A Vintage Affair (12 page)

Mrs Bell clasped her hands together, the enamelled bangle she was wearing clinking gently against the gold bracelet of her watch. ‘Monique started coming over to my house to play, and we would roam the fields and hillsides together, picking wild flowers, chatting about girlish things. I sometimes asked her about Paris, which I had only ever seen in photographs. Monique told me about her life in the city, although she was always vague about where precisely her family had lived. But she often talked about her best friend, Miriam. Miriam’ – Mrs Bell’s face suddenly lit up – ‘
Lipietzka
. The name has
just
come back to me – after all these years.’ She looked at me, shaking her head in wonderment. ‘This is what happens, Phoebe, when you are old. Things
long
buried suddenly surface with startling clarity. Lipietzka,’ she murmured. ‘Of course … I think she said that they were originally from the Ukraine. But Monique told me that she very much missed Miriam, of whom she was terribly proud, not least because
Miriam was a wonderful violinist. I remember feeling quite a pang as Monique talked about Miriam, and I secretly hoped that in time
I
might become Monique’s best friend – even though I had no musical ability at all. I remember I enjoyed going to Monique’s house, which was some way away, on the other side of the village, near the railway line. It had a pretty front garden with lots of flowers, and a well, and above the front door was a plaque with the head of a lion carved on to it.’

Mrs Bell put down her cup. ‘Monique’s father was a dreamy, rather impractical sort of man. Each day he cycled into Avignon, where he worked as a book-keeper for a firm of accountants. Her mother stayed at home looking after Monique’s twin brothers, Olivier and Christophe, who were then three. I remember once when I was there Monique cooked the entire evening meal, despite being only ten at the time. She told me that she’d had to learn how to cook because her mother had been bedridden for two months after the twins were born. Monique was a very good cook, though I remember not liking the bread very much.

‘Anyway … on went the war. We children were aware of it, but we knew little about it because of course there were no televisions, few radios, and the adults sheltered us from it as far as they could. In fact, they hardly spoke of it in our hearing, except to complain about rationing – my father’s main complaint was that it was hard to get beer.’ Mrs Bell paused again, her lips pursing slightly. ‘One day, in the summer of 1941, by which time we had become close friends, Monique and I went for a walk. After about two miles or so along one of the little back
roads that criss-cross the area we came upon a ramshackle old barn. As we went inside it to explore we happened to be talking about names. I said that I didn’t like my name – Thérèse. I felt it was too ordinary. I wished that my parents had called me Chantal. Then I asked Monique if she liked hers. To my surprise she went very red – then she suddenly blurted out that Monique wasn’t her real name. Her real name was Monika – Monika Richter. I was …’ Mrs Bell shook her head in wonderment. ‘
Amazed.
Then Monique said that her family had moved to Paris from Mannheim, five years earlier, and that her father had changed their name to make them fit in. He’d decided on Richelieu, she told me, because of the famous Cardinal.’

Mrs Bell looked out of the window again. ‘When I asked Monique why they’d left Germany, she replied that it was because they didn’t feel safe. At first she refused to say why, but when I pressed her she told me that it was because her family were Jewish. She told me that they never spoke of this to anyone, and that they hid all outward signs of it. Then she made me swear never to reveal what she had said to a living soul, otherwise we could no longer be friends. I agreed, of course, although I couldn’t understand why being Jewish had to be a secret – I knew that Jewish people had lived in Avignon for hundreds of years; there was an old synagogue in the city centre. But if that was how Monique felt, I would respect it.’

Mrs Bell began to finger the coat again, stroking the sleeves. ‘Then I felt I should offer Monique a secret of my own. So I confided that I had recently fallen in love with a boy in our school – Jean-Luc Aumage.’ Mrs Bell’s
lips were pressed into a thin line. ‘I remember, when I told Monique about Jean-Luc, that she looked a little uncomfortable. Then she said that he did seem to be a nice boy and that he was certainly good looking.’

