“But Flora”, I say, “had you forgotten that he is safe in the Corrèze? Why are you inflicting such a painful reminder on me? Anyway, I have signed a pact with myself. Words are no longer necessary. “Look, I’ll play your favourite Chopin Etude. The first one. Just listen…”
I turn my piano stool round to play as Flora prepares herself to listen, clasping her hands and closing her eyes as she often does when I’m playing.
Flora, my dear dear friend, that’s all I can give you right now. I finish playing, swivel round to read your eyes they reflect your usual percipience, your smile illuminates your face. You take both my hands in yours and say “I know you, Rachel. I knew that’s what you would finally choose to do. It was written, somewhere…” I kiss your hands, full of gratitude. You approve and it is enough for me. And you make the announcement which changed my life:
“Until today I promised to say nothing. Maître Sarlange is one of the founders of the National Council for the Resistance. He’s in daily contact with Georges Bidault, recruiting for different networks of the Maquis. I spoke to him about you. He wants to see you tomorrow at 11.00. That’s why I came tonight.” I shout and weep for joy. A desire to live a full and useful life overcomes me. It is almost midnight. We are drinking hot tea from my samovar - an authentic, imposing one - tea which has been boiling for hours, nay, days! It’s indestructible, this tea! In our imagination we rekindle the aroma of China tea, even though it lost its aroma ages ago. It’s thanks to you, Flora, that I know the secret of preserving the clear colour of tea; add a piece of charcoal …a recipe from your native Poland where tea is as scarce as it is now in France. Faces buried in our bowls we both think about the hazy and mysterious future. I see my samovar grown cold and tarnished; my piano out of tune, its felt moth-eaten, worm-eaten; my hay box rotting away…In spite of the lateness of the hour and in spite of my neighbours and the concierge sleeping below (she’s going to kill me tomorrow morning, that’s for sure) I launch into Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude. It may be for the last time, who knows and who cares. I play as my master Alfred Cortot wanted it played, “with passion and dedication to Chopin’s ever suffering Poland”.
- At the Conservatoire, his students were used to hearing him speak like this; he would go to the piano to let his fingers give resonance to his words. We listened, transfixed, asking ourselves how does he do it? (He continued to perform in concert halls during the Occupation, to the chagrin of many of his students and to mine in particular.)
I play. You’ve buried your head in your hands, dearest Flora, crying for a lost father… and a Poland that is no more -.
4.
The First Steps.
Flora and I are waiting in the anteroom to Maître Sarlange’s office. I feel like a little girl (numb at the prospect of appearing before the school’s disciplinary committee), helpless before the man who is going to determine my fate. It’s different for Flora. She loves and respects her adopted father, her protector. She told me that he calls her “ma chérie” to remind her that she is now his daughter and as such owes him nothing but to take his help for granted.
On the way there, Flora had said abruptly: “I must tell you…Maître Sarlange is very ill. He’s going to die.” Shocked by the news I asked foolishly: “Are you sure?”
“Alas, yes. He has terminal cancer. Inoperable. His wife and children know.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because you’re going to see him and sometimes he’s a bit distant. He withdraws, you see.”
Why did Flora keep this terrible secret to herself ? I began to tremble uncontrollably, I felt cold and desolate. Flora squeezed my arm tightly and we walked on through the muddy snow without a word. There was nothing to say. Recent memories came galloping, the characters in my own personal tragedy competing with each other for dramatic resonance - Maître Sarlange, unknown and present, heroic and dying; Flora, already practicing as a doctor at the hospital, resigned to being orphaned for the second time; Visachel suffering from thirst, wanting to end it all but not free to do so; Maurice de St Pré at the Kommandantur, arrogantly drinking champagne, celebrating his masterly ‘coup’; Clément Vallette preparing himself for “the work ahead”; Baumgartner hoisted into an overcrowded wagon like a trunk, separated from his son by his fellow sufferers.
My dog! Where is my dog? He’ll be waiting for me at the door. I’ve given him my bread ration this morning, with a little milk. He is alive…I know he is! But the students? I left them this morning at the chemistry block. Are they dying of hunger and thirst in their wagon of death? No-one gives them bread and milk. Oh Lord! Why are you punishing them so?
