Revolution Baby (16 page)

Anna was the one who had been handicapped since the day she fell under the tram in Warsaw. She spoke almost no French, but she managed to earn her living cleaning house for people. We got along well and every time I wanted to go to the movies she gave me some of her meager earnings. Although technically she was my aunt, Anna behaved like a doting grandmother with me. Which was not surprising, given the fact she had breast-fed my father!

My twelfth birthday came along. Anna offered to buy me two tickets to the movies. I invited François, my new friend, to go after school. On my way out of the building I ran into Brigitte, the concierge from the rue Aubriot, and she stopped me.

“Hi there, Jules. Haven't seen you in the neighborhood in ages.”

“Well, I'm kind of busy.”

“Look, I'm very glad to see you, there's something I absolutely have to tell you. There's a letter that came for your mother and I don't know if she got it. I don't see her a lot.”

“I don't know either . . . ”

“Yup, I don't know what to do. I gave it to Monsieur Hurteau on the fourth floor, but then he never mentioned it again, and I thought maybe I shouldn't have. Look, don't worry about it, I'll take care of it myself. See you around sometime!”

And off she went. I never thought that chatterbox was very clever, but this time, she'd outdone herself.

I didn't worry about the matter, because I didn't have much time to waste if I wanted to go to the movies. François and I crossed the Seine, walked to Aunt Anna's, who gave us tea and cookies to mark my birthday, but I really didn't want to hang around because her son Stach was there. He was a pretentious, arrogant know-it-all. He was an anarchist, and he enjoyed insulting my mother for being a communist. He didn't say anything to me, because he thought I was still just a little brat, and he wouldn't stoop to talking politics with me. In his opinion anarchism was the only system that offered true freedom to the people. It was one thing for him to talk and argue about it with Lena. But one time when he was completely drunk, I'd seen him beat up Olga, the woman he lived with. If all anarchists were like that, I found it hard to believe that their doctrine could lead to freedom. Whatever the case, whenever Stach was with Aunt Anna, I made myself scarce.

I made my excuses to Anna, telling her that we had to hurry if we didn't want to be late for the movies, and off we went to the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It turned out to be hard to choose a film. I wanted to see
The Well-Digger's Daughter
with Fernan­del again. But François laughed so hard whenever he saw Fernandel's face that he would wee in his pants. And then his mother would get cross. So he didn't want to go to that one. I asked him to choose another film, but the only one he wanted to see was
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
, and it had already started half an hour earlier. And anyway, I'd already seen it.

So we stood there in the cold not knowing what to do. At that time of day there were loads of people out and about on the sidewalks around Boul'Miche. François suggested we have a race, zigzagging between people. We would set off at the same time and run to the rue Saint-Antoine, where he lived.

This was by no means our first race, and I knew François ran faster than me, but because I was smaller than him I thought I'd be better at dashing through crowds. Our rules stated that we mustn't make anyone stumble, or cause anyone to yell at us.

We ran for a long time. At one point I thought François had gotten lost, but then I saw he was ahead of me. I managed to catch up with him at the very end, but then I bashed into an old man who grabbed me by the scruff of the neck with unimaginable strength. François was the winner, but if it hadn't been for the old man I'm sure I would have passed him at the finish line.

I left François and trotted along to the rue des Écouffes, where my mother had been hiding ever since she left the rue Aubriot.

 

Parentheses. To clarify things, I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago: introduce Lena's family. I'll just mention her immediate sisters, all from the same parents. There were four daughters. In order, the eldest was Tobcia, with whom I lived for a while before going to L'Avenir Social; then there was Paulette, with whom I lived before my vacation in Sarthe; Annette, with whom my mother was hiding at the moment; and Lena. Why were they all in France now? I didn't know. Their father also had several children from his first marriage, whom I didn't know. Close parentheses.

 

I went up the steps four by four to the third floor, using up the little energy I had left after my race through the streets of Paris. I was famished by the time I got there, Aunt Annette gave me a bowl of cabbage, which wasn't exactly what my belly was dreaming of.

