Revolution Baby (18 page)

 

Charlie was not the only German who spent his evenings with us. There were two others who came from time to time. My favorite, after Charlie, was Karl, who always brought a box of chocolates for little Liliane. She made him think of his little girl, and he showed us her picture every time. He was a member of the National Socialist Party. He never listened to the radio, he just came to sit with us and take Liliane on his lap. And he talked politics with me. I explained to him that the Germans had no chance of winning the war.

“You are occupying France and other countries as well, so people don't like you. And sooner or later all these occupied countries are going to unite and throw you out. Stalin is the one who will win!”

“Well, if they throw us out, that's too bad, because what we Germans want is to build one great united Europe, where everyone will be equal.”

“But you can't make people equal when you've invaded them! No one will let themselves be a part of your dream if you force it on them.”

“
Ja
,
ja
, I understand, but if . . . We have to forget countries, and nations. Europe must become . . . We must make big European community.”

“But no one wants to have a community with invaders.”

And it went on like that, every time he came. We didn't agree, but I loved talking politics with the invader.

The third soldier who came to the café was Tomas. His French was very poor, so we didn't know much about him. I eventually found out he was from Czechoslovakia, from a German-speaking region. Like Charlie, he came to listen to the radio, but not on the same evening.

From time to time I had a visit from my friend Arnold. He now called himself Roger Colombier and he was the husband of a certain Hélène Colombier (they were from Alsace, which explained their accent), and this Hélène happened to be my own mother. Sometimes they came together, but Arnold also came on his own. When he did, he stayed with the Buissons for several days, spending long evenings talking and drinking. To the people in the village, we were “big Roger” and “little Roger,” and I'll let you guess which was which.

Then Arnold's visits stopped. One time, Lena came on her own. I asked her why Arnold wasn't with her.

“I think he won't come anymore.”

“Did something happen to him?”

“No, you mustn't worry. It's in his head that something happened. He left our group.”

“He's not in the Resistance anymore?”

Like every time when I said the word “Resistance,” Lena didn't answer. But I could see in her eyes that she was very angry with him.

At the end of the school year, I had to take the exam to obtain my primary school diploma. Of all the boys my age, I was the only one Gérard had signed up for the exam. The others were too far behind, with all the schooldays they'd missed. Among the girls, there was pretty Aline, the butcher's daughter, who also had to take the exam. We began preparing for it already in March. Gérard and Marcelline took it very seriously. There was a huge amount of revising to do: dates, places, the names of rivers, their tributaries, the names of all the kings . . . We had five hundred dates from history to learn! Sometimes I got the impression that my brain was filling up with useless information and that there would be no more room for the things that were really important. Olga helped me a lot: she quizzed me, wrote down the things I didn't know, then asked me the same questions again, over and over, until my answers were perfect. Of course, that left me less time to play or read, but I liked this time spent with Olga, and we also talked about the war, about life—in short, about all sorts of things that were not on the program.

On the day of the exam, Gérard, Marcelline, Aline and I went to Breteuil by bike. I was nervous. I had trouble sitting still; I was biting my fingernails and rocking on my chair. Aline was nervous too, but it had the opposite effect on her: she was motionless and silent, as if paralyzed. There were a lot of children from other villages, and some of them seemed quite a bit older than us. When they called me, for a moment I thought I wouldn't be able to stand up to fetch my sheet of paper.

I sat down and began to read. This was the composition test, and in the beginning I couldn't make heads or tails of what they were asking. Then I remembered Gérard's advice. I put my pencil down, closed my eyes, breathed slowly and deeply, opened my eyes, and took up my pencil. As if by magic, everything in my head was back where it belonged, I understood the questions, I managed to put my ideas together so they made sense, and I didn't worry about the time going by. After that was the dictation. Then the mathematics test: I wasn't worried about that at all, and I finished before everyone else. And on and on it went: questions, answers, thinking . . .

Then came the time for the oral exams, in the presence of the examiner. Mental calculations, a reading test, and last of all, the one I was worried about the most: the singing test.

“Roger Binet, what do you propose to sing?”

“
La Marseillaise.
”

Silence. The members of the jury looked at me, their eyes open wide, then they looked at each other. I had obtained the desired effect. Ever since the beginning of the Occupation, the Germans had forbidden us from singing the national anthem in public.

“All right. When you're ready.”

With a great deal of spirit and conviction I began singing the French national anthem.

 

Allons enfants de la Patrie

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!

Contre nous de la tyrannie

L'étendard sanglant est levé

Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes

Mugir ces féroces soldats?

Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras.

Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

 

When the time came for the refrain, I gave it all I had:

 

Aux armes, citoyens!

Formez vos bataillons!

Marchons, marchons,

Qu'un sang impur

Abreuve nos sillons!
1

 

Maybe I sang one or two notes off-key. Singing is not my strong point, you know. And anyway, I thought it was an idiotic test. What are you supposed to do if you're really bad at singing? Did that mean you might not get your diploma? So anyway, I sang, and I made up for my lapses in melodic precision with patriotic enthusiasm. After I'd finished, ten seconds or so went by before anyone said a thing, and no one moved. Some of the examiners even had shining eyes. Maybe I wasn't so bad, after all!

 

Once it was all over, all we could do was wait for the results. I was sitting next to Aline, so I wasn't in a hurry. She had recovered her normal personality and was even in brilliant form. She asked me a heap of questions about how I'd answered, and what I thought, and she shared both her doubts and her smart replies. I could hardly get a word in edgewise, but that was all right, I loved to observe all the expressions that succeeded one another at a terrific speed on her freckled face, with her sparkling eyes, her hands dancing and waving.

Then Gérard came and said, “We have the results.”

