Daughter of Catalonia

by Jane MacKenzie

  Jordi’s voice was almost matter-of-fact, but Madeleine remained incredulous. He couldn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t know these people. Had he ever met them? She asked him, and he spat out that he had never wanted to so much as see their faces. Did she know, he asked her, what happened to filthy collaborators after France had been liberated? About the summary executions, the shaving of heads, the public beatings and humiliation of those who had done what Jean-Pierre and his son had done?

  ‘But the Perrens family got off completely free,’ he growled. ‘My father wouldn’t allow me to tell anyone, or use the information himself. So there they are, still living off that German café while my father rots in the ground. No, Madeleine, I didn’t want to know them, and I have never been to Vermeilla since.’

  Madeleine was still having trouble comprehending what Jordi had told her. She shook her head and focused on his last statement.

  ‘Why?’ she asked him. ‘If Jean-Pierre Perrens betrayed them so badly, why did your father refuse to denounce him?’

  ‘Because of Philippe, that’s why. Like I told you, my father respected him. My father was released from prison in August 1944 by his own comrades. Did you know that this region is one of the few that was liberated by its own people? By the Maquis?’ There was intense pride in his voice. ‘But when my father was released he couldn’t join in any of the celebrations. He was too ill after what they’d done to him, and then from being in that cesspit with no food or sanitation. It was a few weeks before he was strong enough to talk properly, and by then he’d heard how Philippe had buried your father, and now Philippe was back in Vermeilla, and more importantly, the Perrens woman had just had that second boy, and everyone knew the child was Philippe’s. There was no way it could have been the husband’s, that was clear enough. So my father said nothing. If he had denounced the family, he would probably have destroyed Philippe as well. So the bastards got away with it.’

  Madeleine gripped her wine glass and said nothing. Philippe was Martin’s father? It didn’t come as a complete surprise. She remembered Tante Louise saying everyone knew Colette was his mistress, and Madame Curelée talking about the boys being Philippe’s family. And she thought about Martin’s education, his evident academic strength, the studies subsidised by Philippe. It all fell into place. All except for Daniel being involved. She thought of his gentle personality, his care of his mother, his smile and reticence. How could he have been involved in a nasty affair of collaboration and betrayal? And would Colette have allowed him to be? Was she involved too? Surely that was unthinkable. And what about Philippe? Did he know?

  Their faces swam before her, of people she hadn’t even known five days ago. But her father had known them, and trusted them. Surely, surely, surely. She felt sick, and cold, and thought she might faint.

  It must have shown on her face, because Jordi took her arm and pulled her up from the table.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s pay and then we’ll take a walk along the quayside. You look like death, and I feel like a criminal for telling you. But you were the only other person who had the right to know; the only person my father would have told, I mean. You had as much right as me. Not that you’re probably thanking me right now,’ he laughed grimly. ‘I’m sorry, Madeleine, really I am. I know these people represented your past to you.’

  They walked up and down the now quiet quayside for some time, and then stopped at another bar for coffee, and all the while Jordi talked to her about the port, its recent development, the new talk of a cargo terminal – anything, in fact, except the war, and betrayal, and the people in Vermeilla.

  Madeleine tried not to think, and listened to Jordi’s talk with half attention, listening to the sea. Machado’s lines came back to her. The war is between us, a war deeper than war, she thought. I have to see these people tomorrow. Kind Daniel, overworked Colette with her tired eyes, cheeky young Martin who must surely know nothing, and Philippe. What about Philippe? Don’t think. Not yet.

  The walk and the coffee were successful medicines, and gradually she felt less sick, and merely terribly tired. Over a dead coffee cup she looked at Jordi and said, ‘Could we go home now, do you think? Would you mind?’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course, we’ll go right now. You’ve finished your coffee? Yes? Well your carriage awaits.’

  As they mounted the little motorbike, which looked quite proud and shiny and black in the night light, Jordi told her to hold on tight.

  ‘You’re tired now, and it’s cold. I don’t want you to let go, and fall off the bike. You made it all the way to France, and we can’t have you killed off now by your father’s old comrade’s son.’

