She nodded.
“Good luck.”
He took her hand to shake it. She winced and when he saw the swelling he kept hold of her wrist and lifted her hand up and examined it. “What’s this?”
“Thorns.”
He took the other hand, compared them. One hand, she now saw, was much bigger than the other.
“This needs water. You soak it for a long time, till it’s very soft. Then if the thorn doesn’t come out, you cut it out. Just a neat cut over the swelling. With a razor blade. Remember, only use a clean blade.”
She nodded. He still held her hands, turning them over and inspecting them. They were calloused and grubby with broken nails, belonging to someone else.
“You have a long life line. You’ll be ‘old monkey.’ What a strong heart line. See where it splits here? At least two husbands. Well, two great loves. Two children.”
His hand, tracing the line, left its own invisible mark. He was smiling.
“But I don’t want to have children.”
“That’s because you’re a child yourself. Later you will.”
“Boy or girl children?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t say. The future must always hold a bit of a surprise. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.”
“Aren’t you coming to Marseilles?”
“No, siostrzyszka, I’m going to go back and kill lots of Germans.”
“Oh!” She looked. He was still smiling. She liked the funny name. She wanted to know what the word meant; she wanted to ask how he knew so many things, but could not. She only had the wrong questions. And in that pause, he waved and melted into the dusk. As the pale flame of his head disappeared it became obvious that he was not a man at all but an angel. For a long time, Ilse could feel the line on her hand that he had traced. She sat in that awareness looking at the trees which had taken François until it was too dark to see.
At six in the morning a man unlocked the gates to the bus station and went into the little kiosk there, turning on the light. She woke Otto. The man inside the kiosk sneezed several times.
“We’ll get on the bus now,” she said. Stiff and shivering, they stood. Very carefully, watching the door of the kiosk all the time, they crept onto the bus that stood there. Otto lay down on the back seats. At the very back there was a small curtain that could be drawn. From the outside, or to anyone looking in from the front, they were invisible. At seven o’clock a policeman appeared beside the bus and started checking the papers of everyone who got on. But because he did not look inside, nobody asked for theirs, nor did they check that they had a valid ticket for the journey.
In Poitiers, using Albert’s money, Ilse bought two tickets to Marseilles. There would be a train to Limoges. From Limoges there would be a train to Toulouse, one that stopped at numerous stations. Then it was a question of getting across to Montpellier. They got on trains, got off, waited on platforms in places with no names, watched the yawning clerk chalk up the delay on a board and waited some more. Eventually, there was always another train. They were getting nearer to the south. The sardines, so oily, were somehow also dry and unpleasant. They ate them all the same. Otto was more and more tired and kept falling asleep. In a station waiting room she saw her face in the mirror, her hair. She looked like a scarecrow. She tried to comb her hair with her fingers. People avoided them, which was good.
At Montpellier the train stood so long at the platform in the heat that Ilse’s head began to throb. Nobody knew when it would leave. Otto slept. Her father’s lips were cracked, he looked grey. She opened her case, found the tin mug. There had to be water somewhere. The guard pointed her to the waiting room, where there was a drinking fountain. She drank, filled her mug and, turning, saw the train with her father on it jerk, gather itself, slowly move away. She saw the dust eddying up from the dry stones as the train began to gather speed, saw faces looking out, slow-motion faces that swivelled to see her—she was screaming as the carriage passed with him in it, eyes closed. She turned, began to run with the train, not able to grasp the doors that were passing as she thudded alongside. It was the end. The guard moved to block her and she evaded him, her chest constricting with the effort as the train speeded up and then a door opened, a man in shirtsleeves was beckoning, steadying himself on a handle and stretching out the other hand towards her. He leant out. She sped on, frenzied, seeing the end of the platform approach, seeing how she would fall, how the end of the train would pass—she jumped. One foot on the step, the door banging against her side, his hands sliding away then seizing and pulling, the anguish of his grasp on her wounded hand such that she screamed again. She hung in the air. She was inside, falling forward. The door slammed shut. Ilse collapsed onto the floor of the corridor. She lay on the dirty floor, unable to move or speak.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. Finally, she got up, tried to smooth herself down, thanked him. With quivering legs she made her way back to the carriage where Otto, unwitting, slept on. She looked at him. He sat with his mouth half open, his breath rattling in his throat. A very bad smell was coming from him, sardines mixed with the putrid stench of rotting vegetables. He had turned into the old man she had imagined him being six months ago. She sat beside him, closed her eyes and waited.
