I pause to see if she’s holding up. Her eyes are fixed on me. She’s waiting for me to go on.
‘It was your mum who took you. She wanted to get you into the free zone and leave you with some friends of your parents near Lyons. But the railway line had been bombed and the train stopped in open country not far from La Ferté-sous-Jouarre. Your mother took your hand and you walked for ages. And then she saw the first house, a kilometre outside town. She told you to wait by a tree and not move. She went and knocked. Nicole Olfinger came to the door. Your mum begged this woman she’d never met before to take in her seven-year-old daughter. She said, “You have to take the little one. I’ll come back, but you have to take her from me today. Please.” Henri came to the door, they looked at each other and then said yes. Your mother repeated that she’d come back. But she never did.’
I pause again. I look at Michka. Her face gives nothing away beyond her intense concentration on my story.
‘They were well aware of what they were doing. Of the risks. They burned your coat with the yellow star sewn onto it. They hid you. All that time. They told friends and neighbours you were their niece. In October 1943, there was a round-up in La Ferté-sous-Jouarre and about fifteen people were deported. Nicole and Henri were afraid of being denounced. They hid you in the barn under a tarpaulin for a whole night, but no one came. Later, when the war was over, a woman turned up at the door one morning. Your mother’s cousin. Your mother had written her a letter with a plan drawn from memory to explain where she’d left you. In case things went wrong. Your parents were deported a few days after she got back from La Ferté. That’s the story I was told by Madeleine, Nicole and Henri Olfinger’s daughter, who was born after the war. Your story. When they took you in, they’d just got married. Henri died a few years ago, but Nicole’s still there. She lives locally in a retirement home. She’s ninety-nine.’
Michka is sitting across from me. Tears are flowing silently down her cheeks.
I take her hands. They’re so cold I fear that her heart has stopped.
‘Are you OK? Do you want me to go on?’
She nods.
‘I went to see Nicole Olfinger. She’s blind and has trouble hearing. But she’s got all her marbles. I told her about you. I told her you’d looked for them, but you didn’t know their surname. She understood. I took the liberty of telling her how important it was to you, now, to be able to express your gratitude. She was deeply moved, you know. I told her how happy you’d be to know she was still alive. To know it wasn’t too late. When I asked her how they’d kept going during those three years, she said something I wanted to be sure to pass on to you: “You reject the worst option. And after that, your choice is made.” She also said: “There’s no point being big-headed about things like that.”’
Michka’s now hiding her face in her hands.
‘You know, Michka, I cried too when I left that room.’
She remains like that for a few minutes.
‘It’s a lot of emotions all at once, isn’t it?’
She doesn’t answer. But I hear her breathing and can tell how determined she is to hold back the sobs.
‘In the spring we could maybe take you there, who knows?’
She lowers her hands and looks at me.
‘Yes . . . but . . . I’m so . . . zausted. Maybe.’
‘If you like, I can come back tomorrow with my pad of writing paper and help you write a letter. OK?’
Her chin is trembling, but the tears have stopped.
‘All night.’
The next day I find her at her desk.
Ready.
I sit down beside her.
I slide the pad in front of her and give her one of my pencils. She doesn’t like ballpoints or felt tips. She wants to be able to rub out, to start again. For a few minutes she sits, pencil poised. Waiting for the words.
I know how rare they are now. Distant, buried, scrambled.
‘Do you want me to help you, Michka?’
She indicates she doesn’t.
I back off.
I sit at the foot of her bed and look out the window.
We have plenty of time.
I see she’s writing. Very slowly. A dozen words or so. Her hand’s shaking, but she sticks at it. I know that at this moment she’s giving her all, everything she has left. She’s using her final reserves.
I hear the sound of pencil on paper. Pressing hard.
I almost want to stretch out on the bed and go to sleep for a little while.
Because in this room, near this old lady, I feel strangely secure.
She has finished.
She folds the paper.
Without looking, I slip the sheet into the envelope and she watches me seal it. She has the right to that dignity, after all. I write the name of Nicole Olfinger’s retirement home and her room number.
