April in Paris (25 page)

Old Joffo stepped into the farmyard. His hair was snow-white and blowing in the wind. The imposing boar had been transformed into a pallid, stooping creature. In spite of my disfigure-ment, he recognized me. We faced each other warily in the windy farmyard.

“From where?” he asked tonelessly.

“Paris.”

“Who knows you’re here?” The wind blew his voice away.

“No one.” I stepped closer to him. His eyes fell on my splint.

“No one followed me,” I insisted.

The window on the upper floor went up. The young woman in the light blue overalls bore a distant resemblance to Chantal.

Joffo noticed her.

After a little hesitation, he said, “It’s Roth.”

She jumped. Movement in the house. The old woman appeared in the hall. My name changed something, but it didn’t elicit friendliness, only curiosity. The baby cried again. The young woman left the window. Joffo pointed indecisively toward a rain-bleached table that stood outside, near the house, on the only patch of green. I sat down, stretching out my leg with an effort; my uphill charge had done me in. Joffo took a seat on a stool across from me. The old woman remained at the back door. I was thirsty, but I said nothing. The young woman appeared on the ground floor, a bundle in her arm. The bundle was a baby, swad-dled in linen. Only its dark hair was visible.

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“And Chantal?” I could no longer hold the question back.

Joffo gazed at the child. I followed his eyes. “Is she here?”

“No,” he said. “She’s not here anymore.”

I nearly collapsed from sheer disappointment. “When do you expect her back?”

Joffo sat still; only his hair moved. I realized he didn’t think she’d be back soon. Chantal wasn’t in church or walking in the woods; Chantal was far away. I could feel it. Maybe fighting with another underground Resistance group, on the coast. So many weeks, such a long way! I’d been on an obstacle course. I’d reached Balleroy, but not my goal. I laid my hands on the table, one on top of the other.

“Would you take some food and drink?” a soft voice asked.

The young woman placed the infant in the shade. She had bigger eyes than Chantal and dark hair. She walked like Chantal.

“Are you her sister?” I asked.

“Her cousin,” she said with a serious air.

“Your baby?” Now I could see the infant better. Black hair, wrinkled face, the eyes two sleeping slits.

The young woman didn’t answer my question.

“How old?” I asked.

“Three weeks.”

“Will you stay for lunch?” Joffo asked.

“Yes, gladly.”

The woman went inside.

The grandmother sat on the bench that ran along the house wall and watched the young woman serve me. I ate bread and cream, along with a couple of carrots, and drank some tart old A P R I L I N PA R I S . 239

cider that cleared my head. I wasn’t a guest in this house; I was a transient they were putting up with. They noticed how hard it was for me to chew. The left half of my jaw ground away uselessly.

I gnawed the carrots like an old dog.

Joffo confirmed my fears. “Where do you intend to go?”

“To Chantal.” It was the only answer. “Where is she? I’ll find her.”

The cousin took a step toward me as though she wanted to say something. Joffo silenced her with a gesture. He stood up and walked along the wall of the house. In the shade of a pear tree, there was a cellar door. He lifted it and disappeared inside. The old woman, the baby, the young woman, and I waited in silence.

I bit off a piece of bread. Chantal’s cousin filled my glass.

Joffo came back with a bottle of brandy. The old woman went inside and brought us two glasses. Joffo poured. The young woman sat on the ground beside the baby and shaded its face with her hand. Joffo glanced at the sun. At that moment, he was once again the narrow-eyed boar. We emptied our glasses.

The Germans had moved into Balleroy unexpectedly. A deci-mated company from the south, on the way to Pas-de-Calais.

They required food, drink, and lodging, and they commandeered quarters in three farmsteads.

“The captain was correct,” Joffo said. “A man you could talk to. The men occupied the barns, and the officers came to the main house.”

He filled the glasses again and drank. I waited.

“Chantal and Jeanne gave up their room.” He moved his head in the cousin’s direction. She was totally focused on the child.

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“The two of them slept in the storeroom attached to the barn.