They rattled into the Gare St. Charles at midday. It was almost impossible to wake Otto. She held on to her father as they came across the broad concourse of the station, propping him up as they went through the crowd, fearful that they would be stopped. Her hand was red and shiny, and very swollen. Its pulse went right through her. Otto was ashen. His skin was sagging and his face stubbly. His eyes, which were half closed, shut tight against the overwhelming light as they came out. A radiant map of wrinkles spread out from his eyes and over his forehead, a grid that went on and intersected with itself like the roads of the big city spread out below.
The wind was strong. Marseilles smelt just as it had the previous year. Down there, she thought, was the sea. Her father was making a kind of moaning noise.
“What is it? Is it your head that hurts?”
“Only strangers help,” said Otto. His eyes had opened and he was staring at her. “What was his other name? You know, François?” His eyes were flickering all the time. They could not focus properly.
“I don’t know,” said Ilse.
“François,” said Otto. “You know.”
“He didn’t tell us his real name.”
“Yes,” said her father. “It’s Franke. Famke. Frante.”
“Franciszek,” she said. “Vati, why did he help us?”
“He’s one of ours.”
“One of ours?”
Ilse did not understand. His eyes started darting from left to right, looking for someone or something. He made her feel very nervous.
“What is it?”
“I’m looking for strangers. People have helped us. We have to keep in touch.”
“What people, Vati? François helped us.”
“Who?”
“Franciszek. The soldier who helped us. You know.”
“He’s dead,” he said with great firmness. “You will never see him again.”
All at once tears started from his eyes. He ducked his head.
“Come on, we’re nearly there.”
The steps down were very difficult. She was holding him up; he was not heavy but because he was leaning so desperately against her, she nearly fell. Luckily he kept hold of his case. He wept silently. The boulevard below was very crowded. They were on the Boulevard d’Athènes, the big main road dropping from the station’s steps down to the centre of town below. They steered an unsteady course, bumping up against people.
“This way,” she said, “not far.” She had no idea where to go. The first big building on the right was a hotel called the Splendide. She left her father leaning against the imposing façade, walked up to the desk and asked for a double room. Just for one night, she thought.
The concierge laughed. “There is no room here, Mademoisel
le,” he said. “Every hotel is full. There are thousands of people looking for a room.”
“Thank you.”
She kept her head high.
As she walked away he called after her, “Do you have your billeting slip?”
“Of course. I’ll be back.”
In her coat pocket she found a handkerchief to dry Otto’s face. She saw a taxi turning in towards the station and prayed. She did not think that she could drag him back up the steps to the taxi rank, not with the cases, not now. The taxi saw her and turned.
“Thank you,” she said, “thank you.” She pushed her father in.
“Where to?”
She looked at the man blankly.
“Well?”
“Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde.”
Otto kept his eyes closed; the sound of his breathing was shallow, difficult, with an unpleasant thick rattling noise deep in his chest. She looked out. The taxi went down a broad main road with shops and cinemas and restaurants, down to the port and along past the boats, then it took a very steep winding road up the hill and stopped. There were a dozen steps beyond up to the church. High above, the Holy Virgin glittered. Otto was asleep. He would never manage the steps. In any case, she did not need him with her in the church.
“Please,” she said, “would you kindly wait for a minute?” The taxi driver turned the engine off and lit a cigarette.
