Every time I asked the Comte and the tiny Comtesse where my parents were, the answer invariably came back: ‘Somewhere safe.’
I made do with that because all my energy was taken up discovering my new life: my life as a nobleman.
When I wasn’t on my own exploring every nook and cranny of the house, or watching the maids in their constant dance of polishing silver, beating carpets and plumping up cushions, I spent hours in the drawing room with the Comtesse who worked on improving my French, and wouldn’t allow me to utter a single expression in Yiddish. I was all the more compliant with her because she spoiled me with cakes and piano waltzes. Apart from anything else, I was convinced that I would achieve true noble status only by mastering this language Sadly, it struck me as lacklustre, difficult to pronounce and nothing like as amusing and colourful as my own, but it was gentle, measured and distinguished.
In front of visitors I had to call the Comte and Comtesse ‘Uncle’ and ‘Aunt’ because they were passing me off as one of their Dutch nephews.
I had reached the point where I believed it myself, when the police surrounded the house one morning.
‘Police! Open up! Police!’
Men thudded violently on the front door; the bell wasn’t enough for them.
‘Police! Open up! Police!’
The Comtesse, wearing only a silk negligee, burst into my room, grabbed me in her arms and took me to her bed.
‘Don’t be afraid of anything, Joseph, answer in French, just like me.’
As the police climbed the stairs, she started reading a story, the two of us propped up against the pillows as if this was all quite normal.
When they came in they glowered at us furiously.
‘You’re hiding a Jewish family!’
‘Search wherever you like,’ she said haughtily, ‘put a stethoscope to the walls, break open trunks, turn over all the beds: you won’t find anything. On the other hand, I can guarantee you will be hearing from me first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Someone has come forward with information, Madame.’
Still keeping her composure, the Comtesse showed her indignation that they would believe anyone at the drop of a hat. She warned that this would not stop here, it would go all the way to the palace because she was a close friend of the Queen’s, then she announced that this blunder would cost these little civil servants their jobs – oh yes, they could take her word on that!
‘Now, do your searches! And get on with it!’
Confronted with so much confidence and indignation, the officer in charge almost took a step back.
‘May I ask you who this child is, Madame?’
‘My nephew. His father is General von Grebels. Do I need to show you a family tree? You’re trying to commit career suicide, my man!’
After a fruitless search, the officers left feeling awkward and ashamed, and mumbling their apologies.
The Comtesse leaped out of bed. Her nerves at breaking point, she started laughing and crying at the same time.
‘There, you’ve found out one of my secrets, Joseph, one of my womanly tricks.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Making accusations instead of giving explanations. Attacking when under suspicion. Lashing out rather than going on the defensive.’
‘Is it just for women?’
‘No, you can use it too.’
The following day the de Sullys told me I could not stay with them any longer because their lie would not stand up to investigation.
‘Father Pons is going to come and he’ll take care of you. You couldn’t be in better hands. You should call him “Father”.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘You won’t call him Father so that people think he’s your father, like calling me Uncle. His name is Pierre Pons but everyone calls him Father.’
‘Even you?’
‘Even us. He’s a priest. We call him Father when we speak to him. So do the German soldiers. Everyone does. Even people who don’t believe.’
‘People who don’t believe he’s their father?’
‘Even people who don’t believe in God.’
I was very impressed at the thought of meeting someone who was ‘Father’ to the whole world, or was taken to be. He must be very important, anyway, because I’d heard that name Pons before: the Comtesse had introduced me to something she called pierre ponce*, which sounded just the same. It was a soft light piece of grey stone that she gave me when I was in the bath, and told me to rub my feet with it to remove toughened dead skin. This mouse-shaped thing fascinated me because it could float (not something you would expect of a stone) and changed colour as soon as it was wet (going from greyish white to coal black).
‘So is there some connection between Father Pons and pierre ponce?’ I asked.
