Noah's Child (3 page)

And there in the de Sullys' courtyard, struggling to be worthy of their pride, it took me several attempts to stay on the luggage rack.

‘Let's try out in the street now.'

When I managed it, the Comte and Comtesse came over and kissed me hurriedly.

‘See you soon, Joseph. We'll come and visit you. Watch out for Big Jack, Father.'

I hardly had time to grasp that this was goodbye before the priest and I were wheeling through the streets of Brussels. As all my attention was focused on keeping my balance, I couldn't give in to my sadness.

With thin rain transforming the tarmac into a slick mirror-like surface, we sped onwards, quivering and wobbling on the bike's narrow tyres.

‘If we come across Big Jack, lean against me and we'll chat to each other as if we've known each other for years.'

‘Who's Big Jack, Father?'

‘A Jewish traitor who goes round in a Gestapo car. He points out the Jews he recognizes for the Germans so they can arrest them.'

As it happened, I'd noticed a slow-moving black car following us. I glanced behind me and, through
the windscreen, sitting between two men in dark coats, I spotted a pasty sweaty face scouring the pavements of Avenue Louise with beady eyes.

‘Father, it's Big Jack!'

‘Quick, tell me a story. You must know some jokes, Joseph, don't you?'

Without even picking out the best ones, I started churning out my stock of jokes. I would never have guessed Father Pons would find them so funny. He roared with laughter. Intoxicated with this success, I started giggling too, and by the time the car sidled right up to us I was already too full of myself to notice.

Big Jack stared at us sulkily, patting his flabby cheeks with a small folded white handkerchief. Then, disgusted by our jollity, he told the driver to drive on.

Shortly after that Father Pons turned down a side street, and the car disappeared from sight. I wanted to carry on with my career as a comedian but Father Pons exclaimed,

‘Stop, Joseph, please! You're making me laugh so much I can't pedal properly.'

‘Too bad: you won't get to hear the one about the three rabbis trying out a motorbike . . .'

*

At nightfall we were still travelling. We had left the city far behind and were cutting through the countryside where the trees were darkening to black.

Father Pons wasn't tiring but he hardly spoke, settling for the odd ‘OK?', ‘Are you holding out?' and ‘Not too tired, Joseph?' Still, the further we went the more I felt we knew each other, probably because my arms were round his waist, my head was resting against his back and I could feel the warmth of his thin body gently seeping through the thick fabric of his robe. At last there was a sign saying Chemlay, Father Pons's village, and he braked. The bike gave a sort of whinny and I fell into the ditch.

‘Well done, Joseph, you pedalled well! Thirty-five kilometres! For a first time, that's incredible!'

I got back up, not daring to contradict the priest. In fact, to my great shame, I hadn't pedalled on our journey, I had let my legs dangle. Were there pedals I hadn't even noticed?

He put the bike down before I had time to see, and took me by the hand. We cut across a field to the first house on the outskirts of Chemlay, a low, squat building. Once there, he gestured to me to keep quiet, avoided the front door and knocked at the door to the cellar.

A face appeared.

‘Come in quickly.'

‘This is Mademoiselle Marcelle, our pharmacist,' whispered Father Pons, leading me in.

Mademoiselle Marcelle hastily closed the door and took us down the few steps that led to her cellar, lit by a measly oil lamp.

Children found Mademoiselle Marcelle frightening, and when she leaned towards me she lost none of her impact: I almost cried out in disgust. Was it the shadows? The way she was lit from below? Mademoiselle Marcelle looked like all sorts of things, but not a woman; more like a potato on the body of a bird. Her heavy, misshapen features, wrinkled eyelids and dark, dull, rough uneven skin made her face look like some root vegetable harrowed over by a farmer: jabs of his pick had marked out a thin mouth and a couple of small bulges for her eyes, while a few sparse hairs − white at the root and reddish at the ends − suggested the thing might sprout again in the spring. Perched on thin legs, bent forward, with a large stomach which bulged outwards from her neck down to her hips, like a plump red robin, hands on hips and elbows back as if ready to take flight, she peered at me, preparing to peck.

