The Blood of Lorraine (8 page)

Tuesday, November 20

T
HE STORY BROKE THE DAY
Clarie’s father arrived. Martin picked up the afternoon edition of
Le Courrier de l’Est
at a kiosk in Place Stanislas and stood under the flimsy protection of the vendor’s flapping awning, skimming the headlines.
MYSTERIOUS MURDER OF WORKER’S CHILD IN TOMBLAINE
appeared just below the fold.

Martin closed his eyes and groaned. Why had he even bothered to hope that the press would stay out of it?

“Are you all right, sir?” the paper-seller asked.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Martin answered before turning his back on the man while he read on, fighting the cold north wind as the story billowed up toward him.

The reporter had not talked to Geneviève Philipon or her children. Or, at the very least, they had obeyed Martin’s orders and refused to talk to him. The main informant was a certain François Mouton, one of the local men who had searched for the baby and become troubled by the fact that no one had been arrested. This led the reporter to the jailhouse, where he discovered that the little boy’s parents were under arrest. The writer concluded with a question: Were the people of Nancy about to learn of a singular abomination perpetuated by the mother and father, or were we witnessing, once again, a miscarriage of justice by an overweening judiciary? Bernard Martin was prominently mentioned as the investigating magistrate.

Martin’s first instinct was to crumple the paper into a ball and throw it away. Then he thought better of it. He’d show it to Singer. Yes, Martin wanted to hear what Singer would have to say about it, Singer who had gotten him into the whole mess. Martin knew very well how Didier was going to react: another dressing-down, demands to make the obdurate Thomases confess, and an insistence that Martin somehow get to the bottom of a presumed anti-Semitic plot.

The bottom! Martin thought, as he marched back to the Palais de Justice. As far as he could tell, there was an endless well of hatred and idiocy to sink into. Fortunately, by the time he rang the bell for the door-keep, he was calmer. Surely Singer, who had lived in Lorraine all his life, could offer some advice or, at the very least, some consolation. Especially now, when Martin wanted so desperately to keep Clarie out of it.

As soon as the door swung open, Martin rushed past the guard, taking the polished wooden stairs two at a time, only to find Singer’s chambers locked up for the night. Martin stood before the thick oaken door for a moment to collect himself, before slowly retracing his steps. He stopped at his office to drop the paper on his desk. If only it were that easy to shed his frustrations, he thought, as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. From the moment he entered his apartment, he was going to have to play the role of the cheerful host and proud expectant father. Martin grinned in spite of himself. Maybe that’s exactly what he needed, forced relaxation.

His spirits lifted as he strode through the gay, busy Place Stanislas for the second time. After all, he rationalized, it would all end soon enough. Little Marc-Antoine had not been murdered, so there would be no scandalous trial. Most importantly, the newspaper had made no mention of an alleged ritual murder. Perhaps Didier’s and Singer’s fears had been entirely overblown. All Martin had to do was to keep a lid on the situation until he got Antoinette Thomas to make a full confession.

By the time he opened the door to his apartment and took in the welcoming warm aroma of steaming tomatoes and garlic, Martin was convinced that there really was nothing to worry about. Until he saw a glower in the eyes of the barrel-chested Giuseppe Falchetti, who had hurried over to greet him in the foyer.

“What have you gotten into, my boy?”

Martin couldn’t tell whether his father-in-law was condemning or teasing him. Then a smile broke out between the bushy white mustache and beard as Giuseppe shook his head and murmured, “The wrong side, I keep telling you, the wrong side.”

“It’s more than that—”

“Oh, I’m not the one who needs the explaining. It’s your wife.”

“You showed her—” Martin did not know whether to be angry or apprehensive.

“Of course. I picked up the paper at the railroad station. How could I miss seeing my son-in-law’s name, more than once, right on the front page?”

The railroad station
. Martin should have realized that Giuseppe Falchetti, a devoted socialist, would have spent time there, reading all the headlines before choosing a newspaper.

“Come.” Giuseppe took Martin’s bowler and helped him off with his coat. “Come. And don’t worry. I remember how her mother got that last month. It will pass.”

Will it? Martin thought. He had never kept anything from Clarie before. He tiptoed with trepidation to meet her eyes and her fury.