The de Sullys burst out laughing.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ I said, put out. ‘He could have discovered it . . . or invented it. I mean, someone had to!’
No longer laughing at me, the de Sullys nodded their heads.
‘You’re right, Joseph: it could have been him. But there’s actually no connection between them.’
Still, when Father Pons rang the doorbell and came into the de Sullys’ house I knew straight away it was him.
This tall, narrow man looked as if he was made up of two separate parts that were completely unrelated: his head and the rest of him. His body seemed weightless, a length of fabric with no contours, a black robe so flat it could have been on a hanger, and peeping from beneath it were shiny boots that didn’t seem to be attached to ankles. But his head sprang out at you: chubby, pink, lively, fresh and innocent, like a baby after a bath. You felt like kissing it and taking it in your hands.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ said the Comte. ‘This is Joseph.’
I scrutinized him, trying to understand why his face didn’t really surprise me but also was a sort of confirmation. A confirmation of what? His dark, dark eyes looked at me kindly from behind the light-framed, round lenses of his glasses.
Then it suddenly dawned on me.
‘You haven’t got any hair!’ I exclaimed.
He smiled and in that moment I started to like him.
‘I’ve lost a lot and I shave what little I have left.’
‘Why?’
‘To save time on brushing it.’
I laughed out loud. So he himself wasn’t sure why he was bald? It was too silly . . . The de Sullys were looking at me quizzically. Didn’t they know either? Did I have to tell them? But it was so obvious: Father Pierre Pons’s head was as smooth as a pebble because he had to match his own name − pierre ponce!
They were still looking baffled so I sensed that I should be quiet. Even if it did make me look stupid . . .
‘Can you ride a bike, Joseph?’
‘No.’
I didn’t dare admit the reason for this failing: since the beginning of the war my cautious parents had stopped me playing in the street. I was therefore a long way behind children my age in all sorts of games.
‘Well, I’ll teach you,’ said the priest. ‘You try to stay on behind me. Hold on tight.’
And there in the de Sullys’ courtyard, struggling to be worthy of their pride, it took me several attempts to stay on the luggage rack.
‘Let’s try out in the street now.’
When I managed it, the Comte and Comtesse came over and kissed me hurriedly.
‘See you soon, Joseph. We’ll come and visit you. Watch out for Big Jack, Father.’
I hardly had time to grasp that this was goodbye before the priest and I were wheeling through the streets of Brussels. As all my attention was focused on keeping my balance, I couldn’t give in to my sadness.
With thin rain transforming the tarmac into a slick mirror-like surface, we sped onwards, quivering and wobbling on the bike’s narrow tyres.
‘If we come across Big Jack, lean against me and we’ll chat to each other as if we’ve known each other for years.’
<
br /> ‘Who’s Big Jack, Father?’
‘A Jewish traitor who goes round in a Gestapo car. He points out the Jews he recognizes for the Germans so they can arrest them.’
As it happened, I’d noticed a slow-moving black car following us. I glanced behind me and, through the windscreen, sitting between two men in dark coats, I spotted a pasty sweaty face scouring the pavements of Avenue Louise with beady eyes.
‘Father, it’s Big Jack!’
‘Quick, tell me a story. You must know some jokes, Joseph, don’t you?’
Without even picking out the best ones, I started churning out my stock of jokes. I would never have guessed Father Pons would find them so funny. He roared with laughter. Intoxicated with this success, I started giggling too, and by the time the car sidled right up to us I was already too full of myself to notice.
Big Jack stared at us sulkily, patting his flabby cheeks with a small folded white handkerchief. Then, disgusted by our jollity, he told the driver to drive on.
Shortly after that Father Pons turned down a side street, and the car disappeared from sight. I wanted to carry on with my career as a comedian but Father Pons exclaimed,
‘Stop, Joseph, please! You’re making me laugh so much I can’t pedal properly.’
‘Too bad: you won’t get to hear the one about the three rabbis trying out a motorbike . . .’
