No Light (6 page)

“Why did she leave, she knew I liked her, more than liked her, I kissed her?”

“Women are such a mystery. Who knows? She was probably embarrassed. Don’t worry. Have another cognac.”

I slumped on the table and raised the glass to my lips.

“Here’s to embarrassing women...”

We chatted for another hour and I have a vague recollection of Jacques introducing me to a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Cecilia. Night had fallen when I finally stumbled out of the café and towards my shop. Hanging on to my arm was the Cecilia lookalike. We literally fell through the door on to the floor and began fumbling with each other’s clothes. I also recall crawling with her towards the back room, stopping occasionally to plaster her with kisses.

When I awoke, I was lying half-naked on the bed. The woman had gone. I tried to stand up, lost my balance and lurched to one side. Eventually I managed to steady myself but by then I was struggling to contain a blinding headache that roared through my brain. Holding my trembling hands in front of me, I stepped slowly towards the shop only to find it completely wrecked. The door was lying open and paintings were strewn everywhere. The window in the door was smashed and I noticed large writing on the main window. I staggered outside and saw the words
Juifs Sortir
scrawled on the glass. People were passing, some quickly, others pausing to look at me and offer sympathy until finally someone said,

“You need to have that looked at.”

“I’ve only just seen it.” I replied, “I must call the police.”

“No, I meant your head.”

I reached up and immediately a sharp pain seared through my brain causing me to reel backwards. A man grabbed me.

“Over here, help me”, he shouted and soon I was surrounded by a small group of onlookers. I heard the sound of an approaching police car and soon after a gendarme appeared before me.

“Lie still. We have an ambulance coming. Is there anyone we can contact?

“What is the time?”

“Ten-fifteen”

“My father, Solomon Politzer, he may be at the synagogue in Rue Pavee.”

“We will look for him.”

“My shop”

“Don’t worry, we will secure it.”

I must have passed out for the next thing I remember I was lying in a hospital bed. I tried to sit up but the pain in my head was so overwhelming I slumped back on to the pillow. I reached up and felt a bandage.

“Lie still son.”

I recognised my father’s voice and had difficulty turning my head to see him sitting by the side of the bed. I was filled with a mixture of relief and shame.

“You have had a nasty blow to the head.”

“What happened?”

“Do you not know?”

“I can’t remember. What about the shop?”

“Well, it’s a mess, but we managed to board up the door. I have someone going round in the morning to remove the paint from the window. There’s one other thing. The shop smelt strongly of alcohol and quite frankly so do you.”

All I could manage was a pitiful look.

“The police have made some preliminary enquiries with the people at the café. They didn’t recognise anybody you were with. Apparently you spent some time there earlier in the day with a young woman then returned later and began drinking with a small group of people. You left around ten with a woman and a man. The family who live in the apartment above the shop confirmed that they heard people laughing and shouting in the street below around that time. Who were you with? The police will want to know”

When two gendarmes arrived an hour later they pressed me for the names of everyone I had been with recently. I contemplated not giving them Camille’s name as they would surely interview not only her but all those I had accompanied to La Coupole on the night of the performance. I didn’t want to embarrass Camille, however I gave her name. I couldn’t give them much information about who I was with later other than mention Jacques and that he said he was an off-duty policeman. This caused raised eyebrows and looks of disbelief.

After my father and the police left, I lay for a while gazing around the ward. I was in the Jewish hospital and this filled me with some relief. The reality of what had happened was beginning to dawn on me. I had been the subject of a racial attack, lured to my fate by Jacques and the woman. I reproached myself for being so stupid but that failed to alleviate the anxiety that was beginning to build in my stomach even though I kept assuring myself that I was just unlucky and at the wrong place at the wrong time. This was obviously not the case so I began to speculate on the possible involvement of some of the cast I had met after the performance. It would have been easy to incriminate Alex and the woman did resemble Cecilia, but what of Bertrand and Sabine who sat either side of me? They looked completely incapable of doing such a thing. I closed my eyes. Sleep crept easily into my mind and soon I was dreaming.

I am surrounded by shadows. I am not afraid.