Halfway up the steep path to the church she remembered and went back for her coat. She pushed open the wooden door and tiptoed inside, putting it on as she went. The church was huge and cool. There was nobody there. She chose a side chapel that looked popular for it had the most candles burning, took a candle and lit it and found a small coin to drop into the box. The marble martyred body of a saint occupied one wall, his pale face turned enquiringly up towards the stained glass at the rear. Kneeling, she buttoned the coat. When all were in order, buttoned up tight from bottom to top, she touched each lightly and said her prayer.
“Dear Lord, help us today, we so need help. We need to become invisible. Look after us and I will always honour you, Lord.” She ran down the buttons and said the prayer twice, changing the words a little, giving them a different emphasis. Kneeling was very painful, the scab cracked and was oozing pus, but she had to do it or God would not hear. The ritual soothed her, as did the holy smell. She bent to touch the laces on her shoes. They were filthy but the laces were tied tight and secured with a double bow.
Outside, the sea stretched out its glittering lines as far as she could see. The harbour, guarded by its two forts, was full of boats. She frowned. Nothing was as she remembered it. The driver was looking at her.
“To the quay, please,” she said. Otto’s head slipped down onto her shoulder. She put her arm round him.
“We’ll get a boat,” she whispered. “To Oran.”
As the taxi turned to go back the way it had come, she realised with a pang that she had not mentioned her mother. She had not protected her. Now it was too late. The taxi went down the hill, turned onto the quay and stopped. Carefully, Ilse counted the coins into the driver’s hand, thanked him. He drove off. She sat her father down on a fat metal post.
The quay, piled with barrels and coils of ropes, was not as she remembered it. A sign said QUAI DE RIVE NEUVE. Fishing boats jostled for space; the whole harbour was alive with them, but they were too small to take passengers. She asked an old woman scurrying by where La Joliette was. She pointed. Marseilles had two ports. The other one was far away, on the opposite side of the harbour. Her instructions had failed, as she had failed her mother. Otto’s eyes had a blank look and he could barely stand. There was no question of him walking so far. The old woman stretched her mouth into a gappy smile. A gold tooth winked at the back. She pointed up. Two huge pylons carried a slender bridge suspended high in the air. It was a giant toy, a beautiful Meccano set which straddled the port like a colossus. Tiny figures moved across at the top. The old woman smiled and pointed, indicating that they could cross this way.
“Come on, get up.” Ilse pulled and pushed Otto onto the jetty. They stood at the base of the huge pylon, anchored on two enormous disks of concrete. She pointed to the lift. “You must,” she whispered. Otto, giddy at the prospect, shook his head. Even if she got him up to the top, he might not be able to walk across. Looking up into the sun, she had a blurred vision of him tumbling down and into the water. The old woman had caught up, was just behind them, pointing again.
“Mademoiselle. The transporter bridge,” she said.
An extraordinary vision was moving across the water towards them. God had heard her prayer. He had sent her a magic carpet to ride across the water, with a delicate pagoda perched on top. She blinked, looked again. Strung below the bridge on cables was a broad platform ten metres wide gliding at great speed, floating above the water nearly at their level. It eased to a halt. The pagoda held an operator, who let down a low metal ramp. The old woman opened her hand, showed Ilse a fiftycentimes coin in her palm. A car drove off and a dozen passengers stepped on. Ilse paid a franc, urged Otto on. He clung to the railing. Looking up, she watched the shimmering cables that drew it across. After a minute or two they were halfway across the water. Looking back at the city, she could see how the wide main street, stretching away from the deep recession of this smaller port, seemed to split the city neatly in half. Perhaps there was a good side and a bad side, as there was with people. Out on the water a chill wind blew. Ahead the city rose steeply from the waterfront in a semicircle of façades, shuttered against the day, with alleys behind them as steep and black as knife cuts.