  His attempt at light-heartedness was touching. There was no sign now of the angry, embittered Jordi of some hours before. He was all concern, compunction even. Madeleine held on tightly to his jacket and welcomed the cold air which rushed past them as the bike motored out of Port Vendres. It numbed the cheeks and froze her unjacketed arms, but her hands stayed warm in Jordi’s jacket, tucked into his pockets. His back was solid and warm, and she tucked herself closer in.

  Collioure came and went, with the lights from the magnificent castle reflected in the waters of the bay, and then they were at Vermeilla. Madeleine expected Jordi to drop her at the entrance to the village, but he swept down towards the quayside, and slowed down as they reached the market square.

  ‘Where is your hotel?’ he asked, and following her directions took her to the door of the Hotel Bon Repos.

  ‘Very peaceful,’ he commented, looking along the small quayside. ‘Untouched, one would say. And it is, Madeleine,’ he added, ‘despite what people may have done. Don’t lose sleep, will you? The war is beginning to be a long time ago, and people have the right to have remade their lives. In truth, the war now seems less important to me than what is happening in my own country. That’s still happening, and still hurting my people.’

  Madeleine stood by the motorbike and wondered what to say. The news he had just given her hurt as though it had happened yesterday. And she knew how bitter he still was really. But he was right that it was a long time ago, and she thought about all the people she had met in Vermeilla, all moving on – better than Jordi, she thought, since they were at home, in their own community, and not waiting for some lost past to become available again, as he was.

  Jordi seemed a lonely figure, as he prepared to ride off on his own on the long journey back to Céret. Her hotel room seemed a little lonely too, and suddenly she felt a long way from Robert, and from Tante Louise, and Solange and Bernard. She had come home, she’d thought, but now it all felt very alien. She shivered.

  ‘Jordi?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. It can’t have been easy for you, raking up the past. But you’re right that I needed to know.’

  ‘Take care, Madeleine.’ Jordi’s voice was almost tender. ‘Sleep and don’t worry, and do whatever you think right. Trust your own judgement. We’ll meet again soon, daughter of Luis. Come and see me, any time – you know where my little place is now. If you’re worried, or even if you’re not! Let me know how you get on, all right? And Madeleine?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful if you meet Perrens again. He’s a rat, and rats will run from the big people and hide in corners, but if they are cornered …’

  His hand came up and touched her cold cheek, and then he drove off, leaving Madeleine to make her solitary way into the hotel.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The night was long, with snatches of sleep bringing nightmares which jerked Madeleine awake again and again. In tortuous dreams her father stood exposed in that clearing, by a makeshift shed, while the German soldiers advanced towards him, and the ghost of Enric, standing to one side, hurled anger at him for sharing secret information which had led to their betrayal. ‘You!’ the young Enric kept repeating. ‘This is your fault. You did this.’

  And in other dreams she saw a small, slightly built
boy pointing out a path to some soldiers and then scurrying away. Then Jean-Pierre’s face swam in front of her, staring at her with the same intensity as when she had met him at the dinner table, gabbling about graves and revenge. Then she saw Colette, the day she had first met her, in the café, muttering ‘Luis’s daughter’ as her whole body stiffened, then later smiling, seeming so welcoming.

  It was testament to how much she had accepted Jordi’s story that at no point did she think it might be wrong. There was a terrible logic to it, and in any case, where would German guards have got Jean-Pierre’s name from if he had just sat quietly in his room above the bar waiting for the war to end, and had never made that fateful step towards collaboration?

  As dawn broke, Madeleine dragged her body from the narrow bed, and sat by her window to watch the fishing boats return. She caught a glimpse of Daniel, hauling nets to lay them over the wall to dry, and then he was gone, home to sleep. She returned to bed herself and finally fell into a dreamless sleep, from which she woke unrefreshed at about eight-thirty, with sore eyes, aching limbs and skin that hurt to the touch all over her face.