She was already sitting at the round wooden table that took up most of their tiny dining room. After Martin and Giuseppe squeezed in, she asked Rose to serve the pasta and Martin to open the wine. Clarie spoke in a monotone, staring straight in front of her, not even offering Martin a nod of greeting. As if on notice that orders had better be obeyed without delay or comment, Rose, their short, broad, middle-aged day woman, scurried to the kitchen to retrieve a steaming bowl of spaghetti bolognese. She set it near Giuseppe, who leaned over, took a sniff, and sighed with pleasure. For the Italian, food was sacred; the dish that he had taught Clarie’s mother, and then Clarie, was a family sacrament that called for heedfulness, gratitude and joy. Clarie knew this. So did Martin. Yet, save for the glances he cast toward Clarie, who continued to ignore him, Martin dared not move a muscle.

Undeterred, the old Italian doled out the pasta, tucked his napkin in his collar and dug in, drawing the strands of red spaghetti into his mouth with noisy enthusiasm. Clarie merely nibbled, slowly picking up and examining each strand of spaghetti before depositing it in her mouth. Martin, for his part, twisted normal portions of the reddened pasta around his fork, but found it harder and harder to swallow. Giuseppe broke the silence.

“This is delicious, my sweet. So you finally succeeded in getting Rose not to overcook the spaghetti.”

“Yes, Papa,” Clarie said as she scrutinized another strand.

“Clarie—”

She snubbed Martin and turned to her father. “Did you know, Papa, that I am married to a man who calls himself a rationalist, yet believes that something terrible will happen to his pregnant wife if she hears about certain crimes?”

“No, Clarie—”

“Oh, that’s not it?” she said, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes glaring at Martin. “Perhaps it’s even worse. Perhaps you are afraid that if you told me what you had seen, our son would be born with a scar down his front, just like that poor, little baby left by the river? Perhaps after all your talk about progress and women’s rights, you are secretly that superstitious.”

“Clarie—”

“Well, I am not,” she said as she threw her napkin on the table and, using both her hands, pushed herself up. “And I am not feeling well, so I am going to bed. Rose will clear when you are done. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Clarie!” This time Martin rose, about to run after her.

Giuseppe stuck out a stout, strong arm to stop him. “Sit. Eat. Let her be for a while.”

Martin stood for just a moment before sinking back into the chair.

“Even though Clarie’s mother had borne six sons for her first husband,” Giuseppe said as he filled Martin’s wine glass, “she still had the nerves during her last month with our little Clarie. And then, after our beautiful baby came, it was all smiles.”

“I know. That’s why….” Martin stopped himself. The white-haired Giuseppe Falchetti was a fine man, a lovable man, but he could not possibly know what it was like to carry the gory images of dead bodies around in your head or realize that, once again, you had been handed a career-threatening case. That it could be Aix-en-Provence all over again.

“We should eat,” said Giuseppe as he tore a piece of bread and used it to wipe around the rim of his bowl, “we should drink, and then we should take a walk.”

Martin fingered his fork, listening for any sounds from the bedroom. Sobs? Slamming? Shoes being thrown on the floor? Nothing.

“Eat while it’s hot. She loves you. She worries about you, that’s all.” Giuseppe imbibed another mouthful and grunted with pleasure.

“That’s all?” Then why the empty chair, the chastened Rose, the two men left alone in front of a rapidly congealing feast?

Giuseppe leaned toward Martin. “She asked me to get you to walk me back to the hotel tonight. She wanted us to try to talk about what is bothering you.”

The kind-hearted, burly Giuseppe was a second father to Martin. He knew that even when the Italian pounded the table and roared out his opposition to the oppressive laws that Martin was charged with upholding, he did it with good humor and love, as a way of engaging and embracing the son he’d never had. Nevertheless, Martin was not in the mood to spar with him tonight.

“Clarie and I should not involve you in our quarrels,” Martin said, as he concentrated on twirling the spaghetti round and round on his fork.

“But I
am
involved!” Giuseppe stretched out his arms and then thumped his heart with his right hand. “I am. After all, I was the fool who brought the paper home.”

“And she asked you after she read—”

“No, before. Clarie’s too smart a girl not to notice that something’s wrong.”

