The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  “I don’t want to go to Normandy.”

  “If they invite you, you’ll have to go, Pierre. There is no other solution for you.”

  The detailed inspection my “grandfather” gave me and the hesitant tone of his voice when he said, “Yes, he is my grandson,” tells every fiber of my body that there is something strange going on here that I don’t want to know about.

  21

  GOOD-BYE, PARIS; HELLO, NORMANDY

  Nothing is worth doing unless the consequences may be serious.

  GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  THE DAY OF THE VISIT ARRIVES. After a three-hour train journey from Paris, Maman and I get off in Rugles and begin a two-mile walk to the Leroys’ home. We are in the heart of Normandy. Apple orchards and cow pastures alternate between numerous cultivated fields as far as one can see. The smell of cow manure is pungent. I notice a trace of snow slowly melting on the ground under the pale winter sun. It must have fallen yesterday.

  A German bus full of soldiers drives by us, and one Boche sitting on the roof shoots into a flock of pigeons, killing a few. The bus doesn’t stop for the quarry. I guess he was just doing it for fun. I go into the field and pick up three fat pigeons. “A gift for the grandfather,” I say to Maman and she nods.

  We finally arrive at the Leroy estate, enclosed by a thick, squarely trimmed six-foot hedge. The entrance to the property is through a wooden gate with a bell attached, hung between two red brick pillars. Inside is a charming Normand-style house of red brick and white stucco with huge brown oak beams crisscrossing the exterior. There are light brown wooden shutters on every window, and the roof is covered with small dark red clay tiles. On the side, close to the road, is a wooden clapboard garage, and behind the house is a small barn in the same style as the house.

  The weather has given the old home that very special patina that adds to its charm. It is a perfect picture for a Normandy postcard, suggesting coziness and country living at its best. In the back there is a large apple orchard, a vegetable garden, and a small pond.

  Maman and I are met at the door by Monsieur Leroy, whom I barely recognize. He is dressed in horse-riding attire and fits the country gentleman image well. “Welcome to Normandy, Pierre. Come in and meet your grandmother, Mathilde.”

  She is a good-looking woman probably in her early fifties, but the way she looks at me makes me uneasy. She is neatly but simply dressed. She is not colorful, but extremely proper.

  “He is quite a tall boy,” Mathilde remarks to my mother, after having looked me up and down twice.

  “Yes, he has grown up all of a sudden,” Maman answers.

  “On my side of the family, everyone is short. Louis’s family members are all short, too. Strong, but not tall. Where do you suppose this one gets his height from?” Mathilde prods.

  I am squirming inside, but I remain stock-still.

  “Mathilde, kids are getting taller these days,” Grandfather Leroy interjects.

  “Really?” She draws out the word, while looking straight at my mother.

  There is an awkward silence, like something is about to happen. Then she suddenly turns and smiles at me. “Are you hungry, Pierre?”

  I exhale in relief. “Yes, Madame.”

  “Don’t call me Madame. Have a glass of my homemade apple cider,” she says, before busying herself at the enormous cast-iron stove. I am waiting for a cue from Maman and Grandfather Leroy, but they are talking.

  “How was the train trip?” Grandfather asks.

  “Slow, like everything else these days,” Maman says, adding, “Apparently the Allies bombed a train last night.”

  “The underground blew up the track between here and Paris last week, Louise.” It was one more way to slow down the Germans making their way to Normandy.

  “Do you like rabbit stew, Pierre?” the lady of the house wants to know.

  “Yes!” I answer, but hesitate. How should I address her?

  “You can call me Grand-mère, Pierre. That’ll do for now.”

  Suddenly I realize how silly I must look standing here with dead birds in my hands all this time. “I have some pigeons for you. They were shot by a German.”

  “Nice of you. Thank you. The Boches are robbing Normandy of everything,” she says, taking the birds and then continuing to set the table with white-and-blue china.