  ‘What do I do?’ had been her endless question to herself through the long night. The darkness had brought no answers, only adding a sharp edge to her anguish. In the daylight things seemed no less bleak, but some hint of reason told her not to make things worse than they were.

  In her long waking moments during the night she had tormented herself, asking again and again how it could be that Luis, who had avoided giving any information to Philippe, vulnerable in his position as his friend, could have revealed the whereabouts of his camp to, of all people, Jean-Pierre, whose home he visited clandestinely while German soldiers drank in the bar below? Surely this was the most obviously dangerous place to start talking?

  Now, in the bright golden light of the Vermeilla morning, she remembered Jordi’s story of visiting the camp, taken there by his father. Who did they tell, she wondered, these men living wild in the hills? Who was considered safe? Enric had not seemed to blame her father, she noted, and nor did his son Jordi. There had been no mention of that act of unthinking betrayal. Or was Jordi merely keeping criticism to himself?

  By the time Madeleine had washed and dressed it was too late for breakfast, but she had no appetite anyway. Half an hour later she was in the village post office, negotiating a call from the booth in the corner, hoping against hope not only to get through the French telephone system to England, but also to reach Robert at his accommodation in Oxford. She didn’t stop to think that this was a time of day when he would be in lectures. She needed him so badly that surely he must be available.

  A woman’s voice answered the phone, mercifully very clear, and Madeleine asked for Robert.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find him,’ the doubtful voice answered, and a long silence followed, probably while the woman went to knock on the door of his room. Madeleine had been through this process before of trying to contact Robert, and usually had to leave a message so that he could call back. Today her nails dug holes in her palm as she waited to be told he wasn’t there.

  ‘Hullo?’ a man’s voice questioned at last at the other end of the line. It was Robert, and Madeleine felt weak as she heard him.

  ‘Robert, it’s Madeleine,’ she croaked.

  ‘Madeleine? Are you all right?’ His voice came from far away, but she could hear his concern. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Vermeilla,’ she replied. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. I just needed to speak to you, that’s all.’

  ‘You sound funny. Is everything OK?’

  Madeleine wanted to laugh. Funny? It was such a bizarre word for how she was feeling right now. How could she begin to tell Robert about the last few days in a short phone call? The half-written letter to him was still lying in her hotel room, and Robert knew nothing about what had been happening here. And expensive seconds were ticking away.

  ‘I’ve found Philippe,’ she began, ‘and Colette, and I’ve seen where Papa was killed, and I know what happened to him, and Robert, oh Robert, he was betrayed by his friends, here in Vermeilla, and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Woah, Madeleine! Calm down. You found Philippe, you say? Still in Vermeilla?’

  ‘Yes, and Colette, like I told you, and all her family. They’re all here, and they’ve been really good to me. But I think Colette’s family betrayed Papa to the Germans.’ She told Robert as briefly as possible the story Jordi had told her.

  The simple fact of sharing the story made it more bearable. But Robert’s reply shocked her nonetheless.

  ‘You know, Madeleine,’ he said, ‘I think you may be getting too involved here. Nobody told us any of these people were angels, and you’ve only known them a few days, so you can’t be too emotionally involved with them. If they did betray Papa I can see you want to know, and so do I, but will it change anything about the fact that he is gone?’

  He sounded like all the people in Vermeilla, letting bygones be bygones, although from over there in England he was surely uninvolved as people here could never be, with their resentments and grudges buried rather than really forgotten. Madeleine thought of all the years stuck in Forsham with the grandparents, of her mother’s pain and wasted life, of their denied heritage. It was not so easy just to let go as though it didn’t really matter. She desperately wanted him to understand.

  ‘He nearly made it, Robert! That’s the point. He was killed when liberation was just around the corner, when collaborators were going into hiding and becoming patriots again. And why did he die? Not in some battle trying to free France, or on the road to Spain saving some Jew from final retribution, but because he spoke too freely to a man with a disordered brain, and because his friends weren’t really his friends. It’s so wrong! We could have had him back with us just a few months later. Our whole lives would have been different, and Maman’s life too – think of her!’

