The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  17

  DETOUR TO PARIS

  War is not a true adventure. It is a mere ersatz . . . War is not an adventure. It is a disease. It is like typhus.

  ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY

  THE MEDITERRANEAN’S BLUE WATERS have never been so enchanting. The fresh, salty wind smells so good and continues to bring the promise of faraway adventures. What a shame that all this beauty should be spoiled by a senseless war.

  Personally, I have made up my mind. As soon as the war ends, I am leaving Europe for America. I want out of France, despite its beauty. This continual bickering about ideological, social, and racial theories does not interest me. I do not want any part of the persecution of the Jews, the tyranny of the Roman Catholic Church, the Communist Party, or the colonization of less powerful countries.

  I don’t hate anyone. I only want freedom and, like Uncle Pierre, I’m certain I’ll find it in America. I continue to prepare, brushing up on my English like mad. One day while I am reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, I overhear a conversation between my father and a local detective in my father’s studio.

  “The Gestapo is everywhere, Jean. We can’t cover you anymore.”

  “There is nothing to worry about. It’s only gossip,” my father says.

  “Two days ago, I found the Corsican full of Parabellum bullets from a German automatic pistol. Gossip, you say?”

  “We haven’t dealt with the Corsican for quite a while because he was reckless.”

  “Another thing that disturbs me is your kid going in and out of every Maquisard resistance hideout in the area. Do you think that we are idiots?” the detective asks.

  Papa throws the question back. “Whose side are you on, the collaborators’ or ours?”

  “We have to be cautious; our necks are on the line. A month ago they arrested one of our best police officers for terrorist activities.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” Papa asks.

  “You’d better be scared, Jean. You have to keep a low profile, or you’re on your own. This war is going to last another two or three years.”

  “One more reason to push the Boches around,” Papa says enthusiastically.

  “At the rate you’re going, you won’t be around on victory day, my friend.”

  “All right. We’ll keep a low profile for a little while,” Papa promises.

  “You’d better. And keep that kid of yours out of the way. I don’t want to see him wandering in the wrong places.”

  A SHORT TIME LATER, my parents move me to a small boardinghouse close by, located in the upper part of the Cap d’Antibes. Papa explains it’s necessary because I am being noticed and talked about, which is dangerous for all of us. I am still going to the same school, but I share a bedroom on the upper floor with another boy.

  “Be good to Simon,” the woman who owns the boardinghouse says to me. “It’s very important not to mention to anybody that he even exists. He’s a Jew. We are hiding him from the Germans.” No problem here—I have had plenty of practice keeping secrets.

  We eat in a huge dining room with the other pensioners, mostly war-stranded wives whose husbands have disappeared. The missing soldiers are not only from France, but Czechoslovakia, Poland, Italy, Belgium, and Spain and could be prisoners in Germany, deserters, or on some secret mission.

  My roommate, Simon, does not go to school and never leaves the premises. He spends his days reading or playing chess against himself. He is pale and skinny as a rail and doesn’t say much.

  Still, I try my best to be friendly and get to know him.

  Soon after moving in, I greet him and tell him my name, holding out my hand.

  “My name is Simon,” he answers without emotion or elaboration.

  “Where did you live before?”

  “Paris.”

  “Me, too.” I can’t get anything but a few words out of him.

  “Why do you have a rope attached to your bedpost?” I ask curiously.

  “If the Boches come, I will escape out the window.”

  “There are only Italians here. They don’t bother anybody. Believe me, I know.”

  “No, you don’t know,” Simon answers, sounding depressed.

  End of conversation.

  ONE NIGHT I AM AWAKENED by a strange muffled noise. When I realize Simon is sobbing, I go to his bedside.

  “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

  “No!” he says pitifully, pulling the blanket around him.

  “If you’re not sick, what’s troubling you?”

  Now tears are pouring out. He is not saying a thing, just crying his whole soul out. I gently pat him on the back, and he calms down somewhat.

  “My mother and father,” he finally gets out between sobs and hiccups, “were arrested in Nice by the Germans a few months ago while they were attending an evening social event.”

  “If they didn’t do anything against the Boches, they are in a work camp somewhere in Germany. They will come back after the war,” I say, trying to reassure him.

  “No! It’s the train.” Simon’s eyes fill with fear.

  “What about the train?” I say impatiently.

  “My uncle was arrested with them. The Nazis put them in cattle cars on the train, packing them in like sardines.” Simon’s sobbing is getting worse. “The night they were arrested they were wearing evening clothes.”

  “I am certain that the Boches gave them blankets.” I don’t really believe that, but I am trying to comfort Simon. Even though I am not exactly sure what has been going on with the Jews, I am aware that bad things are happening.

  “No. The train went slowly up north. It was very cold, and the people inside the cars didn’t have any heat or food. My parents, along with many others, died of exposure.”

  “Who told you such a tale? It’s only propaganda to antagonize the French against the Boches.”

  “No, it’s true. My uncle escaped when the train was bombed in an air raid. His train car broke open, and he escaped. I saw him two days ago. He was hoping to hide here, but it’s becoming too dangerous for the owner.”

