He said, I shouldnt bother.
Valois paused, realizing he recognized the man.
Im sorry? Its Maître Delaplanche, isnt it?
You recognize me?
The lawyers face, which was the living proof of his Breton peasant ancestry, screwed up in mock alarm.
Youre often in the papers, and I attended several meetings you spoke at when I was a student.
Did you? Ah yes. I seem to recall you now. Face screwed up again in an effort of recollection as unconvincing as his alarm. Valois, isnt it? Christian Valois. Of course. I knew your father when he practised, before politics took him over.
Delaplanche was well known in legal circles as a pleader of underdog causes. Whenever an individual challenged the State, his opinion if not his counsel would be sought. He had spoken on a variety of socialist platforms but always refused to put the weight of his reputation behind any programme except in his own words, the quest for justice.
Nice to meet you, said Valois. Excuse me.
I shouldnt bother, repeated the lawyer as Valois opened the door on to the platform. I presume youre going to make a fuss about the chap theyve just shot? Ill tell you his story. His papers were obviously forged. He made a run for it and got shot. Hell turn out to be a blackmarketeer, or an unregistered Jew, or perhaps even an enemy agent. All youll do is draw attention to yourself and get either yourself or, worse still, the whole train delayed here a lot longer.
Thats bloody cynical! snapped Valois. I thought you were famous for fighting the underdogs battles.
Against the law, not against an army, said Delaplanche. Against an army, all the underdog armed with the law does is get fucked!
He smiled with the complacency of one who was famous for his earthy courtroom language. On the platform German voices were commanding the passengers back on to the train. Delaplanche picked up a newspaper and began reading it. Feeling defeated, Valois stepped down on to the platform but only to return to his own compartment.
His gloom lasted till the train pulled into the station at Vichy, but lifted at the sight of his sister, long black hair streaming behind her, running down the platform to greet him.
They embraced. Since he last saw her shed become a young woman and a very beautiful one. She tucked her arm through his in delight and led him to where their mother was waiting.
Wheres father? asked Valois as they approached.
Busy. He sends his apologies.
No. I understand. Without his constant efforts, the country would be ground down under the conquerors heel.
Shut up and behave! I dont want my birthday spoilt!
He just about managed to obey the injunction, but there were difficult moments. Vichy disgusted him with its opulent façades all draped with tricolours. Everywhere he looked, red, white and blue, like make-up on a leprous face. He preferred the stark truth of those swastikas he could see from his office window flapping lazily over the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli. The people, most of them, were the same. Like characters on a film set, he told his sister. Or worse. Vichy is like a folk-tale village in a pop-up book. Only a child thinks its really magic.
I agree, said Marie-Rose. Its so boring here. Thats why I want to come back to Paris with you!
He looked at her in alarm. This was the first hed heard of this idea and the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. In Paris, by himself, his decisions only concerned himself; it was a time of danger and it would get worse.
He tried to explain this to Marie-Rose and they quarrelled. But by way of compensation, he found an area of common ground with his father who was absolutely opposed to any such move.
Indeed he and his father kept the peace till the time came to part. His mother presented him with a bag full of goodies and his father with a piece of paper.
Its a permit to use the car, the Renault. Ill want to use it myself whenever I come to Paris and its absurd for it to stand in the garage all the time, so I got a permit for you too.
His instinct was to tear the paper in half and it showed on his face.
Whats the matter?
Father, have you any idea what its like in Paris? The kind of people whore still driving around in cars, well, theyre not the kind of people I want to be associated with. Theres still a war on, father, believe me!
No, theres an armistice on, youd better believe me! snapped Léon Valois. Face up to reality, even if you dont like it. The facts are that the Germans are in control and likely to stay that way. With or without us, theyll rule. Without uswell, I dread to think how it might be. With us, we can restrain, influence, perhaps eventually control! Theyre a rigid race, good for soldiering, poor for politics. Believe me, Christian, my ways the only way to build a future for France!