Mrs Bell’s eyes strayed to the window again. ‘Time went by, and we did our best to ignore the war, thankful to be living in the southern “free” zone. But one morning – it was in late June ’42, I could see that Monique was very upset. She told me that she had just received a letter from Miriam in which Miriam had told her that she was now required, as were all Jewish people in the Occupied Zone, to wear a yellow star. This six-pointed star, which had to be sewn on to the left side of her jacket, had in the centre one word – “
Juive
”. Mrs Bell rearranged the coat on her lap, repeatedly smoothing the blue fabric. ‘From that time on I opened my ears to the war. At night I would sit on the landing, outside my parents’ room, straining to hear the broadcasts from BBC London, which they covertly tuned in to; like many people, my father had bought our first wireless just for that purpose. I remember that when they were listening to these bulletins I would hear my father exclaim in disgust or despair. From one of these programmes I learned that there were now special laws for Jewish people in both zones. They were not allowed to join the army, or to hold important jobs in government any more or to buy property. They had to observe a curfew and in Paris they were obliged to travel in the last carriage on the Metro.

‘The next day I asked my mother why these things were happening, but she would only say that we were living in difficult times and that it was best for me not
to think about this dreadful war which would soon be over –
gracèa Dieu
.

‘So we tried to carry on with our lives as “normal”. But in November 1942 that pretence of normality came to an abrupt end. On November 12th my father came home early, all out of breath, to say that he had seen two German soldiers, with machine guns attached to the sidecars of their motorbikes, stationed at the main road leading from our village to the city centre.

‘The next morning, along with many others, my parents, my brother and I walked into Avignon and were horrified to see German soldiers standing beside their official, shiny black Citroëns which were parked in rows outside the Palais des Papes. We saw other German troops stationed outside the town hall, or riding down our historic streets in armoured vehicles, wearing helmets and goggles. To us children they looked funny – like aliens – and I remember my parents being angry with Marcel and me for pointing at them and laughing. They told us to look through them as though they weren’t there. They said that if all the people of Avignon did that, then the Germans’ presence wouldn’t affect us. But Marcel and I knew that this was just bravado – we understood perfectly well that the “free zone” no longer existed and that now we were
all “sous
la botte
”!’

Mrs Bell paused, and tucked another wisp of hair behind her ear.

‘From then on Monique became distant and watchful. At the end of school each day she would go straight home. She was no longer free to play on Sundays, and I was no longer invited to her house. I was hurt by this,
but when I tried to talk to her about it, she just said that she had less time now because her mother needed her to help at home more.

‘A month later, I was queuing to buy flour when I overheard the man in front of me complaining that from now on all Jewish people in our area had to have their identity and ration cards stamped with the word “Jew”. The man, who I realised must himself be Jewish, said it was a dreadful affront. His family had lived in France for three generations – had he not fought for France during the Great War?’ Mrs Bell narrowed her pale blue eyes. ‘I remember he shook his fist at the church and said where now was the notion of
Liberté, Égalité et
Fraternité
? I just thought to myself, naïvely, ‘At least he’s not being made to wear the star, like Miriam has to – that would be … awful.’ She looked at me, then shook her head. ‘Little did I know that wearing the yellow star would have been
infinitely
preferable to the stamping of official papers.’

Mrs Bell closed her eyes for a moment, as if exhausted by her memories. Then she opened them again, staring ahead. ‘In early 1943, around the middle of February, I saw Monique standing by the school gate, deep in conversation with Jean-Luc, who by now was a very handsome young man of fifteen. I could see from the way he wrapped her scarf a little closer round her neck – it was bitterly cold – that he was very attracted to Monique. I could also see that she liked
him
, because of the way she was smiling up at him, not encouragingly exactly, but sweetly and … a little anxiously I suppose.’ Mrs Bell sighed then shook her head. ‘I was still infatuated with Jean-Luc, even
though he’d never so much as looked at me. What a fool I was,’ she added bleakly. ‘What a
fool
.’ She tapped her chest again, as though striking herself. Then she went on, her voice shaking: ‘The next day I asked Monique if she liked Jean-Luc. She just looked at me very intently, almost sadly, and said, “Thérèse, you don’t understand,” which only seemed to confirm that she
did
like him. Then I remembered how she’d reacted when I’d first told her about my crush. She’d seemed uncomfortable, and now I knew why.’ Mrs Bell was tapping her chest again. ‘But Monique was right – I
didn’t
understand. If only I had,’ she croaked. She shook her head. ‘If only I
had
…’

Mrs Bell paused for a moment to collect herself, then carried on. ‘After school I ran home in tears. My mother asked me why I was crying, but I was too embarrassed to tell her. Then she put her arms round me and told me to dry my eyes because she had a surprise for me. She went to her sewing corner and brought out a bag. Inside was a lovely little coat of wool as blue as the sky on a clear June morning. As I tried it on, she told me that she had queued for five hours to buy the material and that she had sewed it for me at night, while I was asleep. I hugged my mother and said that I loved the coat so much that I would keep it forever. She laughed and said, “No you won’t, silly.”’ Mrs Bell gave me a bleak smile. ‘But I
have
.’

