Revolution Baby (23 page)

Now the entire village was out in the street, surrounding the American tanks. They couldn't move any farther forward. Albert the Pig took me to one side and gave me the keys to the cellar.

“Go and fetch as many bottles of champagne as you can carry.”

It took me a few seconds to understand what he was asking. Ever since I had come back to stay with the Brisson family, there had been a shortage of champagne. And yet, from time to time, Yvonne would ask Albert if he was sure there wasn't a bottle or two somewhere. I couldn't understand why she kept asking him, and found that she was curiously insistent. It was because she knew her husband well, and she must have suspected him of having put some in reserve for the end of the war.

“Go on, what are you waiting for, do I have to wind you up to get you to move a little?”

“Uh, no, I'm on my way, right now.”

I filled baskets with bottles that I took back to Albert a few at a time. And he handed them out left and right so that everyone would have the pleasure of tossing them to the liberators. The Americans tossed plenty of things at us as well: chocolate, cigarettes, and soap (real soap, that lathered!). One of the most unpleasant things about the war had been the soap. There was nothing but that gray, clayey stuff which did not lather at all. So real soap, that smelled of perfume to boot, was to me an unmistakable sign: the war really was over now.

I could see Albert pointing at me with his finger. Someone ran up to me.

“You speak English, don't you?”

“Uh, I learned some at the lycée, yes.”

“Well, one of them, the colonel, is saying stuff in English and we don't understand, and he seems to want us to find him an interpreter.”

“I don't speak very much . . . ”

“I doubt there is anyone here who speaks better. And anyway, you just have to understand what he's saying, you won't have to talk to him.”

So they led me up to the colonel.

“Hello, my boy. So you're the one who speaks English, right?”

Oh no! I knew Americans had an accent, but not as strong as that! I didn't understand a thing except for “hello” and “English.” But it was enough for me to reply with a timid little “yes.”

“Okay, so can you explain to these people that I would like to eat some eggs?”

I must have looked completely lost, because then he said, articulating exaggeratedly, “To eat. FRESH EGGS!”

That word I knew,
eggs
, there could be no doubt about it. I turned to Albert and explained that the Americans wanted to eat some eggs. Albert waved his hands and told me to tell him they could come to his house.

“You come. This is Albert. Come with Albert for eggs.”

One thing was for sure: I would never be an interpreter.

So there we were with a dozen American soldiers at our table. Yvonne made omelets for them while Albert poured champagne for everyone. As the evening progressed they had less need of my services, because the more they drank, the better the Americans and the French understood each other.

 

And that is how the American advance got as far as our village. During the evening, someone tried to explain to the Americans that there were some German tanks just near there, roughly four kilometers away, and I was translating, saying, “four kilometers” and pointing the same direction as our informant. And they told me to add, “They wait for you.”

“Well, they can wait,” replied the colonel. He went outside with his radio and talked for a few minutes. Then he came back in and asked for some more champagne.

Roughly an hour later, planes flew over the village. Then there was the sound of machine gun fire, along with explosions. It came from the direction I had indicated to the American colonel. It would seem that the German tanks weren't waiting after all.

Two days later, when the Americans had finally resolved to leave our ever so hospitable village, a black Citroën Traction pulled up outside the Brisson house. On the car there were big letters that said “FTP,” which stood for “Francs-tireurs et Partisans.” And I suddenly realized they had come for me.

I ran to pack my suitcase and went quickly around the village to say goodbye to everyone. Yvonne gave me a big hug and despite all her efforts she could not hold back her tears. Albert took me in his arms and said, “Roger, you worked very hard for us. You deserve a reward.”

He went back into the house, walking slowly and heavily, in spite of the rising impatience of the people who had come to get me. He came back with a big sack of potatoes, as a souvenir, and Lena would surely be happy with it. I gave my last hugs and kisses to Yvonne and Albert and climbed into the big black car. I was quite sad to be leaving, but I was eager to get back to free Paris.