We cannot see each other but I feel your hands upon me as I gently stroke your face.

You can barely hold on. But do not fall my love.

As I press my lips to you, your face is paler and gentler than any lily.

The tree is hung with lanterns.

Your face is streaked with darkness.

The air is heavy with the stench of discarded fruit.

Each one bitten once, each one sucked dry and discarded like the golden leaves that now fall gently to the ground.

This garden once planted with the most fragrant flowers,

Now shrivels and dries under your gaze.

And your body bloated with juices lies slumped beneath the birch tree.

When I awoke Camille was sitting beside the bed.

“Oh Paul”, was all she could say.

“She wanted to see you.” my father whispered.

“I’m thirsty”.

Camille poured a glass of water and held it to my lips.

“Did the police find you?” I asked her.

“Yes, at the theatre”, she replied. “They interviewed everyone who was at La Coupole
.
”

“I’m sorry I had to give your name.”

“I’ll head off home now”, my father interjected, “Leave you two to talk.”

“Let me help you Solomon?” Camille said.

“No, no, I can manage”

She had used his first name and was holding his arm and leading him to the corridor. I felt uneasy when he kissed her gently on both cheeks but I could see he appeared comfortable in her presence.

“How did you come to be with him?” I asked her later.

“After the police left the theatre I wanted to be with you. They told me you were here and on my way I met your father in the street. You had described him perfectly. I introduced myself and walked with him the rest of the way.”

“You called him Solomon?”

“That is his name, isn’t it?”

“Yes of course, it’s just strange hearing you say it.”

“Surely you have heard others using his first name. Your mother, friends...”

“Yes...”

“I think I understand.” She replied, taking my hand.

For the next two or three minutes we stared at each other. Camille occasionally looked away embarrassed and at other times she giggled. Our fingers entwined, sometimes lightly sometimes strongly. I pulled her towards me and held her. At that moment I didn’t want to ever let her go.

Somewhere deep inside me she had done something wonderful.

Camille and I married in September 1937 by civil ceremony followed by a reception of sorts at Cafe Cremieux. My father was disappointed. He had wanted a Jewish wedding but for that to happen Camille would have had to convert and this was never an option. Camille began teaching shortly before we were married. She left
Carmen
when the performance began touring Europe and returned to the chorus for the next production,
The Marriage of Figaro
. After that she decided to leave. The director who admired her greatly managed to secure a teaching appointment for her at L’Academie Musicale de Villecroze where she taught singing and musical appreciation.

I asked her to marry me one night under Le Pont Neuf. Initially I surprised her by giving her a blue periwinkle silk dress. When she saw it she clapped her hands and jumped for joy.

“Try it on.”

“Here?”

“Yes, there’s no-one about.”

She looked around apprehensively, her eyes flashed and she quickly pulled off her top. I delighted at her breasts and how they rose as she slipped the dress over her arms, captivated by the glistening, translucent blue material floating gracefully over her slim frame.

“You like?”

“Yes, I like.”

She moved towards me and almost reluctantly snaked her long elegant arms around my neck. I pulled her to me and allowed my hands to freely caress the silkiness of her back. It was a precious moment and as I held her gently I told her I loved her. She responded by moving closer.

“I want to marry you.” I whispered. “Please say yes?”

“You have to get down on one knee.” She whispered.

So powerful was my feeling for her that I knelt down on both knees.

“One’s enough!” she chuckled.

I stretched my arms towards her.

“Camille Berman I am in love with your beauty and your voice. I love your passion, your kindness and compassion and I love the fact that you love me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me? I promise I will always be loyal and strong for you.”

“Will you clean the dishes?”

“Yes!”

“And do the ironing?”

“Yes!”

“And make breakfast every morning?”

“Yes and listen to you gossiping about the neighbours…”

She laughed loudly and aimed a kick at me. I fell back with my legs in the air. She quickly straddled my chest and I allowed her to pin my arms behind my head. Then she kissed me long and lovingly and smothered my face with her beautiful hair.

“How could I not say yes”, she whispered tenderly, “You always were my man.”

