Revolution Baby (12 page)

“I can explain the situation. Last night—”

“Could you start by telling us who you are?”

“My name is Jules, I'm nine years old.”

“We're listening, Jules.”

“We had two big dogs, Grisou and Voyou. And we liked them a lot. Last night, Gros Pierre shot and killed them before our eyes and buried them. This morning, Grisou's paws were sticking out of the ground and some of the children were crying. Henri was the one who gave the order to kill the dogs. He didn't say anything to us beforehand. He didn't even ask us our opinion. He never asks us our opinion, he runs this place like a dictator, he has no consideration for the children. We want his immediate dismissal. All the children here have agreed not to eat anything as long as this fascist is at the head of L'Avenir Social.”

“Is that all?”

“My name is Philippe and I'm thirteen. I'd like to add that while we are aware that there were difficult decisions to be made, given the times we are living in, we would nevertheless have liked to be included in the decision process. The carnage could certainly have been avoided if our opinions had been taken into account, and if we had been allowed to suggest some more creative solutions.”

“Thank you very much for your explanations. We'll go back to Paris now, and pass on your demands to our superiors.”

Long after the people from the CGT had left, my heart was still pounding. I was very proud of myself, for having dared to speak up like that before strangers. I had no more doubts about my ability to become a true revolutionary. Rolande came up to me, smiling. I thought I could see admiration in her eyes. Which didn't help to ease the pounding of my heart.

The next morning we learned that Henri had handed in his resignation. The news was greeted with a great shout of victory and everyone ran to the refectory. Breakfast was a chaotic and joyful affair. We threw bits of bread from one table to the next, sang revolutionary songs, and nobody went on sitting for long in the same place . . . and of course everybody devoured the meal, however ordinary it was, that was set down before us.

We were at war. The Germans attacked Poland. France and England declared war on Germany. And Arnold and Geneviève were not there to explain what was happening. I felt very alone, and I didn't understand a thing. It would seem that our friend, the Soviet Union, had signed a nonaggression pact with Hitler. But Germany and the USSR wanted to divide up several countries. We spoke a lot about the situation, but nobody, not even Philippe, or any of the older kids, had even an inkling of an explanation. Maybe it was a strategy. One thing was clear, we didn't know what to think or to want, other than a quick end to the war.

And one day everything fell apart. Albert, the secretary at L'Avenir Social, came to inform me that Lena was coming to visit. I was in the middle of playing dodgeball, and the arrival of this woman I was now obliged to view as my mother was never exactly a source of delight. I had long ago given up any hope of ever getting any interesting presents from her. At least she didn't come too often, so I agreed to receive her. She was waiting for me in the dormitory.

When I got there, she was folding my clothes and putting them in a suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

“Hello, my little Julek, how are you?”

She spoke French now, with a fairly indefinable accent, but she still called me by my Polish first name, and that annoyed me.

“I asked you a question!”

“Yes, my dear, I know. Listen, you have to come and live with me in Paris. They are going to close L'Avenir Social. The other children are going to leave too, either with their parents, or to a holiday camp. But you are coming with me.”

“And why can't I go to the holiday camp?”

“I'll explain later, we have to hurry, the bus is coming in fifty minutes.”

“Are you crazy or what?”

Lena looked at me in a way that made it clear there was no room for discussion. And that is how in less than an hour I was made to leave the life I had known for almost four years. All the children came to say goodbye. Rolande threw her arms around me, sobbing. Roger and Pierre came running just as we were about to go through the gate and leave the property. Roger could not speak. Even Philippe seemed upset to see me go. As for me, I didn't know what to think. I wasn't crying. And yet I was very sad. But there was a war on, and I understood that whatever I might be feeling was of no importance.

I had a new life: wartime Paris. After she came to get me at L'Avenir Social, Lena took me back to 9 rue Aubriot, in the fourth arrondissement. Her apartment was tiny, very dark, with Turkish toilets on an outdoor landing. It was on the fifth floor of a building located in the rear courtyard of another building, and it gave onto a tiny little street that I could cross in two long strides.

With Lena, things were very simple: we spoke when we had something specific to say, she let me do almost anything I wanted, but when she did forbid me from doing something, I had to obey and not ask any questions. Even though she was very active in politics and also, I suspect, in clandestine work, we never referred to it. Sometimes she would run into someone in the street, as if by chance, and I had to stand to one side to let them talk. It never took very long.

I went to school on the rue Moussy, five minutes from our house, with my gas mask dangling from my belt, like the other kids. We had been warned: it was not a toy, nor a disguise . . . Every day I wondered if this would be the day when at last I would have to use it. Whenever I thought about it, I got all cold in my belly and I had trouble breathing. I don't know if it was from excitement or fear. Or maybe both.

I didn't like school. It was too serious. Monsieur Francheteau, our teacher, was very strict. He looked down on us, as if we were inferior beings that had to be trained by making us learn a whole bunch of stupid things by heart. He was always exasperated by the extent of our ignorance. In my opinion, he underestimated us. I sometimes thought I ought to make more of an effort. But any desire to do so faded very quickly. My grades were not bad, but not great either. In any case, there were other things to worry about besides my report card.

The children from L'Avenir Social went to a holiday camp in Royan, or to their parents', the ones who had parents, that is. Rolande gave me the address of the camp so we could write. I told her about my new life: the gas masks, Monsieur Francheteau (I drew his picture in the letter, with a big nose and big ears), and the other kids in the class, but there weren't many interesting things to tell her. I asked her to send her news. And I made a confession, a sort of declaration I won't go into here. Then I waited for a reply. Every day I asked Lena if there was a letter for me. And every day she said no, seeming more and more exasperated. One evening, just before bedtime, Lena's face lit up.