She stroked the lapels again, the lines on her brow scored a little deeper now. ‘Then, one day in April, Monique didn’t come to school. She didn’t come the next day either, or the day after that. When I asked our teacher where Monique was she said she didn’t
know but that she was sure she’d be back before long. Then the Easter holidays started, and still I didn’t see Monique, and I kept asking my parents where she might be, but they told me that it would be better to forget her – I would make new friends. I said I didn’t
want
new friends – I wanted Monique. So the next morning I ran to her house. I knocked on the door, but no one came. I peered through a gap in the shutters and saw the remains of a meal on the table. There was a broken plate on the floor. Seeing that they had left in a dreadful rush, I resolved to write to Monique at once. I sat down by the well, and I’d started to compose a letter to her in my head when I realised that of course I
couldn’t
write to her because I hadn’t the faintest idea where she was. I felt just terrible …’ I heard Mrs Bell swallow.

‘At that time,’ she went on, ‘the weather was still cold.’ She shivered, involuntarily. ‘Although it was late spring I was still wearing my blue coat. And all the time I was wondering where Monique could have gone, and why she and her family had left so suddenly. But my parents wouldn’t discuss it with me. Then, in my selfish child’s way, I realised that there was a silver lining to the situation. No doubt Monique would return, if not now then when the war was over – but in her absence maybe Jean-Luc might notice
me
. I remember doing what I could to try and make him. I had just turned fourteen and I began to steal a little of my mother’s lipstick; I’d put curling papers in my hair at night, like she did, and I’d darken my pale lashes with a little boot polish – sometimes with comical results: I’d pinch my cheeks to make them rosy. Marcel, who was two years younger
than me, began to notice these things and would tease me mercilessly.

‘Then one warm Saturday morning I had a row with Marcel – he was goading me so much, I couldn’t stand it. I ran out of the house, slamming the door. And I’d walked for perhaps an hour or so when I came to the old broken-down barn. I went inside, and sat down on the floor in a patch of sunlight with my back to a hay bale, listening to the swifts chattering in the eaves above me, and the distant rumble of trains. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed with sadness. I started crying and couldn’t stop. And as I sat there, my face bathed in tears, I heard a faint rustling sound from behind. I thought it might be a rat; I was scared. But then curiosity overwhelmed me. I got up and went to the back of the barn, and there, behind a stack of hay bales, lying on the ground beneath a coarse grey blanket was …
Monique
.’ Mrs Bell looked at me, bewildered. ‘I was
astounded
. I couldn’t understand
why
she was there. I gently called her name, but she didn’t respond. I began to panic. I clapped my hands by her ear, then I knelt down and gently shook her …’

‘Did she wake up?’ I asked. My heart was pounding. ‘Did she wake
up
?’

Mrs Bell looked at me curiously. ‘She did wake up – thank God. But I will never forget her expression when she did so. Because even as she recognised me, her eyes were straying over my shoulder: her look of terror then changed to one of
relief
mingled with bewilderment. Then she told me, in this tiny whisper, that she had not heard me come in because she had been asleep, because she found it so hard to sleep at night and was exhausted. Then she got up, very stiffly, and stood there just looking
at me; she put her arms round me and clung to me, gripping me so tightly while I tried to comfort her …’ Mrs Bell paused, her eyes shimmering with tears. ‘We sat down together on a bale of hay. Monique told me that she had been in the barn for eight days. In fact it was ten. I knew this because she said that on April 19th the Gestapo had come to her house while she was out getting bread, and that they had taken her parents and her brothers, but that their neighbours, the Antignacs, had seen her returning and had headed her off. They’d kept her in their attic, then at nightfall they’d brought her here to this disused barn – by chance the barn where Monique had first revealed to me her true identity. She said that Monsieur Antignac had told her to stay there until it was safe. He’d said that he had no idea how long that would be and that she would have to be patient and brave. He’d told her not to make a sound, and never leave the barn, except to creep the few metres to the stream when it was dark to collect water in the pitcher that he’d given her.’