  Simon’s eyes flash with anger. “You Gentiles hate us!” he said, practically spitting the words at me.

  “Hate? Where did you get that stupid idea? And what do you mean by Gentile? Are you insulting me?”

  “If you aren’t a Jew, then you are a Gentile.”

  “I see. So you Jews are racial theorists like Adolf Hitler, eh? You label yourselves Jews, me Gentile, the Boches call themselves Aryan, and we French call the Arabs Bougnoule. Then we start a war and kill one another because our tribes’ names are different. This is insane. Have you seen anyone killed by bombs and machine guns?”

  “No!”

  “Well, I have and you should. Then maybe you’d stop calling me a Gentile. Did I ever call you a Jew?”

  Simon looks at me, confused.

  “By the way, what are you going to do about the Boches who killed your parents?”

  “Nothing. What can I do against an army?” he asks with conviction.

  “That’s the problem. You have to fight and kill as many of them as you can . . . before they kill you.”

  “I am just a child.”

  “I have seen children our age dead. Today a J3 is a man. You fight to survive, or you die like your parents did.”

  “Are you fighting?” he asks shrewdly.

  “What I do is none of your business. Do I look like a victim? Draw your own conclusions.” I have learned to keep my mouth shut.

  I go back to bed feeling very sorry for Simon. I have heard many rumors concerning the Germans mistreating the Jews—how they must wear a yellow Star of David on their clothes to identify themselves and follow a long list of restrictions and regulations. I have never seen anyone with a yellow star while I’ve been in the Riviera, and until my stay at the boardinghouse, I have never known a Jew personally. Simon is the first one I’ve met, and I see no difference between him and me.

  I find this treatment of the Jews
totally disgusting. One more mark against Adolf in my book. Ostracism is a terrible thing, and I know the pain, having endured a mild form with The Great’s disdain for me.

  One day I come home from school and Simon is gone. When I ask about him, the owner of the boardinghouse explains, “We couldn’t keep him here any longer. It’s too risky. But I found him a safer place in the Alps, close to Switzerland. From there, he might be able to cross the border to safety.”

  18

  MOUNTAINS AND MAQUISARDS

  The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.

  ALBERT EINSTEIN

  WITH THINGS HEATING UP with the Boches, my family arrives at the boardinghouse about a month later. I am being moved again, accompanied by Maman, to an undisclosed destination. She has packed two small suitcases, and after I say good-bye to Papa and Gérard, we start the journey by taking the bus to Nice. In Nice, we board an old train that has been barely maintained and is packed with people, thankfully finding seats further down in one of the cars. The steam locomotive chugs at a turtle’s pace up into the mountains, and while Maman rests, I admire the incredible view out the window. When we finally get off at our stop, we walk for half a day to a small inn, where we spend the night.

  “My poor Bunny Rabbit,” Maman says as she tucks me in, before going to bed in the cold bedroom. She seems to have forgotten that I am a man now and can’t hide the terrible worry on her face. I lie there silently; I won’t ask Maman where we are going or what will happen when we get there.

  The next day we walk quite a distance before getting on a run-down gazogène bus. This time there are plenty of seats available. All day, the rusted wreck puffs up the mountain on twisting dirt roads between deep ravines. Finally, late in the evening, the bus pulls over near a small brook and stops. We get off and wait for about an hour, when just before dark, a stocky fellow with a mule appears.

  “Madame Matisse?” he inquires politely.

  “Yes, and this is my son, Pierre,” she says, shaking his hand.

  “So you are the little devil I’ve heard so much about, eh?” he says with a broad smile, sticking out a strong, calloused hand in greeting.

  How would they know me in this remote place?

  “Let’s put those suitcases on the mule. We have about an hour’s walk to our farm. My mother has prepared hot soup, cheese, milk, and her specialty—a beet leaf pie.”

  What did he say?

  I am dead tired, but the air is crisp and fresh. I walk as fast as I can up the narrow trail, spurred on by the promise of food at the end.

  Monsieur Mountaineer is a small man, probably in his midthirties, built like a black bear—as wide as he is high. His whole personality radiates strength, confidence, and courage. His face could have been sculpted with an ax—there are no weak lines to it—set off with piercing, inquisitive eyes and a nose that an eagle would envy.

  He runs a small dilapidated farm with his widowed mother. Their home is nestled on the side of the mountain, right at the tree line, perched high like an aerie.

  “I like it here,” he explains to Maman as we hike. “There is nobody to boss me around and to tell me what to do.”

  “I was led to believe that the Maquis is very active in this area,” Maman says.

  “You believe right, Madame,” Monsieur Mountaineer says proudly. “The Maquisards are giving the Boches a very hard time in these mountains. They can’t get their tanks or trucks up here. Lately, a small Boche plane has been spying on us. We hide the more obvious things, and a few old women give them friendly salutes with their scarves.”

  “How long do you think it’s going to remain safe?” Maman asks with concern.

  “Oh, they’ll never come here, Madame. Not to worry—we have the high ground. We know the mountain and can pick them off one at a time, like in a shooting gallery. Besides, the Boches are taking a beating in Russia, and they are short of men. And now Italy is giving them plenty of troubles. Hitler has better things to do than bother with us.”