‘I’ll post it when I leave.’
She nods.
‘Shall I see you on Thursday?’
She nods again, exhausted.
But just before I go, she beckons me back.
‘And you? . . . Your f— . . . father?’
‘Ah.’
‘What to do?’
‘I don’t know, Michka.’
‘But why such a long time?’
‘You know, my father’s never really tried to see me again. In fact, I think he finds my presence unbearable. He doesn’t know me. All he has is a false, distorted image of me that he’s fixed for all eternity.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe just because I’m not the son he dreamed of. As if something about me offended him. He saw me as the enemy. He’d seek out the proof of that, my shortcomings. And then retaliate in his own way. But words do harm, you know. Insults, sarcasm, criticism, reproaches leave their mark. Indelibly. And that judgemental look, seeking a weakness. And then there were the threats. Things like that leave an impression, you know. It’s hard to have trust after that. To feel any love for yourself. He’s suffered. A lot. I know that. And time’s going by, it’s true, you’re right about that. But does there come a point when things calm down? I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’d like to believe it. I forgave him a long time ago. But I don’t know if something else is possible. Something kinder.’
Her eyes are still on me.
By way of reply, she hands me the pad and the pencil I lent her.
‘All that. Put it down.’
‘Put it down where, Michka?’
‘On paper.’
‘OK, I promise. I’ll put it all down on paper.’
She and I are face to face.
‘So, Michka, you strike me as being on top form today. Shall we do a little exercise to warm up? Give me ten words that rhyme with “home”.’
She fires back: ‘Dome, comb, tome, chrome, loam, gnome, foam, roam, gastronome, catacomb.’
‘Amazing! I can tell you’re an expert. And now, words that rhyme with . . .’
‘End.’
‘Ah . . . OK . . . If you like.’
‘No, your turn.’
‘OK then . . . send, bend, trend.’
‘Is that all?’
She loves to tease me.
‘I’ll help you: spend, lend, penned, wend, blend, friend . . . mend.’
‘Bravo, Michka. You’re better than me at this!’
I let the silence settle on us; it’s a space you have to know how to share.
But after a moment I can’t stop myself saying, ‘I hate it, Michka, I’ll be frank, when people leave without warning.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘We should have forewarning. When people are going to die. Whether it’s their choice or not, I don’t care – after all, that’s up to them. But you should get a letter or a text or a voicemail, an email, or something, something very clear and unambiguous: “Please note, Mr So-and-So, Mrs Such-and-Such, your cousin, friend, husband, neighbour, mother is likely to disappear in the near, or very near, future.” Shit.’
I’m getting worked up needlessly. It seems to have made an impression on Michka. So I try to explain.
‘It’s true, it’s painful at the end. You always think you have time to say things and then suddenly it’s too late. You think that showing, signalling is enough, but it’s not. You have to say it. Say, that word that you like so much. Words count. I don’t need to tell you that. You were a proofreader for a big publisher, I believe.’
‘What would you like to say?’
‘I don’t know! Two or three things for the road . . . “That was nice”, “Delighted to have met you”, “Honoured”, “Enchanted”, “Have a safe journey”, “All the best as you venture into the unknown”, “Thanks for everything” – I don’t know! Or perhaps just . . . a hug.’
‘Please do.’
I approach her. I feel her frail body leaning into mine, carefully at first, then she gives herself to the embrace.
Suddenly Jacques Brel’s voice fills her small room.
We trace some dance steps.
A waltz in hundred time
A waltz when you’re a hundred
A waltz that’s heard
At every crossroads
In Paris, which love
Renews in springtime
She breaks away first.
‘You’re dreaming, Jérôme, don’t you think? Well, to tell the truth, I don’t know if it’s me who’s dreaming or you! But I’m sure this is a dream.’
JÉRÔME (2)
I liked her immediately.
I recognised her, yes, that’s the right word.
I thought: I’ll take everything.
The smile, the sadness, the dark eyes.
The little girl who went out in the park with no coat.
The young woman with the big belly bulging out of her coat.
