Read The Woman on the Train Online
Authors: Rupert Colley
After years of recording and performing, of going on concert and promotional tours, I needed a break. The novelty of fame and the strain of being in constant demand had begun to take its toll. I was due to start work soon on a live performance and a new recording of Berlioz’s Second Symphony, along with some supplementary pieces. But first, Michèle and I went on holiday to Morocco. I fell in love with Moroccan music with its erratic rhythms and earthy roots. We spent hours browsing round the souks of Marrakech, buying knick-knacks, drinking strong coffee, eating tagines, indulging the street children and their nuisance. After a week, we relaxed on the coast, going on camel rides, boat trips, reading and idling the hours away in the local cafés. I thought that perhaps, just perhaps, my wife had begun to learn how to love.
We returned to find Paris in a state of turmoil. People had taken to the streets, fighting the police, overturning cars, building barricades. Revolution was in the air as demonstrators preached liberty and socialism. Students occupied their universities, workers downed tools. President de Gaulle teetered. The country was in a state of anarchy. Public transport, postal services, the whole infrastructure crumbled.
I was at work, having begun rehearsals on the Berlioz, when, one morning in early May, a small delegation of students came to see me – earnest, young men and women, with long hair and high ideals. They wanted me to speak on their behalf, my fame would give the movement credibility, they said. I wasn’t sure – I was an establishment figure and rocking the boat had never been my thing. But they were so persuasive and motivated – how could I turn them down? I admired the strength of their convictions and their belief in the justice of their cause. I realised how blinkered I’d been all my life. Michèle was dead set against it. I’d be risking my career, she said, I’d be setting my stall against the very people, the conservatives and the elite, who saw me as one of their own. And what, she asked, would the record label make of it? They paid me to make music, not bring down governments. I told her not to be so dramatic; the students had legitimate concerns, they had principles; who was I to turn my back on them? I knew the real reason – I’d been given the chance to atone for the guilt I felt at my lack of gumption during the war.
I did wonder why they had approached me. There were many far more suitable men in the public eye who would have made a better spokesman for their cause than me. It didn’t take long to find out. The orchestra had recently recruited a new cellist, a talented young woman named Isabelle. She had long, dark hair, often decorated with a little bow, wide puppy-dog eyes, thin, painfully so, and fine cheekbones. She was also earnest, impressionistic and idealistic – she was one of them. She’d approached me one day, holding hands as she spoke to me with a sandal-wearing, long-haired, bearded youth I presumed to be her boyfriend. She introduced him as Jacques. I said I’d already been asked and was considering it.
The following day, after rehearsals, I called her over and told her yes, I would do it.
‘Thank you,’ she said, almost skipping with enthusiasm. For a moment I thought she was about to hug me. ‘I hope you’re not cross with me for asking.’
‘No, no, not at all.’
‘We all thought you’d be such a good choice. People will listen to you.’
‘Am I not too conservative for you?’
‘No, you’re old enough to remember the war and to have witnessed its injustices but you’re young enough, just about, to still be relevant.’
I thanked her for this backhanded compliment.
‘So, how are you enjoying your work?’ I asked.
‘I love it. I’ve always wanted to work for you, Maestro. It’s a dream come true for me,’ she said, grinning.
‘Good. You play well. More importantly, you know how to listen. I’ve noticed this.’ I asked how old she was, where she’d come from, where she’d studied. Questions I’d asked when I interviewed her, but this time I listened. She reminded me of myself as a 22-year-old – confident, aware of her own abilities, and what she wanted from life. She was certainly attractive, if rather thin for my liking, but I had no intention of being unfaithful to my wife just as things were changing for the better. Anyway, she had a boyfriend, the bearded, Jesus-like chap I’d met the day before – a student, she told me, at the Sorbonne.
