Revolution Baby (10 page)

I was sitting in the visitors' drawing room pretending to read—in fact I was listening to the shouts of the children, who had organized an acrobatics contest—when Geneviève came in and sat down next to me.

“Jules, I have something for you in my room. Will you come with me?”

“Uh, I guess so.”

I went with Geneviève up to the third floor. This was the first time I had ever seen one of the instructors' rooms. Geneviève's was small, with almost no decoration, but it was full of books and magazines: on the shelves, on the night table, on a tiny desk, on the floor . . . Geneviève sat down on the bed and motioned to me to take the chair next to the desk. She smiled and said, “If you like, I can lend you some books. Would you like that?”

“Yes. I think that before long I'll have read everything interesting in the orphanage library. And at school I'm not allowed to borrow the books for grown-ups.”

“At your age, I didn't like children's books either. But I shall still have to advise you, because some of them won't be interesting for a boy your age, even as sharp as you are . . . Here, I have a big bag of full of candy, there's too much for me, if you want some, help yourself.”

Too much candy! What an idea! I knew you shouldn't allow yourself to be bought by the enemy, but since Geneviève had always behaved kindly toward me, it was hard to remain defiant around her. I could have a piece or two of candy . . . no one would be the wiser.

“You know, I'm impressed to see how well you have kept to the line of conduct you set for yourself, even though it can't be much fun not to play or speak with the other children anymore.”

Something inside me whispered a warning to be careful when answering.

“When you have convictions,” I said, “you have to be consistent. I think I shouldn't have to apologize for wanting to find my owl; I looked after him for a long time and perhaps he wasn't ready to be set free again.”

“Of course . . . but you could have gone about it differently. If you had talked about it with an instructor, we could have put together a search party with all the children from L'Avenir Social. It might even have been more efficient.”

This had never occurred to me.

“If every time one of the children thought they had a good reason to go outside L'Avenir Social they climbed over the wall, can you imagine what it would be like for us? I am sure Henri was very worried. He must have been afraid he might never find you again.”

“But he really overreacted, all the same. It was horrible to be beaten by all the children, it was like being in a Roman arena. And he really enjoyed watching the kids hit us. I'll never forgive him.”

“I understand that it must have been painful, humiliating, I understand . . . ”

Geneviève broke off; she seemed to be hunting for her words.

“I'm not saying I agree with what he did. If Arnold and I had been there, we would have been against it, believe me, this session of . . . But we can't have the children jumping over the wall in secret. If you promise me never to run away again, I think I'll be able to convince Henri to put an end to your punishment.”

We talked a little bit more, about my punishment and a few other things, and in the end, after I had eaten some more candy, I had to admit that Geneviève was right. And I promised not to climb over the wall. A promise I would keep from that day on . . . Well, almost, except for one time when out of solidarity I went with the big kids who refused to get their heads shaven when it was the only remedy for the lice epidemic raging at L'Avenir Social. But I won't go into that story, because it is time to get back to more serious things: politics.

 

CHAPTER 14

Here Come the Russians

 

 

 

 

 

 

After our participation in the demonstration in support of the Republicans in Spain, the political fervor of a number of children at L'Avenir Social increased. Naturally I belonged to this politicized elite. We often talked with Arnold about the evolution of the situation in Spain. Unfortunately, the news was always bad.

Arnold didn't only talk about Spain, he also taught us about the situation elsewhere in the world. We were proud to be considered old enough to understand what was at stake in the modern world. We were proud to be on the right side, that of communism, and we intended to do whatever it took, as long as we had to, to get France to join the Communist International alongside the USSR.

One day we were told a great event was in store, the very next day: a visit from some Soviet dignitaries. Roger and I were enchanted: real flesh and blood Soviet Communists in our orphanage! Philippe too was thrilled with the news. For the rest of the day, we saw him walking around with a book in his hand, even outdoors; while everyone else was playing, he had his nose buried in his book. It was as if he were studying to take an exam to enter the Supreme Soviet (I didn't know exactly what that was, but I thought the term “Supreme Soviet” was full of grandeur and nobility, however contradictory that might seem).

The next day I got up earlier than usual and I left the dormitory without a sound, because I wanted to be sure not to miss the arrival of the Soviets. I came upon Philippe, who was sitting on a bench near the front door, still completely absorbed by his reading. The orphanage was silent; clearly the dignitaries would not be arriving anytime soon. I sat down next to Philippe, curious to find out what sort of book could be hypnotizing him to such a degree.

“What do you want, Jules?”

“I haven't seen you once without that book in your hand since yesterday. I just wanted to know what it was.”

“I'd be surprised if it interested you.”

“Well, I am interested, since I asked you.”

“No, what I mean is . . . Anyway, suit yourself. The book is
The Communist Manifesto.
I want to be well prepared, I want to show that even children can have an enlightened vision of politics.”

“And is it interesting to read? Could you lend it to me?”

“‘But not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons—the modern working class—the proletarians.

“‘In proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e. capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed—a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labour increases capital. These labourers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce . . . '”

I didn't dare show him that I was all at sea. As I had, regardless, a solid political background—I knew, for example, that the bourgeois were on one side and the proletariat on the other, and that we communists believed in the might of the proletariat—but I didn't expect to feel so stupid upon hearing this famous manifesto . . . I wanted to ask Philippe to explain it to me somewhat, so that I would be ready, too, to meet the Soviets, but to do that I would have to admit I hadn't understood a thing, and something inside wouldn't let me do that.

“So, my Julot, what do you think?”

