The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  But then one night it seems to take him forever. I grow anxious sitting in the dark. Suddenly I hear shots being fired. I leap to my feet and look all around to be sure no one is coming. Monsieur Jacques still doesn’t appear, and I am certain he has been killed.

  Then I see him, emerging from the darkness. His hands are empty, but he is alive and uninjured.

  “No wonder we are losing the war,” he says, breathing hard. “Those guys are such poor shots.”

  We return to the car, which is hidden in a peach orchard. Maman is awake and has been worried sick. She sends me straight to my bed in the car.

  IN THE MORNING, Monsieur Jacques approaches Maman to explain the situation. “Madame, there is no more gas available at this time from here to Bordeaux.”

  “So! What do you suggest, Jacques?” she asks.

  “We wait, Madame. Have patience. When it is safe to move, we will go. Now we wait for the right conditions.”

  Late that evening, Monsieur Jacques wakes us up. “It is time to continue to Bordeaux.”

  He drives two kilometers on a small back road to the place where the shooting occurred the night before. The army trucks have gone, and the place is deserted.

  Monsieur Jacques stops the car, and I follow him to an outcropping of bushes. Hidden under some hay are three cans full of gas that he had stashed earlier.

  “Madame, we have to throw these suitcases away to make room for the gasoline.”

  “You must be crazy. No, I’ll never do that!” Maman replies.

  Monsieur Jacques has had enough. “In that case, you are on your own; I am walking away.”

  When Maman does not relent, Monsieur Jacques does just as he says. Turning his back on us, he walks down the road. Finally, my mother runs after him.

  “Please, come back,” she says.

  “The suitcases go?”

  “Yes, but I’ll tell my husband about this.”

  Monsieur Jacques nods his head. “Fine with me. Fair enough, Madame Matisse!”

  We are crawling through stop-and-go traffic along jammed roads, only able to go about twelve miles per hour. In one place it takes an entire morning just to cross a bridge.

  “What are the soldiers doing with those wires along the bridge?” my mother asks Monsieur Jacques.

  “They are setting explosives to blow it up.”

  Maman looks surprised, watching the men roll out large spools of wire. “Why would they want to do that?”

  “To slow down the German army that is not very far behind us.” He puts the car in gear, and we move a little faster.

  As we continue, Jacques glances my way where I am sitting in the front passenger seat. “Pierre, pay close attention to how I drive. If something happens to me, you will have to drive.”

  Then he adds sadly. “This time we can’t stop them. Les Boches are coming, Madame.”

  7

  THE BIG BANG

  The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.

  JOHN MILTON

  THE HEAT IN THE CAR is stifling, even with the windows down. We no longer try to clean ourselves because water is too precious. When we are fortunate, we can get water from streams or from fountains in the villages we pass through. Our stomachs are beyond the point of feeling hunger because our meager food supply is gone.

  Mostly, I want to drink an ocean.

  Gérard and Maman are dozing in the backseat of the car. In the front seat, I am numb, somewhere between a nightmare and a dream. There seems to be no reality.

  “Pierre, tell me more about Aurora, Marius, and Alberto,” Monsieur Jacques requests, as he navigates the car at its slow pace.

  “I have already told you those stories a thousand times,” I lament.

  “Tell me again.” He tries unsuccessfully to wipe the sweat running from his forehead into his eyes, dabbing at it with an already soaked handkerchief.

  “No, I am too thirsty.” An intolerable languor takes hold of me. With the roads jammed, the gas running out, the search for food and water, and trying to avoid the advancing Germans, we’ve been traveling for almost two weeks.

  “There is nothing more to drink. But in an hour we should come to a small town. Shortly we will have plenty of food and water, maybe even a cold lemonade.”

  “You said the same thing at the last town, and there was nothing there.”

  “This one will be different, trust me. Talk to me, Pierre. So you want to be an inventor. What are you going to invent?” Suddenly he starts slapping his cheeks.