It was a fine spring day, when, surrounded by thousands of students and workers, I stood on a platform to the side of a park and was handed a loudhailer. Nearby, two upturned cars lay smouldering, thin veils of smoke adding to the surreal atmosphere of a city under siege. I was nervous – this was to be the most frightening performance of my life so far. In front of me, a sea of expectant faces, banners held aloft plastered with revolutionary slogans. I spotted Isabelle, her arms linked with her student boyfriend. She gave me a little wave. I tried to smile. Policemen with riot gear kept a careful eye on us. I mumbled through my speech, written for me by one of the student leaders, criticising the state for treating its citizens like children, demanding greater social justice, a greater share of the prosperity produced by the masses but enjoyed by the few. I understood little of what I read; I knew nothing about these things. Reporters took notes; photographers did their work. I realised that I may have been a great conductor but I was no talker. Yet, my speech was greatly applauded and cheered, and as I descended the platform, I was greeted with appreciative slaps on the back, and hearty thanks from those who had organised the demonstration.
‘Well done, Maestro, that was great.’ It was Isabelle. I wondered whether she was being entirely honest. Her boyfriend, Jacques, invited me to a meeting. I thanked him but said no – I had done enough revolutionising for one day. I knew my performance had been below par but, nonetheless, relieved it was over, I returned home in a state of high excitement. Even Michèle’s rebukes didn’t blunt my enthusiasm. The deeper understanding we’d gained of one another, forged in Morocco, had already evaporated, and we’d quickly returned to our normal selves – acknowledging each other’s presence but maintaining a perpetual distance. I only realised, many years later, that my insistence on helping the demonstrators had so annoyed my wife that it had destroyed whatever small stirrings of affection we’d found in Marrakech.
The following day, unusually for me, I bought a newspaper and was surprised to see a picture of myself at the bottom of the front page.
Has the Maestro lost his marbles?
screamed the headline. The article made for grim reading:
He may be able to lift a baton and lead an orchestra of talented musicians, but the Maestro’s attempts to lead the masses on a merry dance of revolution fell on deaf ears yesterday. He mumbled through a speech ridden with clichés and empty rhetoric that would have embarrassed a ten-year-old. The Maestro may be a demon on the rostrum but as a rebel he is as effective as a decrepit church mouse. Stick to what you know, Maestro. The students can mess it up just as easily without you!
I just hoped the article didn’t echo Isabelle’s opinion.
I threw the paper away; I had no wish for Michèle to find it. Nevertheless, I followed the progress of the demonstrations with a keen interest, buying various newspapers everyday and exclaiming at the papers’ pro-establishment stance and the scorn they heaped upon the demonstrators. Despite the drubbing I received, I felt the urge to join them at the barricades. But I resisted it. I didn’t want to push my luck too far with my American bosses. A pity, for I felt that for the first time in my life, I had found a purpose that wasn’t solely based around me. It was during this euphoric time, however, that I received the letter.
I had a secretary that dealt with my post, and my travel arrangements and appointments. She had a stack of postcards featuring a sombre black-and-white photograph of me, an official shot taken in a studio, and signed by her with my name. She answered my fan mail and batted off all but the most important correspondence. This letter she deemed worthy enough of my personal attention. Postmarked locally, it read:
My dear Maestro,
A huge misfortune has fallen on me. I know you are terribly busy and I wouldn’t normally bother you unless it was extremely important. I have been arrested and accused of all sorts of fanciful things.
I desperately need your help.
I ask you to remember our short journey together on the train to Saint-Romain all those years ago. Please, Maestro, if you could contact my lawyer, M. d'Espérey, on the telephone number above, he’s expecting to hear from you.
I beseech you to help me in my hour of need.
Yours sincerely,
Hilda Lapointe (Mademoiselle).
I re-read it several times. I knew I had no choice – I had to respond. If nothing else, I was intrigued; I had to know. ‘
Accused of all sorts of fanciful things
.’ I rang Monsieur d'Espérey, her lawyer, but he told me little except that his client had been arrested and was due to stand trial. He asked me to come see him at his offices in the sixteenth
arrondissement
but to keep it to myself and not to tell anyone. No fear of that, I thought; I certainly had no intention of telling Michèle.
