EACH DAY MY ROUTINE IS THE SAME. Then one evening Monsieur Mountaineer takes me aside. “How would you like to come with us into the mountains, Pierre?” he asks.
“I would love to!” I answer eagerly.
“I thought so! Try on these heavy shoes,” he says, handing me a pair of French army walking shoes.
I smile as I pull them on. “They fit perfectly.”
“Good. Tomorrow we head into the mountains.”
It’s still dark when Monsieur Mountaineer wakes me up. After a hearty breakfast and well wishes for the journey from The Duchess, Monsieur Mountaineer and I start up a trail with four heavily loaded mules, a different path from the one I usually take with the cows. It’s dark and cold, and we travel silently, hearing only the sound of the mules’ hooves on the rocky trail. When daylight finally comes, my feet are hurting. I have no idea how far we have walked, but the rough terrain and the borrowed shoes have taken their toll.
But then I look around. The view is absolutely breathtaking with mountains and valleys as far as one can see—some peaks are capped with snow. The natural beauty is so stimulating that I actually forget the pain in my feet. We stop for a snack of smoked sausage, The Duchess’s delicious bread, onions, and garlic. It’s a fabulous feast washed down with a poor-quality red wine.
“What do you think of it?” he asks, waiting for my opinion.
I don’t want to seem ungrateful so I smell what’s in my tin cup and pronounce my findings like a true connoisseur. “A little dry perhaps. Maybe a little too much tannin in it, but overall, it’s good. I like it.”
“That’s what I told my mother,” Monsieur Mountaineer agrees.
We continue walking, and my feet begin to hurt again. The adventure is becoming less fun with each step I take. Soon I start to hear men calling back and forth. Their voices are bouncing off the mountains.
“Eh! Oh!”
“Eh! Oh!”
“Eh! Oh!”
Before long, we come upon a small stone shelter located between a cold spring and a little ravine.
“I could have walked by and not even noticed it!” I say to Monsieur Mountaineer.
“It’s a refuge for mountain climbers,” my companion explains.
“Eh! Oh!” A man with a long rifle steps out from behind a big boulder and walks toward us.
“What have you brought us, Gaston?”
“Food, ammunition, and a big surprise.”
Surprise? I wonder what the surprise is. Monsieur Mountaineer looks excited about it.
“What is it?” Long Rifle asks.
My guide pulls something out of one of the packs. “A fusil-mitrailleur.” It’s a French-made machine gun/rifle hybrid, which I admire too. The Boches are not going to like this.
“Fabulous. Wait till the others see this.”
When all of the supplies have been unpacked and taken into the shelter, I collapse on a bed of hay, fighting off sleep to observe this band of men. I am very cold, but curiously there is no fire to welcome us, so I ask Long Rifle, “Why can’t we light a fire in the fireplace?”
“Because the Boches’ planes will spot us, my friend,” answers another Maquis, with two ammo belts full of bullets double-strapped across his chest. More men come in, all armed to the teeth. They joke, laugh, eat, and drink. Before long, they begin assembling the fusil-mitrailleur. It has a folding bipod attached to the front of the barrel so it can be anchored to the ground, and a large detachable magazine is inserted on the top.
“Take the clip out, you fool. Do you want to shoot the window out?” one man says to the other.
“I was just trying to see if it fits.”
“It’ll fit the Boches. Don’t worry.”
I fall asleep to hearty laughter.
THE NEXT THING I KNOW, Gaston is shaking me.
“Wake up, Pierre. We have to head back to the farm.”
“It’s still night. Why don’t we go down later?” I say, still exhausted.
“We have to travel in darkness part of the way down because of the Boches’ planes.”
I dread the march down, but I am not about to complain, even if my feet still haven’t come to terms with the land and these boots. The adventure is well worth all the suffering.
Gaston seems to read my mind. “Don’t worry. No more walking. The mules are unloaded, so we can ride them down the trail.”