During the meal I told my mother about my strange encounter with the concierge.

“She is really odd! She stopped me as if she absolutely had to speak to me about this incredibly important thing, and then she went, ‘Okay, I have to go.' I've never seen such an idiot.”

Suddenly Lena went very quiet. She asked me to tell her exactly, as best I could recall, what Brigitte had said. I didn't see why, but I made a real effort, because I could tell my mother had something at the back of her mind and this was no time for goofing around. When I'd finished, Lena stood up, opened the curtain and looked outside, before saying to me, her tone very grave: “I think that when she came to speak to you it was to point you out to plainclothes policeman. Story about letter is ridiculous. And it was not by chance she was outside your school when you got out. Surely the police asked her to speak to you, so that they would know who you are. Once she showed you, she could leave. Right. You have to think carefully. Did you notice anything, between the school and here? Any signs that someone was following you?”

I thought carefully.

“Well, we played a game on our way here, with my friend François. We had to run, zigzagging between people. For sure if there had been an adult following us we would have noticed. I even think it would have been impossible.”

“Very good. Now, with school is finished. You're not going back. We are hiding you here, and afterwards we find better place, farther away from me.”

The police were looking for me! That was really something. I had to hide! At the time, the pride I felt was much greater than fear. How many people could brag about being wanted by the police, in wartime, at the age of twelve? It seemed exceptional to me. But I wanted to go back to school one last time.

“Is not possible, not possible. For sure tomorrow they are waiting for you and they arrest you.”

“Well, can I ask François to bring me the wooden ashtray I made in the woodworking class? I wanted to give it to Arnold, and—”

“No, you don't ask François anything. Or anybody. Too dangerous.”

Annette was in charge of informing Anna that I wouldn't be going back there. When she got back she told us that the police had been by the rue des Boulangers to ask Anna if she knew where I was, and that they told her I was a dangerous, experienced terrorist, because I must have had very serious training to learn how to throw people off the track like that.

 

In the end, clandestinity is overrated. Lena quickly moved me, and then, a few days later, she came to get me and took me somewhere else, to a really nice apartment belonging to some Polish Jews, David and Maria. I wasn't allowed out, and there were no interesting books, and they were rarely at home . . . No need to explain that the hours were long, horribly long. I was even beginning to miss school! And I no longer had the right to visit Geneviève, given my clandestine status.

One day Lena showed up with Arnold. Even that was an event in my long day. Arnold informed me that he had new identity papers for me.

“Does that mean I'm going to change my name?”

“Of course.”

“And do I get to choose my name?”

“No, it's already been decided, I have your birth certificate here.”

As he spoke, Arnold handed me a document. I looked down, read the paper . . . I couldn't believe my eyes!

“What? But why? I mean, did something happen to him?”

“No, no, everything's fine, don't worry.”

“But why would I be called Roger Binet?”

“It's a little bit by chance. Roger was looking for a little job, he asked me to help him, so I remembered to tell him I needed his birth certificate. That's all. So now there are two Roger Binets.”

“I hope no one will start calling me Robinet . . . ”

The memory of Roger's nickname made Arnold burst out laughing. Lena didn't understand what was going on. Then she explained to me that she'd found a family out in the country, in Normandy, who had agreed to take Roger Binet in. And that became my next destination.

You take the train to Évreux. That is on ticket, you won't forget. After that, you ask for bus to Verneuil. After is easy, you can walk, you ask for the way to Can­dèssiritan . . . ”

As I couldn't understand the name of the town—given the way Lena pronounced it, it sounded like a Spanish town—I looked on a map of Normandy that I found at David and Maria's place. Initially I couldn't see anything that looked remotely like what Lena had said. I kept on looking near Verneuil . . . and eventually understood: Condé-sur-Iton!

Lena couldn't find anyone to take me there, but she thought that a twelve-year-old boy, who was resourceful in addition to everything else, should be perfectly capable of making the journey on his own. So if she thought so . . .