  During the meal, the three of them talk about trivial things. The main room, where we are seated, is a typical gigantic farm kitchen, dining room, and living room all in one. From my chair, I take in the surroundings: There are interesting knickknacks, oil paintings and a watercolor, small sculptures, colorful decorative plates, and bookshelves full of books. Every door is extensively carved. The whole place looks like an antique shop or museum.

  In a corner, an old longcase clock dominates the room with its massive brass pendulum swinging back and forth. When the conversation quiets down, the clock takes over with its reassuring ticktock. This is the home of a country lord.

  Grandfather is seated on an extravagant armchair, more like a throne, with a monstrous fireplace behind him. Mounted above the mantel are four deer heads with majestic antlers. I notice the gun rack is empty. Grandfather follows my eyes and says, “The Boches took my hunting rifles.”

  I continue scanning the room. There is a Singer treadle sewing machine by a window. My inquisitive look gets Madame Leroy’s attention.

  “I sew for the farmers living around here, which keeps us supplied with food.”

  “And I barter legal advice for food, when some overly creative Normand gets caught chiseling the system. The war has made these Normand farmers rich, Louise,” Grandfather says.

  His wife’s expression suddenly turns stern. She looks piercingly at Maman and says, “I’d like to know why Pierre is so tall, Louise. My son is short.”

  “Please, Mathilde, who cares?” Grandfather wants to end this discussion quickly.

  “I do,” she states firmly, as she cleans the table.

  “It’s late,” Maman says, motioning me to stand. “We have to leave and catch our train.”

  Maman wants to get out of here quickly, before she is interrogated any more. Despite the good food, so do I.

  Grandfather walks us to the gate, and as we bid him good-bye, he takes me aside.

  “Do you have a watch, Pierre?”

  “No, but I manage quite well without one. There are clocks everywhere in Paris.”

  He hands me a well-worn silver pocket watch with a chain. “This belonged to my father. You take it.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I say, surprised by the gesture.

  “It’s very simple. You only have to say thank you,” he replies, smiling.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, you say thank you, Grandfather.”

  When I did, he smiled even more.

  On the train, Maman and I don’t talk very much. I know that she loves me, but because I have lived with her for only short periods of time in recent years, we have never had the opportunity to get as close as I had been with Tata. When I was first sent away to Paris, I believe Maman and Papa had hoped to become successful enough so they could support us and put our family back together.

  But when Maman saw that I had virtually accepted Tata as a surrogate mother, she probably became concerned that I would forget who my parents really were, having me come home again. Unfortunately, Maman’s relationship with Papa seems to become rocky when I am living in the Matisse family. I know I have been an impossible kid, getting into all kinds of trouble, but there is something else that I cannot quite put my finger on. I had tried to bring up this subject with Tata the last time we were together, just before she died. But now it is too late.

  BACK IN PARIS, work at the print shop is getting more difficult. There is a shortage of ink, even of poor quality, and many supplies are getting harder to find. Limited electricity forces us to turn to primitive hand printing presses, which are slow and laborious. Alternative products to clean the machines stink to high
heaven and make me sick, while the food situation is getting almost intolerable. Like every other Parisian, I am starving.

  I am corresponding regularly with my Normand grandfather to build some kind of relationship. In one letter, he explains that his son, Camille Leroy, is my father and teaches art in Algeria. “He is a jerk,” he notes plainly. “But his mother thinks that he is a genius.” I am confused about this piece of information and have my doubts that it is true. Yet being taken into Grandfather Leroy’s confidence makes me feel good and I tell him so.

  A couple of times, Grandfather Leroy invites me to spend a weekend in Normandy, and I go, eating until I feel like I will burst from all the potatoes, rabbit, eggs, bowls of heavy cream soup, and fresh salads from the garden. During these visits, Mathilde is reserved, but she appears to like me. I am growing closer to Grandfather Leroy, who shares his books and enjoys talking about any and all subjects with me.