The baby, the bathwater, the steam on the mirror.
MARIE
There are all the trite, hand-me-down words people use in these situations.
To console others. To try to lessen their pain. And our own at the same time.
‘You did all you could’, ‘You were really important to her’, ‘It’s lucky you were there’, ‘She was really fond of you’, ‘She spoke of you often.’
No one will ever contradict you.
This morning when the alarm went off, Michka didn’t open her eyes.
She died in her sleep.
It’s the best death she could have hoped for. I know that.
Before she lost everything.
I meet Jérôme in the corridor.
He seems very upset.
‘Hi, I’m Jérôme.’
‘Hi, I’m Marie.’
‘I’d rather have met you in . . . other circumstances. Have you been able to see her?’
‘Yes, I spent the morning by her side. Before they took her away. She looked at peace. Her face was calm. It was as if she’d fallen asleep like that, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t wake up again.’
For a moment, he won’t meet my eye; he’s looking into the distance at some dark thought. And then his eyes again.
‘Did they find anything in particular? I mean . . . did the doctor tell you anything?’
‘No. Nothing else. She died in her sleep. She didn’t suffer. It’s what we all hope for, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
He’s watching me, hesitating for a moment.
‘And what about you, Marie, how’re you? Things not too . . . diffu—?’
I smile.
‘They’re tough . . . but not so much as such.’
Then he smiles.
‘I wanted to give you a big tanks, Jérôme. If you’ll allow me to call you Jérôme. For everything you did for her. I sometimes thought about going down there. But I didn’t dare. I was afraid it would be too emotional for her, she wouldn’t have the strength. But you were right.’
‘You know, she gave me a lot. A huge amount. I don’t know why you feel closer to some patients than others. But I should have said tank you to her too.’
‘I think you did it in your own way. Will you come to the cremotion?’
‘Yes, all night.’
‘There’ll be little sandwiches.’
‘With salami, I hope!’
‘I’ll make sure. And spammon.’
‘And if you need help clearing the room, don’t hesitate to call me. I’m often in this neck of the woods, you know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, see you soon?’
‘Yes, see you soon.’
I watch him walk off down the corridor. He goes into another room.
I hear his clear voice through the door.
‘So, Mrs Lefébur, how are you today?’
A Note on the Author
Delphine de Vigan is the prize-winning author of bestselling No and Me, which was a Richard & Judy selection in Britain, Nothing Holds Back the Night, Underground Time and Based on a True Story. She lives in Paris.
George Miller is the translator into English of all four of Delphine de Vigan’s titles. He is also a regular translator for Le Monde diplomatique’s English-language edition.
A Note on the Type
The text of this book is set in Adobe Garamond. It is one of several versions of Garamond based on the designs of Claude Garamond. It is thought that Garamond based his font on Bembo, cut in 1495 by Francesco Griffo in collaboration with the Italian printer Aldus Manutius. Garamond types were first used in books printed in Paris around 1532. Many of the present-day versions of this type are based on the Typi Academiae of Jean Jannon cut in Sedan in 1615.
Claude Garamond was born in Paris in 1480. He learned how to cut type from his father and by the age of fifteen he was able to fashion steel punches the size of a pica with great precision. At the age of sixty he was commissioned by King Francis I to design a Greek alphabet, and for this he was given the honourable title of royal type founder. He died in 1561.
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BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY PUBLISHING and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published in Great Britain 2021
First published in 2019 in France as Les Gratitudes by JC Lattés
This electronic edition published in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published in 2019 in France as Les Gratitudes by JC Lattès
Copyright © JC Lattès, 2019
English translation © George Miller, 2021
‘Brave Little Soldier’ by Dolly Parton, lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing
‘La valse à mille temps’: music and lyrics by Jacques Brel. © Warner Chappell Music France and Éditions Jacques Brel, Brussels, 1959
This book is supported by the Institut français (Royaume-Uni) as part of the Burgess programme
Delphine de Vigan has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers
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ISBN: HB:978-1-5266-1885-6; EBOOK: 978-1-5266-1884-9
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