  ‘Do you think most people in war die in clean, simple and glorious battle?’ Robert asked, then continued quickly as Madeleine began to protest. ‘I am not saying we have to accept this without trying to learn more, Lena. I’m only saying that when you do know, you can leave Vermeilla and make a life, and that these people you’ve met are not your family or even your friends. You don’t have to feel loyalty to them, or so much anguish if they are traitors.’

  ‘They were Papa’s friends, and Maman’s!’ Madeleine cried, thinking of Philippe’s shining enthusiasm, and Colette’s warmth.

  ‘Was Colette’s husband Papa’s friend? Do we know that? We know Philippe was his close friend, but what have you heard to damage that? Nothing. In fact, from what you say, Jordi’s father so respected Philippe that he didn’t want to hurt him in any way. I’d say Philippe comes off scot-free in all of this. And what about Colette? Do you know for sure that she was part of this? You know, Lena, you should go to Philippe with this story, and ask him for the truth, since he at least isn’t implicated at all.’

  Madeleine digested his words through the crackle of the long-distance connection. ‘And what if he doesn’t know anything? Won’t I just be causing him unnecessary grief, so long after the event, if he learns now that Colette’s family betrayed Papa? His own family, even, if Martin is his son!’

  She could almost hear Robert’s mind turning over, as he considered the pros and cons. When he answered, for the first time his voice showed some anxiety.

  ‘I don’t think you have any choice, Lena, since obviously you don’t feel you can just let this go without exploring it. I’d be happier if you would, if truth be told. I think this guy, Colette’s husband, could be dangerous, and I can’t see what you’re going to gain by opening up old sores.’

  Madeleine thought back to Colette’s dining room, and how she had felt she was opening up sores by her very arrival. But Philippe had introduced her to Jordi, and seemed to think it was important for both of them that they talked and explored the past. She told Robert about this, and how Jordi had opened up as he told her his st
ory. ‘Would you leave it alone yourself, if you were here?’ The question was a challenge.

  ‘No.’ His reply was slow in coming. ‘No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want anything to become public, after all this time, but I think I would talk to Philippe. Without asking him about his relationship with Colette, mind, Lena! You can’t go prying into that!’

  ‘I won’t, I promise you.’ Sounds on the line seemed to indicate that their time was up, and she rushed to finish. ‘I’ll call you again, Bobo, as soon as I know more. I need to tell someone, otherwise I feel too isolated here. It’s a lot tougher than I expected!’

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’ His anxiety was evident despite his disembodied voice.

  ‘No, don’t be silly. You must have exams coming up. I’m fine, I promise you. And if it all gets too difficult I can always bolt to Paris, after all!’

  ‘Make sure you call, then,’ was the stern reply.

  ‘I will, but we’d better quit now otherwise I’ll never be able to afford it! And you can always call the hotel. Bernard has the number.’

  ‘So he does, so he does indeed,’ Robert reflected. ‘All right, Lena, go off and beard your dragon, and don’t have any more nightmares, big sister. I’ll be thinking of you.’

  ‘How did you know I’d had nightmares?’

  Robert laughed, and kissed her down the line as the operator’s voice intercepted their call.

  ‘Au revoir, Robert,’ Madeleine called, and then he was gone.

  She stood for a moment in the little wooden booth, composing herself and drawing together her strength for the next move. Then she straightened her blouse, ran her hands through her loose hair, and stepped out into the post office. It had been empty when she began her call, but now there were two people at the counter, and a couple of elderly ladies sitting on a bench by the wall, unravelling village life, their woven shopping baskets held side by side on their laps, their legs covered by their long black skirts, heads shrouded in embroidered black scarves. They looked up as Madeleine emerged, and their conversation paused meaningfully. Everyone in Vermeilla knew who Madeleine was and why she had come here. She flushed as she thought about her conversation with Robert, her voice raised to be heard over the poor line, and was infinitely grateful that she’d been speaking in English. The thought that anyone might have understood her filled her with horror.