The Boches jerk us to our feet and collect our papers. I give them one set of mine. We must report the next day to an address where we will be questioned further before our papers are returned to us.
When Théo Schmied arrives, I wait for things to quiet down, then ask to speak with him privately. I tell him it is evident that we have an informant in our midst.
“My papers will never pass the Gestapo inspection,” I tell him honestly.
Monsieur Schmied is quiet for a moment, then he advises, “You need to get out of Paris for a while, until things cool down.” He motions me to follow him, takes money from a drawer, and puts it in my hand. “Here’s your pay. It is best that you leave now.”
I leave immediately, hesitating for a moment outside the print shop. Where should I go? To my parents or Monsieur Rateaux? I decide my business partner would be the best option.
It is noontime. Monsieur Rateaux intercepts me on the way. He hands me a backpack and says the car with the “leather coats” (Gestapo) has been to the house looking for me.
“Thank you, Monsieur Rateaux. Please tell Maman that I am going to visit Grandfather Leroy. She will understand.”
It’s time to move to Normandy. I don’t want to attract any unnecessary attention, so I am only carrying the backpack. When I enter the railroad station, it is packed solid with people, which is not unusual.
What is not normal is that there are French police everywhere, accompanied by German soldiers. They must be after more terrorists, I think. As I head to the ticket office, I notice the soldiers are checking everyone’s papers. Mine are certainly not impeccable. Let’s just say I’d rather that they don’t look at them too closely. I know that while it’s not likely I am the person they are looking for at the moment, I have climbed a few numbers up their wanted list, both for my past and my current resistance activities. Time to think up another plan.
Every exit of the station is blocked by either German patrols or Gestapo. I know better than to tangle with them. I go into the train station’s restroom, hoping the heat will eventually cool down. When a French railroad employee comes in, I take a chance, hoping that he, like most railroad workers, is one of us.
“I need to take a train to Normandy—now. I don’t want the Boches to look at my papers. Can you help me get on a train?”
“Where in Normandy?” he asks, matter-of-factly.
“Rugles?”
“Impossible. That track has been bombed by the Allies.”
“What about any trains going in that general direction, passenger or freight?” I am sick, scared, and frustrated.
“The freight trains are all controlled by the Boches. But there is the train to Caen; you could get off at Évreux. Then you’ll have to walk to Rugles at night. It’s a long way to walk, almost thirty-one miles.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got to get out of Paris today.”
“Come with me.”
We leave the restroom and disappear behind a door marked Personnel Only. We walk through one office, into a corridor, and finally into a tool shop.
“Wait for me and, for heaven’s sake, don’t panic and run out. Stay out of sight!”
I wait almost an hour. This is not going fast enough for my taste. He comes back with two railroad mechanics.
“My friends are going to get you on the train to Caen.”
“Thank you!” He nods and leaves hurriedly.
“You don’t know us. We don’t know you. Understood?” a mechanic says.
“Yes!”
“Follow us,” the shorter one says.
“It’s going to be dangerous,” the other adds.
“No problem. I’ve got to get to Normandy.”
“The train leaves in four hours. It’ll be night by then.”
We have been walking as we’ve been talking and enter an immense barn full of steam locomotives being repaired. Near a side door, two armed German guards are playing cards on a grease-stained table. When I see them, I start getting nervous and want to turn back.
“Not to worry. Those Fritzes are inoffensive,” the shorter one says.
We enter another room full of rusted machinery. One of my escorts points to a pile of discarded items, and says, “Make yourself comfortable on this tarp until we come to get you.”
“When did you have your last meal?” the other one asks.
“This morning.”
“We’ll get you something to eat before we ship you to the Normandy cows,” he says, smiling. “Normandy has lots of milk.”
IT HAS BEEN QUITE an adventurous day, and I fall asleep on the tarp. Two hours later I am awakened by a stranger.
“How about a bowl of bean soup, young fellow?” he says quietly. It is the best-tasting soup I have ever had.
