Duprat looked them over. “You tell your general and your ambassador that I have no staff, no fresh food, and that I do not know that I will be able to remain open.”
“These orders come from very high up, sir,” the officer said. “In Berlin they wish to see life continue as normal and we intend to respect everything from which France’s greatness and prestige are made; and above all, obviously, its culinary genius. Those are the words of the führer himself.”
The two officers saluted the master of the Clos Joli with a click of their heels and departed. Duprat remained silent. Suddenly, I saw a strange expression appear on his face, a mix of fury, despair, and resolve. I hadn’t said a word. Monsieur Jean also seemed worried.
“What is it, Marcellin?”
And then I heard from the mouth of Marcellin Duprat words that had probably never crossed his lips before that day: “Motherfucker,” he muttered darkly, “what do those bastards think? That I’m going to bend over? For three generations, the Duprat family has had the same motto: I will stand firm.”
He announced that the Clos Joli would be reopening the following week. All around us, though, one capitulation followed another; England was expected at any moment, and there were some hours, particularly during the night, when all seemed lost to me. Then I would rise and go to Le Manoir des Jars. I would climb the wall and go to wait for Lila in the lane of chestnut trees. There, the stone bench, which for so long had exchanged nothing but chill and emptiness with the moonlight, extended us a friendly welcome. I would enter through one of the tall terrace windows, whose panes I had shattered; I would climb up to the attic and run my hand over the globe, traveling with my finger over the lines Tad had traced out to mark his future expeditions. Bruno would arrive and sit down at the piano and I would listen to Chopin’s Polonaise, which I could hear as clearly as if the silence, indifferent old man that he was, had softened just this once. I didn’t yet know that other Frenchmen were beginning to live as I did, from memory, and that what wasn’t there and seemed to have disappeared forever might remain alive, and present, with so much force.
26
The workshop had begun receiving orders again. The history of France was in great demand. The authorities looked upon this activity benevolently: the past was in good standing. The Germans had forbidden flying kites more than thirty yards off the ground, fearing they might be a vehicle for coded signals to the Allied air forces or to the first “bandits.” We received a visit from Cléry’s new mayor, Monsieur Plantier, who came to pass on to my uncle a “recommendation” he’d received. It had been remarked in high places that among the praiseworthy “historical” pieces produced by the workshop of Ambrose Fleury — who had been named Meilleur Ouvrier de France in 1937 — an image of Marshal Pétain was lacking. For the competition that members of the Order of the Kites of France were planning to hold in Cléry, it had been suggested that for the grand finale, Monsieur Fleury himself might launch a kite in the form of the marshal of France. The event would be highly publicized, with the catchphrase “Throw it up!” to combat low morale and gloom. My uncle accepted, with just the barest hint of a mischievous gleam in his somber eye. I tenderly loved these flashes of gaiety in his gaze, the hint of a wry smile behind his gray mustache: an old gaiety that emerges from the furthest reaches of our past, brushing lightly over a face in passing as it makes its way into the future. And so he assembled a three-yard kite in the image of the marshal of France, and everything would have gone off without a hitch, if the municipal government had not followed my uncle’s excellent advice and invited a few German officers and soldiers to the festivities. There were more than a hundred entries — Marshal Pétain, of course, was hors concours — and the first prize was awarded to a two-section kite made by a Dominican priest. It represented a Crucifixion, with a Jesus that detached from the cross and ascended to heaven. I never knew whether Ambrose Fleury premeditated this affair or whether it was simply an unfortunate coincidence, but he seemed to have a bit of trouble launching the kite, whose size was better suited to the historical moment than to the rising air currents, and a German corporal very obligingly rushed over to help him — unless it was my uncle himself who asked for his help. Marshal Pétain finally managed to make it into the air, but when he spread his winged arms thirty yards above our heads, it was a German corporal who ended up in the photograph, gripping the end of the line. No one paid it any mind during the celebration, and it was only when the picture was about to be published that the censors perceived any malicious intent in it. That particular photo never saw the light of day, but another was found, snapped by an unknown photographer, which showed up on underground pamphlets until the end of the Occupation: a magnificent Marshal Pétain floating in the air at the end of a string held firmly by a laughing German corporal.
