‘The man he saved is still alive. He’s a farmer from Burgundy. After the war, he wrote to me and told me what Martial had done for him. “Your husband was truly brave, Madame. He gave his life for me. He was a good man.” ’
‘Your husband?’ asked Yves.
‘Yes,’ said Thérèse, blushing as he looked at her. ‘I had married my cousin Martial in 1914. We were only married for a few months.’
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me that, Mama?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t think you would find it interesting.’
‘But I …’
He stopped.
‘You?’
‘I’m … I’m not his son, am I?’
‘Martial’s son! Think about it, my darling: he died six years before you were born.’
‘Yes, that’s true … It’s a shame …’
‘What are you saying?’ cried Thérèse. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘I would have liked to be his son. He has an honest face, and also, what he did was good, it was brave.’
‘But, Yves, your father was also brave. He was barely older than you, he was eighteen when war broke out. He enlisted, he fought in the Aisne, in Champagne, everywhere. He was wounded, decorated. He’s a brave man. You can be proud of him.’
‘I think,’ said Yves, ‘that I would have got along better with Martial …’
‘You shouldn’t say that, my darling.’
‘Mama, did you and your first husband ever have a son?’
‘No.’
‘Well, do you find it fair that he died without leaving anyone behind to … well, to miss him?’
‘But I missed him … I cried over him …’
‘No one to admire him either? Yes, I know. You’re going to tell me that you admired him. But it’s not the same. If I had been his son …’
‘In a certain way, you are his son, just as you are the son of all the men who died in the war for you,’ said Thérèse.
He looked at her, bit his lip and finally whispered:
‘But Papa didn’t die …’
‘Are you saying that you don’t love your father?’ asked Thérèse, taking his hands in hers and looking deep into his eyes.
‘He’s the one who doesn’t love us any more. Don’t tell me any silly stories, Mama. I’m fifteen years old, I know certain things. I know that you want to separate.’
Thérèse hesitated for a moment, then decided to tell him the truth. It was true that they were not getting along together any more; they would separate, but he, of course, was always to love and respect his father.
‘You know that you mustn’t judge your parents, don’t you, Yves?’
‘I know. I’m not judging him. He’s free to do what he likes … I just don’t understand him.’
‘Alas, no one ever understands their parents.’
‘But I understand you,’ said the young man, hugging his mother.
He rested his head on Thérèse’s shoulder for a moment, then pointed at the photograph of Martial that had slid down on to the carpet:
‘And I understand him.’
Part Three
1936–1941
1
The negotiations for the aeroplane parts that had begun in 1936 were only concluded two years later: the engineers had stated that the American parts were not suitable for French planes. The question was discussed in Parliament. ‘I’ll deal with Parliament,’ Raymond Détang had said. ‘We’ll sort it out one morning when the benches are empty. We won’t allow those troublemakers to prevent us from making a pretty packet. Why should I worry about the engineers? They’re specialists, and specialists only ever see their side of a problem. This is much greater, on a much bigger scale than they could imagine. The aeronautics industry must take inspiration from the current minor difficulties in order to overcome them through a brilliant approach, an approach that is … French, I could not put the matter better, Gentlemen’ (he was speaking to a panel of experts). ‘Do you understand what I mean by that? A bold, aggressive plan that transforms the drawbacks of this business into an advantage. I can just picture our workers, our engineers, our scientists toiling relentlessly to solve the problem, becoming passionate about it, finding a solution, for it is impossible not to find one. Nothing is impossible given French ingenuity, Gentlemen, is it? I have never seen, nor will I ever see, anything but the greatness of France and the power of her Air Force, for, Gentlemen, we must not forget the times we are living in. A storm is brewing in the East. What will you say to your fellow Frenchmen, what will you say to your sons, sons who are perhaps destined to fly these planes in order to defend the Maginot Line, when they reproach you for not having done everything in your power to strengthen our Air Force? You had all the resources of American industry in your hands, they will cry, and yet you did not take advantage of that? Why did you hesitate, pull away? Because of some insignificant details? Did you not have faith in the engineers of your own country? Ah, Gentlemen, allow us to act. Let us put our faith in the clear, luminous spirit of France that relishes overcoming difficulties … what am I saying?… that rises high above problems when confronted by them, like a bird on a mountain top who seems to gather strength from the very air that the weak find impossible to breathe!’