  When the print shop is closed temporarily due to lack of paper, I have a holiday from work. On Sunday I go to Versailles, which I haven’t visited for quite a while. The streets are almost deserted, but on a broad avenue a German infantry unit is training. These are not soldiers; they are German boys my age who are learning the art of killing. In no time at all, a sizable group of French teenagers gathers to watch.

  The Boche corporal in charge doesn’t seem to mind his young French audience. I can see by his uniform that he has served four years, and to me, he appears tired. By the end of the day’s free course in the art of warfare, I have learned to operate a Schmeisser submachine gun, a Mauser rifle, and a full-size machine gun, as well as how to launch hand grenades. Das gut!

  The war seems to be taking a bad turn for the Nazis. The Germans are getting increasingly nervous, arresting large numbers of people just to check their IDs. We call these German fishing operations “raffles.”

  The Boches know what they are doing. At this time, Paris is totally infested with “terrorists” (the resistance fighters) and spies from all interested parties. The Boches are absolutely right. There is so much activity against them that all they have to do is cast a net anywhere in a group of people, and they are bound to catch a few prize fish.

  ONE DAY I AM working in the basement when Monsieur Rateaux comes home in a panic. “Pierre! We have to destroy everything,” he says, quite agitated.

  “What happened?”

  “The guy in front of me got it.” He is struggling to catch his breath.

  “I have run . . . all the way . . . from the subway station.” He is still puffing and wheezing and sounds like a steam engine going uphill.

  “What about the guy in front of you?”

  “He put a pocket twenty-five automatic pistol in his scarf and then tied it around his neck.”

  “Gutsy fellow!” I wish I had been there.

  “There was a raffle in the subway. He got caught directly in front of me!”

  “So? You are safe.”

  “No, the Germans started shoving everyone around, and they caught me, too.”

  “But you are here.”

  “Can’t you understand? Sacre bleu! The Boches took all my papers.”

  “What papers were there?”

  “A complete assortment of our fake documents.”

  “Why didn’t they arrest you then and there?”

  “Because Mister Twenty-Five Caliber Pistol escaped, and they went after him.”

  My heart is racing now. “Did they catch him?”

  “Yes, they shot him dead on the spot. In the confusion, I managed to escape. But they have the papers—phony ausweis, fake food coupons, look alike IDs, the works.”

  “Were any of them the finished ones with this address?”

  “I don’t think so.” Monsieur Rateaux was frowning, trying to remember.

  “Did you get the fake papers from this pile or that one?” I ask him anxiously.

  He points to a pile. “This one.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “What?”

  “Are you certain?” I scream back.

  “Yes, positively sure.”

  I exhale in relief.

  “Then we are safe. Those had no address on them.”

  “If the Boches don’t have your address or ID, there is no problem. You do have your personal ID, don’t you?”

  Monsieur Rateaux has stopped huffing and puffing, but now he is sweating . . . and so am I.

  “I always carry it in this pocket,” he says, patting his breast pocket, then frantically checking his pants pockets, too.

  By the third pocket, there is still no ID. And there are no more pockets.

  “They have my ID. I am doomed!” he says in a shaky voice, throwing his hands up in the air.

  Now I’m alarmed too. “We’ve got to run.”

  “Alice!” he screams. “Where is Jules?”

  She hurries into the basement. “At the Sorbonne. Why?”

  “I have lost my ID, and the Boches are after me. We have to run.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I told you. I lost my ID.”

  “Look at you, you old fool. Your ID is there in your shirt pocket, right under your idiotic nose.” She pulls it out and waves it in front of him.

  We all burst out laughing, genuinely relieved.

  THERE ARE MORE TROUBLES when I discover that an employee at the print shop who has befriended me is an informant. He is gung ho for the Third Reich, a dangerous character. One day he shows me his Luger pistol and his official permit to carry it, bragging about his disgusting activities. Does he suspect me of anything? I wonder. Fortunately, thanks to Papa’s early training, I have always been extra careful with my tongue.