February the 3rd, 11 am.
The door opens. Maître Sarlange’s secretary invites us into the office. He is sitting at his enormous desk which takes up the whole width of the room, rises. Flora introduces me. He shakes hands with me and kisses Flora. He is lanky, very tall, very handsome, his fevered brow awe-inspiring. The almond eyes (they are almond coloured too) the long arms… no, it isn’t the arms, it’s the hands which are long, they’re limp and tapering. I am seized by an urge to put my lips to their soft, damp palms. Not done, as I am silently reminded by one of the teachers of the disciplinary committee.
“Please sit down” he says, indicating two green leather armchairs. I sit down, Flora remains standing.
“I’m off. You don’t need me” she says with a grin directed at Sarlange. He replies: “Oh but we do…don’t we?” he asks, turning to me also with a grin. “Sure we do!” I say. Our affectionate irony provokes Flora to make for the door saying: “I can see you’re going to get on well…without me…”.
Maître Sarlange turns to see her out but she has already gone. He returns to his position in front of the desk, I can see he frowns, then clasps his hands and gazes calmly into my eyes, (periwinkle blue ones, if you want to know).
“So…You’ve decided to join our sector of the maquis.”
“Yes, Maître”. “Flora often talks about you. I feel I know you a little, Rachel. You are aware of the risks involved, I hope?”
“I think so, Maître.”
“Are you free”?
“In what sense, Maître”?
“In every sense, Rachel”.
“My father is in the Corrèze, working on a farm under an assumed name. I’ve never been to see him. He told me not to. My mother died in ‘40. The sight of jackboots in front of our door brought on a cerebral haemorrhage.”
“Where was that?” he asked.
“Here in Clermont. We had joined the last exodus from Paris. We thought, like many of the refugees, that the Auvergne would be far enough from the capital and that the Huns would be stopped long before reaching the Central Plateau. We were mistaken of course. They invaded Clermont shortly afterwards. Dropped a strong contingent of the Abwehr in Clermont on their way to the Mediterranean coast for a swim “. I can detect a smile on Maître’s tired face.
“You put it rather well” and he sighs. Silence. Then he says: “You must miss your mother”.
“Yes I do. Horribly.”
“Have you a fiance”?
“Not that I know of ”. He smiles again, faintly.
“Do you need money”?”
“No, Maître. I’m all right”.
“Good. Don’t change too much your routine. Never forget you are being watched, as we all are. At first you’ll probably have to work between Clermont and the place I am sending you to, near the Puy de Sancy. Afterwards, it will depend very much on the circumstances, you understand?”
“I understand”.
“Flora tells me you play the piano”.
“Yes, Maître”.
“And that you are a professional pianist”.
“No, not professional…just a good amateur” I say, actually with a bitterness he immediately senses, because there is a reflective pause before he says:
“But you are a pupil of Alfred Cortot”?
“I was. I was…but he stayed in Paris. Most of my
fellow students at the Conservatoire didn’t.”
Maître Sarlange seizes a pencil and turns it round and round in his fingers (those fingers!). I have the impression that he is retreating from me, but it only lasts a few seconds.
“How many hours a day do you practice?”
“Irregularly, but as often as I can.”
“I can see some difficulty here. Your neighbours…”
“I’ve thought of that” I say, lying.
“Unfortunately it’s not enough. Neighbours are potential denunciators. A daily occurrence. Your future absences from Clermont may pose a problem. You’ll have to travel between Clermont and Sancy quite frequently, otherwise the Gestapo will look for you and find you. You’ll have to explain your present situation to your future leader, Colonel Gérard. He’ll advise you. Mind, I can predict what he’ll say. You must be prepared to a total reversal in your lifestyle, Rachel.”
