Children of War

by Martin Walker

  ‘You look wonderful, like the queen of a literary salon receiving her admirers. How do you feel? How long before they let you out of here?’

  ‘I’m well enough to get through dozens of layers of bureaucracy to get you here. How did you like the congressmen?’

  ‘Very impressive handshakes, less self-important than our own politicians. They seemed to know my name.’

  ‘Yes, I made sure of that, and of what you did. And thank you for the flowers you sent.’ She gestured around the room where every flat surface seemed to hold a vase, each with an impressive bouquet of roses, carnations, lilies and some exotic flowers he didn’t recognise.

  ‘I don’t think I sent all those,’ he said, embarrassed. His own modest offering now seemed very much less than adequate.

  ‘Those roses are yours,’ she said, pointing to a smaller vase with roses that were long past their best. ‘I refuse to throw them away. The brigadier sent some, and Isabelle. Most of the others are from Maya and Yacov. They send a new batch every week. What’s in that bag?’

  He’d almost forgotten, putting it to one side as he’d drawn up the chair. He felt confused by her presence, not sure what to say, nor what he should ask about her wounds and her future. The drama that had drawn them together in St Denis and in the Rolls-Royce seemed a long time past.

  ‘Foie gras, a fresh baguette, a bottle of Chateau de Tirecul Monbazillac that we ought to chill, and a bottle of my own vin de noix to build you up.’ He forced some jollity into his voice. ‘A glass each night as you go to bed and you’ll sleep well. At Bergerac airport I thought they might not let me onto the aircraft with them. A congressman from Arizona told them not to be so foolish.’

  ‘He’s a friend of my dad, who sends you his regards and thanks. It was kind of you to call him. You beat his official notification by two days so he was here the day after my first operation.’

  She gave a nervous smile and asked if he’d like some coffee or a soda. Like him, she seemed to be on edge, wondering how this reunion might go.

  ‘I keep expecting one of the nurses to drop by,’ she said, with a laugh that sounded forced. ‘They’re very curious about this dashing French visitor of mine.’

  ‘How many operations did you have?’ He deflected her compliment.

  ‘Four, one to put some reinforcement grafts on my artery and the rest on my knee. But I was lucky to have you and the medic on the chopper and to have Fabiola work on me when we landed. The doctors here were impressed with what she’d done. The artery is fine and they’ve given me a new knee. I can stand and walk and it gets better every day. They say I’ll soon be almost as good as new except that my skiing days are over. I’m doing physio and swimming every day and they promise to have me home with the family for Christmas. I’ll even be able to dance.’

  ‘And then?’ He swallowed, thinking he sounded pathetic. He’d spent the flight composing far more eloquent speeches and now he could barely summon a single word.

  ‘Three months convalescent leave and then back to the embassy in Paris. They want to capitalize on my new reputation with the French. Apparently the Brigadier is being unusually helpful. But tell me about St Denis. I heard about poor Sami. How are Momu and Dillah?’

  ‘They’re well, still grieving but they send send you their best wishes. They know Sami thought of you as a friend. They miss him but I think they’re resigned. They know that there could never have been a normal life with Sami. Momu is back at work, Dillah helps Rashida with the grandchildren. And Fabiola is blossoming now that Gilles has moved in with her while he works on his book. That solemnity she always had seems to have lifted.’

  ‘That’s good. When does Deutz go to trial?’

  ‘Next month. He’s had one hearing that confirmed he remains detained but they’re having trouble finding a place secure enough to keep him alive. Word seems to have spread about him among the Muslims in prison. He knows it, too. I saw him at the hearing and he’s lost weight, looks haunted and grey. He seemed to be years older.’

  ‘Just as important, his fate seems to have helped discredit those damn techniques of his. My dad went ballistic when he learned Deutz had freed one of the guys who shot me up. What happens to Deutz now?’

  ‘The Procureur is going for the maximum sentence, ten years.’

  She nodded slowly and they fell silent, looking at each other. Suddenly each one started to say something simultaneously and then stopped. ‘Go ahead,’ she said.

  ‘I was going to ask where you were spending your convalescent leave.’ He paused and she raised her eyebrows.

  ‘January and February, I’ll go to my uncle’s place in Florida and get some sun. It’s a condo, right on the seafront at Long-boat Key, one of the best beaches I know. It’s just a few minutes from Sarasota airport. Have you ever been?’

  He shook his head. Palm trees and beaches in mid-winter, he felt a touch of envy. ‘What about March, before you start work at the embassy again?’ he steeled himself to take the risk. ‘You’d have a hero’s welcome if you’d like to come to St Denis. I was wondering if I might see you again. Don’t forget that I promised you a dinner.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten and I’m going to take you up on it,’ she said, and took his hand. ‘In the meantime I’d like to try some of that foie gras.’

  He let go of her hand to rummage in the bag, then looked around for a knife and plate. She pointed to a small cabinet that held everything he needed including glasses, a corkscrew and a bucket of ice. As he began opening the bottle of Monbazillac, she cleared her throat.

  ‘You’ve never cooked for me yet, and Isabelle said that’s a treat not to miss,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to spend some time with me in Florida. My uncle has a very sophisticated kitchen.’