Don't you realize! I missed everything, everything! I missed the battle for Paris. I knew I should stay here, that I shouldn't let you send me to Champagne!”

I had only just arrived at Lena's lodgings.

“Hello, my son.”

“I'm sorry . . . hello, Lena.”

“Well. Yes, it's true, you missed it, but everything went fine without you.”

“I'm not an idiot! I just wanted to be here, to see all the excitement, I don't know . . . it was a historical moment, after all! And I missed it because of you!”

“You've lived through a lot of historical moments, ever since you were born. And here, it was too dangerous. That was why I sent you to Champagne.”

“What?”

“I knew there will be battle. And I knew that you, like all boys your age, you will want to get involved. And you know, it worked, but it was lucky. And there was many casualties, hundreds of dead. It wasn't worth risking your life foolishly, almost the end of the war.”

Her words reminded me of what Monsieur Noiret had said in class. Except that my mother had belonged to the Resistance, and she had risked her life. And surely, by virtue of that alone, she must have risked my life at times, too. But it was too late now, it was done, Paris was free.

Lena handed me a navy blue suit: “It's for you, put it on.” I looked at it: the jacket was from the FTP! I felt like a bit of an imposter, but my pride in wearing it won out. And when I walked around the streets in Paris, people would greet me and give me a kindly smile. I was a war hero.

Life was no longer dangerous in Paris. Food was still rationed, but we didn't have to hide, there was no longer any risk we might be arrested. Since I had to go back to Saint-Maur-des-Fossés for my studies, I kept my identity as Roger Binet. I didn't know how much longer I would be able to live like that, for when I went to apply for my ID card, someone somewhere might eventually realize that there were two Roger Binets born on August 3, 1929, in Versailles. On the other hand, if I resumed my identity as Julian Kryda, I'd have no papers proving that I had successfully completed my first years at the lycée, and I'd have no legal status in France. Every time I talked it over with Lena, we came to a dead end, and she kept saying she would think about it later.

I managed to convince her not to send me back to the fat bearded man, Monsieur Barbier. She found me a place in the country with the Dłuski family: Ostap, Stasia and their son Wiktor. These were people Lena had known in the Communist Party back in Poland. At the beginning of the Occupation, after she had warned them that there was going to be a raid in their neighborhood, they had lived with us for a while on the rue Aubriot.

Roughly one week after I arrived at their big house, Wiktor, who was now six years old, came up and stared at me for a long time.

“You know, I know a boy who looks a lot like you. Really a lot. But he doesn't have the same name as you.”

“Really? What's his name?”

“Jules. I used to live with him, and he played with me the way you do. I don't suppose you know him by any chance?”

“Well, can you imagine, I do know him. He's my brother. It's true we look a lot alike.”

“And where is he, now?”

“He goes to school in another town, so he can't live with you.”

“I'd like him to come and visit someday. I want to play with him again.”

“I'll tell him, I promise.”

Yes, I know, not a great idea to say he was my brother. And I don't think I convinced my little Wiktor. But I couldn't tell him the truth, he was too young, it was too risky, he might not know how to keep the secret, and everyone knew me as Roger Binet, now. Out of all the lies I'd had to tell during the war, this lie to Wiktor was hardest of all. Probably because I sensed that he didn't believe me and he was disappointed to see I was lying to him, because he wanted me to be a friend he could trust.

 

On my days off, I went back to Lena's place, as I had a lot to do in Paris. I was now a bona fide member of the movement of young communists of France, the MJCF. Every Sunday I distributed our newspaper. I would walk through the streets and the parks, or go into buildings, and shout, “Get it here, read
L'Avant-Garde
, the newspaper of the young communists of France! Get it here, read
L'Avant-Garde
, the newspaper of the young communists of France!” I found I had a talent for selling and very quickly I was put in charge of selling the paper in the third arrondissement.