*
At nightfall we were still travelling. We had left the city far behind and were cutting through the countryside where the trees were darkening to black.
Father Pons wasn’t tiring but he hardly spoke, settling for the odd ‘OK?’, ‘Are you holding out?’ and ‘Not too tired, Joseph?’ Still, the further we went the more I felt we knew each other, probably because my arms were round his waist, my head was resting against his back and I could feel the warmth of his thin body gently seeping through the thick fabric of his robe. At last there was a sign saying Chemlay, Father Pons’s village, and he braked. The bike gave a sort of whinny and I fell into the ditch.
‘Well done, Joseph, you pedalled well! Thirty-five kilometres! For a first time, that’s incredible!’
I got back up, not daring to contradict the priest. In fact, to my great shame, I hadn’t pedalled on our journey, I had let my legs dangle. Were there pedals I hadn’t even noticed?
He put the bike down before I had time to see, and took me by the hand. We cut across a field to the first house on the outskirts of Chemlay, a low, squat building. Once there, he gestured to me to keep quiet, avoided the front door and knocked at the door to the cellar.
A face appeared.
‘Come in quickly.’
‘This is Mademoiselle Marcelle, our pharmacist,’ whispered Father Pons, leading me in.
Mademoiselle Marcelle hastily closed the door and took us down the few steps that led to her cellar, lit by a measly oil lamp.
Children found Mademoiselle Marcelle frightening, and when she leaned towards me she lost none of her impact: I almost cried out in disgust. Was it the shadows? The way she was lit from below? Mademoiselle Marcelle looked like all sorts of things, but not a woman; more like a potato on the body of a bird. Her heavy, misshapen features, wrinkled eyelids and dark, dull, rough uneven skin made her face look like some root vegetable harrowed over by a farmer: jabs of his pick had marked out a thin mouth and a couple of small bulges for her eyes, while a few sparse hairs − white at the root and reddish at the ends − suggested the thing might sprout again in the spring. Perched on thin legs, bent forward, with a large stomach which bulged outwards from her neck down to her hips, like a plump red robin, hands on hips and elbows back as if ready to take flight, she peered at me, preparing to peck.
‘A Jew, of course?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Father Pons.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Joseph.’
‘Good. No need to change the name: it’s Christian as well as Jewish. And your parents?’
‘Maman is Léa and Papa’s Michaël.’
‘I want to know their surname.’
‘Bernstein.’
‘Oh, that’s a disaster! Bernstein . . . We’ll say Bertin. I’ll get some papers for you in the name Joseph Bertin. Here, come with me for the photograph.’
In a corner of the room a stool was waiting for me, in front of a painted background of woods and sky.
Father Pons tidied my hair, straightened my clothes and asked me to look at the camera, a large wooden box with concertina sides, on a framework almost as tall as a man.
Just then a flash of light leaped around the room, so bright and disconcerting I thought I had dreamed it.
While I rubbed my eyes, Mademoiselle Marcelle slipped another plate into the accordion, and the strange lighting phenomenon happened again.
‘Is there more?’ I asked.
‘No, two should be enough. I’ll develop them overnight. You haven’t got fleas, I hope? Anyway, you’ll have to put this lotion on. Or scabies? Well, I’ll give you a good scrub, and rub you down with sulphur. What else? A few days, Monsieur Pons, and I’ll get him back to you, is that all right with you?’
‘That’s all right with me.’
It wasn’t all right with me, not at all: I was horrified at the thought of staying alone with her. Not daring to admit this, instead I asked, ‘Why did you say monsieur? You’re supposed to say Father.’
‘I say what I like. Monsieur Pons knows perfectly well I hate priests. I had quite enough of churches and priests foisted on me as a child and now I’m sick if you try and give me the host. I’m a pharmacist, the first female pharmacist in Belgium! The first woman to qualify! I’ve done my studies and I know about science. So let other people keep their ‘Father’! Besides, Monsieur Pons doesn’t hold it against me.’
