Louis came in when I had almost finished. His eyes were red, and he had trouble walking. He remained on his feet to eat his crust of dry bread.

  The very next day I wrote to my mother and told her what was happening. I explained to her that I was worried about Louis, and that I didn’t think he could survive an entire summer like that.

  I went on working. And Monsieur Biniaux went on hitting little Louis. When I managed to avoid the farmers’ vigilant gaze, I would hide a piece of bread or cake in my pocket, and give it to Louis in the evening, in our room. He still didn’t talk to me, or smile, but when he looked at me he seemed a bit less fearful.

  One day, Madame Biniaux sent me to pick fruit from the tall cherry tree
that grew on the side of the hill. She gave me five baskets to fill. Once I was up in the tree, I took my time, eating at least as many cherries as I put in the basket. Suddenly I heard the buzz of an airplane engine. And it was coming closer, getting louder and louder. It was hedge hopping just above the hill. It was an English plane. Farther away, I saw a train stopped in its tracks. The plane flew over a first time, went away, made a circle and flew back over the train. And the same thing all over again: a second circle, and then a third. Meanwhile, the railway men left the train and ran to hide in the woods. Here came the plane a fourth time and then . . . TARATARATATA TARATARATATA! And all hell broke loose. The train was filled with ammunition. I stayed perched in my tree watching the fireworks. After I went back to the farm, for a long time I could still hear the carriages exploding one after the other. And I got told off for having taken too long to pick not enough cherries.

  Roughly a week later, when I came back from the fields I found Lise with little Louis clinging to her while she spoke with Madame Biniaux. When Lise saw me, she gestured to me to come as quickly as possible.

  “Go up to the room with Louis. And pack your bags, quickly!”

  I didn’t ask any questions, but I realized this was because of my letter. I stuffed all my belongings into my suitcase, and Louis put his into a big burlap bag. Then we hurried back down the stairs. Madame Biniaux seemed very annoyed.

  “You can explain the situation to your husband when he comes back,” Lise told her. “And don’t expect to be taking in any more children. That’s finished. Come on, boys, we’re leaving.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Mont-Saint-Père

  I was still in the Champagne region. Lise took me to stay with one of her cousins, who lived in a village called Mont-Saint-Père, then she went away again with little Louis. My new family, the Brissons, included Albert, the father—who was also known as Albert the Pig, because everyone came to him if there was a pig to be slaughtered—Yvonne, the mother, and their two daughters, Isabel and Claudine. At a rough guess, the girls were almost adult. I had a simple life there: I worked a few hours a day, depending on what there was to do, and after that I went wherever I liked and filled the time as I pleased. After my stay with the Biniauxes, it was like being at a holiday resort.