The Gentlemen on the Expert Panel finally agreed and the order was passed through Bernard Jacquelain who, a few months earlier, had been made director of a private company that was financed by Bernheimer and secretly by Détang.
Neither Bernard nor Détang knew exactly what to think about the business of the aeroplane parts: the experts were equally divided and never managed to agree. The issue, however, soon was being discussed beyond the field of pure technology. It became embroiled with ideological and political considerations.
‘To tell the truth,’ Détang said to Bernard, ‘no one understands a thing about it. I have six reports on my desk that all contradict each other. Why should I believe the ones who sit on their high horse and shout “Beware!”, and stop me doing great business, when very highly esteemed men assure me I can go ahead? Everyone says: “This is a very serious matter.” There are no very serious matters in the times we are living, my boy, because if people truly wanted to consider how complex and serious everything was, they would have no choice but to shoot themselves in the head. And if you want to do that, there’s always time … What can I say? All we can do is to trust our common sense, and mine is telling me that it would be a shame to miss out on this deal because three fools out of six want to be paid to change their minds. And I certainly am not going to do that! I don’t buy men. Everything is above board.’
Bernard wanted to study the matter but found himself overwhelmed by contradictory reports and technical details.
Until 1937, every aeroplane part was manufactured separately, by skilled workers who knew their craft. Now, however, the aeronautical construction companies had machinery that could mass-produce planes on an assembly line. This was a very hard blow to Détang. But for certain types of plane, the old methods were still used. ‘The French Air Force will be the better for this,’ said Détang. ‘We’ll have to use the American parts for some of the planes and others will be manufactured under the new system. We’ll end up better equipped than we could have hoped. When I say that in France, victory emerges from the jaws of defeat, I’m telling you the truth!’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ thought Bernard, ‘it’s nothing to do with me. I really hope he won’t find anyone who will consciously sabotage our country’s Air Force. They must examine the matter from a technical and practical point of view and take responsibility for it. As for me, I’m just the broker.’
Nevertheless, Bernard spent the entire year of 1938 as if he were being swept along by a violent storm. He slept four hours a day. Bernheimer made him responsible for multiple deals. They juggled the figures. Millions flowed through his hands, or rather, the symbols, the signs of those millions. He handled the paperwork that represented them, but he was so short of money tha
t several times he was unable to pay Thérèse her maintenance (they had agreed a certain sum that he would send her).
‘But I’ll make up for it next month,’ he wrote to her. ‘My dream is to put money aside for Yves, just for him, to have when he’s twenty. I remember how furious I was at having no money when I was young. I don’t want my son to feel the same way. Yves has a wise, confident nature. Money won’t be his master, but it will be a good servant.’
Thérèse and Bernard hardly saw each other any more. According to the agreed plan, he came back to live with his wife when he returned from his business trips. ‘No, this is horrible,’ Thérèse had told him on the third day, ‘I would prefer a proper separation. The girls have forgotten you; they’ll just get attached to you again and will suffer when you leave us.’
‘I won’t leave Yves …’
‘I know. Yves is seventeen. There’s no point in hiding the truth from him. He can go and visit you at your place as often as you like. But I’m begging you, don’t come back here.’
‘Not ever, Thérèse?’
