Noah's Child (7 page)

‘People will notice they're not there. It'll draw attention to them.'

‘Not if we say there's an epidemic . . .'

‘Even so. People will wonder.'

‘Then you'll have to add a couple of boys above all
suspicion. I know, the burgomaster's son, for example. Better still, the Brognards' boy, you know, those idiots who put a picture of Hitler in the window of their cheese shop.'

‘Of course! Still, you can't make fourteen boys ill just like that . . .'

‘Nonsense, leave it to me.'

What did Dammit do? Claiming to be doing medical checks, she came to the infirmary and examined the group of postulants. Two days later, with their insides tormented by diarrhoea, the burgomaster's son and the Brognard boy stayed in bed, unable to get to their lessons. Dammit came and described the symptoms to Father Pons who asked the twelve Jewish communicants to imitate them.

The communion was planned for the following day and the twelve pseudo-victims were confined to the infirmary for three days.

The ceremony took place in Chemlay church, a magisterial service during which the organ thundered more than ever. I really envied my classmates in their white albs for taking part in such a show. Deep down, I promised myself I would be in their shoes one day. Father Pons could teach me the Torah all he liked, nothing touched me in the same way as Catholic
services with their gold and pomp, their music and that huge airborne God who hovered benevolently under the ceiling.

When we were back in the Villa Jaune − sharing the frugal banquet which seemed phantasmagorical to us because we were so hungry − I was surprised to spot Mademoiselle Marcelle in the hall. As soon as Father Pons saw her, he disappeared into his office with her.

That very evening he told me of the catastrophe we had so narrowly missed.

During the communion service the Gestapo had swooped on the boarding school. The Nazis had probably used the same reasoning as Father Pons: the fact that any child the right age to communicate was not at the ceremony was as good as a denunciation.

Luckily, Mademoiselle Marcelle was on guard outside the infirmary. When the Nazis emerged from the empty dormitories on to the top landing she started to cough and spit ‘in the most revolting way', as she put it. Anyone who knew the spectacularly ugly Dammit in her natural state would shudder at the thought of such a performance. Showing no resistance to their request, she opened the door to the infirmary, warning them that the boys were very
contagious. With these words she gave a poorly controlled sneeze and showered the Nazis' faces with spittle.

Anxiously wiping their faces, the Gestapo turned swiftly on their heels and left. Once the black cars had gone Mademoiselle Marcelle spent two hours bent double with laughter on a bed in the infirmary, a sight which, according to my classmates, was initially rather horrible but soon provoked an epidemic of its own.

Although he never let it show, I could tell Father Pons was more and more worried.

‘I'm frightened they'll do a strip search, Joseph. What could I do if the Nazis made you strip to find the ones who are circumcised?'

I nodded and pulled a face to show that I shared his fears when, in fact, I had no idea what he was talking about. Circumcised? When I quizzed Rudy, he started sniggering with the same chuckling sounds he made if he talked about the lovely Dora, as if knocking a bag of walnuts against his chest.

‘You're pulling my leg! Don't you know what circumcision is? You can't not know you've been done, surely?'

‘Done?'

‘Circumcised.'

The conversation was taking an unpleasant turn: once again I was attributed some special status I didn't know anything about! As if being Jewish wasn't enough!

‘Your willy hasn't got skin all the way to the end, has it?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Well, Christians have skin hanging over the end. You can't see the rounded bit.'

‘Like dogs?'

‘Yup. Exactly like dogs.'

‘So it's true then, that we're a completely different race!'

This information devastated me: my hopes of becoming a Christian were evaporating. Because of some scrap of skin no one could see, I was condemned to staying Jewish.

‘No, you idiot,' Rudy retorted, ‘there's nothing natural about it, it's a surgical procedure: it was done to you a few days after you were born. The rabbi cut your skin off.'

‘Why?'

‘So you could be like your father.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's been like that for thousands of years.'

‘Why?'