  He handed her a glass, kissed her lightly on the lips and said, ‘That sounds wonderful and I’d love to cook for you. But the kitchen is not the attraction.’

  ‘So you’re coming for the palm trees and the beach?’

  ‘No,’ he said. And he kissed her again.

  Acknowledgements

  This is a work of fiction and all living characters are invented, although as always their inspiration owes a great deal to my genial neighbours and friends in the enchanting valley of the river Vézère. There are, however, references to a number of historical characters involved in the Resistance and in saving Jewish children from the Holocaust. I have tried to stick with the known facts of their work, knowing that no words of mine could hope to do justice to their nobility and their courage.

  Although the tale of David and Maya Halévy is invented, their experiences were not uncommon for those Jewish children in France who survived the Second World War. The round-up of July 1942 at the Vélodrome d’Hiver did take place and the heroic efforts of the Jewish Scouts under Robert Gamzon to save the children are exactly as related here. The Protestant communities of southern France played a noble role and the old Huguenot village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon found refuge for more than 3,000 Jewish children. The woman I call Tante Simone existed; the name Simone Mairesse is inscribed among the names of the righteous. The town and Simone and many other heroic figures were finally given the honour they deserved in their homeland by President Jacques Chirac at a ceremony at the Panthéon in Paris in January 2007.

  The two battles of Mouleydier in June 1944 took place much as I describe them, although there are confused and contradictory accounts in the various memoirs of those who took part. These disputes reflect the bitter political antagonisms between the rival Francs Tireurs et Partisans, mainly Communists, and the more conservative and Gaullist Armée Secrète. I relied on the memoirs of René Coustellier, leader of the Resistance Group Soleil; on Guy Penaud’s Histoire de la Résistance en Périgord; Pierre Louty’s Histoires Tragiques du Maquis; and on Christian Bourrier’s La Résistance en Pays lindois. As so often, I am grateful to my friend Jean-Jacques Gillot, a distinguished local historian, for his invaluable encyclopedia, Résistants du Périgord. Andr
é Roulland’s La Vie en Périgord sous l’Occupation, 1940–44 was of great help in reconstructing the lives of David and Maya on the farm. I would also like to thank several friends in the Périgord, including Jean-Pierre Picot, Colette and Joseph da Cunha and the Bounichou family of Lalinde for sharing with me their recollections of those heroic but tragic days.

  For the story of Sami, I read widely in the available journalists’ accounts of modern Afghanistan, but I have not visited that harsh, magnificent land for over twenty years. Abdul Salam Zaeef’s memoir, My Life With the Taliban, and the more recent Facing the Taliban, the memoir of Anoja Wijeyesekera, a Sri Lankan woman who worked for the United Nations, were informative. My account of the horrors of the Algerian civil war is based on a number of sources, including Derradji Abder-Rahmane’s Concise History of Political Violence in Algeria; Hugh Roberts’s The Battlefield: Algeria 1988–2002; and the Amnesty International report Algeria: A human rights crisis; Mohammed Samraoui’s Chronique des Années de Sang and Habib Souaïdia’s La Sale Guerre, an extraordinary memoir by a member of the Algerian special forces.

  The Toulouse mosque, its Imams and its security services are pure inventions for literary purposes, and so is the report on Islam and jihadist recruitment in French prisons. But, having visited mosques in Paris, Toulouse and elsewhere in Europe and the Middle East, and having published several articles on Islam in Europe (see, for example, ‘Europe’s Mosque Hysteria’, Wilson Quarterly, Washington DC, Spring 2006), I know something of the terrain. I am grateful to Professor Tariq Ramadan of St Antony’s College, Oxford, and to the French scholar of Islam Professor Olivier Roy, for sharing with me their insights into the challenges and prospects of Islam in Europe.

  My friend Linda Stern, a truly gifted psychologist in Washington DC, helped me to understand something of the challenges and features of the range of difficulties we call autism. I am most grateful for her help, but any errors in the description of Sami and his behaviour are entirely my own.

  The château to which Sami is taken is an invention, drawn in part from the château de Campagne, now splendidly restored as an archaeological research centre, and partly from the château de la Roque des Péagers near Meyrals. There are more than a thousand châteaux and historic manor houses in the Dordogne and Vézère valleys, so we fortunate local novelists have a wondrous range of locations from which to choose.

  As always, I am most grateful to Jane and Caroline Wood in Britain, to Jonathan Segal in New York and to Anna von Planta in Zurich for their irreplaceable editing skills. My family has been part of the Bruno project from the beginning and are always the first to read and comment on my drafts. My wife Julia, who is co-author of the Bruno cookbook, also checks the recipes; our elder daughter Kate runs the brunochiefofpolice. com website; and our younger daughter Fanny is the continuity expert, keeping track of meals, characters, events and places as Bruno’s life and biography grow ever more complex with each new book. And Benson, our basset hound, thoughtfully ensures that I never spend too long at the writing desk, but get out often to enjoy the magical Périgord landscape that continues to inspire me to spin the tales of Bruno and the fictional town of St Denis.