They were alone in the small, very peaceful sitting room. He would have preferred to keep his wife. He was not without affection for her or the children. It was even strange how much they meant to him, he thought. He would have liked to make them happy. But there was too much excitement, too many pleasures, too much to worry about on this earth to allow him to be faithful to her loyal heart. ‘Good, brave Thérèse … When all is said and done, she is the only one …’ He thought that, one day, much later, when he had enjoyed everything, experienced everything, exhausted everything, when he was tired of parties at Vaucresson around Bernheimer’s swimming pool, and the wild nights at Juan-les-Pins, and the hours spent with Renée Détang at Fontainebleau, when he was bored with the pleasure and the pain caused by money (but pleasure and pain were inseparable … it was a double-edged sword that whips, excites and wounds the human beast), yes, when all those things finally meant nothing to him, he would come back to Thérèse. He made a point of asking her if she would take him back one day, if she could truly forgive him one day. For several nights afterwards, he dreamt of the look in her eyes: she had said yes; she had looked up at him, she had even smiled at him with difficulty: ‘Yes, of course, I’ll take care of your arthritis when you’re old.’ They had spoken completely freely, even with more trust than they had ever shown one another in the past.
‘You’re not a bad person, my darling, why are you making me suffer?’
‘You’re suffering because you want to. You have to compromise, come to terms with life, with love, with everything. You remained the wife of that admirable but stupid Martial who used to say: “You don’t make compromises with your conscience or anything of that type.” My poor Thérèse, you are destined to be a victim, yes, you are, along with all the others who think like you. This affair with … you know who I mean … you think she is a monster. And yet, it’s no longer a question of passion, it is more self-interest, habit … Even she tells me to go back to you. I could promise you that I would only be a friend to her in future. But you have to understand, I can’t give up that world. It’s my life, my career.’
‘Be quiet, you’re horrifying me!’
‘Thérèse, the world is despicable. Men are stupid, cowardly, vain, ignorant. No one would appreciate us being scrupulous and altruistic. Believe me. I learned lessons during the war that I will never forget … Out of humility, out of a kind of respect for decency, I’m letting you raise your son with the ideals of the Brun family. I’m wrong though. I should open his eyes to the truth.’
‘You’ve already done that, you know …’ murmured Thérèse.
After this meeting, the married couple separated. Bernard had not rented an apartment; he lived at Claridge’s Hotel on the Champs-Élysées. Two or three times a year he went away on brief car trips with Yves. In his father’s mind, that was meant to bring them closer, allow them to have long conversations, to share secrets, but they seemed to feel embarrassed and ashamed when they were together. Even conversations that began on quite a friendly note often turned into arguments.
During the winter of 1938–1939, Bernard and his son went away together to Megève. The young man expressed naïve joy at the prospect of seeing snow for the first time and of learning to ski.
‘I won’t tell anyone where I am,’ Bernard thought. ‘I’ll do nothing but look after my boy. A week to make peace with my son, because I can tell he really holds a grudge against me. I must learn how to get to know him and make him love me. He’ll see that I’m not a pedantic, unpleasant companion. When I was his age, I would have been happy to have a father like me.’
And so, one January evening, they set off together by train. When they pulled back the blind that covered the carriage window, they could see the dark countryside beneath a clear, icy sky.
‘Let’s hope it snows,’ said Bernard.
He had been counting a great deal on this first evening on the train to get closer to his son. He asked him about his studies, his plans for the future. He talked to him about politics, about women, about everything an adolescent might find interesting. ‘I should have done this sooner,’ he thought. ‘He’s not fifteen, any more; he’s eighteen. At his age, I was about to enlist.’
And the memory of his youth made him silent and shy, because between a child and his parents, the obstacle is never the man someone has become, but the man he used to be. The young man of twenty he once had been, but was no more, sealed his mouth closed, now that he was a father.
They simply exchanged the most banal words, then Yves went to sleep. Bernard remained awake in the passageway until very late that night. He smoked and watched the little blue lamp flickering on the ceiling.