“I understand”. That’s all I find to say. My throat feels dry, my eyes are not. Maître Sarlange turns his pencil round, faster and faster. I present a problem for him. Will he turn me down because of my piano? If this is the case, I can assure him that…that I’ll drop the lid on the keyboard, put the seal on it, virtually. I dare not say it. My suspense grows by the second. Maître Sarlange pours some water into a glass, takes two pills from a sachet which he keeps in his waistcoat pocket, swallows them and is about to resume the interview when the telephone rings.
He says: “Excuse me”, lifts the receiver and speaks: “Yes, that’s me…ah good…thank you…goodbye…yes…goodbye.”
That’s all he says. It’s enough to lighten the atmosphere which was beginning to become quite heavy. Smiling, he addresses me with a twinkle in his eyes:
“It’s good news…Professor Vallette is safe and sound…at his Maquis…with his radio equipment. Colonel Gérard has just told me of his arrival at Savignole, your future destination. A mountain refuge I believe. They call it a bothy, but it is larger than that. You’ll see.” He mops his forehead as a mountaineer would do after a difficult climb. I spring up. He asks: “Surprised”?
Surprised? I am stunned. Speechless I pace up and down the room. I am carried away. I fly…Quick, there’s no time to lose, I must go immediately, they’re waiting for me at the Maquis of Savignole.
Maître Sarlange watches me with indulgence and calmly invites me to sit down again. He hasn’t finished yet. He proceeds to tell me more about my future mission. It seems nothing much at first He assures me that I won’t have to carry a gun, thank God! My weapons, he says, will be “eyes open and sang-froid.” I haven’t enough sang-froid to tell him about my dog since no-one, but no-one, can separate me from him. I have given up my piano, isn’t that enough?
We say goodbye. He kisses my forehead and then, grasping me by the shoulders he says: “We shan’t meet again, Rachel. Colonel Gérard will be your contact from now on, and your chief. Take care. And thank you.”
“Maître, may I?” I take his slender right hand, unresisting. I brush my lips across the warm, damp palm. Blushing furiously.
5.
And More Steps.
I feel as if I have left Clermont for ever. When I go back there it will be as a ghost, a ghost who plays the piano to allay the curiosity of the neighbours. The very first command I received from Colonel Gérard: No change to your routine. You’ll have to go to Clermont at least once a week so that your neighbours can see you and hear you. What about your concierge? “I trust her,” I said, “and pay her well”. The colonel did not seem to be reassured. (What I did not know yet was that I would arouse the curiosity of the Kommandantur.)
Flora comes with me and Nourse to the station, as my mother would have done, making sure that I haven’t forgotten my toothbrush and making me promise to be sensible “Now remember…You’ll have to be your own guardian angel” she says with emotion. At these words I have a mental picture of a chubby Renaissance angel…I don’t want to look like that, heaven help me! And anyway, how could I with all that rationing? I kiss Flora with all my heart, I say thank you, thank you for coming, thank you for loving me…as I would have done with my tearful Mamoshka, had she been on this platform. But Flora doesn’t cry. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, I can see that her nose is red, but she keeps her tears for Poland, her lost Poland that ceased to hear her sing…
The station master blows his whistle, the train gives an ear-splitting screech in reply and begins to move away, puffing slowly and rhythmically; shafts of light dazzle me at intervals, I can see Flora only at intervals, too. Then, nothing. The shafts of light have disappeared with her. All I can see is the town of Clermont-Ferrand beneath the moon and the scudding clouds moving with the train, the snow covering the Michelin estate - a working class ghetto built for the Michelin workers so that they would be content with their lot. I have to admit it is a model estate. Each family has its own house and garden. Here and there yellow and blue tinged lights appear in spite of the curfew. Night is working a transformation on this social desert studding it with diamonds.
I am sitting on a hard wooden seat pierced by cold for the train is unheated. Nourse huddles under the seat, my skis and my rucksack are on the luggage rack. I glance at my travelling companions. There are two of them. Let’s guess what they do, it will help to pass the time. It’s not difficult. The one opposite, next to the window, must be a chemist, a sort of sulky Monsieur Homais. He smells like a chemist’s shop. The other one opposite, next to the corridor, is a peasant from the Auvergne in all his splendour. He is stocky and thick-set and he smells agreeably of wine, cheese and tobacco. He is wearing a large Basque beret, or rather an Auvergnat one, a coat down to his feet and Michelin rubber boots. His face is red, his eyes are dim, his hair and moustache are black. I like him. I wouldn’t have liked to travel alone with Monsieur Homais…he looks like a collaborator. Huddled in their corners, these two men have nothing to say to each other. When we get to Mont Dore station, I say to myself, I bet they’ll shoot out of the train without having spared a word for each other.