“For both of you,” added Marcelline.

They were looking at us very solemnly. We stopped breathing.

“Aline, you have come in third for the entire canton. As for you, Roger . . . ”

“Yes?”

“You have come in first!”

“Congratulations, we are very, very proud of you!”

“Is it true, is it true, really, really?”

“Yes, Aline, it is really really true. And to celebrate, we're taking you to the restaurant.”

I couldn't get over it. I came in first! I was eager to share the news with Olga, but it would have to wait until after the restaurant. Gérard poured everyone a big glass of red wine, and we clinked glasses, all four of us.

“I raise my glass to Aline and Roger. We are so proud of you both, and you are destined for a brilliant future. Bravo for your efforts and your perseverance. You worked very hard, and you deserve your excellent results.”

We clinked glasses again. And ate. And talked. About the exam, for a start. Gérard was very surprised by my good grade in singing. I acted like someone who is very humble about his hidden talents, but in the end I confessed that “there might have been something more than talent” that had influenced my grade. My choice of song seemed to delight Gérard and Marcelline, who had to spit out a mouthful of wine when I told her the whole story. We raised our glasses to
La Marseillaise.
And then we moved on to other things.

“Roger my boy, tell us a little something about your family. They sent you out here to get a bit of flesh on your bones, is that it?”

“Yes, my mother thought I was too thin. She said if I didn't eat properly during adolescence, I'd stay small all my life. So she thought the countryside would be a good idea.”

“And how many are you, already?”

“There are six of us, and I'm the eldest.”

“Oh yes, six! How many girls and how many boys?”

I suddenly realized I had forgotten whole chunks of the scenario of my life. I opted for the easiest way out.

“Three girls, and three boys.”

“And what are their names?”

I was beginning to get nervous. I made up some names that I tried to memorize as I went along.

“And how old are they?”

“Well, the second one, Pierre, he's seven, then my sister . . . Rolande . . . she's four . . . ”

I was stuck. The feeling of euphoria caused by the wine and my brilliant exam results instantly vanished. I had made the children too young, I didn't know how I was going to fit three more in, already born six months ago, when I left for Condé. My brain was much too soft for me to remember all those names and ages. But I had no choice, I had to go on. Pierre was okay, he was like the real Roger's actual brother, so I would remember him. And Rolande, too.

“Then there's my brother Arnaud, he's three. And after that, the two girls . . . well they're twins, actually . . . Margot and Françoise. They're a year old . . . and a few months.”

I didn't know it was possible to sober up so quickly. What a fright I had had! I looked at Marcelline, then Gérard . . . If they had noticed how confused I was it didn't show. They still seemed to be in a very good mood, and I would have been surprised if they handed me over to the police just because I'd done a poor job describing my family. Then the discussion turned to other things, but I never managed to regain the light-heartedness I had felt up to then.

 

Almost twenty years later I went back to Condé-sur-Iton. On July 14, Bastille Day. The butcher—pretty Aline's father—was the mayor of the village. We were invited to a reception at the town hall. Very official, and very patriotic.

I was sitting next to Gérard, my old teacher, and he reminded me about that whole business, laughing very loudly. He told me that everyone in the village knew I was in Condé to hide, and that Olga wasn't my mother's cousin. Everyone was in on it, but they pretended to believe me. Gérard and Marcelline dined out for weeks on the story of how I rounded out my family of six siblings with twins.

I felt naïve. I remembered little Alain, who lived at Aline's place during the war. Everyone, myself included, knew that he was Jewish and they were hiding him. But it never occurred to me that everyone knew my situation as well. I don't know if they thought I was hiding because I was Jewish or because my parents were communists. It hardly matters. What does matter is that no one, throughout all those years that were difficult for everyone, went to denounce us, neither me nor little Alain. To learn this twenty years later enhanced the already very tender memories I had of those months spent in Condé-sur-Iton.

I also learned that not long after my departure our three German soldiers came one after the other to say goodbye to the Buisson family. It was a moment filled with emotion. They explained that they would soon be replaced by an SS unit and that it was pointless trying to fraternize with them, because they were real bandits. They would have to serve them politely and never, never talk to them the way we used to talk with Charlie, Carl, and Tomas, who were simple soldiers in the Wehrmacht. Charlie asked Robert to give him some civilian clothing, because he didn't want to have to shoot people ever again, and he was hoping for a chance to desert. After the war, no one had any news from him.

I stayed for part of the summer in Condé, living the life of a Norman villager. But I knew I would have to leave before the beginning of school, because I had no intention of stopping school after my diploma, and there was no lycée in Condé. The local children who wanted to pursue their studies were sent to boarding school. I would be going back to Paris to live. This added a hue of sadness to the summer, because even though I was used to constant change, this time I had become very attached to my adoptive family.

Of all the people whose lives I shared during those years, Olga, Robert, Paulette, Liliane and Mémé were the ones I would think of most often after the war.

A few weeks before my thirteenth birthday, the time came for me to go back to my life of wandering, after a painful farewell in Breteuil, where the Buisson family had accompanied me, on foot.

In Paris I went to live with Francine, Michel, and their son Pascal. They lived on the border between the 16th arrondissement and Boulogne-Billancourt. Francine was a tall, calm woman, with little round eyes, serious and gentle. Michel was an Egyptian of Greek origin, and in the beginning his intense gaze made me uncomfortable. But I soon discovered that it concealed curiosity rather than judgment. As for little Pascal, he didn't seem too happy to see me suddenly move in. I tried to make friends with him, but before long I gave up, because my silly pranks and goofiness didn't make him laugh at all. Like Olga, they were communist sympathizers who hadn't joined the Resistance but were prepared to help those comrades who had.