‘Why didn’t God save them himself? Didn’t he care? Had he gone away on holiday?’
‘God created the universe once, once and for all. He made instinct and intelligence so that we could cope without him.’
‘Are you being like Noah, then?’
‘Yes. I collect things, like him. When I was a child I lived in an African country called the Belgian Congo, because my father worked there; the whites so despised the blacks that I started a collection of local black artefacts.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘In the museum in Namur. Thanks to a group of painters, they’ve become fashionable now: it’s called “Negro art”. At the moment I’m working on two collections: my Romany collection and my Jewish collection. Everything Hitler wants to wipe out.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to kill Hitler?’
He gave no reply but led me over to the piles of books.
‘Every evening I come here to meditate over these Jewish books. And during the day, in my office, I learn Hebrew. You never know . . .’
‘You never know what?’
‘If the “rains” carry on, if there isn’t a single Hebrew-speaking Jew left in the cosmos, I could teach it to you. And you could pass it on.’
I nodded. It was so late at night and the crypt seemed so fantastical, an Ali Baba’s cave wavering in the flickering candlelight, that this all seemed more like a game to me than reality.
‘Then people would say you’re Noah and I’m your son!’ I exclaimed in a shrill, fervent voice.
He was touched, and knelt in front of me. I could tell he wanted to put his arms around me but didn’t dare. It was wonderful.
‘We’re going to make a deal, all right? You, Joseph, are going to pretend to be a Christian, and I’m going to pretend to be a Jew. You’ll go to Mass and to catechism, and you’ll learn about the life of Jesus from the New Testament, while I will tell you about the Torah, the Mishnah and the Talmud, and we’ll write out Hebrew letters together. All right?’
‘It’s a deal!’
‘It’s our secret, the biggest secret ever. You and I could die if we give this secret away. Do you swear you’ll keep it?’
‘I swear.’
I re-enacted the convoluted gestures Rudy had taught me for sealing an oath, and spat on the ground.
From that night on I was entitled to a clandestine double life with Father Pons. I hid my nocturnal expeditions from Rudy, and managed to dampen his interest in Father Pons’s behaviour by turning his attention to pretty blonde sixteen-year-old Dora, an easy-going girl who worked in the kitchen and helped the bursar. I claimed she stared at Rudy whenever he wasn’t looking at her. Rudy fell headfirst into the trap and became obsessed with Dora. He actively enjoyed sighing over some love-interest that was way out of his reach.
Meanwhile I was learning Hebrew with its twenty-two consonants and twelve vowels but, more particularly, I began to notice the real motives, beneath outward appearances, that were governing the school. By a clever twist in the rules, Father Pons made sure we respected the Sabbath: Saturday was a compulsory day of rest. We could only do our homework and learn our lessons after vespers on Sunday.
‘For Jews, the week begins on Sunday, for Christians it’s Monday.’
‘How come?’
‘In the Bible − which Jews presumably read just as much as Christians − it says that when God created the world he worked for six days and rested on the seventh. We should do the same. According to Jews, the seventh day is Saturday. Later, the Christians wanted to make a distinction between themselves and the Jews, who didn’t accept Jesus as the Messiah, and they maintained that it was Sunday.’
‘Who’s right?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘Couldn’t God tell people what he thinks?’
‘What really matters isn’t what God thinks of people but what people think of God.’
‘Mm-yes . . . What I think is God worked for six days and then he hasn’t done anything since!’
Father Pons always threw his head back and laughed at my indignant comments. I was constantly trying to minimize the differences between the two religions in order to reduce them to one; and he always deterred me from simplifying things.
‘Joseph, you want to know which of the two religions is the true one. But neither of them is! A religion can’t be true or false, it’s a template for a way of life.’
‘How do you expect me to respect religions if they’re not true?’
‘If you only respect the truth, then you won’t have much to respect. 2 + 2 = 4, that’s the only thing you’ll be able to respect. Apart from that, you’ll keep coming across unreliable factors: feelings, expectations, values, choices − all fragile, fluctuating constructions. Nothing mathematical about them. Respect isn’t about what’s been confirmed, but what’s been suggested.’
In December Father Pons’s crafty double-dealing meant we celebrated the Christian festival of Christmas at the same time as the Jewish festival of Hanukkah, a trick that only the Jewish children noticed. On the one hand, we commemorated the birth of Jesus, decorated the crib in the village and attended Christian services. On the other, we had to go to a ‘candle workshop’ where we learned to make wicks, melt wax, dye it and mould the candles. In the evening we lit our finished works in the windows; the Christian children were, therefore, rewarded for their efforts while we Jewish children could secretly take part in the rites of Hanukkah, the Festival of Light, a time of games and gift-giving when people are expected to give alms and light candles at dusk. How many of us at the Villa Jaune were Jewish? And which of us? No one except Father Pons knew. When I had suspicions about one of my classmates, I never let myself pursue them further. Lie and let lie. That way lay safety, for all of us.
In 1943 the police descended on the Villa Jaune several times. Each time they picked a year-group and ran identity checks. Genuine or fake, our papers stood the test. Systematic searches through our cupboards failed to find anything either. No one was arrested.
All the same, Father Pons was worried.
‘For now we’re only dealing with the Belgian police. I know those boys, or, if not them, at least their parents; when they see it’s me they daren’t push things too far. But I’ve heard that the Gestapo are doing surprise raids . . .’
Even so, after every scare, life went back to normal. We ate little and badly, dishes made of chestnuts and potatoes, thin soups with turnips chasing each other round the bowl, and warm milk by way of pudding. We boarders got into the habit of breaking into someone’s cupboard if he had received a parcel by post; then we might find a box of biscuits or a jar of jam or honey, and we had to eat it as quickly as possible for fear of being robbed of it in turn.
In the springtime, during a Hebrew lesson when we were safely locked inside his office, Father Pons was having trouble concentrating. Furrowing his brow, he even stopped hearing my questions.
‘What’s the matter, Father?’
‘We’re getting close to First Communion time, Joseph. I’m worried. I can’t make the Jewish children who are old enough to take First Communion join in the ceremony with the Christians. It’s impossible, I don’t have the right. Not with respect to them or with respect to my faith. It would be sacrilege. What am I going to do?’
I didn’t hesitate for a moment.
‘Ask Mademoiselle Marcelle.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘If there’s one person who’ll do whatever they can to get in the way of communion, it’s Dammit, don’t you think?’
He smiled at my suggestion.
The following day I was allowed to go with him to the pharmacy in Chemlay.
‘He’s such a sweetheart, that boy,’ grumbled Mademoiselle Marcelle when she saw me. ‘Here, catch!’
She threw me a honey-flavoured pastille.
While my teeth struggled with the sweet, Father Pons explained the situation.
‘Damn it, that’s no problem, Monsieur Po
ns. I’ll give you a hand. How many of them are there?’
‘Twelve.’
‘You can just say they’re ill! Bingo! All twelve confined to the infirmary.’
Father Pons thought it over.
‘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 c
overed 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.