We brought out our provisions; the women cooked them up. The soldiers didn’t say much. They were on their way to the front. We thought—everyone in the village thought—it would be over in two days.”

A carrot had rolled off the table. Joffo picked it up and put it next to my plate. He drank a third glass of brandy. I stopped eating. A jackdaw shrieked somewhere nearby.

“The night before they moved out, one of the lieutenants discovered the cellar under the henhouse.” Joffo pointed to the south, where there were some young walnut trees misshapen by the wind. “That was where we hid the things that weren’t meant to be found.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Supplies for a year.

Weapons. The captain confiscated the weapons but forbade any looting. They all took their fill of the wine. Officers and men got drunk together.”

The old woman sat beside Joffo and looked past me, up the hill. He stayed quiet for a while.

“Later that night, the lieutenant went into the storeroom. Without paying attention to Jeanne, he pounced on Chantal. Jeanne came running out and woke me up. I grabbed a piece of firewood and ran out to the storeroom. When I got there, it was too late.”

Joffo ran his hand over his forehead.

“The lieutenant was dying, bleeding from many wounds.

Chantal had pulled a dagger out of her belt and stabbed away. I told her to get away to some safe place. Chantal sat on the bloody bed and stared at the dagger. Then she tried to leave, but Jeanne’s screaming had awoken the Germans.”

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 241

Joffo stood up and walked to the center of the yard.

“The captain had his men bring her here,” he said. “Right here.” He hung his head. “We were all outside. The baby was asleep in my father’s arms. My brother, the women, two workers.

Chantal stood and faced the captain. It was cold that night. She was shivering. Without hesitating a second, without a single word, the captain pulled his pistol, pushed Chantal to the ground, and shot her in the back of the head.” Joffo’s finger designated the spot.

He came back to the table. “The shot woke up the baby, and it started crying.” He stopped in front of me and stared at the faded tabletop. The old woman remained seated, bolt upright.

“They put my brother against the wall, and also a worker who just happened to be at the farm that night. Then the soldiers came for my father. He gave Jeanne the baby, very carefully, and went and stood with the others. They were shot immediately.”

Joffo sat down and put one hand on top of the other. “For every German killed, ten French citizens have to die,” he said.

“That’s the ratio. But the captain was content with four. Dawn was already breaking. He ordered his men to move out. By sun-rise, the company had left Balleroy. My father would have been eighty today.”

I caught myself doing the arithmetic. How many days, how many weeks? If I had set out earlier, if I had stuck to the main roads, if I had increased my daily distances …

Joffo went into the house and came out with the dagger. He laid it on the table.

“No one thought to take it.”

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I hesitated. Then I drew the blade from the dark gray sheath.

The blood had been washed off. I fixed my eyes on the steel.

“Was she buried?”

Instead of Joffo, the cousin answered. “Do you want to see it?”

I ran my finger along the sharp blade. Clouds were gathering above the walnut trees. The wind died down all of a sudden. I had learned everything and understood nothing.

“What will you do?” I asked.

“Live on,” the bookseller said.

“We still have the child.” The old woman’s eyes remained fixed on the hill.

I emptied my glass. The brandy was strong. I gazed at the little linen-swathed creature. “What’s its name?”

“Her name is Antoinette,” Joffo said.

I turned around. Slowly, I stood up; my splints knocked together. I hobbled over to the tree and bent down. The baby was asleep. She looked concerned, as though sleep required a lot of effort. I wanted to touch one of her little hands but didn’t dare.

“Chantal’s baby?” I asked. My knees trembled.

Nobody spoke.

I stared at the tiny face. “And the birth?”

“Easy,” the old woman said.

I thought of Chantal in the pale green dress, Chantal in rue Faillard. I looked directly at the sun and fell into whiteness.

Stroked the little head. She flinched and made a face.

“Antoinette,” I said softly.