  Then a good friend of mine François gets caught moving weapons from one place to another. He is a year older than me. When his father goes to visit him at the jail, the Germans give him a small parcel with a few personal things—all that is left of his son. He had been shot by the Nazis.

  Maman is aware of the escalating crackdown by the Germans, and the next time she visits me, she says, “Pierre, you need to go to your grandparents in Normandy.”

  “No! Maman, I want to stay in Paris.”

  Madame Rateaux has had enough too. The incident in the subway station was too close for comfort. She wants us to shut down our basement business immediately.

  Obviously, she is right. So Rateaux & Pierre, Inc., Official Documents Unlimited, closes its doors. It is a shame because, for the first time, my artistic genius has been put to good use.

  If this abominable war doesn’t end soon, I really don’t know what’s going to happen to us. It is a question that plagues me, with no answer.

  And then I become sick, covered with nasty boils. They are everywhere from my armpits to my crotch—gross, infectious, and painful.

  When I see a doctor, he asks, “Do you have a relative or friend in the country?”

  “Perhaps . . . in Normandy.”

  “Then, my friend, it’s time for you to get out of Paris. You are in bad shape. At least in Normandy, you will be able to eat dandelion greens and breathe fresh air.”

  When I let Grandfather Leroy know about my situation, he kindly invites me to move in with them permanently. I appreciate the gesture, but I am reluctant to say yes because to me it would almost be like betraying Papa. The Leroys are nice people and seem to want me. But I want to believe that Jean Matisse is my father. I need to believe that Jean Matisse is my father. Deep inside, I know this to be true!

  No, I will stay in Paris. I don’t want to hurt Papa’s feelings. I love him and I need him in my life. I will wait awhile to write Grandfather Leroy and tell him my decision.

  22

  JUNE 6, 1944: NORMANDIE

  The truth is not simply what you think it is; it is also the circumstances in which it is said, and to whom, why, and how it is said.

  VÁCLAV HAVEL

  IT IS DAWN and I am the first one to arrive at the print shop. I start the woodstove to keep the ink from
freezing. As I clean up and prepare everything for the day’s work, I glance out the window just as a German patrol passes by. Suddenly there is a blast. Someone must have thrown a grenade or a homemade Molotov cocktail. I duck down and wait, listening for any retaliation. Nothing.

  I quickly go to the door and step outside. French gendarmes are pouring out of their station. I slip back inside the print shop to make sure that nothing suspicious is out in the open. I have a couple of sets of my homemade papers on me, but before I have time to hide them, the Boches burst through the front door. I stand still and make no attempt to run, but they grab me and begin roughing me up.

  “We got you!” one of them says, trying to pin the grenade attack on me.

  “It’s not me,” I respond in French as I am being dragged into the supply room.

  “We know it is you. You might as well confess,” another soldier shouts. He is holding my hand on the doorjamb and is about to slam the door on it. How will I be able to create art with crushed fingers? I wonder. I pray for courage or a quick end. At that moment, one of the printers arrives and surprises us. I am thrown to the floor, and when I attempt to stand back up, a soldier punches me hard in the stomach, then kicks me over and over—in my back and ribs until my head is spinning from the pain. The Boche officer says to the printer, “There is no use pretending. The kid told us everything.”

  The printer knows better. “You’re crazy,” he says defiantly. “There is nothing to tell.” They beat him up and repeat the process with the second master printer when he arrives. We are all hurting badly, but I don’t move to prevent more beatings to myself and the others. A few minutes later, another Boche arrives and announces they have caught the guilty party and are taking him for interrogation. The man who had thrown the grenade had another grenade on him.

  As long as we fight for our freedom we are alive. Papa had told me on the night we were waiting for the submarine that retaining our independence daily in both thought and deed is the key to freedom. Those words have been imprinted on my heart.