  His actions get my attention. “Why are you slapping your cheeks, Monsieur Jacques?”

  “These abominable flies are driving me nuts,” he says.

  “I don’t see any flies.” I open my eyes wider, looking around to confirm. There are none.

  “Maybe you should open your eyes, my boy; you seem to be half-asleep,” Jacques says.

  “And so are you!” As soon as I let go with this smart reply, I regret it.

  Monsieur Jacques straightens up and grips the steering wheel. “That was borderline insolence, little Monsieur Pierre Matisse. Do you know that?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to be,” I reply sincerely. I look down at the floorboard. He is such a nice man, and we would be lost without him. I am ashamed to have treated him poorly.

  “No harm done, Tatiou,” he says softly. I am grateful that he understands my lack of control.

  Ahead of us, the already slow traffic stops. On the right, I catch sight of a partially burned army truck.

  “Property of the English Royal Air Force. They have burned it so that the Germans can’t use it,” comments Jacques.

  THE NEXT DAY we finally arrive in Bordeaux, completely exhausted but without a scratch.

  The Marrots live in a mini-castle, comparable in size to the one on Grandfather Matisse’s property near Paris. I roll out of the car, thankful to be able to stretch my aching legs. Maman seeks out her friends immediately, but when we enter the big house, we are shocked to find that it is packed wall-to-wall with children, mothers, and grandparents. Every room is chaotic. There are makeshift beds all over the floors.

  “This is where we are staying?” Gérard asks me.

  “I believe it is,” I reply.

  Madame Marrot graciously welcomes us—three more weary Parisian refugees. Maman, Jacques, and I quickly unpack the car. Jacques is staying nearby with a friend of the Marrots and bids us good-bye. He takes the car with him and will hide it for safekeeping.

  After having some food and drink, we almost feel human again. We are gathered in the living room when a door is slammed somewhere in the house. A little girl about four years old jumps and screams at the sound and starts shaking uncontrollably. Her mother hugs her and tries to soothe her.

  “She has been shell-shocked on the trip from Paris,” her grandfather explains from a chair nearby us. He puffs on an abominably smelly cigar, which makes my stomach roil with nausea.

  “Your cigar stinks so bad it could stop the Boches,” I tell him.

  “Pierre, be polite, would you please?” Maman scolds me.

  “The truth comes from the mouths of children,” a woman sitting nearby declares. She disapproves of the offensive cigar too.

  An older man comes into the room. His huge white beard makes him look like Santa Claus, and he gives the impression of someone in authority. “Good news. We are safe here,” he announces. “With no troops to defend it, the mayor has declared Bordeaux an open city.”

  “What does that mean?” a young pretty woman asks.

  “According to the Geneva Convention, the German army cannot bomb this city,” Santa Claus answers.

  “Are you sure the Boches know that?” another lady says with a skeptical look on her face.

  “Of course. They can enter the city without fear of opposition, so why should they bomb us?” Santa Claus explains.

  That night Bordeaux is bombed. Apparently, Hitler has written his own convention. We sit in the dark living room of the mansio
n, huddled together. Some people cry and others pray. Whenever a bomb hits the ground, the mansion shakes, and we hear glass shatter. The little girl cries louder and shakes even more and cannot be comforted until long after the planes have disappeared into the night.

  The next morning, we inspect the damage. Fortunately, the bombs were small and dropped haphazardly, so the damage to the house is minimal. As ordered, not a single shot was fired against the enemy.

  The psychological impact, though, is devastating to the citizens of Bordeaux. The famous wine city feels betrayed. Only the glaziers enjoy a few months of thriving business as they repair the windows of homes throughout the region.

  AFTER A COUPLE OF DAYS, things settle down, and we join the household routine. Gérard and I are given chores to do. I am responsible to walk to the dairy early in the morning for fresh milk, then pick up baguettes at the bakery about four blocks away.

