The House of Dreams (27 page)

“What are you talking about? Who will find you?” I said.

Bouchard gazed at me, clearly thinking whether to talk or not. “I am only telling you this because I want you to go, do you understand? If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear…” His wife reached up to touch his hand.

“Marianne is of Jewish descent,” she said. “I am Catholic, but my husband's family is Jewish.” I felt the truth come together in me like a smooth stone falling in a well of cold water. I looked at them and tried to imagine them young and in love. What must it have taken for them to defy their parents, to marry outside their religion? I could see no trace of that passion. Their eyes were ashes.

“That is why I cannot work anymore,” he said, his voice bitter and angry. “This so-called Statut des Juifs forces my people from our jobs, our livelihood. They take our money, our public voice. What will be next, I ask you? Our lives?”

“We have lived here for years, quietly,” she said, her hand on her husband's arm. “We do not want to draw attention to ourselves—that is why we want Marianne to have nothing to do with you and that crowd at Air-Bel.”

“If we keep our heads down, we will be safe.”

“Do you think so, Papa?” Annie's voice broke with frustration. “No one knows what the Nazis are capable of.”

“I vomited when I heard about the statute,” Bouchard said. “It is the beginning, only the beginning.”

That was the first time I saw him as a human being, as a man, rather than an obstacle to overcome. Who was it said “Something horrible happens when you claim certainty”? I will never, as long as I live, be able to understand how that self-appointed so-called master race believed they had the God-given right to destroy the Jews. I saw tears glint in old Bouchard's eyes as he looked down at his wife. He turned to me and blinked quickly. “Don't you see? No one pays any attention to us here.”

“Not yet,” Annie said.

“You've been seen,” Madame Bouchard said quietly. She glared at me. “Oh, you think you've been so clever, the two of you, meeting up for your walks, and in town, but don't you know there are eyes everywhere? That nosy old bitch from the farm up the road cornered me in the market and said, ‘I see your Marianne is courting, then?'” Annie looked at her feet. “Imagine, hearing it from her how you have been sneaking around in the woods and the fields.”

“I am sorry,
Maman
.” Annie tightened her grip on my hand and looked up at her parents. “I love Gabriel, and nothing you can do or say will change that. I want to marry him.”

“No, I forbid it,” Bouchard said. “What you must understand, Mr. Lambert, is that not only am I Jewish, if you marry her, Marianne will be Jewish in their eyes too.”

“I don't understand?” I thought of the gold crucifix she always wore.

“You see, the Vichy government has made the law against the Jews even harsher here,” Madame Bouchard said, going to her daughter. “The Nazis said that anyone with more than two Jewish grandparents is considered Jewish.”

“In France,” Monsieur Bouchard said, “you need only two Jewish grandparents and a Jewish spouse.” His eyes brimmed with tears. “Your mother, I believe, was Jewish. Marianne told me, because she thought I would be pleased.”

I thought quickly. I had made a grave mistake in telling Annie. “You misunderstood, darling,” I said, skipping back a generation. “My grandmother was Jewish, but she married outside the faith. The Lamberts, my parents, were both Catholic.” I saw old Bouchard exhale, but I dared not breathe easy myself, not yet. If we married and the truth came out, it would be a death sentence for Annie.

“My wife, I hope, will be safe,” he said. “I don't care what they do to me, but my wife and daughter must be saved. A Jewish father is no great recommendation these days.” He hung his head as Annie went to him.

“I love Gabriel,” Annie said. “Please, give us your blessing.”

He shook his head. “No. This man has Jewish blood, he is part of that … that degenerate crowd at Air-Bel. No good will come of it. If you love my daughter, Monsieur Lambert,” he said, unable to look me in the eye, “you must never see her again.”

 

THIRTY-FOUR

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1940

G
ABRIEL

I stumbled my way back through the darkness to Air-Bel, looking down at my pale hands. It was like I could see it there, the blood—of Vita, of them both. The thought of adding Annie to the list made the bile rise in my throat. I turned my anger on Quimby, and my fists clenched. I punched the gate as it swung closed behind me. The pain was keen, but it calmed me down.