Before
. Martin deposited the forkful of pasta into his mouth and began to chew. Even before she saw the newspaper, she had asked her father to get involved. And Martin thought he had been protecting her. He was a fool.

Giuseppe set Clarie’s half-full bowl inside his and pushed them aside. “So you see, my boy, we’re both under orders.”

Giuseppe insisted that they stop for a drink as they headed down the hill toward the railroad station. They chose a dimly lit café, with only a scattering of customers, and took a corner table near the window. Martin stared at the red-and-white checked table cloth in sullen silence as Giuseppe ordered two cognacs. Neither said another word until the blacksmith’s patient expectant gaze resigned Martin to the inevitable.

Yes, Martin admitted, he was keeping the weaver and the tanner under lock and key. Yes, he was under pressure to do this. “But,” Martin whispered, “there may be a great deal more at stake.” Giuseppe nodded sagely when Martin asked if he was aware of the upcoming trial of Captain Dreyfus in Paris. Then the old man shrugged.

“Who cares about the army? Who can trust any of them? It’s the last bastion of the nobles, of the elite. They’ll fire on the workers if it comes to that. They’re worse,” his hazel eyes twinkled as he shook a stubby finger at Martin, “worse even than the magistrature.”

“That may be so,” said Martin, suppressing a smile as Giuseppe made the obligatory poke at his profession. “But what if people use Dreyfus’s treachery to punish all Jews?”

“Maybe they deserve it!” Giuseppe’s fist fell upon the table, rattling the short, thick glasses. “The Rothschilds, the Perriers, their banks, their railroads, their exploitation.”

The working man’s plaint against the Israelites. The ignoramus Pierre Thomas had blurted out similar accusations. Martin took a gulp of the brandy. It seared a burning path down his constricted throat. He’d never dreamed that Giuseppe would be an anti-Israelite. The subject had never come up between them.

“Surely you don’t read
La Libre Parole
?” Martin took in a breath while he waited for the answer.

“Oh no.” Giuseppe grimaced with disgust. “You don’t need to read Drumont’s rag to know that the Rothschilds have too much power.”

“Not all Jews are Rothschilds,” Martin said, thinking of Singer. “Not all of them are rich,” he murmured, as a vision of his landlords, the Steins, formed in his mind. There probably weren’t any Israelites in Arles. And if Giuseppe did not know any Jews, he might not see how the Steins were like them, like Martin’s dead father, who had barely eked out a living from his clockmaking, and like the blacksmith himself. Kind, decent, hardworking people. He shook his head, pulling himself back to his father-in-law. He had to press his case. As he gathered his thoughts, he realized that what he was about to say might be preparation for a new role. Instead of arguing that someone had committed a crime, he might have to prepare himself to exonerate an entire race from the crimes—real or imagined—that they stood accused of. “Should all the Israelites be hated and persecuted because some are very rich, or one may be a traitor, or because they are not Christians? Should we allow mobs to threaten all of them?”

“Do you think that could happen?”

“It has. In the past.”

Giuseppe pursed his lips in thought, giving Martin an opportunity to go on. “They are in all walks of life. Among the bakers and shoemakers and shopkeepers. Probably even among the workers,” he added, appealing to his father-in-law’s “red” sympathies. Martin’s heart began to pound, he wanted so much to get Giuseppe on his side.

For the next few minutes, Giuseppe countered Martin’s insistence that the Thomases’ lies posed a danger to the city with a recitation of the many ways the rich, especially the Rothschilds, exploited workers, not only in France but wherever their banks and their companies operated, for money, always for money, and the power money gave them.

“But that’s not true of all Israelites,” Martin insisted. Even though Singer, Martin’s only real friend at the courthouse, was the reason he had been put into the position of defending French Jews, he did not mention him to his father-in-law. It was not only because they had never met. Martin guessed that his father-in-law would not have liked his fellow judge. Singer’s excessively formal demeanor would have come off as a kind of snobbishness, an exemplar of everything Giuseppe accused the courts of being. This is why Martin clinched the argument by speaking of the Steins. “You’ve met our landlords,” he said. “Who would they plot with? What other care do they have except running their store and passing it on to their children and grandchildren, just as you are passing your smithy onto your stepsons?”