I was staggered by this discovery. That same evening I snuck off and examined my pink soft-skinned appendage for minutes on end, but learned absolutely nothing. I couldn't imagine how it could possibly be any different. Over the next few days, to check that Rudy wasn't lying to me, I parked myself by the toilets in the playground, spending all of break time washing and re-washing my hands at the basins. Out of the corner of my eye I peered into the neighbouring urinal to try and see my classmates' penises as they took them in or out of their trousers. It wasn't long before I could confirm that Rudy had been telling the truth.

‘It's ridiculous, Rudy. Christians do have a bit of skin at the end, all drawn together and wrinkly, it looks like the end bit of a balloon, where you make a knot. And that's not all; they take longer than us to pee, they shake their willies afterwards. Almost as if they're annoyed with them. Are they punishing themselves?'

‘No, they're shaking off the drips before putting it back in. It's harder for them to stay clean than it is for us. If they're not careful they can get loads of germs which smell and make it sore.'

‘And we're the ones who are being hunted down? Does that make any sense to you?'

On the other hand, I now understood Father Pons's concern. I then noticed the invisible scheme in place for our weekly shower: Father Pons drew up lists which he checked himself as he called out the names, sending ten pupils of mixed ages at a time to get undressed and go from the changing rooms to the showers, with him alone keeping an eye on them. Each group turned out to be made up of one ‘type'. A non-Jew never had an opportunity to see a Jew naked, and vice versa, as nudity was forbidden on pain of punishment anywhere else in the school. Now I could easily work out who was hiding at the Villa Jaune. From then on I was aware of the possible consequences for myself, so I got into the habit of avoiding urinals, and emptied my bladder in a locked cubicle. I even tried to redress the operation that had maimed me: I devoted time alone to manipulating the skin so that it went back to its original state and covered my glans. In vain! However roughly I pulled it, at the end of the session it would ride back up, and there was no noticeable improvement with the passing days.

‘What can we do if the Gestapo get you all to undress, Joseph?'

Why did Father Pons confide in the youngest boarder? Did he think I was braver than the others? Did he need to break his silence? Was it difficult for him bearing these terrible responsibilities alone?

‘I mean if the Gestapo make you all drop your trousers.'

The answer nearly did for us all in August 1943. The school, which was officially closed, turned into a holiday camp for the summer. Anyone without a host family stayed on in the boarding house until the beginning of the next school year. Instead of feeling abandoned, those of us who were left felt like princes: the Villa Jaune was ours and the long weeks of plentiful fruit went some way to easing our constant gnawing hunger. With the help of a few young seminarians, Father Pons devoted his time to us. It was a constant round of long walks, campfires, ball games and Charlie Chaplin films projected on to a white sheet held taut against the dark night in the covered yard. Although we were discreet around our supervisors, we no longer had to take any precautions amongst ourselves: we were all Jewish. Out of gratitude to Father Pons, we were all unbelievably eager about the only lessons we continued to have, our catechism lessons. We sang
with tremendous enthusiasm in all Christian services and, on rainy mornings, threw ourselves into building a crib and the figures to go with it for the following Christmas.

One day when a football match had reduced all the players to a muck sweat, Father Pons ordered immediate showers.

The older boys had had theirs and the middle group too. All that remained was the youngest group, which included me.

There were about twenty of us playing and whooping under cool water streaming from the shower heads when a German officer stepped into the changing rooms.

As the blond-haired officer came in we children turned to stone, our voices dying away, and Father Pons went whiter than the tiling. Everything froze, except for the jetting water, which continued gleefully, obliviously showering us.

The officer inspected us. Some instinctively covered their genitals, a naturally modest gesture which came too late not to be seen as an admission.

The water streamed on. Silence sweated out of us in great fat droplets.

The officer had just established our identity. A
flicker of his eyes showed that he was thinking. Father Pons took a step forward.

‘You were looking for . . .?' he said in a cracked voice.

The officer explained the situation in French. Since morning his troop had been tracking a Resistance fighter who had climbed over the wall to the grounds as he fled. He was now trying to see where the intruder might be hiding.

‘You can see that your fugitive isn't hiding here,' said Father Pons.

‘Yes, I can see that,' the officer replied slowly.