After devouring it like a wolf, I thank him. “That was delicious,” I say appreciatively.
“Compliments of my wife. Would you like another serving?”
“Yes! That would be nice.” The stranger comes back with another full bowl and a little cloth pouch with a string strap.
“Put this around your neck. There’s food inside for your trip. Your train leaves in twenty minutes. This is a map showing where to get off and the best route from Évreux to Rugles by the back roads. Take this canteen, too. It’s water with a touch of wine.”
It’s now pitch dark. I follow my skinny guide closely, walking among a jungle of intertwined rails. I wonder how he can find his way in this huge railroad yard, holding just a flickering oil lamp set so low it barely casts any light. In his other hand, he is carrying a long steel tool. We are surrounded by steam locomotives, exhaling smoke and steam and making other strange noises. I trip on a rail and nearly fall, but my guide catches me just in time.
“Be careful not to put your feet inside a switching rail,” he says quietly.
A German patrol walks by.
“Bonsoir,” my guide says casually.
“Gutenacht,” one of the Boches says without even looking at us.
“We are almost there. Are you all right?” my companion asks.
“I’m fine.” A steel monster pushing a flatbed freight train loaded with German tanks is passing just a few yards from us, shaking the ground under our feet. Another one with closed wooden freight cars follows it.
“Here is your train. You will travel first class—in between two wagons on a small platform. The train will slow down before Évreux, and that’s where you jump off.”
The train is approaching. Slowly, the puffing locomotive passes us. I can see a few people bracing themselves on the platforms as best as they can. With my friend’s help, I’m boosted onto a platform occupied by two men.
“Bon voyage and bonne chance!”
“Hello!” A voice with a strong Mediterranean accent welcomes me.
“Hello!” I reply uneasily.
“Hello! Don’t worry. Once we get through these confounded switching rails, it’s a piece of cake,” a second voice with a Parisian argot accent adds.
As we go over the switch rails, the car goes sideways and shakes terribly. A thick black smoke, full of coal cinders, chokes me, and a hot cinder flies into my eye. I blink away the pain while I hang on for dear life.
“We are lucky this train has a Boche flak station on the last wagon,” Monsieur Argot says.
Monsieur Mediterranean elaborates, “The flak station is a four barrel, anti-aircraft gun set on a flatbed wagon. If we are attacked by the English, they’ll shoot back. We should have a better chance to reach Caen.”
“Yes, but I’d prefer that they shot this train with its Boches into many small pieces,” Monsieur Argot responds, then turns to me. “Where are you going?”
“Somewhere. I am not too certain where exactly,” I reply, remembering one of Papa’s rules: In wartime, one should never volunteer more information than necessary.
“Where are you going?” I ask. Question for question is only fair.
“Caen,” they answer in unison.
“Business?”
P
apa’s rule number two: If you ask questions, you won’t have to answer so many.
“Black market,” the two say, laughing in unison.
I have cautiously slid down so I am sitting on the platform instead of standing.
As the train rushes on, I get lost in my thoughts, remembering my past adventures with Papa, relying on what he has taught me to keep safe.
The train slows down to pass a burning freight train.
“Adolf isn’t going to like this,” Monsieur Argot chuckles.
ANOTHER HOUR PASSES, and we come to the place where I had been instructed to get off. The train is slowing down to a walking pace here because the track has been damaged by either sabotage or Allied bombs. I leap off the platform and roll.
I am on my own, hoping to find my way to the Leroys. My backpack is becoming heavy, feeling like it weighs a ton or two. I start getting anxious and light a match to look at the map. I do this sparingly because I don’t want to attract a Boche patrol. Finally, I come upon a stone marker: Breteuil 22 km (nearly fourteen miles). I am headed in the right direction!
Suddenly, I hear a terrible racket behind me. Instinctively, I jump into the ditch. A German half-track, with its headlights off, is passing by at full speed. I hold my breath, listening. But thankfully, the Boches disappear into the night. I get up cautiously and start walking again.
