‘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.
‘Is she dead?’ asked Julius.
‘Yes,’ said Père
Julius wondered what he should say. It really served Mère right. She deserved to die after going with Jacques Tripet. He could understand why Père had killed her. He didn’t want his thing to be spoilt. He would not allow anyone else to have it.
Julius knew it had hurt Père very much to kill her, but there had been nothing else to do. He would be very, very unhappy, but it was the only way out. Julius knew - Julius understood. He had thrown his cat into the Seine so that nobody else ever in the world would be able to feed her and stroke her little body. Père had killed Mère for the same reason.
‘It’s really a good thing she is dead, don’t you think?’ said Julius.
‘Yes,’ said Père.
‘I mean, you couldn’t have gone with her again, could you?’
‘No.’
‘Her face looks awful, shall I cover it up?’
‘Yes - put th
e blanket over her.’
Julius took the blanket from the mattress and arranged it neatly over Mère’s body. ‘It’s still a bit early for me to feel sorry she is dead,’ he thought. ‘I haven’t given up being angry with her yet.’
Père looked very weary and strange. His face was still the colour of a sheet. Julius felt old and grown up, he wanted to look after Père.
‘I expect this business has made you tired,’ he said; ‘why don’t you lie down on the mattress and go to sleep? Sleep will do you good. After I had thrown my little Mimitte into the Seine I was glad to lie down that evening and go to sleep.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Père. He sat down again, he seemed queer. Julius went and leant against his knee.
‘You’re bound to feel sad at first—’ he said. ‘I suffered so much when I killed my Mimitte I felt I could not talk to anybody. Even now I cry sometimes at night when I go to bed. I miss stroking her warm fur and feeling her paws on my face. I expect you will miss going with Mère. But it can’t be helped, can it? It is better for her to be dead than for other people to have her.’
He leant his cheek against Père’s face.
‘I shall miss her badly, too,’ he said. ‘When I’ve stopped being angry, I shall cry.’
Père hugged him tightly, so tightly he could scarcely breathe. He kissed him too, on his eyes and his mouth.
‘You are my own little thing, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Julius. He longed to tell Père about the Temple and the young Rabbin, but perhaps it was scarcely a good moment. He would wait.
‘It’s not very cheerful having Mère lie there in the middle of the room, is it?’ he said. ‘It’s going to be cold too, sleeping tonight without the blanket.’
Père got up from his chair and began to button up his tunic.
‘We shan’t be staying to-night,’ he said, ‘we’re going from here at once. You had better put a warm scarf under your coat and make a bundle of your clothes.’
‘Where are we going, then?’
‘I don’t know - anywhere - it doesn’t matter. We can’t stay here.’
‘Could we go home to Puteaux?’
‘No.’
‘Why not, Père? I’m not a coward. I’m not afraid of the Prussians if they are camping there. They don’t seem to fire any guns tonight. ’
‘There’s going to be an armistice.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There are notices on the walls. To-morrow it will be official. Paris has surrendered.’
‘Then the siege is over and the Prussians have won?’
‘Yes, little one.’
‘Why can’t we go home, then?’
‘Because Puteaux isn’t our home, it belonged to Grandpère and Mère. We have not got a home, you and I. Paris is not our city, France is not our country. We are Lévys, we are Jews.’
Julius was silent. There was no argument to this. He did as Père had told him and began to pack his clothes into a bundle. He was glad to leave the Rue des Petits Champs.
‘I suppose someone will bury Mère,’ he said. ‘Jacques Tripet is going to get a fright when he comes in, anyway. I shouldn’t care to be him, would you?’
Père did not answer. He was changing from his uniform of the Garde Nationale into his old suit. It was odd to see him dressed like that again.
‘Nobody would recognise you,’ laughed Julius; ‘look how thin you’ve got since the siege. Your clothes scarcely fit you at all.’
Père opened the window and looked out. Then he blew the candle.
‘All quiet,’ he said, ‘there is nobody about.’
Père unlocked the door and listened. No sound came from the passage.
‘Come on, are you ready?’ said Père. Julius wondered if he had any money in his pockets.
‘Mère had a purse tied round her waist, shall we take it?’ he said.
‘No,’ answered Père, ‘don’t bother about that. I have money enough for the moment.’ He began to walk down the stairs, his boots creaking.
Julius hesitated. It seemed a pity to think of the purse tied round Mère’s waist when she was not going to use it any more. He knelt down by her body and began to fumble under the blanket. Good - there was the purse. It seemed full too.The coins jingled nicely. Mère was warm to touch. He pulled aside her dress and kissed her breast. He had always loved the smell of her skin. The only way to prevent himself from crying was to think of her lying on the mattress with Jacques Tripet. He kissed her once again, and then pulled the blanket over her. He jingled the money next his ear.