‘No,’ said the priest, ‘I know you’re a good person.’
She started muttering as if the word ‘good’ had too much of a churchy whiff about it.
‘I’m not good, I’m fair. I don’t like priests, I don’t like Jews, I don’t like Germans, but I can’t bear to see anyone harm children.’
‘I know you love children.’
‘No, I don’t love children either. But they are human beings.’
‘Well, then you love the human race!’
‘Oh, Monsieur Pons, stop wanting me to love something! That’s typical of a priest, that sort of thing. I don’t love anything or anyone. My job is being a pharmacist, which means helping people stay alive. I do my job, and that’s all there is to it. Come on, out, clear off! I’ll get this boy back to you all sorted out, nice and clean and tidy, with papers that mean he’ll be left in peace, damn it!’
She turned on her heel to avoid further conversation. Father Pons leaned towards me and gave me a secret smile.
‘“Dammit” has become her nickname in the village. She swears more than her father who was a colonel.’
Dammit brought me some food, put up a bed for me and, in a voice that tolerated no disobedience, ordered me to get some rest. As I fell asleep that evening, I couldn’t help feeling a certain admiration for a woman who said ‘Damn it’ so naturally.
*
I spent several days with the intimidating Mademoiselle Marcelle. Every evening, after a day’s work in her dispensary above the cellar, she would toil away in front of me, unashamedly making my false papers.
‘Do you mind if I say you’re six instead of seven?’
‘I’m nearly eight,’ I protested.
‘Well, you’re six then. It’s safer. We don’t know how long this war will go on. The longer it is before you’re a grown-up the better off you’ll be.’
When Mademoiselle Marcelle asked a question there was no point in answering because she was only ever asking herself, and only expected her own replies.
‘We’ll also say your parents are dead. They died naturally. Let’s see, what sort of illness could have taken them?’
‘A tummy pain?’
‘Influenza! A virulent strain of i
nfluenza. Tell me your story, then.’
When it came to their repeating what she had invented, Mademoiselle Marcelle suddenly did listen to other people.
‘My name is Joseph Bertin, I’m six years old, I was born in Anvers and my parents died of influenza last winter.’
‘Good. Here, have a mint pastille.’
When I pleased her she behaved like a lion tamer, tossing me a treat that I had to catch in mid-air.
Father Pons came to see us every day, and did nothing to disguise how hard he was finding it to root out a home for me.
‘All the “safe” local farming people have taken in a child or two already. On top of that, any possible candidates are hesitating, their hearts would go out more readily to a baby. Joseph’s quite big now, he’s seven.’
‘I’m six, Father!’ I exclaimed.
To congratulate me for that contribution, Mademoiselle Marcelle popped a sweet in my mouth and said grimly to Father Pons, ‘If you like, Monsieur Pons, I could threaten the hesitators.’
‘What with?’
‘Damn it, no more medicine if they won’t take in our refugees! They can turn up their toes and die!’
‘No, Mademoiselle Marcelle, people have to agree to take this risk of their own free will. They could be sent to prison for colluding . . .’
Mademoiselle Marcelle spun round towards me.
‘How would you like to be a boarder at Father Pons’s school?’
Knowing there was no point in replying, I didn’t even move but let her carry on.
‘Take him to the Villa Jaune with you, Monsieur Pons, even if that is the first place they would come looking for hidden children. But, damn it, with the papers I’ve made for him . . .’
‘How will I feed him? I can’t ask the authorities for any more extra ration tickets. You know the children at the Villa Jaune are underfed as it is.’
‘Hmm, that’s not a problem! The burgomaster’s coming here for his injection this evening. I’ll take care of him.’
After dark, when she had wound down the metal shutter outside her dispensary (making as much noise as blowing up a tank), Mademoiselle Marcelle came down to the cellar to get me.
‘I might well need you, Joseph. Could you come upstairs and stay in the coat cupboard without breathing a word?’