Silence descended again, heavy with fear and danger. I grasped the fact that my life would stop there. Just a few more seconds and we would be filing out, naked, humiliated, to climb into a lorry that would take us to some destination I couldn't imagine.

There were footsteps outside. Thump of boots. Steel toecaps on paving stones. Guttural cries.

The officer in his grey-green uniform ran to the door and opened it slightly.

‘He's not in here. Keep looking.
Schnell!
'

The door was already closing again, and the troop moving away.

The officer looked at Father Pons whose lips were
quivering. Some of us started to cry. My teeth were chattering.

At first I thought the officer was reaching for his revolver in his belt. In fact he was taking out his wallet.

‘Here,' he said to Father Pons, handing him a banknote, ‘treat the boys to some sweets.'

Father Pons was so dumbstruck he didn't respond, so the officer forcibly put the five francs into his hand, gave us a smile and a wink, clicked his heels together and strode out.

How long did the silence last after he left? How many minutes did it take for us to understand we were saved? Some carried on crying because they were still gripped with fear; others were rooted to the spot, speechless; still others rolled their eyes as if to say ‘can you believe it, can any of you believe it?'

Father Pons, his face waxy and lips white, suddenly slumped to the floor. Kneeling on the soaking concrete, he rocked backwards and forwards uttering jumbled words, his eyes glazed, haunted. I threw myself at him and hugged him to me even though I was wet; it was a protective gesture, the sort of thing I would have done to Rudy.

Only then did I hear what he kept saying:

‘Thank you, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord. For my children, I thank you.'

Then he turned his head towards me, seemed to become aware of me and, abandoning self-control, collapsed in my arms in tears.

Some emotions − be they happy or unhappy − prove so strong that they break us. Father Pons's relief so overwhelmed us that it had a contagious effect, and a few minutes later twelve little Jewish boys, naked as the day they were born, and one priest in his cassock were all clinging together, soaked and overwrought, laughing and crying at the same time.

A vague sense of happiness carried us through the next few days. Father Pons smiled the whole time. He confessed to me that he had drawn renewed faith from that turn of events.

‘Do you really think it was God who helped us, Father?' I asked, making the most of my Hebrew lesson to voice the questions that were plaguing me. Father Pons looked at me kindly.

‘To be honest, no, my little Joseph. God doesn't get involved in that sort of thing. I'm feeling happy since that German officer did what he did because I've regained some faith in human nature.'

‘Well, I think it's because of you. You're in God's good books.'

‘Don't talk nonsense.'

‘Don't you think that if you behave in a godly way − doesn't matter if you're a good Jew or a good Christian − then nothing bad can happen to you?'

‘Where did you get a silly idea like that?'

‘From the catechism. Father Boniface . . .'

‘Stop! That's dangerous nonsense! Humans hurt each other and God doesn't play any part in it. He made men free. So we suffer or are happy quite independently of our good qualities and our failings. What sort of terrible role are you attributing to God? Can you imagine for a single second that someone who escapes from the Nazis is loved by God, but anyone who's captured by them isn't? God doesn't meddle in our business.'

‘Do you mean that, whatever happens, God couldn't care less?'

‘I mean that, whatever happens, God has done what he had to do. It's up to us now. We are responsible for ourselves.'

*
Pumice stone

Four

A
second school year began.

Rudy and I became closer and closer. We were different in every way − age, height, concerns, attitude − but, instead of driving us apart, each of these differences only made us more aware of how much we liked each other. I helped him by clarifying his muddled ideas while he protected me from fights with his strong stature but more particularly his reputation as a bad pupil. ‘You can't get anything out of him,' the teachers used to say, ‘we've never come across such a hard nut to break.' Rudy was completely impermeable to any kind of learning, and we admired him for it. The teachers always managed to ‘get something out of' the rest of us, which proved we were weak, corrupt and had a suspect tendency to accept compromise. They got nothing out of Rudy. The perfect dunce: pure, unadulterated, unblemished and confronting them
with total resistance. He became the hero of our other war, the war of pupils against masters. And disciplinary punishments were doled out to him so frequently that his wild-eyed, unkempt head was adorned with another wreath: the crown of martyrdom.