Later on, Jeanne made me a sleeping place in the barn. I sat on the blanket spread out on the hay. Flecks of sunlight played A P R I L I N PA R I S . 243

with motes of dust. I contemplated my hands, my missing finger, my splinted leg. Drawing the dagger out of the sheath for the second time, I set the point on my chest. I couldn’t feel much through my jacket. I opened my shirt and pressed the dagger against my skin, watching it tighten and split open, watching the drop of blood spill out. I laid the dagger down beside me. All of a sudden, the hay smelled like Chantal’s hair. I inhaled the scent, reaching for the dancing points of light. I screamed and clapped my hand over my mouth at the same time. I screamed into my hand. Saliva flowed into the folds of my palm. When dusk came on, I’d been staring out the window for hours. Chantal and Antoine. The time we escaped the raid. The time we kissed each other in Leibold’s face. The time she was on top of me in rue Faillard. Her hair, her breasts. Never. Nothing.

That evening, I went to the main house and ate with the family. I sat there and chewed like the others. No lamps were lit. The spreading darkness united us. Afterward, I asked to see Antoinette. Jeanne led me into the storeroom. I took the baby girl out of her cradle and held her against my chest. She didn’t wake up. I squeezed her tightly. Her breath on my neck. She cried out.

Jeanne reached to take her, but I held on to Antoinette and rocked her until she fell asleep again.

That night, I wanted to stay there. In Balleroy, close to the sea.

I wanted to stay there; and the war was far away. Antoine and Antoinette. As I lay in the straw, I thought about the word
father.
I had no feeling for it.

The next day, they allowed me to carry Antoinette around.

But when I headed out to the fields, they sent Jeanne after me.

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Later, I tried to help Joffo split firewood. He put the ax down without a word and went into the house.

They let me share their meals. They asked nothing and wanted to know nothing. They were hospitable to me, and yet they remained distant. I didn’t talk about Paris or about my journey. I walked down the hill with the baby and Jeanne and asked her where the sea was. Too far, she replied, and anyway, you couldn’t get there now. They were building bunkers and fences. Jeanne hadn’t been to the beaches in a long time. We turned around. The baby was taken out of my arms and carried into the house.

“She’s my child,” I said that night into the straw. “They want to mourn without me, and they want to keep me away from my child.” Bewildered, I laughed into the rafter beams. “I’m practically their son-in-law!”

The next day, I asked Jeanne to show me the grave. We took Antoinette with us. We had to go through the village to reach the cemetery. No one was outdoors, but I knew there were people watching me. I was the
boche
; they’d heard about me. In the second line of houses, there was one with its windows open. The radio was playing. The melody, carried on the wind, got louder and softer by turns. Someone was singing. I could understand very few words, but I recognized the tune. The singer was Chevalier, snappy and brazen:
“Avril prochain—je reviens
.
”
I started hobbling faster, trying to get closer to the house, but a fence barred my way. Carrying the baby in one arm, Jeanne followed me in amazement. By the time she caught up with me, the song was over.

The mounded earth was fresh. There was no gravestone, only A P R I L I N PA R I S . 245

a stone cross. A couple of flowers. I tried to kneel down, but my splint prevented me. Antoinette started to cry; the sun was strong. A heap of earth, with other graves around it. All that had nothing to do with Chantal. We turned back. It was unusually hot for the beginning of June. On the way back to the farm, I thought, You can’t stay. They won’t allow it.

I spent my days in the barn, presenting myself only to eat and to see the baby. One evening, I stayed after dinner and told the story of the executions in Heudebonville. Joffo shook his head.

“There’s no brigade that calls itself Libération Normandie,” he said. “There are just gangs. They see the Germans withdrawing from the interior and they take advantage of the situation.”

“They weren’t bandits,” I answered. “This was a planned operation.”

The old woman went outside. Jeanne bent over the baby in her lap.

“Then the farmer must have been a collaborator,” Joffo said.

“Reprisals are necessary.”

“Communists?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

The next day, he asked me to join him outside. Antoinette was lying in the shade.

Without a prologue, he said, “When are you going to leave?”

I wanted to reply, but I didn’t. I asked about the baby.

“How do you know you’re the father?” he replied, stone-faced.

I just looked at him. “Maybe, when all this is over …”

I fell silent.

“Antoinette is French. Her family is here,” the bookseller said.

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