A thunderous noise startles me, and I hit the ditch again. It’s a convoy of Tiger tanks. I don’t know how many pass me, but they slow down and stop close to me! I hear German voices. One is walking close by and stops to relieve himself. I am dead, I think. Even though it feels like hours, a few minutes later the convoy is gone.
BY DAWN I AM OFF AGAIN, walking through a dense forest. My feet hurt and I’m as hungry as a skinny wolf. It’s time to take a break. I sit behind some big oaks and open the pouch. There is a feast before me—bread, raisins, dried prunes, an onion, and a small can of corned beef. Bless you, my railroad friends! It is a meal fit for a king, washed down with the watered-down wine in the canteen.
The full belly makes me drowsy, and I curl up under the tree, sleeping until around noon. Back on the road, the next sign indicates that Rugles is only twelve and a half miles away. My grandparents’ villa is located outside of Rugles, so I am almost there. That promise keeps me going.
I arrive late in the afternoon, completely exhausted, just able to drag myself to the gate and ring the bell.
“Pierre!” Mathilde covers her mouth with her hand, horrified at my condition. For the next few weeks, it is difficult for me to even stand up. I can see my feet, but they seem so far from my head and they don’t seem to work. My days are spent eating and sleeping, and when I am finally able to go outside, I lie in the grass, soaking up the sunshine.
FINALLY, ONE DAY I AM feeling strong enough to walk to a nearby farm. “Do you like milk, Pierre?” the farmer asks me.
“Sure do!”
“Take that with you.” He hands me a bucket full of fresh milk from the cow.
“Bring the bucket tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you another full one. We can’t ship anything, so we have to milk the cows and throw the milk away.”
“What a pity!” I mutter to myself, thinking about the children in Paris who are starving.
I sit under a tree and gulp down a gallon of milk. An hour later, I drink another gallon. Maybe I’m exaggerating the amount, but I do empty the bucket! I return the following day, and the farmer has a bucket of milk waiting for me. I still remember the half-inch of cream lying on the surface of that fresh milk. A few weeks of this diet, and I am strong as a bull. That farmer saved my life.
Grandfather Leroy has obtained local government papers legitimizing my presence in the village, including real alimentation coupons. The mayor of the village has made me promise that there will be no resistance activities while I am staying there. It seems the Boches have taken to shooting the mayors, city council members, and teachers in these villages if the underground activities get too intense for their liking.
As I continue to recuperate, Mathilde and I are becoming close friends. I start doing a few chores—gardening, caring for the rabbits, and constructing a couple of beehives.
ONE DAY I have a surprise visitor. Théo Schmied’s wife is standing at the gate with a bicycle. Three medium suitcases are tied to the back luggage rack, and a bigger one is lashed up front across the handlebars. She looks completely exhausted.
“Madame Schmied, I’m so glad to see you. Please come in.”
“Pierre, I thought I’d never make it! I’m so tired.”
Before I can finish introducing her to my grandparents, she begins to cry.
“I’m so ashamed to intrude like this but . . .” She buries her head in her hands, unable to control her sobs. Finally she is calmed down enough to continue. “In Paris, my son and husband are starving. I’ve come here in hopes of finding some food.” She begins to cry again, and her next words are phrases, not complete sentences. “My child is ill . . . any kind of food . . . anything edible . . . at any price.” She brushes the tears from her cheeks. “I have money to pay you.”
Mathilde places a glass of fresh cider in front of Madame Schmied, and after a drink, she explains that because the trains have been taken over by the Germans, her only option was to ride her bicycle from Paris to Normandy—150 kilometers (approximately ninety miles). Even my journey doesn’t compare to hers on a rickety bicycle held together with chicken wire, the tires filled with cork since the inner tubes are missing. Besides, I had some food to keep me going. But nothing was going to stop her from trying to complete her mission for her family. Her undaunted courage makes my grandparents and me begin to cry too.