He spoke with passionate sincerity but there was no place for them to meet. The one good thing about their quarrel was that it reunited him with his sister just as their row had temporarily brought him closer to his parents. She kissed him tenderly at parting and asked, Is it really so awful under the Boche? I worry about you.
Oh its not so bad really, he assured her.
No? Well, no matter what you say, one day Ill surprise you and come and see for myself!
She grinned in a most unseventeen-like way and hugged him once more with a childish lack of restraint before he got on the train.
He leaned out of the window and waved as long as he could see her on the platform. As he turned to sit down, the compartment door opened.
We meet again, said Delaplanche. How was your trip? What did you think of Vichy?
His eyes glanced at Madame Valoiss bagful of expensive cans, as if he were reading the labels through the cloth, and when they returned to Valois, he felt as if the man could see through to the car permit in his pocket.
Ill tell you what I thought of Vichy, he said savagely.
Delaplanche listened in silence. Finished at last, Valois waited for approval.
I hope youre not always so indiscreet, was all the lawyer said. Especially with strangers.
Strangers? But
What do you know of me?
I know your reputation. Ive read about, listened to you. I know youre a man of the people, a socialist, some even say a
Communist? Yes, some do say that. Of course, if I were a communist, that would put me in the German camp, wouldnt it?
No! On the contrary
But Russia and Germany have a non-aggression pact.
Yes, but that hardly means the communists support the Nazis!
No. But wasnt it enough to stop you from joining the communists just when you were teetering on the edge?
The paper went up again. And the rest of the journey passed in silence, with the lawyer reading and Valois brooding on the mans apparent detailed knowledge of his own background.
Their farewells in Paris were perfunctory. Valois felt tired yet restless. It had been an unsettling weekend and it was with a sense of relief and homecoming that he entered the apartment building. Perhaps his outrage at the idea of the car permit ought to extend to his use of his parents large well-appointed flat, but he was glad to find his mind could accommodate this as comfortably as it accommodated him.
The old lift had become an uncertain vehicle with lack of maintenance and power irregularities, so he headed for the staircase, ill-lit by a shrouded bulb to comply with the black-out regulations. The apartment was one floor up. He could hear a distant wireless playing music. It was a lively popular piece, but the distance, the hour and his own mood made it a melancholy sound. He sighed as he reached his landing.
Then fatigue and melancholy vanished in a trice, for terror lets no rival near the throne. There was a man crouched in the shadow of his door with a submachine gun under his arm. It was too late to retreat. The waiting man had seen him.
Monsieur Christian Valois?
Yes.
Ive got a message for you.
The man moved forward into the dim light. And the machine gun became a wooden crutch under his left arm. And the lurking assassin became a haggard, grey-haired man in a baggy suit.
A message? Who the hell from? demanded Valois, trying to cover his fear with aggression.
A friend, said the man. Jean-Paul Simonian. Can we go inside? Im dying of thirst!
3
But hes alive? demanded Janine for the sixth or seventh time.
Yes, yes, yes, how many times do I have to tell you! said Christian Valois with growing irritation. He got shot in the head. He was critically ill for a long time but now hes recovering. Hes in a military hospital near Nancy, but soon hell be shipped off to join the rest of them at some camp in Germany. But he is alive, he is all right.
Why did he contact you, not me? Why didnt he get in touch earlier? Why doesnt he write instead of sending messages by this man Pivert?
Janine knew how absurd all these questions must sound, but they forced themselves out against her will. The truth was, at first she didnt believe it, couldnt believe it, when Valois, unnaturally flushed with suppressed excitement, had burst in, crying, Hes alive! Jean-Pauls alive! Finally, as details of the story began to adhere, there had started these other emotions, erupting like jets of steam from a hot spring, scalding, unforecastable, uncontrollable. Doubt was there, panic, fear, anger and plain resentment. Then the door opened and Pauli, attracted by the noise, rushed in crying, Maman, whats the matter? Are you ill?
No, Pauli. Its your father. Hes alive!
For a moment the little boy stood perfectly still. Then he sat on the floor and began to cry, not the silent, half-concealed tears she had grown used to, but howling like his little sister.