‘After all,’ he thought, ‘there must be at least ten francs here, maybe more. In a way it’s something for nothing.’ He ran down the stairs after Père, his hand in one pocket clutching on to the purse.
That night the Lévys slept in a side chapel of the church of Saint-Sulpice. Julius broke off the ends of altar candles and hid them in his pocket with the purse. One never knew. He rattled a box that was nailed to the wall, a box that was marked: ‘For the Poor,’ with a cross beneath it. But it was locked. He was not able to take the money. They had to leave early for fear some priest should come and ask them their business.
Near a week ago Julius had pocketed three francs after selling pieces of shell as souvenirs of the siege here. ‘It’s a pity the Prussians are not firing to-day,’ said Julius, ‘we might have done business and made profit.’
But the guns were silent, the last Prussian shell had fallen. In the streets little groups of people formed, red-eyed, silent, their heads low as though some calamity had befallen them.
Paul Lévy pushed his way amongst them, and side by side he and Julius read the proclamation on the wall signed by all the members of the Government and dated Paris, the twenty-eighth of January, 1871. It was the terms of the armistice and the surrender of Paris, the siege had lasted four months and twelve days.The crowd read it in silence, no voices were raised in hostility or defiance, nor was there a single expression of agreement or content. They stared at the printed letters, dumb and unresponsive, it was as though all the suffering and the horror and the anguish of what had been and which would always remain deep in their hearts, could not be put into words, not now, nor ever. There was a man in a blue blouse and a cap on the back of his head who looked like Jean Blançard. He stood with his arms folded, his face hard as a stone. He did not seem to be reading at all, he stared in front of him, his eyes dry and cold. When he spoke his voice was like one coming from far away.
‘It’s over,’ he said.
Nobody spoke in answer. From the back of the little group a woman sobbed and then was silent, putting her shawl over her mouth. Then the crowd broke up and dispersed. They melted away as though they had never been. Julius looked up at Père, and he too seemed dumb like the rest of them, dazed and queer, he stared at the letters like a sleeping man. Julius tugged at his hand.
‘It’s over,’ said Père.
He turned on his heel, and began to walk up the street in any direction.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Julius. But Père did not answer him at all. And the day that passed was muddled and confused, one moment here, one moment there, and this was followed by another day and another day. At night they slept in churches. In the daytime Père would leave Julius, and he himself would try to find out whether people were free now to leave Paris or whether they must wait for the peace.To leave Paris it was necessary to obtain a pass from the Préfecture de Police, there were various formalities that must be gone through. Technically every citizen was a prisoner of war. By making such a demand Paul Lévy would be discovered. He did not know what to do. He was a dreamer unpractical, inexperienced, without initiative, all he knew was that he must get away from Paris and even France if possible. The idea was fixed in his head. It stood before him like a light that he could not grasp.
He and his son sat huddled together in the entrance of a church. Père looked ill, his dark hair was matted, for three days he had not been able to wash.
/>
‘We must get away,’ he kept repeating, ‘we must get away.’
He sat with bent head, his white hands drooping over his knee.
Julius was turning his cap inside out, looking for bugs. He caught one and squeezed it between his finger and thumb.
‘Can’t we find a train?’ he asked. ‘There must be trains leaving the stations now that the siege is over. The soldiers are going home to the provinces.’
‘One must have a pass,’ said Père. ‘They will never let us enter the station. And even once a train is in motion it is obliged to stop now and again, and the Prussians search the carriages. Again, I am not sure of the price of a ticket. It will cost dear to travel far.’
‘Where do we want to go, Père?’
‘South,’ said Paul Lévy, and he made a vague gesture with his hands.
Julius knew that in the south living was plentiful and the sun always shone.
‘It is a pity to waste money on a ticket,’ he said, ‘we ought to be able to go south for nothing.’
Père did not know how this could be managed.
‘No one can travel without a ticket,’ he said, shaking his head. He seemed to have lost hope. He looked shrunken and desolate. He was changed from the Père who had shaken Mère like a rat and killed her. There were hollows in his cheeks and his eyes were sunken. It seemed to Julius that Père was only splendid by moments, and at other times he was a poor creature. He understood why Grandpère had despised him. ‘I am a Blançard as well as a Lévy,’ thought Julius, and he wondered how they would be able to get away from Paris by train without anyone knowing and without paying a sou.
It was Julius who nosed his way into the Gare d’Orléans and discovered the departure of a goods train for Dijon was due at two o’clock on Thursday morning. An official was talking to a soldier, and the soldier turned to another official, and nobody bothered to notice a little Jew boy biting his nails.
‘There are still blocks everywhere,’ said one of them, ‘the Prussians are holding up all traffic.What time the train will arrive and on what day, no one can tell. We must hope for the best.’