It was decided I would have to go into the forest next to the château, where she promised to organise a safe place to shelter. We headed off into the woods, carrying blankets and a cushion. When we arrived at a little gully, the châtelaine pulled out some ferns which she then arranged so as to conceal me.
I was left all alone.
I had brought a book with me and I tried to read. But I couldn’t focus my thoughts. I was surrounded by a muffled silence, interrupted by the last of the birdsong and the humming of insects. I listened and watched night descend over the forest; the last rays of sunshine painted the tops of the trees gold; the sound of voices floated over from distant houses; little by little, the birdsong faded away.
Night came and enveloped me like a shroud. The silence was broken by soft noises, scarcely perceptible: leaves, twigs, pine cones dropping from the trees. A bird brushed past a branch with its wing, an insect climbed the trunk of a tree and fell back to the ground. The wind seemed to whisper in the foliage. All these noises took on disturbing meanings. The barking of a dog on some unknown farm sounded almost like the voice of a friend.
Suddenly, I was assaulted by the cold and I huddled up under my coat and blankets. I tried to sleep, but to no avail. I tried to conjure up a comforting thought. But what? My beloved mother was far, far away; I had had no news of her or any of my family for two years; the whole world was stained by the blood of war. Everywhere, loss and despair. I thought of the Mariuses, of my Swiss friends, of my sister, already out of danger. I was soothed by their memory.
Thus I remained for hours on end, looking into the darkness. That night seemed eternal.
At last, reddish arabesques of light appeared in the sky. I felt the gentle warmth, still weak, of the sun’s first rays on my face. My hair was damp with dew and I ached all over from having slept on the ground.
Dawn was breaking. The dew was sparkling now on every branch, on every blade of grass. The pale light of the dawn gave way to a dazzling brightness. One, ten, one hundred, a thousand birdcalls grew in volume in an early morning chorus.
Day had arrived. My distress dissipated. I took in my surroundings admiringly.
Suddenly, I was gripped by fear. Somebody was walking along the path. Heavy steps were approaching. Should I flee? In what direction?
Soon, an old woman appeared among the trees. I lay down flat against the ground, but she had already seen me.
‘Good morning,’ she called out, cheerfully, ‘so people are still out camping this late in the season? It’s going to be a beautiful day.’
On she went.
Shortly afterwards, the châtelaine’s daughter came to find me. She appeared quite overjoyed to see me there and told me she had not been able to sleep peacefully thinking about me all alone. I told her immediately that a local woman had caught me by surprise. She left to warn her mother and the two of them then returned.
‘Nothing but trouble!’ cried the châtelaine, annoyed. ‘Had I foreseen all these problems, I would never have accepted this task. No, indeed!’
In the middle of the forest stood a former gamekeeper’s hut, now used for storing gardening tools and broken furniture, including a folding bed.
It was here the châtelaine took me.
I was frozen to the bone. The young woman brought me a pitcher of warm water so I might wash, as well as some coffee and bread. She quickly dusted off the folding bed and went to fetch a mattress which she covered with blankets.
I was still shivering with cold. Feeling sorry for me, she helped me into bed, fully clothed. Then, she locked the cabin up so if people should come looking, they would not find it open, then she left, promising to return.
For a long time, I tried to warm myself up. At last I fell asleep, troubled by nightmares.
At noon, I heard a noise in the lock, the door opened and, like a guardian angel, Monsieur Marius appeared before me. He had just made the journey by bicycle and had been soaked by a shower. He told me that after having taken delivery of my provisions for the entire week, including two packets of cigarettes, the châtelaine had announced I would have to leave immediately.
‘In the name of G…!’ he swore, squashing two fat spiders scurrying across the floor with his heel. ‘Some château you’ve landed in, isn’t it!’
Taking a seat on an old box, he told me he had done the rounds of his reliable friends, but at every turn there was a hitch. Sometimes the neighbours were ‘pro-collaboration’, sometimes the son in the family was working for the police. He suggested I return to their place in the meantime.
Then he went to negotiate with my hostess and it was decided I would stay the night in the hut, which would be swept and tidied, and then I would leave, once and for all, the following afternoon. He settled the rent.
All of the week’s provisions – meat, wine, ten kilos of potatoes, as well as the cigarettes – were to remain with the family by way of compensation.
Monsieur Marius commented to me:
‘They’re annoyed to see you leave because you were a source of supplies, and at the same time, they’re fearful about keeping you. I have the impression,’ he added, laughing, ‘they wouldn’t be at all unhappy if you were to continue to pay them rent and bring them supplies … even after you’ve left. That would suit them nicely!’
He suggested I join him in taking a little walk in the forest to stretch my legs. And again he did his best to lift my spirits during our short walk.
When he left, I in fact found myself hoping that everything might work itself out. Back in my cabin, I started to read. In the evening, Noiraud, the cat of the house, came to visit me, and the young woman left it shut in with me to keep me company.
The next day, I got up with newfound energy. I needed it, for the walk down into the village where I would take the bus back into Nice from outside the gendarmerie constituted an obvious danger.