“Yeah, well, there's nothing very new in it, however . . . ”

“Maybe not, but I think it shows very clearly why we are bound to win and why the bourgeoisie is doomed to perish.”

“Indeed, it does show that . . . ”

While we were talking, the orphanage gradually began to stir. First we could hear the sounds of dishes clattering in the refectory, and then a crescendo of children's voices: they were clearly very excited by the thought of the great day we were about to experience. Philippe paid no more attention to me and went back to his reading.

 

At breakfast Albert came in and whispered something in the director's ear. Henri took his handkerchief, quickly wiped the corners of his mouth (I was always impressed to see how he concentrated when performing this useless act, given that he was hardly the type to make a mess while eating), whispered something in Arnold's ear in return, then stood up and left the refectory. Arnold swallowed his coffee in one gulp and got up in turn.

“Arnold, have the Soviet comrades arrived?”

“Yes, Jules, I'm going to meet them. Since I speak some Russian, Henri wants me to be with him during the visit.”

“Are we going to be able to talk to them?” asked Philippe, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining.

I started laughing hysterically to see Philippe looking so colorful.

“Hey, why are you laughing like that, you idiot?”

“Whoa, calm down! I have to get there right away, but I promise to pass on your request to Henri. Would anyone else like to talk with them?”

Five or six children raised their hands, including Roger and me, of course.

“I'm glad that you're so interested. I can't guarantee anything, I don't know how long they intend to stay, but I'll see what I can do.”

 

After Arnold left, everyone got even more excited. We were all speaking at the same time, and throwing things across the refectory at each other.

“Hey, Robinet, do you think the Soviets have water faucets?”

“I bet you can't even find the Soviet Union on a map. If you had to lead us there for a meeting with the comrades, we'd all die of shame before getting close!”

“Did you see what a bright red color Philippe's ears were? It was to impress the Communists!”

Philippe didn't answer, he just took on his air of an adult who is disappointed by a child's puerile behavior, and got up to take his plate to the basin full of dirty dishes. I decided to follow him; I didn't feel like goofing off with the others and giving L'Avenir Social a bad image.

After leaving the refectory Philippe headed toward the director's office. I acted as if it was perfectly natural for me to trail along behind him. The door to the director's office was closed, and we couldn't hear any voices. Philippe and I looked at each other, hesitating. “Maybe they're outside?” I said very quietly, in hopes I'd be forgiven for my incongruous hysterical laughter earlier. Philippe didn't answer, but headed toward the door leading to the garden. We went outside. Henri and Arnold were there, with four strange men, and they were showing them Gros Pierre's garden (and my little plot at the same time). These gentlemen were . . . how to put it . . . very disappointing. Maybe I was naïve, but I thought they would be wearing their shirts open at the collar, like the revolutionaries in Russian films. No, they were wearing suits and ties. And while Arnold was waving his arms, showing them things left and right, all they did was nod their heads from time to time, halfheartedly.

Philippe and I, and then Roger and his brother Pierre, who came to join us, followed them around during their entire visit, to be sure to be the first to speak to them if the opportunity arose. The opportunity never arose and, in fact, it was better that way, because we no longer felt like talking to these individuals who looked like civil servants, like bureaucrats, with their gray complexion and their dull eyes.

 

That night, while he was next to me washing his face, Roger said, “What did you think of them, then, the Soviets?”

“Well, I'd imagined them differently.”

“Me too . . . maybe those were the only ones who were available, maybe the other ones, the real ones, were too busy doing more important things for the Revolution than visiting an orphanage in a little village in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it's just because they couldn't understand Arnold's Russian that they looked so miserable.”

“Maybe . . . ”

Roger was making a desperate effort to keep that handful of men in ties from ruining the fine image he had of our Soviet brothers. For the time being I was too disappointed to try to rescue anything with my imagination. Maybe they sent us the dullest ones because the others, the real ones, didn't have time. But who was to say they weren't all like that? I fell asleep very quickly, I didn't want to have to think anymore about the day gone by.

The grown-ups were talking more and more of war. According to some, war was inevitable. I tried to grill Arnold about it, but contrary to his usual manner, he was very vague with his replies. I understood that we were against Germany and Italy, the two countries supporting Franco in Spain. But who would attack who, and why? These questions remained unanswered. Arnold adopted his “it's not for children” air as soon as I tried to scratch the surface, and this surprised me because, frankly, it wasn't like him. I remained unruffled and decided to ask Geneviève, whom I suspected—even though she rarely talked politics with us—of knowing at least as much about the question as Arnold did. One day when I was returning a book she had lent me, I asked if I could stay in her room—something I hadn't done since her candy victory—to discuss something important.

“Of course you can, my little Julot.”

“Good. You have to explain this business about imminent war with the Germans and the Italians, well, against them, I mean.”

I tried to imply that I already knew quite a bit, so no need to handle me with kid gloves.

“Is that all you want?”

“Yes, that's all.”

“You know, it's never that simple, a matter like this. First, you have to know what a dictator is.”

“I know what a dictator is, they're like Hitler and Mussolini, they're people who do whatever they want, who think they're the king and they don't care about the will of their people.”

“In a way, yes. Listen, I'll do my best, but it's complicated.”

“Take your time, I'm not in a hurry.”

“Okay, fine. In fact, the reason everybody thinks that war is imminent is because Hitler keeps on threatening different countries. Every time it's for a new reason—he claims, for example, than such and such a territory should belong to Germany, and if they don't give it to him, he's going to go to war. He's already annexed Austria, and now he wants to do the same thing with Czechoslovakia, or with part of the country anyway. Do you follow?”