This affair caused some trouble for us, and my uncle himself reckoned he might indeed have “stuck his neck out too soon.” The first elements of the Espoir network were just beginning to be pulled together in Normandy, under the command of Jean Sainteny, who had come in person to visit Ambrose Fleury; the two men, despite their age difference, were made for each other. Within Cléry, the Marshal Pétain incident provoked a variety of different reactions. There were those, at the Petit-Gris or the Vigneron, who greeted “good old Ambrose” with winks and slaps on the back; but others recalled his “Popular Front” period, when he could be seen flying his Léon Blum above the Norman meadows, and remarked that a man whose two brothers had both been killed in the Great War merited a good kick in the ass for mocking the hero of Verdun. Nor were people prepared to forget that he had been a conscientious objector. One fine morning — I still say “one fine morning” because words have their own habits, and the presence of a few German tanks shouldn’t make them change — one fine morning, then, we received a visit from Grillot, a childhood friend, who got his throat slit by the Resistance two years later, God forgive him. He and two other youths from the other side spent the morning ransacking our kites, just to make sure that “crazy old Fleury” didn’t have any other dirty tricks up his sleeve. My uncle had hidden his entire “Popular Front” series with Father Tachin, Cléry’s priest, who’d blustered about it at first but in the end had concealed everything in his cellar, except for Léon Blum, which he’d burned because, “Come on, goddammit, there are limits.” My guardian was not bothered, but he saw which way the wind was blowing, and decided, after long reflection, that he had to “go at it from another angle.” The meeting at Montoire gave him his opportunity, and his kite representing the historic handshake between Marshal Pétain and Hitler took to the air five days after the event. “Got to strike while the iron is hot,” he confided in me. It was reproduced by a team of volunteers, and more than a hundred copies were made, which could be seen flying more or less everywhere in France. No one saw any malicious intent in it, except for Marcellin Duprat, who’d come for a drink at our house. “You old so-and-so,” he told his old friend. “When you’re taking a piss, everyone had better get out of the way.”
27
In November 1941, as, with each passing day, the silence from Poland yawned into the silence of mass graves, I found myself at the manor for my memory exercises. That very morning, Grüber, the Cléry Gestapo chief, had come to La Motte with his men for a visit: well-meaning tongues had spread the rumor that Ambrose Fleury had made a kite in the shape of the Cross of Lorraine and was preparing to fly it very high, high enough be seen from Cléry to Clos, and from Jonquière to Prost. This was not the case; my uncle was far too sure of himself for such imprudence; the Germans found nothing that did not feature in any of the approved French history textbooks. They hesitated a fair while before a Joan of Arc borne aloft by twenty-four doves, but as Ambrose Fleury laughingly pointed out to them, you couldn’t very well stop Joan from ascending to heaven. He offered our visitors a drink of calvados, showed them his Meilleur Ouvrier de France certificate, which he had received under the Third Republic, and — since
without the Third Republic the Nazis wouldn’t have won the war — the Obersturmbannführer had said, Gut, gut, and departed.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon; I was standing at the center of the attic’s dusty wooden floor; the tree branches in their spiny bareness obscured the dormer windows; Bruno’s piano remained silent; I closed my eyes in vain; I saw nothing. Good old common sense was working overtime that evening. The Germans were closing in on Moscow and the radio announced that London was being reduced to dust.
I don’t know by what desperate effort I managed to overcome my weakness. Lila was still sulking at me a little — she always had enjoyed putting my faith to the test — and then I saw Tad, spotting the names of our future victories on the globe, and, finally, Lila appeared and threw herself into my arms. A waltz, it was just one waltz, but as soon as my head began spinning, everything became whole again. Lila laughed in my arms, her head thrown back; Bruno played; Tad leaned nonchalantly against one of those globes that describe the earth so poorly, being unaware of its misfortunes; once again, I was certain of our survival and our future, because I knew how to love.
I continued waltzing in this way, eyes closed, arms open, giving free rein to my madness, when I heard the door creak. Up there, the wind had entries everywhere; caught up in my commemoration, I would hardly have paid it any mind had I not committed the error — always a grave one for those who live off faith and imagination — of opening my eyes.