Pauli! she said, kneeling beside him and hugging him close. Its all right, my love. Its all right. Daddys alive!
And suddenly it was all right. Her sobs joined the childs and at last her emotions ran as clear as her joyful tears.
Im sorry, Christian, she said a little later as they sat and drank a glass of wine. I didnt dare to believe you. Do you understand that? Now quickly, now Im calm, before Sophie comes back from shopping, tell me it all again so I can break the news to her the best way possible.
Corporal Major Piverts story had been told with an old soldiers rough directness. He had been second in command of the section in which Jean-Paul was serving. They had held out for a day and a half against a ferocious onslaught.
Most of the Boche just went round us, leaving half a company to mop us up. Well, we showed the bastards! Mind you, we took a pounding. It brought us real close together. Wed been a tight-knit group before, got on well despite all our differences, but being under heavy attack together, losing some of your mates, that really binds you close as cement. Its a grand feeling, but Christ, the pain of it, when another of your mates gets hit. You see, youre all one. Every wound, every scream, every death, its yours. Do you see what I mean?
Christian said, I think so, Im trying
The old soldier regarded him keenly and said, Youve had no service, have you, sir? You cant understand without knowing it for yourself.
Valois flushed and said, Go on.
It hit Simonian bad. His best mate, a young lad from Auxerre, died in his arms, spilling his guts all over him. I think hed have gone over the top himself then, trying to take the bastards on single-handed, but the lieutenant stopped him. He was a good lad, that lieutenant. Fucking children theyre putting in charge now, I said when I first saw him. But he was all right.
Finally the lieutenant decided to call it a day. Our wireless had packed up, see, and for a long time we thought it was like the first war again, with us part of a long line running all the way from the sea to Switzerland. Little Verdun, thats what I called the place we was. Except we found when we got the wireless going again, that just about every other bugger had packed up and gone home, or they were sitting on their arses waiting to be rounded up and trucked off east. Well, now the case was altered. Simonian was keen to go on fighting at first, but the lieutenant persuaded him for the sake of his mates to give it up. So we made a white flag, but before we shoved it up, the lieutenant said, Hold on. Simonian, take this, and he handed over the dead lad from Auxerres pass-book. What for? asks Simonian. So you can chuck your own away, says the lieutenant. I was in Berlin before the war and I assure you that youll be better off not to have the name Iakov Moseich Simonian in your pass-book when the Boche get round to checking their prisoners. No, says Simonian. Im not using these papers, Im not having his parents told hes alive and well and a prisoner when hes lying dead and unburied out here. Please yourself, says the lieutenant. But lets have a look at your own book then. And he takes it and he scratches and tears it, then hands it back, looking right scruffy but no worse than many another after what wed been through. There, he says. Youve been christened in every sense! And I glanced at the book and saw that all that remained of his name was Jean-Paul Simon!
Now we waved the flag. The only trouble was that Fritz seemed to be a bit short-sighted. Or more like a bit short-tempered for all the bother wed caused. So they just shot the flag to pieces and us with it. There were only four of us left alive and of these, only me and Simonian lasted long enough to get to hospital, me with one foot shot off and him with a bullet in his head.
And that was it, more or less. They were sawing bits off me for the next few months till theyd got as far as they could go. I didnt even know Jean-Paul was still alive till a month or so back when I was getting around on my crutch and ran into him, so to speak, in a wheelchair. He didnt seem to recognize me at first but when we got to talking, I could see it all gradually coming back to him. The thing was, he was still down in the books as Jean-Paul Simon. I asked one of the nurses about him. She said it was sad, he never said anything about his past life and there didnt seem to be any next of kin to inform. At least he was getting better, though hed been very ill. Well, I guessed that he was just playing dumb because, having changed his name, he could hardly start talking about a family called Simonian, could he? And from what I heard people saying, the lieutenant had been right. Iakov Moseich was not a good label to wear in the heart of Bocheland, which is where hell likely end up.