After a breakfast of cheese and bread washed down with wine, we mount the mules and start out with our bellies full and our spirits high. The sky is clear, and I quickly find the constellation Gemini. As the sky gradually lightens, the stars disappear one by one. Now I can almost see where the valley is, and soon the snowcaps show up in the distance.
A few minutes later, it is light, although the sun isn’t visible. How strange. At sea the sun comes early in the morning, but here in the Alps the sky king hides behind some big mountain in the east. The sun in these mountains is lazy like me; I would have enjoyed staying in my comfortable hay bed for a few more hours.
The air is so pure, one can see for miles. I spot a small hamlet nestled on the other side of the valley. Sprinkled here and there are isolated farms that look like miniature toys. With so much beauty surrounding me, it’s hard to remember that there is a war going on.
Suddenly a marmot runs across the trail. My mule shies sideways, and I almost fall off.
“Stop dreaming, Pierre! Pay attention to where the mule is going!” Gaston says.
“Sorry!” I say, shaking my head to keep from falling asleep.
“We are going to take a shortcut down the mountain. Stay alert!”
We dismount and guide the mules, one by one, down a steep rocky slope onto a trail again.
“That saves us an hour,” Gaston says with a smile.
We are riding again, but the trail is so narrow, it’s scary. With a deadly precipice on the right, there is no room for a mistake.
“Faster!” Gaston orders.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask, trying not to look over the edge.
“The Boches’ planes. If they catch us here, we are in trouble, Pierre.”
“In the month that I have been here, I’ve never even seen one.”
“One more reason to get out of here fast.”
I can see the pines that mark the tree line. We’re safe.
“Run! Run, Pierre! Make her run faster to the woods,” Gaston screams in a panic.
I don’t hear any planes. What’s the problem? But I make my two mules run as fast as they will go, which is not an easy task riding one and pulling the other. Gaston gets to the trees before me. Then he runs toward me, pulls me off my mule, grabs the two animals, and quickly hides them under a huge pine.
“Flat! Lie flat! Quick, get over here behind this tree trunk.” He is shaking.
I can hear Papa’s words in my mind. “Obey, don’t question.” I crawl over, turning my head slightly to glimpse a small plane through the branches, circling above us. It’s an observation aircraft with a black swastika painted on the rudder that has cut its engine. That’s why I didn’t hear anything.
“He is gliding in order to surprise us,” Gaston gasps.
“Do you think he saw us?” I ask apprehensively.
“I don’t know, Pierre. But if he did, we’re going to find out soon.”
“How?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
“The Boches have a regiment of alpine troops about five hours from here.”
After one more pass, the plane’s engine restarts, and it flies west.
“We’ll have to stay here until dark. It’s too risky to move now,” Gaston decides. “Go ahead and get some sleep.” I don’t have trouble at all.
When it is dark, Gaston wakes me up, and we get back on the trail. A few miles from the farm, The Duchess is waiting for us. She is wearing an ammunition belt full of red shotgun shell, and a double-barrel shotgun is slung over her shoulder.
“It is safe, Gaston,” she says. “I noticed the plane too. It must not h
ave spotted you.”
I’m surprised at the shotgun. “I thought that the Boches ordered us to turn over all our guns,” I say.
“The only thing I’m interested in turning over to them is the buckshot inside these shells,” she replies, patting the ammunition. “Of course, they are welcome to try and take it anytime they want to,” she adds with a defiant toss of her head.
LATER THAT DAY we are visited by some French gendarmes, the feared Vichy government police. I am in the cowshed brushing the mules when they arrive, and I can hear animated conversation coming from the kitchen. The Duchess is not afraid of the gendarmes, but things don’t seem to be going well. I slip out of the shed and get closer to the house so I can hear.
“You are hiding two cows from the government requisition program,” says a gendarme to The Duchess. “We could throw you in jail for that.”
“I am a French lady! I will give the cows to the French but not to the Boches. What are you? Collaborators, perhaps?”
“Gaston, please explain to your mother that if you go overboard, we can’t protect you and the Maquis.”