One Sunday, during a communist youth demonstration, I was walking proudly with my sign, “France to the People,” when suddenly we heard a deafening, terrifying, whistling sound in the sky. Everyone stopped, stunned, looking skyward. Someone shouted, “It's V2 missiles, run for cover!” (The V2 was a German missile that could reach Paris from as far away as the Netherlands. It was a new weapon that the Germans were only just beginning to use, and Hitler was sure that it would enable him to win the war.) The crowd went into a panic, everyone was running every which way looking for shelter. We were used to rockets and air raids. But with this thundering noise you really got the impression that this time all of Paris was about to explode.

It was dark in my shelter. There were seven or eight of us who had run this far, and right next to me was a young girl who was about my age. I could just make out her terrified eyes. I smiled at her. She tried to return my smile, but her lips were trembling. Suddenly, we could no longer hear the whistling noise. The girl looked at me, even more terrified. I moved closer to her and put my arms around her. And then there was an explosion, in the distance. And the sound of sirens from the emergency vehicles getting louder and louder. Obeying an impulse that came out of nowhere, I put my lips on the girl's. She didn't resist. On the contrary, she relaxed into my arms.

People in the street were rushing this way and that. My neighbor from the shelter and I looked at each other and tacitly agreed to let other people worry about the urgency of the situation, and we would go on getting acquainted. We stayed for roughly an hour in the shelter of the porte cochère, and when the calm had returned all around us, we parted, not even bothering to tell each other our names.

Early May, 1945. It was a holiday. It was my intention to take part in the big May Day demonstration, but for the time being, I was lounging on my little camp bed in the single room that made up Lena's lodgings.

I could hear footsteps in the corridor. Trudging, and slightly out of sync. I leapt out of bed when I heard someone knock on the door. Lena opened it, froze, put her hand to her mouth, took it away, remained motionless for a few moments then eventually cried out: “Arnold!”

“Arnold? You're mistaken. I'm Roger Colombier. So, how is my wife Hélène doing these days?”

It really was him. We hadn't seen him in . . . could it have been three years? We hadn't even known whether he was still alive. And there he was, making jokes. He and Lena began speaking Polish. And Arnold looked at me. Silence. I could tell he was moved. He held out his arms. I hurried over as quickly as my adolescent body would allow.

“My little Roger!”

“My big Roger!”

I tried to joke the way he did, but it wasn't easy. Tall, imposing Arnold had little more than skin on his bones. He was wearing the striped clothing of a prisoner from a concentration camp. That was what we'd been afraid of, that he been taken to a camp. The good news was that he was alive, but I didn't expect to see him looking so emaciated.

“Come on, come on, my little Roger, get dressed right away. We're going to the demonstration.”

While I was getting ready, Lena offered him some tea and cookies. When I was ready I sat down at the table, took a few cookies and observed Arnold. Obviously he had lost weight, but the hardest thing to see was his eyes. His big blue eyes that had always had a mischievous twinkle in them were now . . . I don't know . . . it was as if a light had gone out. They were faded. Sad. No, defeated.

“Well, are you ready? You took your time! Are you coming with us, Lena?”

“No, I have to wait for Annette, I promised her we'd go together. But don't wait for me,
nie czekajcie na mnie
.”

I walked at the head of the procession, next to Arnold, with other survivors from the camps, all wearing their striped clothing. All of France seemed to be parading through the streets of Paris, from the place de la Bastille to the place de la Nation. I was proud to be there, among those who had known which was the right side to be on and, risking their lives, had chosen that side. You could feel the great emotion, the exaltation, in the crowd. It was as if my heart were about to explode—I wished I could have started running so that the movement of my body would correspond to the beating of my heart. But I didn't want to leave Arnold behind.

A few weeks later, it was Geneviève's turn to come back. She too had lost a lot of weight, and she had the same look in her eyes as Arnold. They told us what had happened to them. Briefly.