Julius (7 page)

‘The service is just beginning,’ said the man, ‘push open that further door into the Temple.’

Julius obeyed, curious, wondering what it was all about.When he went through the further door he saw that he had come into a church. At least, the first impression was that of a church, but in a few moments he realised that it was quite different, it was more friendly, more intimate, it was like a meeting-place for people who knew one another.

There were rows of pews the same as in church, and here men were standing or sitting, shaking hands with each other, smiling, talking in low tones. There was something about their faces that was curiously familiar to Julius, it was as though he knew them all, as though he had met them long ago, and they smiled at him too and they understood. At first he thought there were no women, but when he looked about him he could see some sitting in separate pews, like creatures apart.

He smiled to himself, it was just, it was right. Instinctively he approved of this. Creatures apart.

He leant against the pew, trying to catch snatches of conversation. The men were speaking a language that was not French, and this too was strangely familiar to him, words he knew and understood, that were part of him, that were connected in some way with his life.

It was peaceful here and simple.There were no painted figures of saints, no crucifixes, no decoration. The walls were plain, the roof rose in a high dome, and two galleries stretched one above the other round the building. Instead of an altar there were high black gates, and in front of them stood a golden candlestick, bearing seven candles.

‘All of this has happened to me before,’ thought Julius, and he felt happy, queer. A man bent down to him and gave him a book of prayer. Julius looked at the letters, he saw words that were known to him,
Yöschev Besseïsser, Adonoï Mo-Odom. Alenou, Kadisch
, he saw the word
Israélite
.

Then he knew, then he understood. It was as though something warm took hold of his heart, clasped him softly, loved him, murmured to him. He was amongst his own people. They saw with his eyes, they spoke with his voice; this was his temple, those were his candles.

They were poor, ill-clad, ill-fed, their temple was tucked away in the heart of the city, but they came there to be together because they all belonged to one another. Their minds were alike, they shared the same longings, their blood was too strong for them - they were bound hand and heart, they would never break away.

That was the Rabbin who bowed before the golden candlestick, who chanted in his soft sweet voice. He turned to the people, and lifted up his voice, he cried to them, he whispered, he echoed the prayer in their heart. It was not the Rabbin only, young, pale-faced, who stood there, it was Paul Lévy, it was Julius, it was child and boy and man, it was Père’s mind in Père’s body, it was Julius’s eyes in Julius’s face. And the psalm he chanted was Père’s music, the song that rose and whispered and lost itself in the air, the voice cried out like the music had cried, it pleaded and wept, it sorrowed and rejoiced in his sorrow, it quivered immeasurably high as a bird hovers, beating his wings to escape, it travelled away, beyond the gold sun, flinging itself against the stars, exquisite, trembling, a song of beauty and pain, of suffering and joy and distress, the cry of one who searches the sky, who holds out his hands to the clouds. Julius sat huddled in the pew, his chin propped on his hands, and the chanting was food to him, was eating and drinking, was peace and consolation, sleep and forgetting.

The young Rabbin was himself, the seven candles were the symbols of his song and the iron gates were the gates of the secret city.

Julius was lost in a dream, he was nothing, he was no one, nor any longer a little starving boy whose bones showed through his clothes. He had no more tangibility than a measure of music and the tremor of a song; he was as abstract as the sound of wings in the air, of a running stream, of the wind in the trees. He would never be touched, he was the flight of a bird, the shadow on a flower; he was the river bed and the desert sand and the snow upon the mountains.

When the Rabbin ceased from chanting it was as though Julius could feel his body falling through space, hurtling through the air, striking once more the cold hard ground. The people stood up in the pews shaking hands with one another, the Rabbin leant over the rail and talked to them, the iron gates were closed. Julius had come back into the world again, he was a poor, hungry boy in a besieged capital. Everyone was leaving the Temple. He followed the rest of them, looking over his shoulder for the last time at the seven candles before the gates. Then he was in the cloisters once more and the heavy door banged behind him.

The sky was clear, the grey sleet was not falling, but the night was cold.