“Clovis!” I heard Varian's voice somewhere behind me. “Clovis! Where are you?” I could hear him marching through the undergrowth, twigs snapping beneath his feet. “Who's there?” He swung the beam of the flashlight toward me. “Is that you, Lambert?”

I squinted and covered my eyes. “Has he run off?”

“No.” Varian strode toward me, the flashlight beam swinging across the dead grass and wintry ferns. “That bastard Raymond Couraud has kidnapped him. Can you believe it? I thought maybe he tied the dog up out here somewhere. When I get my hands on that little punk, I'll—” He broke off at the sound of a car racing up the driveway, a shower of gravel on the terrace. Varian broke into a run, and I raced after him. Just as we rounded the corner of the house, we saw Killer stumble drunkenly from an old black Citroën 11 cabriolet. Mary Jayne ran out and took hold of him. The Bretons and Danny's family trailed behind her, alarmed by the disturbance.

“You idiot,” she said to Raymond. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

“He had fun, didn't he, Mathieu?” he protested, pointing to where Clovis sat on the backseat between two of Killer's gang, panting contentedly.

“He sure did,” said an olive-skinned man with slicked-back hair. “Hello, Mary Jayne. You look lovely this evening.”

“You asshole,” Varian said, grabbing Killer by the collar of his jacket. He pushed him back against the hood of the car. “I swear, if you ever touch him again, I'll—”

“You'll what, you American pansy?” Killer flicked away his hands, squared up to him. “You prig. I'd slit your throat in a heartbeat.”

“You don't frighten me.” Varian glared down at him. “You leave him alone. And you leave us alone. I heard all about the stash of money you hid here. Don't you get it?” he said, turning to Mary Jayne. “You stupid girl. If they had found that, it would have been enough to have us sent back to the U.S. It would have destroyed everything, just because of him.” Varian put his hands on his hips. “You have to make a choice, Mary Jayne. It's him or us.”

“What?” She turned slowly to him. “How dare you?”

“You are jeopardizing the entire operation.”

“I choose Raymond,” she said, taking Killer's arm.

“Then you are making the wrong decision.”

“We'll see about that.”

“I think you should leave.”

Mary Jayne stepped closer and murmured, “You pompous ass.”

“And you, my dear, have proven yet again that you are nothing but a spoiled little rich girl.” He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “Your charm, and ease, and beauty will no doubt get you through life, but you need to grow up and get some backbone. Life isn't like a story from F. Scott Fitzgerald for most of the world, Mary Jayne, not all of us tool around Europe in our private plane, following the snow and the sun when the whim takes us. I know you. I know what you are. You're not a kid anymore. All the planes, and jewels, and elegant dresses can't fill the hole in your heart.…”

Her eyes blazed, glistening with tears, but her voice was steady. “You're wrong. You are wrong about me. Ask them, ask any of them. I am brave, and kind to my friends, and generous—”

“Oh, sure, I can't argue with that one. But then it is easy to give away that which you've never had to work for.”

“You know nothing about me, and you know nothing about Raymond.”

“Killer?” Varian sneered. “He's a punk, Mary Jayne. The kid is sore with me because of what I represent, he's outclassed by Breton, so out of spite what does he do? Kidnap a puppy. Some great man you've got yourself there.”

Mary Jayne raised her chin. “You have no idea—”

“If you want to be really kind to your friends, do the decent thing and leave.”

“This is my house. I found it.”

“If you continue to stay here, and see Raymond, you are putting the lives of your friends, of Danny and his family, in danger.” That seemed to hit home. I saw her face crumple as she glanced over at her friends.

“All right! You don't have to go on.” She sauntered over to Killer, swinging her hips. “You've got yourself a lodger for the night. Okay?”

“Okay,
chérie
.” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled for Dagobert. The dog bounded down the steps to the car and leapt into the front seat. “Looks like Dago is driving us back to town.”