“They are right, Mother.”
“Let’s make a deal, then. One cow.” The Duchess makes her offer.
“No! The requisition rules say two,” the sergeant insists.
“I am wondering whose side you are on,” The Duchess replies bitterly.
“It’s the war, Madame. We are trying to slow them down as much as we can.”
“I don’t want you to slow them down. I want you to kick their behinds back to Germany, killing as many as you can in the process. Who cares what they did to my husband, eh?”
“We know, Madame. We sympathize.”
“The Boches killed him, and I want them dead, all dead. Dead, do you hear me?” The Duchess says, raising her voice.
I hold my breath, but everything calms down when the gendarmes accept a glass of wine.
The next day Gaston sets out to deliver two cows to the requisition services, where they will be slaughtered and used to make sausages for the German army.
As The Duchess and I watch Gaston leave with the cows, she says, “I never thought that I would see the day when I had to feed the Boches. I hope they choke on it! One day they’ll pay dearly!” she adds, filled with hate.
I suddenly miss Papa. I wish he could have been there with me, The Duchess, Gaston, and the Maquisards. He would have loved them and the adventure.
I LIVE ON THE MOUNTAIN for only two months; no place is safe for long. When my mother comes to get me, we take a different route this time—first a long walk to Grenoble, where we catch a rusty gazogène bus before another stop and a train to Paris.
This time we need the help of a passeur to cross in between the occupied lines since our papers are not up to bureaucratic standards. This gentleman, a professional smuggler by trade, makes a living by guiding people during the night to and from northern and southern France. His clients need to cross the demarcation line discreetly, to conduct their private affairs without any involvement with the authorities, whether German or Vichy.
Now we are back in occupied France with the Boches, heading for Paris where Tata awaits me. She has moved back from Saint-Georges-de-Didonne. The trip is long and uncomfortable, but otherwise uneventful. I am going to visit Tata, and I am very happy about that.
19
NIGHTMARE BY DAYLIGHT
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
MAMAN AND I arrive in the early morning, tired, dirty, and hungry. It is a dark, drizzling day in 1943, and Paris is depressing and drab, but not because of the weather. Boches are everywhere, and there are only German military vehicles and civilian bicycles on the streets.
There are no taxis running anymore, so Maman and I walk to the closest subway station. Along the way, we pass some buildings flying swastika flags. The subway is cold, and so are the people. The passengers either look up or down or have blank stares—it seems everyone is furtively trying to avoid eye contact. Soon we exit the subway and walk to rue Morère.
I stare at the door of the apartment building for a moment, catching my breath, then I rush inside.
Full of joy, I run up four stories, two steps at a time. My heart is beating hard, but not from climbing the stairs. I knock at the familiar heavy oak door, and when it opens I say, “Tata, it’s me, Pierre!”
A very small, frail old lady is standing on the threshold. Tata?
My heart sinks from the shock of what I see. When I left Tata in 1940, I was twelve years old. She was so tall and I was so small. Today at fifteen years old, I am a giant, and she is so tiny. She is standing there looking up at me with her tender eyes, tears running down her face.
Maman stays with us for a few hours, reminiscing about our last great vacation together before the conversation turns to the war, collaborators, traitors, the Jewish persecution, and the food shortage. She will return in three days, and I must be ready to accompany her to my new boarding college.
After Maman leaves, I can’t speak, and neither can Tata. I take her in my arms to hug her, and I can feel how thin she is, nothing but bones. I think about the food parcels that she sent us in Antibes and am so ashamed. She deprived herself to send food to Gérard and me. Today, I still think about all the women of Europe who sacrificed during the war so their children could eat.
I am delighted to find my old roller skates in the apartment. I put them on and go outside, skating on the sidewalk for about twenty minutes. I am exhausted! What has happened to me? Where did my energy go? I used to be able to jump up and down and run all day long. Now I am an old man who can’t do either.