  One morning, the streets are deserted as I set out for my daily routine. Strange. When I turn a street corner, I see a German armored scout car. At the same time, someone fires at me. Terrified, I drop the aluminum milk container I am carrying and run all the way back to the house. So much for the Geneva Convention.

  “The Boches are here. There won’t be any milk today,” I shout as I burst into the mansion.

  “What happened?” Maman asks, hurrying toward me to see if I have been hurt.

  I tell everyone about the scout car and the shots being fired and end it by announcing proudly, “And I was not shaking!” It was true. There was no time to be afraid.

  That day, the German army takes up quarters in the abandoned French army barracks in Bordeaux, located near the Marrots’ house. The Nazi officers take over some of the best hotels and residences for their stay. France has been taken, but the war is not over yet.

  IN BORDEAUX, the Boches keep every transaction very korrect, paying for everything they steal or confiscate with occupation marks. It is obvious they want to make a good impression. In reality, the marks have no current value in Germany, in France (at least in use between the French), or anywhere else.

  The Germans buy everything in sight. Wehrmacht officers buy all the cars until none are left in the dealerships. Fortunately, there are not many for sale anyway. Jacques has hidden our car in a village nearby, under a pile of hay in a small barn to keep it safe.

  The rumors circulate that the Nazi officers are purchasing fancy women’s undergarments—French black lace corsets with red ribbons and black brassieres; silk stockings in any shade; dresses, the gaudier the better; perfume; and the best champagnes, liqueurs, fine candy, cigars, expensive canned foods, extravagant jewelry, and paintings. Once they are loaded up, the German officers mail the French goods back to their homes in Deutschland.

  It becomes obvious that Adolf Hitler has traded butter for guns. Nazi Germany has very few luxuries until they requisition them from France.

  After the officers take the lion’s share, the high German command lets the low-ranking soldiers loose in Bordeaux’s streets. Armed with their phony currency, these conquerors confiscate what is left in the shops. The selection is disappointing because the officers have been very thorough.

  It’s been a long haul from Deutschland to Bordeaux for these Germanic warriors. The campaign has made them thirsty. Naturally, they ask for beer in the cafés, restaurants, and bars.

  But Bordeaux is famous for its wines, not beer. They drink wine until it is gone.

  In the weeks to come, the nights are full of their guttural drunken voices, singing bawdy songs punctuated by pistol shots in the dark sky. The victors are having a good time. For now, France has lost the war.

  The Germans cut France in two: an occupied zone and an unoccupied zone. We are stranded in the occupied zone. French bureaucracy remains and is nothing to laugh at, but the Boche Bureaukrautsy is a lot worse because the Germans are ultrabureaucratic.

  We are all required to get new identification papers. Nobody can do anything without the indispensable German permit called ausweis, with its official stamped swastika and the certified signatures.

  The trains and buses have stopped service. There are no newspapers, no telephones, and only erratic mail delivery. We have no news—only the Boches and the French bureaucrats know anything. It is questionable if what the French think they know has any credibility.

  Maman, Gérard, and I are terribly worried about Papa. But everyone is looking for someone. Like thousands of other French women, our mother is looking for her husband. Has he been taken prisoner? Or worse?

  Each day I accompany Maman to the official offices to find out what has happened to Papa’s regiment. We read the names of those missing in action, the casualties, and prisoners. The lists are posted on the walls of these dreaded offices of despair. Father’s name is nowhere to be seen.

  Most times, Maman stands beside me, unable to look, so I run my finger down the list, searching for “Jean Matisse.” Maman’s face is pale all the time now, and I’m growing more worried about both her and Papa.

  I also long to know the fate of dear Tata. I miss her desperately and don’t know if Grandfather’s city has been bombed or if the Germans have taken it over.

  The world is falling apart around us, and an unsettling feeling grabs hold of me as I wait for the next bad news.

  ONE DAY IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, after I have finished my chores, Maman calls me. “Pierre, come with me.”