“Le vieux quartier,” said the old woman. The port was on the further side of this final hill.
Alighting, they crossed the old stone flags of the road, Ilse supporting Otto, who was slipping on the smooth tram tracks. At once the light was gone, the streets rising too close together for any sun to penetrate, so steep that steps were needed, too narrow for any car. Washing lines stretched from one side to the other. A gutter right down the middle had dirty water running in it, which stank; it was not water but sewage. Head lowered, Ilse clutched the case with one arm. With the other she pushed Otto. From the top, they would see where to go. A girl with long black hair leaned out of one of the windows above them. She said something that Ilse did not quite understand, something about red hair. At the window opposite sat a fat bleached blonde with a strong Roman nose. They were laughing at each other. They were laughing at her with their horrible eyes. Another girl stuck her head out of a window farther up the hill and blew a kiss. A man in a vest appeared and leant out beside her. Someone shouted.
Otto sagged into her arms. She tried to hold him up. She could not manage it. He sank down onto the dirty street. His case tumbled down and toppled over. Ilse bent over to look at him. He lay on his side on the cobblestones.
“Please,” she said, “please get up.” She pulled at his arm. She did not have the strength to pick him up. Kneeling on the road, she tried to put her arms round him and lift him. She could not do it. He was a dead weight. The fat woman emerged from a doorway and came up the street towards them. She walked very delicately and carefully in high heels, setting her feet down like an acrobat. She squatted down and felt Otto’s pulse with one white hand, then pulled down his eyelids and looked at his eyes, which were rolling up. She had bright red fingernails. She pursed her lips and sighed. Her eyes, two dark currants lost in puffy cheeks, were very sharp. Her eyelids were a brilliant artificial blue.
She bent forward and pulled him up into a sitting position.
“Leave him alone,” said Ilse.
Otto stirred and moaned. The woman put her arm round him and, raising him up, half carried him back down towards her door.
“What are you waiting for! Come on!”
Scrambling for the cases, she followed. The woman pushed at the door with her dainty shoe; it opened into complete darkness. Ilse hesitated. There was a click and a light came on, a dim bulb draped with a scarf at the far end of a
long corridor. She made out that the corridor was papered with huge blue roses. The woman pulled back a very dark, thick curtain half revealing a door. While Ilse supported her father, the woman unlocked it.
The room had an enormous bed. The woman laid Otto onto it and looked at him, opening his eyes and again feeling his pulse. Very adroitly, she began to take his clothes off, peeling them away, then pulling up the sheet to cover his nakedness. Ilse was shocked. He was very dirty. He stank. The woman went away. She stood in the middle of the room, listening to the rasping sound that her father made. Perhaps he was going to die. The woman came back carrying a bowl of water and soap, a sponge and a towel. She began to wash him, starting with his feet, uncovering each limb carefully and then scrubbing with both hands and kneading his skin before drying him with a towel. It was done with delicacy but so firmly. Perhaps she was some sort of nurse. Ilse had never seen a naked man before and looked away from his private parts, which, worryingly, seemed to be a dark reddish colour as though there was something wrong with them. The water running from the sponge was grey.
The woman went away, returned with fresh water, carried on. It was vigorous work and a light film of perspiration covered her face. Close up, she had very beautiful skin, pink and rosy like that of a child, and she smelt of perfume. Her yellow hair was black at the roots. Ilse helped as best she could. Together, they could turn him over. He was so thin that his hip bones stuck out and his ribs could be counted. When he was clean, Ilse went to the case and fetched the pyjamas. The woman shook her head, wrinkled up her nose. They smelt. She used a corner of the towel to wash his face and then patted eau de cologne around his temples. She looked at Ilse.
“You need a bath too,” she said. “At the end of the corridor.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
“I’m called Renée,” she said. “And you?”
“Ilse.”
“And him?”
“Otto. Madame Renée, does he need a doctor?”
The Children's War Page 18