The châtelaine and the young man appeared at the cabin in the morning. The son asked if they could rely on my loyalty; he feared I would reveal the last place I had stayed if I was arrested. They emphasised again the danger involved in the gendarme’s visit. So, I asked for something with which to write and penned a letter to the châtelaine, setting out that, not having informed her of my race, I had taken advantage of her hospitality in seeking accommodation at the château, and that I was leaving her house without her knowledge to avoid causing her any trouble.
I was then allowed to spend the remainder of the afternoon at the château.
At around five o’clock, I dressed in my disguise once again. Carrying a milk can and a basket full of tomatoes, I took to the main road.
At the crossroad, near the fountain, I spotted Mademoiselle Yvonne, the châtelaine’s daughter, who appeared to be waiting for me.
‘Allow me to accompany you for a moment, Madame.’
And falling in step, she continued:
‘I didn’t come with my mother to bid you farewell as I didn’t want to witness all the odious suggestions my brother was still proposing to foist upon you. Please, Madame, do excuse my mother! She is very much influenced by her son! And he is young, he can still change, can’t he, once life has returned to normal? Dear God! What must you think of us? I am so ashamed! I’m French, I abhor such cowardice! I was raised in a convent. We’re Christians! Although, you wouldn’t think so!’
Stopping, emotional and out of breath, she said:
‘Madame, allow me to embrace you.’
She wrapped both arms around me.
‘I would have liked to accompany you all the way to Nice, to be sure you were all right, but they would notice my absence; then I would never hear the end of it.’
‘Best of luck, Mademoiselle Yvonne, I will never forget the kindness you’ve shown me,’ I said to her, embracing her in turn.
I quickened my pace and turned back a moment later to wave goodbye one last time to the young woman, who had stopped to follow me with her gaze.
I walked quickly, eyes and ears alert, nerves taut,
but accompanied by an inner happiness: I was reliving the young Frenchwoman’s farewell.
Before me, a magnificent view: here, bare, arid rocks; over there, verdant mountains, vast fields of flowers, olive trees, palms, lemon and orange trees; the whole floral spread of the south of France. My God, how beautiful it was!
The fanciful curves of the roads cutting through the fields, meadows and countryside looked like white ribbons designed to accentuate the beauty of the scenery.
The air rising off the fields filled my lungs, the sun warmed me through once more with its gentle, autumnal rays.
To whom God will His favours show
Shall far into the world be sent …
I was walking along to the rhythm of my song as I neared the village. I slowed, then, to cast a glance around: the road continued towards Nice and it was frequented by police carrying out constant sweeps.
Another five hundred metres. I stopped. A dot appeared in the distance. It was approaching at great speed. There was no possible doubt. It was a motorcycle. I picked up my pace again so as not to attract attention by the hesitation in my stride and headed towards the motorcycle, its gleaming steel clearly visible now.
I heard my heart beating and tried to swallow the knot I felt in my throat.
The vehicle grew rapidly larger. It had taken no time to reach me. The noise of the accelerator … Already it was long gone …
Who is this woman in disguise, walking with a spring in her step and singing a childhood tune under her breath?
I am that peasant woman in her clogs, humming along in time to her steps as she walks down the white road through wondrous countryside.
VIII
Return to Nice
It was Sunday. Activity everywhere along the paths and roads. On reaching the village, instead of waiting for the tram at the main stop, I continued to the next one. In doing so, I skirted around the gendarmerie and found myself out in the fields. But here was an unexpected mishap! The little tram was packed and didn’t stop. I had to get on the next one. An anxious half an hour on the main road. But I was not arrested.
At the gates to Nice stood a tollhouse where officers were inspecting parcels and baskets; I endured this formality somewhat fearfully, even though I did not, in fact, have any rationed supplies in my bag.
I got off at the stop at Place Masséna where Monsieur Marius was supposed to collect me at around seven o’clock. In my haste, I found myself at the meeting point three quarters of an hour early. Out of habit, I started counting the policemen passing through the square on foot, on bicycles, and on motorcycles. I had counted twenty-eight when, at last, I spotted Monsieur Marius on his bike. He gestured to me to follow him and took a side street where I then met up with him. Pushing his bicycle as he walked alongside me, he suggested I take the tram to his place, and come in through the courtyard, after I’d made certain there was nobody near the entrance. In any event, I was unrecognisable in my disguise so I could go directly there. Even he admitted he had not recognised me at first.
The moment I stepped over the threshold of the Mariuses’ home, I was overcome by a feeling of absolute safety. Fears and dangers were forgotten and the persistent tension with which I had been living disappeared as if by magic.
I started to tell Madame Marius about my odyssey and I felt my mood lifting on hearing her laughter at my description of the châtelaine and her son.