‘A Jew, of course?' she asked.

‘Yes,' said Father Pons.

‘What's your name?'

‘Joseph.'

‘Good. No need to change the name: it's Christian as well as Jewish. And your parents?'

‘Maman is Léa and Papa's Michaël.'

‘I want to know their surname.'

‘Bernstein.'

‘Oh, that's a disaster! Bernstein . . . We'll say Bertin. I'll get some papers for you in the name Joseph Bertin. Here, come with me for the photograph.'

In a corner of the room a stool was waiting for me, in front of a painted background of woods and sky.

Father Pons tidied my hair, straightened my clothes and asked me to look at the camera, a large wooden box with concertina sides, on a framework almost as tall as a man.

Just then a flash of light leaped around the room, so bright and disconcerting I thought I had dreamed it.

While I rubbed my eyes, Mademoiselle Marcelle slipped another plate into the accordion, and the strange lighting phenomenon happened again.

‘Is there more?' I asked.

‘No, two should be enough. I'll develop them overnight. You haven't got fleas, I hope? Anyway, you'll have to put this lotion on. Or scabies? Well, I'll give you a good scrub, and rub you down with sulphur. What else? A few days, Monsieur Pons, and I'll get him back to you, is that all right with you?'

‘That's all right with me.'

It wasn't all right with me, not at all: I was horrified at the thought of staying alone with her. Not daring to admit this, instead I asked, ‘Why did you say
monsieur
? You're supposed to say Father.'

‘I say what I like. Monsieur Pons knows perfectly well I hate priests. I had quite enough of churches and priests foisted on me as a child and now I'm sick if you try and give me the host. I'm a pharmacist, the first female pharmacist in Belgium! The first woman to qualify! I've done my studies and I know about science. So let other people keep their ‘Father'! Besides, Monsieur Pons doesn't hold it against me.'

‘No,' said the priest, ‘I know you're a good person.'

She started muttering as if the word ‘good' had too much of a churchy whiff about it.

‘I'm not good, I'm fair. I don't like priests, I don't like Jews, I don't like Germans, but I can't bear to see anyone harm children.'

‘I know you love children.'

‘No, I don't love children either. But they
are
human beings.'

‘Well, then you love the human race!'

‘Oh, Monsieur Pons, stop wanting me to love something! That's typical of a priest, that sort of thing. I don't love anything or anyone. My job is being a pharmacist, which means helping people stay alive. I do my job, and that's all there is to it. Come on, out, clear off! I'll get this boy back to you all sorted out, nice and clean and tidy, with papers that mean he'll be left in peace, damn it!'

She turned on her heel to avoid further conversation. Father Pons leaned towards me and gave me a secret smile.

‘“Dammit” has become her nickname in the village. She swears more than her father who was a colonel.'

Dammit brought me some food, put up a bed for me and, in a voice that tolerated no disobedience, ordered me to get some rest. As I fell asleep that evening, I couldn't help feeling a certain admiration for a woman who said ‘Damn it' so naturally.

*

I spent several days with the intimidating Mademoiselle Marcelle. Every evening, after a day's work in her dispensary above the cellar, she would toil away in front of me, unashamedly making my false papers.

‘Do you mind if I say you're six instead of seven?'

‘I'm nearly eight,' I protested.

‘Well, you're six then. It's safer. We don't know how long this war will go on. The longer it is before you're a grown-up the better off you'll be.'

When Mademoiselle Marcelle asked a question there was no point in answering because she was only ever asking herself, and only expected her own replies.

‘We'll also say your parents are dead. They died naturally. Let's see, what sort of illness could have taken them?'

‘A tummy pain?'

‘Influenza! A virulent strain of influenza. Tell me your story, then.'

When it came to their repeating what she had invented, Mademoiselle Marcelle suddenly did listen to other people.

‘My name is Joseph Bertin, I'm six years old, I was born in Anvers and my parents died of influenza last winter.'

‘Good. Here, have a mint pastille.'

When I pleased her she behaved like a lion tamer, tossing me a treat that I had to catch in mid-air.

Father Pons came to see us every day, and did nothing to disguise how hard he was finding it to root out a home for me.