  Finally, we arrive at the farm, where we are welcomed warmly by our hostess. She leads us directly to the table, laden with a feast. The meal fills my belly to twice its size, and I go to bed completely stuffed for the first time in as long as I can remember. Before I fall asleep, a little white mouse skitters across the floor, probably searching for leftover bits of cheese, hoping to fill his belly too.

  THE NEXT MORNING I am awakened by the sound of rushing water—there is a stream close to the house. In the distance, I can hear a melody played by cows’ bells echoing in the mountains.

  Monsieur Mountaineer’s mother is preparing breakfast while talking to Maman. “Madame, if he continues to eat like this, he is going to burst,” she exclaims, with a twinkle in her eye.

  As I take my seat at the table, Maman says, “Pierre, don’t eat so much. You are going to get sick.”

  “But Maman, she says that I can eat as much as I like, and I am always hungry.” I begin eating my breakfast like a pig, and plan to devour every morsel of food I can while I am here.

  Monsieur Mountaineer gives me a kind look and says, “Let him eat as much as he wants. If he gets overfull, he’ll throw up. It’s as simple as that!”

  I gorge myself silly and don’t throw up at all, but an hour later, I am hungry again.

  The first floor of the house is one large room that serves as the kitchen, living room, and dining room, and one wall is actually the rock face of the mountain. Above the massive sink is a clay spigot from which glacier-fed spring water flows continuously. The bedrooms are on the second floor.

  The whole house smells of wood-smoked ham, which makes my mouth water, and the remaining walls are discolored by the brown smoke that escapes from the cast-iron stove connected to a chimney. The fireplace is large enough to easily roast a whole lamb.

  Later in the day, Maman finds me and says, “Pierre, you have to stay here for a while. It’s safer than anywhere else for the time being, and you’ll definitely eat better.” Maman seems satisfied.

  The next morning before she leaves, I thank her. “I love you, Maman. Good-bye, and safe travels.” The “safe travels” is my prayer for her, given with a long hug. Then she is gone.

  I SOON REALIZE that Madame Mountaineer is definitely a character in her own right who never fails to surprise me. For one thing, she doesn’t believe that bathroom facilities are necessary.

  “If the cows can do it when and where they want, so can I,” she states with conviction. “I don’t much like city folks. They have no manners, passing you by without so much as a good morning.” I quickly adjust to the no-bathroom approach, since there isn’t one available anywhere!

  To me, she is The Duchess. She definitely reigns in the kitchen, performing miracles of gastronomical delight on the cast-iron stove—beet leaf pies, lentils, marmot stew, crow soup, bean cakes, and huge loaves of bread. I have no idea how the three of us can possibly eat all the food she is making.

  “The children are going to like this,” she says one day while packing all her carefully prepared meals into woven baskets.

  “What children?” I ask.

  “The Maquisards.”

  “I’ve never seen any Maquisards here.”

  “In these mountains, we are all Maquisards. With your past, you fit in quite well, no?” She knows? She looks at me intensely, then adds with a laugh, “Now you are a Maquisard too.”

  In no time at all, I am fully integrated into the farm as the official cow herder. Going from bees to rabbits is an easy step, but graduating from soft, small rabbits to large cows with long, sharp horns is another matter.

  Every morning I herd a dozen of them from the farm up to even higher ground to graze. The cows walk single file on a narrow trail, and I march behind them, wondering what I am going to do if one decides to make a run for freedom. On the left is a sharp decline two miles straight into the ravine, and on the right is a rock wall two
miles high. But the cows know the way, so up we go. Once we are on the grassy slope, I constantly turn the herd, keeping them relatively close to each other. If a cow wanders away, I tap her gently on the back with my walking cane.

  The first time I try to do this, the cow pays no attention. So I resort to stronger tactics and try to push her from behind as if she is on wheels. Suddenly, she kicks viciously and runs like a demon.

  Swearing and screaming, I go after her. She eventually stops, and I stand at a cane’s length away and tap her firmly. This time she responds and walks back to the herd. But now the rest of the cows are meandering in different directions. How am I going to get them rounded up and back to the farm this evening? I wonder.

  But I don’t need to worry. When it starts to get dark, the cows all head back to the farm on their own. After I get them safely into the barn for the night, I find The Duchess in her element—working in the kitchen.

  “How did it go?” she asks me.

  “Great!” I answer, tired but happy.

  “We have cheese soup and beet leaf pie for dinner.”

  “Good! I’ve worked up an appetite from all this activity and fresh air.”

  After a few more excursions to the green slopes, the cows and I get to know each other well. It becomes so easy that I am able to take my small sketch pad to draw my models chewing their cuds against the scenic backdrop of the mountains. Unfortunately, one day when I am trying to round up a cow, one of her friends finds my sketch pad very tasty.

  There is nowhere to buy another sketch pad, so my artistic endeavors come to an end. I’m not too disappointed; after all, I prefer to draw boats and the sea. Besides, The Duchess prefers that I concentrate on caring for her cows. When I tell her what the cow has done, she laughs heartily.

  “Good!” she says, still laughing. “We’ll frame the cow.”