MAMAN DOES RETURN three days later, and after a tear-filled good-bye to Tata, we make our way to the agricultural boarding college near Fontainebleau where I am enrolled. It is a long walk from Tata’s apartment to the train and then a half-day train ride to the college.
The school is called the Chateau, and it is housed in a magnificent castle situated on the bank of the Loing River. When Maman and I arrive, we are given the grand tour. There are luxurious gardens growing enormous vegetables and fabulous orchards containing an incredible variety of fruit trees. Grapes from one vineyard are used to produce fine wines, while another one grows the finest table grapes. The livestock is only purebred cows, a few champion bulls, blue-blood pigs, Aryan rabbits, angora rabbits, racehorses, racing donkeys, and chickens with a lineage dating back to Louis the XIV.
The agricultural engineering education is first class here, with the crème de la crème of France’s agricultural engineers coming out of this institution. I hear that it was started by the rich family who owns the cognac champagne industry of France.
A person has to be connected in order to be accepted to this mecca of gardening knowledge. The Matisse family has pulled some strings to get me here. I am privileged and so are my peers. If an upper-class boy does not do well in academia, his family sends him here to become a fancy farmer. I am being sent here to maintain a low profile.
From the moment we arrive, Maman senses that I don’t like the place. When we have a moment alone, she brings it up.
“Pierre, my darling, you might not like to be here, but you should be safe until the end of the war and you will eat decently,” she explains.
“I prefer being in the Alps with The Duchess and Gaston,” I declare flatly.
“It was becoming too dangerous,” Maman says quietly. “Besides, I don’t want you to become a barbarian.”
“These people are so pretentious, Maman,” I reply. “It reminds me of the college in Bordeaux.”
“Please, Pierre, conduct yourself like a gentleman and promise me you will not get into trouble.”
“I promise . . . but why can’t I stay in Paris and live with Tata?”
“Tata is too old to take care of you, and you would starve there. Paris is unsafe, and your presence would place Tata in great danger.” I know Maman is right, and her last point convinces me to e
nd the discussion.
When we visit the refectory, I can’t believe my eyes. There is food spread across tables as far as the eye can see, and you can feast on as much as you want—potatoes, roast beef, vegetables, fruit, and desserts. I can’t believe that there is roast beef. Nobody eats roast beef in Europe these days, but they do here. Incredible! Of course, this changes my mind about the place immediately.
Finally, it’s time for Maman to leave. She has a long journey back to Cap d’Antibes. As she kisses me good-bye, she says, “Every month you will have a weekend pass to visit Tata, Pierre. So that’s not too bad.” And then she is gone.
AS MUCH AS I TRY, I can’t get adjusted to the school, especially the people. I keep to myself as much as possible. When I have permission, I go for long walks in a forest on the property, but it’s rare. A retired French colonel, whose discipline is strict, runs the Chateau like a Swiss clock.
When I am not in class, my job is to care for the chickens and the rabbits, which is arduous work. I start at six every morning, and I have two hours to feed about fifty chickens and fifty rabbits, clean up their manure, and finish any other tasks related to their care. At eight o’clock, breakfast is served, followed by study time and garden work. Most of the gardening is done with hand tools, not machinery. Lunch is at noon, followed by a half-hour siesta. Then it’s off to botany classes and to the fields for the afternoon, finishing up with evening animal care. By dinnertime, I am extremely hungry and exhausted, but I must study after dinner until I collapse in bed around nine. For six days in a row, everything is repeated. On Sunday, I only have to see to the animals’ needs, so there is a little more time to rest. Still, I don’t like the regimen.
Despite the abundance of food, I am always hungry. Actually, we all are hungry. We work so hard outdoors that it builds a monstrous appetite in our young developing bodies. So the temptation is there. Once in a while, I suck an egg on the sly. Once I even stole food from one of the dogs’ plates in the rear of the kitchen, which was quite tasty. Even the dogs are eating like kings. Here and there, I chisel the system for food—a cup of milk snuck directly from a cow, or if the occasion presents itself, a cup of gourmet goat’s milk.
The Missing Matisse Page 18