Then we sat down to eat. Monsieur Marius told us about his latest discovery: a young sewing machinist, who was working for the big ready-to-wear clothing stores, was subletting a room in her little flat. Her room had just become free, she could take me in. But there was one drawback: this young woman had male friends, some permanent, others more temporary. It was problematic, but all things considered, he had decided to broach it with me because this solution did have major advantages. The woman concerned had indicated her delight at the opportunity. The fact that her home had, one might say, a ‘somewhat public’ character, allowed one to suppose that the police would not be carrying out any searches there for the time being. Mademoiselle Marion – that was her name – was supposed to stop by that very evening to get a response.
Marion was a woman of about thirty, tall, thin, elegant. Her dark hair and eyes, her wide, sensual mouth, her slightly vulgar beauty lent her a singular attractiveness.
The room price she set was the same as that demanded by the châtelaine and, as you would expect, we agreed.
I wanted to leave with Marion, but Monsieur and Madame Marius decided it would be better, for safety reasons, to wait until the following day. Madame Marius and I left at five o’clock in the morning, when the police were not yet active.
Marion’s apartment was near the Gare du Sud railway station, in a new building with modern amenities. She was very houseproud. Two windows looked onto the street and one onto a small courtyard. I was given the back bedroom. In the room was a divan covered by a tapestry with a foliage motif, a small table and two stools; at the windows, brightly patterned drapes. Half-curtains hung stretched across the windowpanes to deflect the curiosity of neighbours. If I wanted to air the room, I was supposed to approach the window on my knees and, in that position, reach out my arm to pull on the cord. A Turkish-style rug, bought from a Sidi, completed the decor.
Once I had moved in, I realised I had co-tenants: three female cats and a tomcat. Marion adored cats, but she did not want to let them into the ‘salon’, which served, simultaneously, as a bedroom. Thus, the feline family found itself relegated to the subtenant’s room. Marion assured me no other tenant had ever had the slightest objection to these cohabitation arrangements.
My very particular circumstances obliged me to follow the tradition set by my predecessors, regardless.
I was fond enough of cats, but in smaller numbers.
Thus, I fell asleep with my companions, one across my shoulder, the other next to my head and the last two across my feet. The slightest movement of an arm or leg on my part was interpreted as an invitation to play hide-and-seek and sometimes, in the middle of the night, my bed was the backdrop to leaps and bounds that quickly banished any tranquillity.
The price I had to pay for this cohabitation was a bed and clothes covered in hair and, alas, fleas. My personal hygiene regimen was inadequate to rid myself of these calamities. I had to ask Madame Marius to buy me an insecticide powder for use on the cats and a special comb to attack the evil at its roots, a process which allowed me to give my four companions a thorough clean. Marion appeared very touched by my somewhat forced devotion and from that point on, moreover, the cats’ attachment to me was settled! They never left me alone again!
The doorbell rang often at Marion’s place. Her visitors had various ways of ringing, from one to six rings, with different rhythms. The sound of the doorbell would make me start, particularly if I was alone. It goes without saying that I refrained from opening the door.
Fortunately, my bedroom was separated from the rest of the apartment by a corridor and a heavy curtain. I was able to read and write as I pleased without being too troubled by the comings and goings.
Every day, one of the Mariuses would bring me something to eat. At an agreed time, I would go into the kitchen, which, by the way, was immaculately clean, in order to eat my meal. We would both sit down at the table, surrounded by purring cats trying to scavenge some tasty morsel from our plates.
Marion liked money, but as she told it, it was because she knew all about ‘life and the treachery of men’. She told me about her past, her trials and tribulations. She had a good heart, but was utterly lacking in moral fibre. Despite her outward display of friendship, she would soon demonstrate a susceptibility to nefarious influences.
One afternoon I was writing a letter to Madame von Radendorf, who had stopped visiting me following my most recent move in order not to attract attention. Marion came through to my room and, as she approached, she whispered:
‘There’s a fellow from the police at the door. He wants to speak spec
ifically to you. You can imagine the fright I had when I saw him! I denied you were here, but he told me he knew what was going on and just wanted to give you a warning.’
Without waiting for my response, Marion had already gone again, and was letting in a man who would have been between twenty-five and twenty-eight years old.
‘Don’t be scared,’ he said to me with a broad smile as he came over and sat down on a stool. ‘I’ve just been demobilised,’ he started; ‘I was in the navy and they’ve stuck me in the secret police for the time being. Now my job is to search out refugees in hiding. I’ve been on your trail for a good while now. I’ve finally tracked you down! But you’re a woman, I feel sorry for you. I’m prepared to hold my tongue … You probably realise what keeping silent like that means? I could be punished, imprisoned! You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?’
‘You’d like some form of compensation?’ I asked him.
He spread his arms:
‘I’m taking a huge risk, Madame.’
‘How much?’ I said.
‘Seven thousand,’ he replied, laconically.
I was struck by the sum. It was exactly the amount I had just been offered three days earlier for my typewriter. (It had been confiscated at the hotel on police orders, along with the rest of my personal effects. One of the hotel residents had offered, through friends, to buy it from me, unaware that I no longer had it.) Marion knew all about the matter. I was astounded by the coincidence and the thought of her possible complicity flashed through my mind.
There was a moment’s silence. I had to make a considerable effort to stand up. Going to the door, I opened it and called out:
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