The train journey wasn't as difficult as the time I went to Royan, we didn't stop all the time, we didn't have to jump off of the train because of the planes, but I wasn't as enthusiastic about the trip, so it seemed endless. My mother didn't give me enough to eat and this time she outdid herself by putting me on a train in the middle of January with nothing to wear but a cardigan and short trousers. I had a suitcase, but I double checked, and it contained nothing warmer. That was where the papers attesting to my new identity were, so I was careful not to let it out of my sight. In the train I had time to rehearse my life story a dozen times.

I was Roger Binet, the eldest son of a family of six. I lived in Paris, in the 20th arrondissement, near the prison of La Santé. My mother's name was Janine and my father's, Maurice. Ever since the beginning of the war we hadn't had enough food and as the eldest I was at an age where you need to eat, so they were sending me to the country to my aunt Olga's, because they figured that there, at least, I'd have enough to eat.

I got off at the station in Évreux. I wandered up and down the platform for a while, not knowing what to do. Eventually I went into the station and approached the ticket office. A man with a haughty air replied, “But the last bus to Verneuil already left! You should have gotten here sooner. The next one is at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.”

It was obvious he wasn't in any way inclined to help me figure out what to do in the meantime. Or how I could get some food. My belly was raging with hunger pangs, and I couldn't think straight, all I wanted was to sit on the ground and wait for someone to come and rescue me. But I wasn't a child anymore, so I got hold of myself and looked all around, hoping to see the sort of smiling face that would encourage me to ask for help. The station buffet caught my attention. My mother had left me some change for the bus, surely she would have worked it out so there'd be enough for me to buy a little something to eat and to drink.

I went to sit at the bar. Behind me I heard someone shout, “Glass of calvados over here!” When the waiter asked me what I wanted, I said, “I'd like a glass of calvados, please.” He gave me a funny look, then shrugged his shoulders and turned around to prepare the drink. From the smell alone I could see why the waiter was surprised. But I went ahead and took a sip, swearing I would not spit it back out . . . Well, despite the overpowering smell, I liked the taste. And it warmed me up, which in my situation was not to be underestimated. I tried to concentrate on the calvados and not think about the fact that I might well have to spend the night out of doors, in short trousers, in subzero temperature.

A man who was at least forty, also sitting at the counter, turned and spoke to me.

“Well, lad, looks like you like your calvados!”

“Yes, I like it.”

“What's your name?”

“ . . . Roger . . . ”

Phew! In spite of my fatigue and the calvados, I'd gotten it right. I'd hesitated for a second, but that could be chalked up to shyness. And I didn't add my last name, which wouldn't have been very natural.

“And what are you doing here all alone, Roger?”

“I have to take the bus to Verneuil, but there aren't any until tomorrow morning.”

“Where have you come from?”

“Paris. My mother got the schedule wrong, so I missed the bus to Verneuil. I don't know where to sleep.”

It seemed as if the calvados had loosened my tongue and given me some courage.

“You can go to the Red Cross. They'll give you a bed and some food there. And tomorrow you'll be all set to take your bus.”

“And where's the Red Cross?”

“I'll be going in that direction. If you like, I can show you the way.”

“Now?”

“Ah no, I have to finish my drink, first. And you have to finish yours.”

My legs were beginning to go wobbly from the calvados. The few times I'd drunk alcohol, I'd fallen asleep almost at once. This didn't seem like the right time for a nap. So I ordered a coffee, with a few lumps of sugar, which I sucked on to ease my hunger. The man who was supposed to guide me was chatting away as he finished his drink . . . and he decided to have another one, the last one, he promised. I asked for another lump of sugar. The waiter gave me a whole handful. When my benefactor had finished his last drink, he said thanks and see you soon, and off we went. Outside I did everything I could to keep my teeth from chattering and my body from trembling. Fortunately the Red Cross wasn't far from the station.