Our reception was small, twenty people, mostly Camille’s friends from the opera and work. Her parent’s Isabelle and Anton travelled up from Limoux. I wasn’t sure what to expect but my fears were quickly allayed. When we met at the station Isabelle gave me such an embrace and Anton shook my hand warmly. We had arranged a small dinner at their hotel the night before the wedding. I was particularly nervous because of my father but I needn’t have worried. Isabelle charmed him completely and Anton was extremely courteous. However, I still had to endure all the embarrassing childhood anecdotes. At the end of the evening, Anton presented me with a case of his wine. I was particularly taken with Isabelle and the warmth and respect she showed my father. He spoke briefly about my mother and she understood immediately the pain he felt. She listened intently as he described his role as a Rabbi. To be fair, he didn’t say much.

I asked Anshel Drezner to be my best man. He was now a gendarme and attended the wedding with Marcel Piquet another acquaintance from my schooldays. Anshel was an accomplished accordion player and Marcel a talented violinist so I was assured of good music. The remainder of the guests were my father’s friends, Mme Guillard, Monsieur Lunel who owned the bakery and our next door neighbour Monsieur Rehal and his wife Marianne. At the reception we had the usual predictable speeches and Anshel egged on by Marcel tried his best to embarrass me with silly stories of our youth. Anton introduced Camille with tales of her life in Limoux and while he struggled sometimes to articulate his feelings it was obvious to everyone that he loved her dearly. At one point I cried. I was desperately sad my mother could not be there.

We honeymooned in Limoux, renting a small gite near her parent’s vineyard that afforded us privacy yet was close enough to see her family. We spent the days walking in the hills surrounding the village and visiting some of Camille’s childhood haunts. Once she took me to a cave lying deep within some woods. The entrance was almost hidden, concealed by large ferns and bushes.

“It’s an old Cathar cave”. She explained. “They hid here during the persecution.”

Inside, the entrance opened up to reveal a large cavern. At first I could hardly see anything but as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I noticed that people still came here. Placed in niches along the walls were candles and in the centre stood a large flat-topped rock adorned with small bunches of woodland flowers and carvings of crosses and symbols.

“They had their ceremonies here.”

“It looks like they still do.”

We sat together for some time. Soon, the silence and calm caused my eyes to close and my mind to conjure images of a time long gone. I heard water plopping into a hidden pool. Hooded figures entered and spoke in a language unknown to me. They moved around quietly or stood hidden among the rocks. Outside I thought I heard children laughing. Camille began to sing, a strange evocation escaping from her lips. There were no words only her music, echoing around the cavern and fading into the darkness.

I hardly saw Anton and her brothers; they were always out picking grapes. When we did meet it was usually at the cafe in Villelongue where they spent a lot of time drinking wine, much to the annoyance of Camille and Isabelle. I liked the cafe. It overlooked the small square and was decorated with lots of attractive pots and hanging baskets full of geraniums, calendula and sweet violets. One night I joined them alone. Camille had arranged to meet some old school friends. As we sat in the cafe I felt uncomfortable listening to their loud talk. They insisted on telling me more stories about Camille. My jaw hurt from smiling and trying to appear interested. I hadn’t much to say either. Eventually her brothers Louis and Maurice left to chat up some girls.

“So your father is a Rabbi.” Anton said drunkenly, “As you can see we don’t have much use for them here. We believe more in the old ways that existed before the crusaders came and destroyed our history.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“The crusaders”

“Yes, from the north where you come from”, he replied. “Seven or eight hundred years ago...you know nothing of this?”

“No!”

“Our beliefs come from ancient monks who travelled here after the death of Christ. They were mostly hermits who lived in caves but we have a legend that Mary Magdalene settled in this region. A lot of churches have her name. By the time of the middle ages we had our own faith. We called ourselves the good men and women and believed the established religion was the Church of Satan.”

“How did the crusaders become involved?”

“The pope of the day called for a crusade against us. He called us heretics. The barons from the north assembled an army of ten thousand soldiers who marched in and slaughtered everyone in their path. They besieged Carcassonne and eventually captured it. Our people fled to the mountains. The crusaders hounded them for over a hundred years until finally they destroyed us on that fateful day at Montsegur.”