I close my eyes in order to think about my future as an object in the hands of Colonel Gérard…Will he be greying at the temples, tall, bony, rather tubercular? Oh no! It’s Visachel I am seeing! Visachel grown grey, bony, tubercular…I open my eyes to wipe out the image. My peasant has lit a big clay pipe. He’s smoking and dribbling a little, I can see bits of charred tuft of whatever he’s smoking, no doubt grown on his dung heap! “It doesn’t bother you, Mamzelle?” he asks, taking his pipe from his mouth.
“No, not at all,” I say; “He thought I was asleep and didn’t want to wake me to ask if he could smoke. We smile at each other. He looks at my dog and we start to talk dogs. Alsatians are “very good for herding,” he says, patting Nourse who welcomes a bit of friendship, “not so good for sheep, they tend to upset them and nip their heels to make them do.” He tells me that he had a dog like that, “but I couldn’t make him do…he used to bite the strays”.
“What did you do with him?” I ask, fearing the worst. “Chained him up as a guard dog.”
Not the worst, perhaps, but close to it. I say: “He must have missed his freedom, poor thing. “Oh, you know, dogs get used to it” he says to reassure me.
Do people? I don’t ask him that, of course. I know the answer. Homais looks out of the window and keeps his thoughts to himself. Good. I don’t particularly wish to know them.
My train slows down, enters the station at Mont Dore and screeches to a halt. My peasant opens the door, jumps down the steps on to the platform. He takes my skis, seizes Nourse’s lead and hoists him down the steps, puts him down very gently and pats him. All this is done with a marvellous economy of effort of which the secret is known only to people working on the land.
“Well, good-night Mamzelle, Bonne chance” he says, touching his beret. I thank him and say that perhaps he and I shall meet again, one never knows these days.
“Oh yes…Come and see us…I don’t live far away. My farm’s ove
r there, see?” and he points north. I can’t see, but say I do. He goes off to join the little crowd making its way towards the exit. The chemist has disappeared.
A few militia men drift towards the station buffet, arrogant and laughing loudly. They have good reason to feel proud and cheerful. They are very handsome (because hand-picked) in their black uniforms. They have chosen to join the militia because of the uniform, the pay, and more importantly because of the right (which no civilian dares dispute) to arrest, denounce and even shoot their brother-Frenchmen who happen to have chosen the wrong get-up whereas they are Le Maréchal’s golden boys.
They are crossing in front of me, marching as if on parade, clean shaven, shining shoes, expression of utter happiness on their baby faces.
I make for the bench furthest away from the buffet in the welcoming shadows of platform one where Colonel Gérard is to make contact with me.
* * *
The shrill, nocturnal station clock strikes eight. I fix my gaze on the electric light bulb on the opposite platform, one of the few sources of artificial light in this snow-covered railway terminus. The moon is full. I wait, pulling my sheepskin coat tightly round me.
Maître Sarlange had said: “Wait for the colonel on the platform on which you arrive. I’ll advise him of your arrival”. The station buffet is full of Wehrmacht soldiers, the militiamen are fraternizing by trying to speak the other’s language and laughing at their lack of success. Still, they have something very important in common. A few German soldiers seem to be in a hurry, but they still find time to whistle as they go past me. They’re going to piss their beer and their idleness on to the snow covered shrubs, the station master’s rose shrubs along the wall. The light bulb opposite shakes its head. It disapproves of the action. Nourse sits beside my bulging rucksack, guarding it. That’s his job, more so now that he can smell all those uniforms marching past us in heavy leather boots and emitting foreign ugly sounds.
A Packhorse Called Rachel Page 3