‘All the “safe” local farming people have taken in a child or two already. On top of that, any possible candidates are hesitating, their hearts would go out more readily to a baby. Joseph's quite big now, he's seven.'

‘I'm six, Father!' I exclaimed.

To congratulate me for that contribution, Mademoiselle Marcelle popped a sweet in my mouth and said grimly to Father Pons, ‘If you like, Monsieur Pons, I could threaten the hesitators.'

‘What with?'

‘Damn it, no more medicine if they won't take in our refugees! They can turn up their toes and die!'

‘No, Mademoiselle Marcelle, people have to agree to take this risk of their own free will. They could be sent to prison for colluding . . .'

Mademoiselle Marcelle spun round towards me.

‘How would you like to be a boarder at Father Pons's school?'

Knowing there was no point in replying, I didn't even move but let her carry on.

‘Take him to the Villa Jaune with you, Monsieur Pons, even if that
is
the first place they would come looking for hidden children. But, damn it, with the papers I've made for him . . .'

‘How will I feed him? I can't ask the authorities for any more extra ration tickets. You know the children at the Villa Jaune are underfed as it is.'

‘Hmm, that's not a problem! The burgomaster's coming here for his injection this evening. I'll take care of him.'

After dark, when she had wound down the metal shutter outside her dispensary (making as much noise as blowing up a tank), Mademoiselle Marcelle came down to the cellar to get me.

‘I might well need you, Joseph. Could you come upstairs and stay in the coat cupboard without breathing a word?'

She was annoyed when I didn't give her an answer.

‘I asked you a question, damn it! Are you stupid or what?'

‘Yes, that's fine.'

When the doorbell rang, I slipped in between the heavy hanging fabrics with their smell of mothballs, while Mademoiselle Marcelle took the burgomaster through to the room at the back. She took his raincoat and rammed it against my nose.

‘I'm finding it more and more difficult getting hold of insulin, Monsieur Van der Mersch.'

‘Yes, times are hard . . .'

‘To be honest, I won't be able to give you your injection next week. Shortages! Hold-ups! It's all finished!'

‘My God . . . my diabetes . . .'

‘There's nothing I can do, Sir. Unless . . .'

‘Unless what, Mademoiselle Marcelle? Tell me! I'll do anything.'

‘Unless you give me some ration tickets. I could exchange them to get your medicine.'

‘That's impossible,' the burgomaster replied in a panicky voice, ‘I'm being watched . . . the local population has grown far too much in the last few weeks . . . and you know exactly why . . . I can't ask for any more without attracting the attention of the Gestapo . . . it . . . it would have repercussions for us . . . for us all!'

‘Take this piece of cotton wool and press firmly. Harder than that!'

While she gave her curt instructions to the burgomaster, she came over towards me and whispered quickly and quietly between the cupboard doors, ‘Take his keys from his coat, the ones on the metal ring not the leather one.'

I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly. Did she sense that? She added between gritted teeth, ‘And get a move on, damn it!'

She went back to finish the burgomaster's bandage while I fumbled in the dark to relieve him of his keys.

Then, after her visitor had left, she let me out of the cupboard, sent me down to the cellar and set off into the night.

Very early the following morning Father Pons came to bring us the news:

‘Action stations, Mademoiselle Marcelle, someone's stolen the ration tickets from the town hall!'

She rubbed her hands together.

‘Really? How did they manage that?'

‘The looters forced the shutters open and broke a window.'

‘Goodness! Has the burgomaster been damaging his own buildings?'

‘What do you mean? That he stole . . .?'

‘No, I did. With his keys. But when I put them back in his letterbox this morning I felt sure he would fake a break-in so no one would suspect him. Here you are, Monsieur Pons, have this book of ration tickets. It's yours.'

Although she was surly and incapable of smiling, Mademoiselle Marcelle's eyes gleamed with delight.

She pushed me by the shoulders.

‘Go on! Off you go with Father Pons now!'

By the time my bag had been packed, my false papers gathered together, and the story of my invented life rehearsed again, it was lunchtime when I reached the school.