The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  “Monsieur Butcher, look at him; he is dying before his own mother’s eyes. Do you have children, Monsieur?”

  The butcher looks at me, then Maman, before wrapping up a bigger, better cut of meat in the paper. The same scenario is repeated at all of the other food shops. We cannot hit the same shops too often. We have to walk long distances to play a variation on the same theme to other food merchants.

  “Monsieur Grocer, I am alone. The war took my husband. Now look at this poor child. Starvation is going to take my sons away from me.” Maman is on the edge of tears.

  Without this trick, the tears would be running for real. Once we are far enough from our mark, her face breaks into a radiant smile. Our shopping bags are getting fatter.

  Maman decides to expand our repertoire, using her lovely figure as a lure. My mother is a beautiful, well-endowed woman.

  “Pierre, you know that it’s a crime to shoplift. Keep your hands off things,” she tells me while she is bending forward to point out an item to Monsieur Grocer. Monsieur Grocer’s eyes are riveted on my mother’s d-e-e-p neckline.

  “I understand, Madame, that these J3s are constantly hungry,” he says, never letting his eyes leave Maman’s balcony, but dropping a bundle of sardine cans on the floor. Could it be that his mind is not on his work?

  “And who is not hungry for one thing or another these days?” she adds sweetly.

  “Madame, this is a little extra for your son, but let’s keep it strictly among ourselves.”

  Four of the precious sardine cans land in my mother’s shopping bag. The grocer is quite a kind fellow. A few more items find their way into our basket, without a single coupon being handed over: a bottle of olive oil, a bag of beans, a few cans of condensed milk, a big wedge of cheese, and two eggs.

  As soon as we are outside, Maman takes a moment to arrange her dress more modestly.

  “Never let a woman play that number on you, Pierre,” she instructs me seriously.

  “I don’t understand, Maman.”

  How dumb can you be at fourteen? Well, my only defense is that I know nothing about girls at that age. Anyway, my main interest is food.

  “Later on in your life you will, Pierre. Just remember what I told you.”

  “Papa is going to find this funny,” I add innocently.

  “Don’t ever mention this to your father, Pierre, or I’ll kill you!”

  When she sees my shocked look, she bursts out laughing.

  “Monsieur Jacques would have liked your plan,” I say.

  “Monsieur Jacques, yes. But your father wouldn’t appreciate this kind of humor.”

  EVENTUALLY even these pathetic tricks don’t work. Copycats have ruined our business. Now every mother has a dying son, or sometimes three or four of them, with deep blue under their eyes.

  At night I lie in bed and contemplate the sky full of stars. It is very late when Orion appears. Every time I see the sparkling outline of the hunter, I remember when Papa first pointed it out to me, which seems incredibly long ago. It is so extraordinarily beautiful, but I am restless because my stomach is keeping me awake. This heavenly dessert, however, helps me to fall asleep.

  In the morning I have leftover soup for breakfast before I leave for school. But it only takes the edge off my hunger for a few minutes. I walk to school hungry. I study hungry. I walk back home in the afternoon hungry.

  The disputes continue at the dinner table.

  “Some starve while others stuff themselves silly,” Papa says in disgust.

  “If you hadn’t exchanged your meat ration for cigarettes, you wouldn’t be so hungry today, Jean,” Maman replies.

  “Well, I don’t have a big balcony to drive the grocer crazy.”

  How did he find out?

  “That’s unfair, Jean!”

  One could cut the air with a knife. Every day it’s the same. I don’t know what to say, what to do, or where to keep my eyes: On the other empty plates while mine is full? Or perhaps on the ceiling?

  In spite of the embarrassing scenes, my mother insists on giving me more food than anyone else.

  I feel that my father hates me. I call him Papa, and still my name is Leroy. I hate this ugly name, which keeps me separated from my family, but I can’t muster the courage to ask my mother or father any questions about it. I sense a dirty mystery surrounding the detested name. Every time I have to answer to it, I feel uncomfortable. And now I have this J3 business added on, which is separating me even more from my father and brother.