‘When I grow up I will be a Rabbin, too,’ thought Julius, ‘and I shall lose myself in the singing like he did. I shall make music and dream dreams in front of the golden candlestick.’

As he walked home he wondered why the air was so silent and the streets so still, and he realised that the rumble of the guns that had continued now incessantly for a whole month had ceased at last.

‘Perhaps the Prussians have used up all their shells,’ he thought; ‘perhaps they are tired of firing and are going back to their own country. Anyway, none of this matters to me. I am going to be a Rabbin. I am going to make music.’

He turned down into the Rue des Petits Champs, his hands deep in his pockets, his head poking forward.

‘I shall go back often to the Temple,’ he said to himself, ‘I will learn Hebrew properly with the young Rabbin, and I shall never go to Mass again.’

A smile of satisfaction came over his thin little face. ‘Besides,’ he reflected, ‘there was no collection and that means there is nothing to pay ...’

He turned into the house in the Rue des Petits Champs and began to climb the staircase. He wanted so much to tell Père about the young Rabbin and the visit to the Temple. He did not know how he was going to put into words all the things he had felt and seen and already he was making up little sentences in his mind - ‘You do understand, don’t you, Père? You know how I felt when I saw the seven candles and the writing in the book of prayer? His voice was your voice when you make music, it cried in the air and was sorry and was lost. You understand, don’t you, don’t you? I’ll never be a glutton again - I’ll never be a glutton again!’ - The voice was still in his ears and the golden candlestick before him. Père and Julius were bound to one another, other people did not matter at all. The singing in the Temple had taken away his headache and his bellyache, he was not tired any more or sick from the wine soup, he wanted to run to Père and tell him he was happy.

When he tried to open the door of the room he saw that it was locked. He rattled and shook at it and still it did not open. He began to kick the panel.

‘Be quiet,’ called Mère, ‘I am resting, I am not very well. Run and play a little longer and watch for Père coming home.’

‘I’m cold, Mère,’ cried Julius. ‘It’s dark and horrid out in the streets. I want to come in and warm myself.’

‘Don’t plague me,’ she scolded back, ‘after waiting nearly four hours to get you food, can’t I rest one moment? Run away and meet Père, you can’t come in just yet to worry me with your clatter and noise.’

Julius slowly let go the handle of the door. Mère was unkind, she did not care if his fingers were blue with the cold and he could no longer feel his toes. He did not see why he should lie in the street just because Mère was tired. He would be very quiet, he would sit in a corner and dream about the Temple. Why did Mère have to rest so early in the evening? He did not see. Perhaps Père would be home soon. He pushed open the window on the landing and leant out to watch the passers-by in the street. It was dark, though, and difficult to see. He balanced himself on the sill and drummed his feet against the ledge. What was the young Rabbin doing now, he wondered.
Yöschev Besseïsser
. Julius would never forget him. Who was that moving in the room? It was Mère murmuring something, it was Jacques Tripet talking in a low voice. Well - that really was not fair, that really was unkind, it was too much. Mère would not allow Julius to be in the room while she rested, but she did not mind that fool Jacques Tripet. Julius slipped down from the window-sill. The candle-light flickered from the grating in the wall of the room. Julius had an idea. He would climb up the ladder that led to the roof and if he swung himself against the wall and held on to the ladder with one hand, he would be able to peer through the grating and shout to Mère how unkind she was. Perhaps she would let him come in then. He climbed up the ladder and clinging to the ledge below the grating and hoisting himself up into position with his elbow, he managed to catch a glimpse of the room. He gazed below him in astonishment.Why, Mère was lying on the mattress with Jacques Tripet, she was not resting at all. She should not do that, it was Père’s thing, it had nothing to do with Jacques Tripet. It was horrible of Mère. She must know it was wrong of her, otherwise she would never have locked the door. She was afraid Julius would come in and see, and she would have been ashamed. She was beastly. He hated her. He hated to see her with Jacques Tripet. He wanted to break through into the room and beat her, and beat her. She deserved to be beaten, she deserved to be whipped. To see her lying there with Jacques Tripet made him feel hot and furious for Père. He shouted to them through the grating: ‘I can see you - I can see you. You weren’t resting at all, you told me a lie. I’m going to tell Père and he will beat you.’