I was now feeling the effects of too much wine and unable to keep up with him. Montsegur and Carcassonne meant nothing to me. Neither did Mary Magdalene. I decided to raise my glass and make a toast.

“Here’s to killing crusaders.” I blurted. Anton reciprocated with a long drink of wine and stood up. He was lean and fit and his long hair shone in the lights that were strung around the cafe.

“This place we live in is Occitania. It is not France”, he proclaimed with his arms outstretched. Camille’s brothers along with their friends roared in support. Anton began to sing.

Outside my window,
There is a little bird
Singing all night,
Singing its song.

If it sings, let it sing,
It's not singing for me,
It sings for my love
Who is far away from me.

Those mountains
That are so high
Keep me from seeing
Where my love has gone.

Lay down, oh mountains,
And rise up, o plains,
So I may see
Where my love has gone.

Those mountains
will lie down so low
that my dear love
will come closer.

Everyone stood and joined him embracing each other as they sang. Anton put his arm around me and drew me into the group. Tears filled my eyes.
I was among soldiers. They had a strength that came from hard work and dedication and a sense of themselves that was borne from a resilient tradition that had survived persecution and abandonment. Their eyes flashed with rebellion and I felt proud to stand among them.

Later as we returned to the farm, Anton and his sons tried to teach me the song. It was named
Se Canta
and was the official anthem of Occitania. I had difficulty with the language but they translated for me in their usual good-humoured and joking manner.

As we approached the gates of the farm Anton stopped me while Louis and Maurice continued to the house. He grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.

“I want you to know that you will always have a home here. We know about the Germans and how they are coming to take your people. If that happens, promise me you will protect Camille. She is my only daughter.”

I was taken by his words and wanted nothing more than to reassure him.

“I promise Anton.”

He held me strongly in his arms.

“You are a good man Paul. I can see that.”

Inside the house the family exchanged more light-hearted banter mostly concerning Camille and when she might produce a child. Isabelle was as usual, irresistible. She laughed often and completely entranced me with her deep blue eyes and thick raven hair.

“Do you sing Paul?”

The boys laughed.

“He is French mamma they do not know how to sing.”

“But he is also Jewish and they do”, she replied softly.

My first reaction was to agree with the boys. I looked at Camille for support but she said instead,

“Sing the song you heard your mother sing before you were born. You promised to sing it for me when we met in the cafe.”

I was embarrassed that she had remembered. Now they all encouraged me to sing. I swallowed hard and made a few dramatic adjustments to my posture before beginning the song. I was nervous and hoped I could remember the words but when I began I heard my mother’s voice,

The voice of my beloved is coming,

Leaping on the mountains,

Dancing on the hills

It is the time of love,

O bride come into my garden.

The grapevine has blossomed,

The pomegranates have flowered.

We will rejoice and sing.

Isabelle reached over and gently took my hand.

“I feel your mother is with us now”, she said.

I was sad to leave them. As we sat on the train to Paris I noticed Camille was quieter than usual.

“Are you unhappy?”

She tried to smile but I knew it was difficult for her to leave her family.

“Maybe we should talk about leaving Paris.”

She looked concerned.

“Why? Your father needs us and you have the shop. I also have my teaching.”

She was right of course. Father was becoming more dependent. He loved having Camille around the apartment and they had grown close. She had taken to reading him poetry and often walked with him to the synagogue.

We sat huddled together on the train watching the countryside pass us with increasing monotony. Occasionally the train stopped to allow passengers on and off and we always took this opportunity to step on to the platform. During one such stop I remembered the first time Camille came to my shop.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course”, she replied.

“That picture by Nathalie Kraemer. I asked you if you were acquainted with her and you said you were more than acquainted. What did you mean?”

“Did you not recognise me?”

“The painting was of you?”

She smiled and nodded.

“But the hair...it was black.”

“I asked her to change the colour as I wanted to hide my identity.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I met Nathalie when I first arrived in Paris. We shared an apartment together.”