  In the crowded Marrot house, there is only one place for privacy—the large main bathroom. When I realize Maman is heading to the bathroom, I fear this is about Papa.

  We go into the bathroom and she closes the door, locking it behind us. Without preamble, she says very slowly, “Pierre, as of today your name is changed. You are no longer Pierre Matisse. Your legal name must be Pierre Leroy. Tomorrow I will enroll you in a boarding school. You will answer to your new name. Do you understand me?”

  I do not understand. I hear her words, but they do not make sense. How can this be?

  I am not Pierre Matisse? What is this name Leroy? Where did it come from? What have I done that is so bad that I have been kicked out of the family?

  Yet these are Maman’s absolute and precise words. They will be imprinted vividly in my mind for the rest of my life. I can still hear her nervous, quiet voice.

  I am stunned and begin to cry. The sky has fallen on my head.

  “I want to go and live with Tata at Grandfather’s.” The tears are pouring down my cheeks. “I want to go right now, today!” I scream.

  “Tata is not well. She cannot take care of you,” Maman says. Now she is crying too.

  “I’ll take care of her; she needs me,” I plead. All the tears inside my body flow out, taking my very life with them.

  “There is no transportation available, Pierre. You know that.” She is giving me all this information in a monotone voice.

  “I do not need transportation. I’m going to walk to Saint-Georges-de- Didonne. Now!” I shout loudly. I have made up my mind. I am leaving Bordeaux today. My mind is racing. I must find a good map.

  “We are stranded here until we find out what has happened to your father.” Maman continues to cry. “I want to keep the family as close as possible. Your school is in Bordeaux. We cannot all continue living with the Marrots.”

  Her voice fades away in my ears. I am twelve years old, and I don’t know who I am.

  Sensing that I will make her feel worse, I fall silent, and we leave the bathroom.

  I am lost and completely devastated. I no longer belong to Papa, Maman, and Gérard. I am an outcast, a complete stranger, even to myself. I have lost my family without a single shot being fired. If I attempt to think anymore I will go insane.

  8

  NEVER GIVE IN!

  Never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force.

  WINSTON S. CHURCHILL

  I AM ENROLLED in the boarding school with this new name—Pier
re Leroy—that I blame on the war and the Boches. Whatever I have done wrong, it is going to be that much harder to get my family name back. I have one more reason to detest the Boches. Franco has taken Aurora from me, and now, Adolf has taken my beloved Papa, and he’s separated me from my whole family as well. In my book, both of these dictators have a lot to pay for.

  I am leaving the crowded Marrot household the day after the devastating news, barely speaking to anyone. Maman and I travel by bus to the school. I sit silently beside her, clutching a small suitcase and wearing my best clothing.

  When we arrive, I do not ask Maman how long I must remain here. I do not ask her anything.

  In these days, children are extremely respectful of their elders. There are two well-defined worlds—children and adults. Parents call the shots. Children are not to be seen nor heard. We are taught to answer only when spoken to. Even a foolhardy daredevil like me rebels with great care—not too often, and only in desperation.

  Maman leaves, and I am all alone.

  I AM SHOWN AROUND, assigned a neat and tidy bed in the dormitory, and expected to be a proper gentleman. Meals are brought on silver platters by impeccably dressed servants, and we eat on fine china set on fine linen tablecloths.

  To survive as whomever I am, I must pull myself together right now! This Leroy label is absolutely and definitely unacceptable, I tell myself.

  Soon after arriving, I am walking down the hallway when a student stops me and introduces himself. “My name is Robert Mayer. My father is a doctor,” he says with a certain air of superior arrogance I can’t stand.

  He is about my age, but any other similarity stops right there. He walks as if he has a broom handle stuck up his behind while some subservient valet is unrolling a red carpet out in front of him.

  “I saw you talking to that fellow over there. If I were you, I would avoid him. He is dressed in common clothes.” He stands posing, full of his importance, with the tone of one who knows about such things. “He probably comes from the proletarian class of the nouveaux riche.”