They stared up at him in terror. Jacques Tripet leapt away from Mère and she tried to cover herself with the blanket.

‘I see you, I see you - you can’t pretend to me,’ shouted Julius. He jumped down from the grating, his heart nearly bursting he threw open the window of the passage and leant out, peering down into the street.Yes - there was Père two steps away from the door. He could see his tall figure in the dim lamp-light, drooping, weary, dragging one foot after the other. He could scarcely walk, he was so tired. Poor Père, how angry he was going to be. Julius trembled with rage, he leant far out of the window and called down into the street.

‘Père, Père,’ he shouted. ‘Come up at once, run, quickly, quickly. Mère is lying with Jacques Tripet on the mattress.’

He saw Père lift his head, he saw the white face gaze up at him, bewildered, not understanding.

‘Be quick, be quick,’ Julius screamed, kicking his legs in a fever of impatience, ‘they are lying together on the mattress. I’ve seen them through the grating.’

A hand was laid on his hair, pulling him back from the window. It was Jacques Tripet, his face red and podgy.

‘Be quiet, you little fool, be quiet, can’t you?’ he whispered, shaking him backwards and forwards like a rat. ‘I’ll give you a hundred sous. I’ll give you anything . . .’Then he dropped Julius, he turned in alarm and peered over the banisters. There was a sound of feet, running, running, there were footsteps climbing the stairs, someone was shaking the rail of the banister.

‘It’s Père,’ yelled Julius, ‘it’s Père. I’ve told him I saw you and Mère. He’s going to beat you.’

Jacques Tripet crouched against the corner of the wall. There was not any colour in his face now. He looked queer. Père came into view at the foot of the staircase. His uniform was streaked with mud and rain, wherever he trod on the stairs he left splashes of dirt.There was sweat pouring down his face.There was nothing to see in his face but the sweat and his blazing eyes. He pushed past Jacques Tripet, he did not look at him at all. He went straight into the room and Julius followed him.Then he locked the door. Julius heard Jacques Tripet give a funny sort of sob, he heard him clatter down the stairs as though he were afraid, as though he were going to run through the streets and lose himself. Mère was bending over the mattress, she was doing something to the blanket, pulling it straight. Her hair was untidy and her face blotched. She looked like Grandpère used to look when he had been drinking.

‘She can’t pretend,’ said Julius, clutching at his father’s hand; ‘she was lying there with him. I know, I saw.’

Père pushed him away. He went over to Mère without a word and took hold of her. She held out her hands to defend herself, she retreated backwards to the wall.

‘No,’ she called out. ‘No . . . No ...’

Père put his hands round her throat, he bent her underneath him, and she curved strangely, her legs twisting. Père’s hands tightened round her throat, her face grew purple, she choked and coughed, and her eyes became big and startled.

‘Go on, go on,’ shouted Julius, ‘it serves her right, it serves her right. Go on, hurt her, squeeze her.’

Père could swing Mère backwards and forwards now as though she were a dummy thing. Her shoes fell off, and her heels drummed on the floor. She choked hideously, the noise she made was terrible.With her bent body and her popping eyes she looked ugly.

‘Go on, go on,’ shouted Julius.

Then Père dropped her suddenly, she fell heavily on to the floor, her legs spread open. Her tongue came out of her mouth and her face was black. She lay very still. Her lips were parted over her teeth. She looked like a rabbit that Grandpère had strangled once in the fields outside Puteaux. Père sat down in a chair, he was breathing heavily. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Julius touched Mère with his foot. She did not move.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if you’ve killed her,’ he said.

Père did not say a word. He got up from his chair after a while and poured some water into a basin. Then he dipped his face inside, he dipped his whole head. Some of the water ran down his neck and underneath his tunic.

‘I expect you feel warm,’ said Julius.

Père wiped the water away from his face with a towel. He poured some of it into a glass and drank it as though he were very thirsty. Then he stood and looked down at Mère on the floor.