  Still, Papa and I have a bond, especially when we work together on an art project or are involved in some mysterious mission. I admire his courage and his honesty. Deep down, I love him . . . and I know that he loves me, too. But this war is getting to us—will it ever end? Will my family name ever be restored to me?

  I write to Tata regularly and share all the news about the family and my studies, telling her about my recent art projects and that I am making progress with Italian and English. From time to time, we receive a parcel containing food that she has lovingly prepared. Eventually she has to stop because most of the time her packages are stolen in transit. It breaks my heart to think of the sacrifices she is making to save a few precious tidbits out of her meager ration to feed us.

  Fortunately, she is with Grandfather Milhau, who loves her and will protect her. Nevertheless, I worry about Tata and miss her terribly.

  16

  CURFEW À L’ITALIENNE

  If a man hasn’t discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.

  MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

  THESE DAYS IT seems I am suddenly running a lot of errands for my father. The only family vehicle is a tired bicycle, so I either take buses, which are erratic, or more often resort to old-fashioned walking. We are all doing more than our share of walking. But whenever I can find a faster way, I take it.

  “No! Don’t take the bus, Pierre,” Papa says. “The buses are searched too often by the police. For this errand, use my bicycle.”

  “The bike has a flat tire, Papa.”

  Laziness is taking hold of me. I think of any excuse to dodge the long ride up into the hills of the back country.

  “I fixed it. Go to this address on the road to Vallauris . . .” Papa begins to explain the mission.

  “Let me write it down,” I reply, reaching for a pencil.

  “No! You have to memorize everything. When you ring the bell, a man will come to the door. He looks Corsican and will be wearing a blue shirt with a button missing, the second white button from the top. Ask him for directions to the pottery.”

  “I know where the pottery is,” I cut in.

  “No, you don’t know anymore, so you ask for directions. He will tell you that their work is lousy. Repeat the instructions back to me.”

  No problem, I think. “Small red brick house with a rusted gate, located after the railroad tracks. I ring the bell and ask for directions to the pottery. Work is lousy. Corsican; blue shirt; a button is missing. I got it, no problem.”

  “Pierre, pay attention! The second white button from the top is missing. Got that?”

  “The second white button from the top is missing. I got it,” I repeat patiently.

  “Much better. Now, whether the Corsican is there or not, or if he doesn’t have the right shirt, you still go to the pottery to get some modeling clay for your mother.”

  He looks me straight in the eyes and says, “If everything is right, the Corsican will give you a verbal message. Memorize his message, get the clay, and come straight back home. Pierre, you must be very careful. Be alert at all times to everything around you. Life is dangerous in these times.” I can see the concern on Papa’s face.

  “When do I leave?”

  “Right now. And keep an eye that nobody follows you either way.”

  Everything goes smoothly on my first mission. I find the house, the Corsican in the blue shirt with the correct missing button answers the bell, I ask for directions to the pottery, and he say
s they are lousy. But his “message” to Papa is very anticlimactic: “I couldn’t get any cigarettes.”

  I expected something more exciting. I visit the Corsican several times, always returning with various messages about cigarettes. One time it’s about the wrong brand, another time there is a big chunk of wood in the tobacco, then the quality is bad, the pack only has three cigarettes in it, and so on. I repeated his boring messages verbatim to Papa. At least the BBC messages are more original, I think.

  AFTER CARRYING A LOT of verbal messages successfully, I graduate to small package deliveries. This is more to my taste: I can almost smell the adventure and maybe the possibility of becoming a hero like Papa. Why not?

  “Create detours, Pierre. Don’t use the same road too often. If you see any butterflies, stop for a while to chase them.”

  “I will, Papa.”

  “Good! And watch your back for anything suspicious. If you are followed, make your way back here very slowly, taking a few scenic detours.”

  I use the broken-down bicycle to deliver Papa’s packages. I always manage to make it to my destination and back, but the bicycle always needs some kind of repair when I return. Papa doesn’t complain; he just patches it back together so I can make the next run.