He had not given anyone his address in Megève but the hotel was full of his friends. The very next day, he and Yves were invited to lunch by the wife of a well-known Member of Parliament. The men were wearing ski clothes, their fat potbellies stretching out the colourful sweaters, their cheeks red, not because of the pure air they had not yet breathed in, but because of the wine and aperitifs they had drunk at the bar. The women were thin and heavily made-up. The older men talked about Russia, Danzig, Germany, the imminent war. They ate smoked salmon marinated in dill while describing the scramble of enemy planes massing towards French cities: ‘And there’s nothing we can do, nothing. After the first night, boom, and everything will be flattened.’ While tucking into their kidneys flambé in Madeira sauce, they all spoke as one: ‘Thank goodness this is the land of miracles! As soon as we think we’ve had it, wham! We pull ourselves up and the world is amazed!’ Over dessert, ice cream swathed in hot melted chocolate, they confided to their neighbours the gist of what was contained in reports received by the Foreign Ministry: ‘All this, of course, is just between us.’ One man, with a dark beard and moustache and a Toulouse accent, pointed out that the Germans did not have enough food and so could not go to war. Everyone was in agreement about the deplorable state of chaos that France found herself in: ‘What we need is someone with a firm hand, a real leader,’ they said. Through the hubbub of voices, the clinking of glasses, the laughter, you could hear a shrill sound, like a fife: it was a woman asking a former President of the Council, ‘But why don’t you take power, Monsieur? You should, Monsieur’, as if she were offering him a slice of foie gras. The former President, who was short and well-fed, with very fine white hair, shook his head without replying, a cautious, greedy look in his eye, as if to say: ‘Well, well, why not? Take power … Hell!… I must think about it.’
Yves felt a sense of nightmarish unreality. As a child, after reading adventure stories, he had sometimes dreamt that he was in a cave full of jabbering beasts. And now he was re-experiencing the very same painful, grotesque feeling. During dessert, they lit cigars, and the smoke made him feel even more uncomfortable. He glanced longingly through the windows at the grounds covered in snow. Finally, he could stand it no longer. Let them talk if they want, let them argue endles
sly, sort out Europe as they see fit, destroy Germany (verbally), make quick deals in armaments or trade stock portfolios! As for him, he no longer wished to be with them. He took advantage of a moment when his father wasn’t paying attention to slip out of the room. He gave a message to the porter: ‘Please tell Monsieur Jacquelain not to worry; I’ll be back this evening.’ ‘Do be careful, Monsieur, the weather is going to change.’ He fled in the direction of the mountains.
2
Yves would never forget that day he spent alone in the Savoy mountains. The weather did change, in fact. Snow began to fall, covering the trails. Some young people climbed up in front of him, skis over their shoulders. He regretted not having all the equipment like them, but what he most wanted was to be alone, to breathe the pure air and put his thoughts in order. Up until now, his inner life had been that of an adolescent: no logic, bursts of admiration or rebellion; no reflection, just blind desires. He had to learn how to think like a man. To know exactly what he wanted and to act according to his own will. First of all, he had to recognise the true characters of his mother and father, for he sensed deep down that there he would find the crux of the matter: he had to follow one or the other of them. ‘To judge your parents is bad, of course,’ he thought. ‘But they are primarily responsible for that. They are the ones forcing me to make this choice.’ He had always been, as he naïvely put it, ‘on his mother’s side’, but his reasons for leaning towards her were emotional, and that was not enough. He did not wish to be unfair. He wanted to try to understand his father. He was not an evil man. He was not a dishonest man. He had a quick, brilliant mind. He had fought bravely in 1914. Grandmother Jacquelain had made him read the letters his father wrote from the front, when he was eighteen, nineteen, twenty, amid all kinds of danger and hardships. They were moving, delightful letters, funny and full of daring. In one of them, he talked about the son he would have one day: ‘I’ll have so much fun with him! If he moans about going to school when it’s raining in the morning, I’ll enjoy telling him: “What would you have said if you had to spend the night in the woods like your father did in 1915, soaked to the waist and your boots full of water?” He’d go to school, sheepishly, while I, I’d stretch out in bed until noon. Ah, those will be happy times …’ ‘Not everything is ugly in war,’ he continued. ‘A bomb explodes and the shrapnel forms a plume of pinkish white smoke that looks like the froth on top of a sorbet …’