“Ah, yes, your letter. You got one. Now, where is it?”

I focused all my efforts on not looking excited. I think it was a waste of time, because I could feel my ears burning and I couldn't keep from blinking. My mother was too busy looking for the letter to notice. When eventually she found it, it was all I could do not to snatch it from her hand. And I left the room: reading it in front of her was out of the question.

Once I was outside, I crouched down against the wall of the church of the Blancs-Manteaux and set about opening the envelope. I tried to remain calm as the envelope resisted my assault. Finally, I managed to get the letter out. My heart was beating fit to burst. I began reading. Rolande told me about the camp, and which children from the AS were there. None of the instructors had gone with them to Royan. She described the beauty of nature, and the seaside, and she added that in spite of everything she was bored. There, I stopped reading; the dull pounding of my heart made me lose my concentration. I stood up and took a few steps, breathing slowly the way Geneviève had suggested I do whenever I got agitated. Then I went on reading. After that, nothing but banalities. Rolande sent me her greetings and wrote that she hoped to see me again someday. Not a word about my declaration! No reference to it at all! No answer! And yet she had been truly weeping in my arms when I left L'Avenir Social. I didn't dream it. I really could not figure out what girls were about.

 

Geneviève and Arnold often came to visit us on the rue Aubriot. They were friends with Lena now or, at least, comrades-in-arms. They no longer hid the fact that they were in love. So much so that Geneviève had a baby in her belly. Well, that is, she used to have one, but she lost it. Of course I knew nothing about these things, but Geneviève explained it all to me: she and Arnold held each other very very tight, all naked, and after that a tiny baby began to grow in Geneviève's belly, because of the seed that Arnold had sown inside her. In the beginning it had been a bit like a flea. Then a strawberry. Then it kept on growing, but one day there was some blood that came out of Geneviève's belly and the baby came out with it. And because it was too small to live outside her belly, it died, or rather she did, because her name was Mireille. I listened to the adults talking about this business, and they all seemed to think that because of the war it was for the best. But I could see that Geneviève's eyes were still sad when she said that. I asked her why, and she explained that even though she was resigned, her heart, of which her eyes were the mirror, was not so easily resigned.

Arnold knew how things worked, where gas and electricity came from, how the radio sent signals, and all sorts of fascinating things. As for Geneviève, she knew what was good and what was bad, how you should behave, the questions you should ask yourself. This was reassuring because we learned vital things with her, without ever feeling stupid for not having known them before. And I think she thought of me as a good person. So much so that one day she looked me right in the eyes and asked me if I wanted to carry out a mission for “us,” without saying exactly what it was about. If Geneviève asked me something, I said yes, no matter what. But I acted as if I had to think it over.

“Well, that depends, what sort of mission is it?”

“You'll have to take a document to someone.”

“I suppose it's dangerous.”

“A little bit, but no one will suspect a kid your age. I only want you to agree if you feel comfortable, otherwise we'll find someone else.”

Well, sure, hey, as if I would want them to find someone else!

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

 

And thus I find myself carrying out my first (and last) wartime mission. I am given an envelope in a bag. I memorize the address of the place I have to go. And off I go, into the blue, into the streets of Paris.

The air is cool. I'm not nervous, just a bit excited, and above all very focused. All my senses are on the alert, I notice the houses, the people, the sounds . . . I walk quickly, to the rhythm of the music playing in my head, a sort of military march. I get the impression that passersby are turning around to look at me and that they are impressed with what they see. A Parisian street urchin on a mission for a great cause. I know it would be better if it wasn't obvious, that I should go by unnoticed, that I should blend into the crowd. But I can't help my piercing gaze and my determined steps.

Given the special nature of my task, you will understand that I cannot record the address where I am expected, nor my itinerary to get there. Here I am. I knock on the door. The sound of footsteps getting closer. “Who's there?” “It's Marco, I've come to see if Paul is there,” I reply, according to Geneviève's instructions.

They open the door. I go into a dirty little room, with stuff everywhere, mountains of boxes piled everywhere, which have made corridors that you can hardly get through. I see two gentlemen, the one who opened the door to me and who replied, as agreed, that Paul has gone to play in the park, and another one, with a hat; unlike the first man, he is very well dressed. I hesitate . . . Although Geneviève has prepared me very well, she didn't tell me another man would be there. While I go on inquiring about “Paul,” my mind is racing. And I eventually tell them that I will go and find Paul in the park, goodbye, thank you, and off I go, back to the rue Aubriot.

This time I walk even more quickly, I am worried and I am in a hurry to tell Geneviève everything. And when I stand before her, I hand her the envelope. She looks at me, astonished.

“You didn't give him the envelope?”

“No, I thought it would be better if I didn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man I was supposed to give it to, he wasn't alone, there was another man there you didn't tell me about. I thought it might be someone who was trying to trick him, so I went away again.”

“And what did the other man look like?”

“Well, he was very tall, with dark skin, and a gray beard. He was very well groomed.”

Silence. I am afraid I may have let Geneviève down. Finally, she bursts out laughing, gives me a hug and says, “You are a great militant, my Julot. You did that very well. But the gentleman was there precisely to take the envelope. So now off you go again, run back there as fast as you can.”

I never knew I could run so fast for such a long stretch. Mission accomplished.

Geneviève never gave me any others, but she assured me it was only because it was out of the question to use a child on a regular basis, and not because I had almost botched the first one. She even told me I had acted very intelligently, that I had proved I had great presence of mind. I'm not so sure . . .

Many years later, after the war, Geneviève would tell me that “the man with the gray beard” was the head of their network, and he was waiting for the other man to print up copies of the tract I had brought them. This was one of the wartime anecdotes that were handed down to posterity in the family. And which Geneviève would never tire of telling.