  On Christmas Eve 1942, I am heading home after spending the day delivering “gifts” when I lose control riding downhill. I try to stay on the road, but I hit a bump, and the frame breaks completely apart. Thankfully, I have only a scratch or two, but the bicycle is in pieces. I pick everything up and carry it home.

  When I arrive, Papa looks at Maman and announces, “What perfect timing. No risk at all.” Obviously, Maman has been discussing my partnership with Papa, probably wishing I wasn’t involved. She shakes her head, not the least convinced by his words.

  MYSTERIOUS VISITORS CONTINUE to come and go furtively late at night. Sometimes Papa does his own errands, but he always picks a stormy night. Everything seems to be going very well, like there is no danger. Nevertheless, we can feel an uneasy tension creeping in all around us.

  Maman has joined the underground games ever since we began hearing rumors about Jews being arrested and transported in train cattle cars to places unknown.

  We all must keep our mouths shut at all times. The French police have tipped Papa off that the Gestapo is probably in the area looking for informants. Nothing is certain, but the rumors mean it’s best to be careful.

  One evening at ten o’clock, I get ready to take my post as a lookout while Papa is busy in the house.

  “Pierre,” Papa says, “go up on the hill and keep an eye out for the Italian patrols. If you hear or see a patrol, run and tell me. Otherwise, stay there until I come to get you. Don’t fall asleep; keep a sharp lookout.”

  “Yes, Papa!” I sense the urgency in his voice and head out the door in a flash.

  It is pitch dark. The sky is totally overcast; not even the moon is able to keep me company. From my vantage point, I can only guess where our house is. Standing there, I can easily hear anything coming from either Antibes or Cannes, and toward the eastern Cap’s side where our house is located. Sitting on the grass, the time passes very slowly; it feels like this cold, gloomy night will never end.

  My stomach starts aching, a little bit at first, but soon it hurts like crazy. Now what do I do? Despite the pain, I stay put. Maybe the sickness will go away, I think. It doesn’t. Now I feel nauseated. Nevertheless, I keep my eyes wide open.

  That’s when everything happens all at once! I am sick from both ends! I glance in the direction of our house. It looks like Bastille Day. A kaleidoscope of colors is lighting up the sky. Blue, red, orange, and yellow flames are shooting out of the chimney like a gigantic blowtorch. What is Papa burning?

  I am still sick with diarrhea. Then I hear something—running footsteps. An Italian patrol is coming.

  Holding up my pants with both hands, I run toward our house to sound the alarm.

  Another patrol comes from a different direction, and I am running directly in front of them. Scrambling up the pathway, I trip on a stone but get up quickly, making it to the front door. “Our chimney is on fire! Papa, come quick, the Italians are coming!” I scream as I bang on the door with my feet and fists.

  Thankfully, the chimney has stopped spitting fire.

  The door opens just a crack. “What is it, Pierre?” Papa whispers.

  “The Italian soldiers are following me. I’m sorry, Papa.”

  The two patrols are closing in fast.

  “You speak Italian, Pierre. You handle them,” Papa says calmly as he closes the door.

  My Italian vocabulary is limited, but when I am surrounded, I grab at words. “The furnace hasn’t been cleaned for years,” I try explaining.

  “What were you doing on the hill?” The one who seems to be in charge questions me.

  I think fast. “I had to go to the bathroom and . . . our toilet is plugged.”

  “Chimney on fire and jammed john—that’s the French for you,” a high-pitched voice responds.

  “Boy, you tell Mama no lighting a fire in the house at night. Planes coming. Boom . . . Boom . . . Bombs! Fire forbidden. Lights bad! You hear? Planes bad. Bombs bad. Blackout good.” The man in charge is taking a crack at speaking French to impress his troops. They all leave, still laughing, and I go in the house where Papa is waiting.

  “So . . . you left them laughing. I knew you could handle it,” Papa says with a twinkle in his eye and a broad smile on his face. Then he gets a whiff of me.

  “Pierre, you stink!”

  Papa is going to think this happened because I was scared. I have to explain.