Madame Schmied recuperates for a week at my grandparents’ house, enjoying the same wonderful milk that had brought me back to life. Once she feels strong enough, there is no delay—she wants to get back to her family as quickly as possible with her four suitcases, now containing beans, potatoes, lentils, salted pork, a small smoked ham, carrots, cabbages, flour, and butter melting in glass containers. It is such a heavy load for her on a wobbly bicycle. I am moved by her sacrifice, bravery, and love for her family.
As soon as she leaves, I go into the woods and speak out loud and clear. “God, it’s me, Pierre. Please look after Madame Schmied. Keep her child alive and see that she makes it safely to Paris with her suitcases. Please!” Looking up, I see the pure sky through the trees. I hope He is listening to me up there. “Thank You in advance. Thank You a million times.”
It’s not much, but it’s all I can do to help her. (Thankfully, I will learn much later that she did make it back safely to her family with the food.)
THE GERMANS ARE increasingly taking over everything. Now we have no train, no gazogène bus, no mail, no electricity, no newspaper, and no private radios.
One day when Grandfather Leroy is visiting friends, I finish my usual chores, spend time studying my English, then join Mathilde at the table for lunch. As we are eating, she says, “Pierre! I have to tell you something important.”
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask.
“No! No, not at all,” she assures me, smiling faintly. “What I’m about to say is going to be very difficult for you, but I think that you should know.” There is a long silence. She takes a long deep breath and then exhales, setting herself to a hard task.
“This is strictly between you and me. Your grandfather disagrees with me. But I know. I was there.”
There is another silence as she searches for her words.
“You are not our grandson, Pierre,” she states firmly, but kindly.
I have come to admire Mathilde during these months together. To me she is 80 percent Paris concierge, 10 percent Aurora, 10 percent Tata, and, for good measure, an extra 100 percent honest Mathilde.
By now I am used to the surprises of my dysfunctional family, so even though I am taken aback at her pronouncement, I recover fast.
“How do you know that?”
My tone is as straightforward as hers. Finally, someone with the answers who is willing to talk! I think.
“I was there when you were born on rue Lecuirot in Paris. My son, Camille, and Louise were no longer living together. He was working on an art project in Nice at the time. Jean Matisse was one of Louise’s neighbors in the apartment building where she lived.” Mathilde stops to take a sip of cider.
I lean forward. I am all ears.
“We had heard rumors that your mother and Jean were more than friends. But the way he was pacing back and forth was almost as if he were going to give birth himself. When he and your mother chose your names together, I realized that this was more than a friendship. They were obviously in love—even a fool could see it.”
She pauses to look at me.
“Camille and Louise’s marriage had been stormy from the start. Right after your birth, your mother filed for divorce against my son. As soon as she was free, she married Jean Matisse.”
“How do you know for sure?” I ask. I want this matter settled right here, once and for all.
“After your birth, your mother confided to me . . .” She stops halfway through the sentence.
“What exactly did my mother confide to you?” I want to know. I have to know.
“Louise said, ‘How sad that this child is born of true love, yet he is the shame of my life.’”
Cet enfant est la honte de ma vie. I am the shame of my mother’s life.
“I’m not surprised,” I say quietly. Somehow, I truly am not surprised. Nothing surprises me anymore.
“Surely someone must have remarked on how much you look like Jean Matisse. You must have noticed the similarities yourself. You’re a bright enough boy.” Mathilde pauses and waits, but I cannot speak.
“That was why it was so awkward when I first met you. When I saw you, I had no doubt in my mind that your mother was right. She knew who your father was—her lover, Jean Matisse.”
It was a lot to take in, but I knew I loved Maman and Papa. They must have had their reasons to keep this from me. I know Papa loves me. He is the only father I’ve ever known, I think to myself. Inside, I know he loves me as his son and has never doubted it.
The Missing Matisse Page 22