“At least he isn't drunk.” Mary Jayne pushed the dog aside and settled behind the wheel. “I'll be back to collect my things in the morning,” she said without looking at Varian.

Danny rushed forward and passed her a sweater. “Take this,” he said, “you'll freeze.” Mary Jayne reached up and squeezed his hand.

“Thank you, darling. Now, you keep this lot in order, eh?”

“Are you sure you know what you are doing, Naynee? You will be careful?”

“Naynee? You haven't called me that in ages.” There was a slight tremble to her smile. “You were always cautious enough for the two of us.” Mary Jayne started the engine. “Of course I don't know what I'm doing, but what can I do? I'm not going to let Varian boss me around like some stuck-up schoolteacher.”

“I could knock your heads together sometimes.” Danny looked uncertainly at Raymond. “You know I'm here, if you need me,” he whispered. “Please be careful. We've all heard the rumors that he and his buddy Mathieu bumped off some hood in the Vieux-Port. Raymond has dangerous friends.”

“I know.” Mary Jayne slipped the car into gear. “But I believe in him,” she said, looking at Varian, “and nothing you, or anyone else can say will change that.”

Varian grabbed Clovis's lead and lifted him from the car. Killer vaulted over the door and slid down into the space. “So long,” he said, flipping a salute at them as Mary Jayne turned the car and sped away, the taillights disappearing into the night.

 

THIRTY-FIVE

V
ILLA
A
IR
-B
EL
, M
ARSEILLE

1940

V
ARIAN

Varian tied a red ribbon to the fir cone and passed it to Aube. “Now, why don't you make it beautiful,” he said. “What color shall you paint it?”

“Red! Like a magic tree!” Aube clapped her hands. She sat at Jacqueline's feet in the dining room. Aube propped the china doll her parents had given her that morning for her birthday against the fireplace and fanned out her printed cotton apron. The doll's slim white legs and tiny black shoes stuck straight out from the white underskirt as though they were emerging from a shell.

“There,” she said to the doll, “you must stay warm, little one.”

Jacqueline dragged across her sketchbook and sighed. She tucked a pencil behind her ear and flicked through her drawings.

“They are wonderful,” André said. He was leaning against the door, watching them.

“Hello, my darling.” She closed her eyes as he leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

“That is what I was saying to Jacqueline,” Varian said. “She must paint.”

“It's hopeless,” she said. “I can't work at the moment. I mean, I love it here. With all our friends coming and going, it feels like old times, but…” She frowned and looked down at Aube's golden head, bent in concentration. André squatted down beside his daughter and helped her dab red paint on with his fingertips. Varian felt like he was intruding, so he stood and went over to the fire, raking the embers. He saw Breton look reflectively at his hands, smear the red between his thumb and forefinger.

“There, Papa!” Aube said, lifting the bright red pinecone.

“It's beautiful,” he said.

“What do you think, Varian?” she said.

“Marvelous,” he said.

“Come, let's hang it on the tree with the others.” Breton lifted her into his arms, and they walked out into the hallway. Danny and Varian had dug up a fir tree from the forest and planted it in a terra-cotta pot as a surprise for the children. The artists had painted the branches white and everyone had joined in, painting stars and butterflies, abstract shapes, and ribbons of colored paper chains. Now, in the firelight, it looked magical. Aube reached up and placed the little red fir cone on one of the branches.

Varian looked up as the front door flung open, and the decorations danced in the cold wind. “Thank God, Beamish,” he said as his friend strode into the hall. He took a deep breath, felt some of the tension in him ebb away.

Beamish pulled off his woolen hat and ran his hand through his hair, nodding a greeting to them all. He was out of breath and gestured to Varian to follow him.

“Where have you been?” Varian said quietly.

“Not here,” Beamish said.

“Come on upstairs. We won't be disturbed there.”

*   *   *

Clovis lay sleeping in a pool of lamplight on Varian's bed beside a half-read copy of Virgil, his paws working as he chased rabbits in his dreams.

“Come on in,” Varian said, holding the door open for Beamish. Clovis bounded from the bed, welcoming him with delight.