  “Papa, I was sick. I had diarrhea, the chimney burst into flames, and the Italians came—all at the same time.”

  “I understand, Pierre,” Papa says. “I was in the toilet when you knocked at the door. I have a bout of colic, too. Your mother is sick and so is Gérard. The crab soup we ate this evening must have been bad.”

  There are no more patrols that night. Under darkness, Papa and I bury packages in the backyard of an unoccupied villa not far from our home.

  “It is too dangerous to burn this stuff anymore,” Papa says while we are digging.

  “Yes! I noticed that right away from the top of the hill,” I reply.

  “So now we are getting smart, Pierre, eh?”

  “Right, Papa,” I tell him as he gives me a loving tap on the back.

  “Well done, soldier,” Papa says. A sense of pride runs through me. I am contributing to the war effort. Now that I am in the fight, Adolf Hitler’s days are numbered.

  Overall, the Italian soldiers are easygoing and nice people. It is evident that their hearts are not in this war. Their equipment seems as worn out as their threadbare uniforms. Like us, they are severely short of food. Mostly they fraternize with the French population, play music, and sing love songs. It doesn’t take long before the troops blend in with the locals. Eventually, we don’t even notice them. They have never arrested anybody that we know of.

  In the south of France we like the Italians. However, they are hated in the northern part because they have allied themselves to the Nazis. Bless the Italians who occupied the French Riviera. If it had been a German patrol the night of the chimney fire, it would have been all over for us.

  AFTER THE FIRE INCIDENT, I don’t run any more special errands, but there is now something more interesting going on in Papa’s studio. Very discreetly, he is building a mock-up of a railroad track made out of leftover wood. I help him cut, nail, and put this strange thing together. When we finish, Papa names the ten-foot track the “Hitler Express.”

  Late at night, we install the Hitler Express in the back of the garden, hiding it under a pile of compost made of vegetable peelings mixed up with well-aged, discarded rabbit litter. Papa says that the aroma should keep away any unwelcome visitors.

  Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Papa asks me to shovel the compost off the track.

  On one particula
r evening, it is pouring rain when Papa enlists my help.

  “Perfect weather,” Papa says. While I keep watch at a safe distance, I watch Papa and two mysterious men all dressed in black set up charges of plastic explosives and detonators on the track.

  In my imagination I hear a big, black steam locomotive puffing and smoking—then boom! There is a violent explosion, followed by a huge fireball and SS soldiers running and screaming. “Kaput, you rotten Boches,” I mutter quietly. Papa’s firm tap brings me back to reality. “Pay attention,” he whispers in a conspiratorial tone. Shivering from the rain, I return to my watch. It is a onetime demonstration, but what a show! From constructing the model, the men learn what they need to know for positioning explosives on a real track. These interesting interludes make me forget my growling, hungry, empty stomach for a while.

  Not long after the track is blown up, I am coming home from school and see a surprise visitor leaving our house—The Great! We nod silently at each other, trading icy glares.

  The Great is still very tall, powerful, and overbearing, but I think I detect a trace of concern on her face. She is in a hurry, stressed and tense.

  It is clear to me that she is involved up to her ears in the French underground.

  The dirty look she gives me in passing shows her disapproval of my own involvement in this dirty business. I’m sure she is thinking I am untrustworthy, a little Spanish refugee and rotten bastard who is not worthy of belonging to the honorable cause.

  It will be the last time we ever see each other.

  In 1944, more than a year later, The Great and her daughter, Marguerite, will be arrested separately by the Gestapo. All this time, I thought that The Great had been living in Toulouse, but it seems she has been traveling all over the country. This lady is definitely full of surprises.

  The Boches have no idea who they are up against. It would be bad publicity if the Nazis shot the wife of a world-famous artist. Besides, the Nazis don’t want to tarnish their image as art lovers. They are stealing art all over Europe, anywhere they can put their greedy hands on it. Good for her, I think. She finally has an enemy worthy of her status. There is no doubt in my mind that just by her open contempt, she will give the Nazis hell on a daily basis.