At eleven o’clock the following day, I found myself in the offices of
Messieur
s
d'Espérey et Cotillard
, a plush office on the fourth floor of an ornate nineteenth century block, with red leather armchairs and a mahogany desk and a brass lamp. Sitting behind the desk in a pinstriped suit was Monsieur d'Espérey, a man in his sixties with a thin, grey moustache and rimless glasses sliding off the end of his nose.
‘I believe you know my client, Mademoiselle Lapointe?’ he said, in a baritone voice.
‘I wouldn’t say I
know
her – I’ve only met her twice. And that was over a course of twenty years or so.’
He considered this for a few moments. ‘Nonetheless, I understand she, how shall we say, she helped you out once. During the war. Got you out of an awkward situation,’ he said with upturned palms.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Can you describe this occasion?’
I did, relating briefly our encounter on the train during the years of occupation. He listened intently, his head tilted to the side.
After I’d finished, he scribbled a few words on a notepad on his desk. ‘Good.’
‘Is it?’
He looked up at me. ‘Oh yes, it’ll help. My client is due to appear in court on the second of June. We will enter a not guilty plea, after which we will be assigned a date for trial. Probably sometime in September. My client and I have no illusions, she is likely to be found guilty but it is the sentence that concerns us. I would like you, if you would agree, to stand as a character witness. If she is sentenced, your testimony could help lessen the severity of the punishment.’
‘I – I don’t understand. I don’t know what Mademoiselle Lapointe has been arrested for.’
He threw his hands in the air. ‘I apologise. I assumed… no matter. Mademoiselle Lapointe, my client, is standing trial for war crimes…’
I swallowed. ‘War crimes?’
‘Yes, during her time at the Drancy camp, particularly in her treatment of its Jewish inmates.’
I stared at him, goggled-eyed. ‘Drancy? Wasn’t that…?’
‘A concentration camp right here in our city – yes. You had no idea she was a camp guard?’
I shook my head, speechless.
‘OK, let me brief you. You understand this is all highly confidential. If you were to–’
‘I understand.’
‘Very well then.’ He sighed before launching into the tale. ‘Mademoiselle Lapointe worked as a guard at the Drancy internment camp from June 1942 until its liberation in August 1944. I don’t know how much you know, but the Vichy wartime government carted off Jews, both foreign born and French, to Drancy where they were interned in appalling conditions before being deported to the death camps in the east, mainly Auschwitz. Some seventy thousand were sent. Very few returned.’
‘I remember now,’ I said quietly.
‘I think we are all aware of it; it’s just that not many of us want to think about it. We deliberately want to forget; it is too much of a stain on our memory. Like any job, Mademoiselle Lapointe, or Irène d'Urville as she was then, started at a lowly position at the camp but with time, she was promoted. However, after the war, she managed to disappear. She changed her name, lived in the south for a while. She was small fry – it wasn’t difficult. However, she was discovered, just recently, quite by chance.’
‘But… I thought you said she was not guilty.’
‘She’s not denying that she worked there but she denies the charges levelled against her – that she meted out unfair and brutal punishment on inmates.’
‘I see. Monsieur d'Espérey, I won’t be able to attend on June second; I have–’
‘That doesn’t matter. As long as you are available to give your testimony. That’s when it matters.’
‘OK, I’ll be there. Can I visit Hilda?’
‘Of course. She’s been remanded on bail. I don’t want to give out her home address, so leave it with me. I’ll arrange something.’
*
Monsieur d'Espérey was a man true to his word. A week later I found myself sitting opposite Hilda in a small, rundown café within sight of the Sacré-Cœur. Despite its advantageous location, the place was nearly deserted as we sipped our coffees. With untreated brick walls, uncomfortable chairs, wilting plants and sullen staff, the lawyer couldn’t have found us a more dingy place had he tried. ‘Come here often?’ I joked.