At first I saw only the silhouette of a German officer standing out against a rectangle of darkness.
I recognized Hans. My head was still spinning a little and I thought I’d merely fallen victim to an excess of memory. It took me a few seconds to be entirely sure — it really was Hans. He stood there before me in his victor’s uniform. He did not move, as if he understood that I was still unsure, and was giving me time to convince myself of his presence. He seemed unsurprised to have found me in the attic, waltzing with the one who was not there. Nor was he moved: misfortune, for victors, is just routine. Maybe he’d been told that I didn’t have all of my reason, and surely someone had added, “That poor little Fleury boy, he certainly comes by it honestly.” The Resistance was only in its very early stages, and the word “folly” had not yet earned the right to qualify as “sacred.”
There was just enough in the way of crepuscular shadows to spare us from too clear a view of each other. Nevertheless, I made out the white scar on my enemy’s cheek: the mark of the Polish szabelka I had wielded so clumsily. Hans seemed sad, almost respectful: courtesy is suited to uniform. Around his neck, an Iron Cross: no doubt he’d won it during the invasion of Poland. I don’t recall what we said to each other, during those minutes in which no words were said. He made a refined gesture, displaying that good upbringing Prussian squires pass down from father to son: he blocked the doorway and then moved aside to let me through. After so many victories, he must have gotten into the habit of observing retreat. I didn’t move. He hesitated, then began removing his right glove. For an instant, the expression on his face made me believe he was going to extend his hand to me. But no, there again, he spared me the embarrassment: he went over to the dormer, looked out at the bare branches, while still pulling off his gloves. And then, he turned toward Bruno’s piano. He smiled, walked over to it, opened the cover, and ran his fingers over it. A few notes, just barely. He remained motionless for a moment, his hand on the keyboard, his head lowered. Then he turned away from it, walked a few steps, slowly, as if hesitating, as he pulled his gloves back on again. Before departing he stopped, turned partway toward me, as if he were going to say something. Then he left the attic.
I spent the night wandering through the countryside, not even recognizing the paths, although they had been familiar to me since my childhood. I could no longer tell whether I had actually seen Hans or whether I had pushed my remembering exercises so far that I had summoned up one spirit too many. The Jarrot brothers, who found me unconscious in their sheep barn the next morning, brought me back home and advised my uncle to have me admitted to the hospital in Caen.
“Around here we all know the young one is a little disturbed, but this time …”
Their timing was all wrong. “Aunt Martha will come for a walk at dawn.” “The cow will sing with the voice of a nightingale.” “The trouser buttons will be sewn on time.” “My father is mayor of Mamers and my brother is a masseur.” “Personal messages” from London to the Resistance, transmitting on long waves of 1500 meters, medium waves of 273 meters, or short waves of 30.85 meters, reached us each day. Ambrose Fleury thanked the Jarrots for their good advice and, having politely shown them the door, came to my bedside and squeezed my wrist: “Be frugal with your folly, Ludo. Don’t go squandering it, now. The country is going to be needing it more and more.”
I tried to pull myself together, but I was deeply shaken by my encounter with Hans. I returned to prowl the grounds of Le Manoir des Jars; the Germans had not moved in yet; they hadn’t even begun getting it ready.
At the start of December, just as I was scaling the wall, I heard the gate open, and, flattening my stomach to the ground, I saw a Mercedes bearing the pennant of the commanding general of the German army in Normandy turn down the main drive. Hans was at the wheel, alone in the car. I didn’t know whether he was returning to prepare the place for occupation, or, like me, to think of Lila. That evening, I stole five tanks of petrol from the Clos Joli, which was comfortably supplied by the Germans, and carried them to the manor one by one. I set fire to it the very same night. It wouldn’t take; I had to start over several times; I wandered from room to room, removing my memories from harm’s way, awaiting the ashes that would preserve them intact. When at last everything went up in flames, all the way to the roof, I found it difficult to depart, so much friendship, it seemed to me, was contained in the blaze.
I was arrested in the morning, brought in to Cléry, and questioned roughly. The French police were all the more excitable because their standing in the eyes of the Germans was on the line. For the authorities, I was the ideal guilty party: it had been the gesture of a madman, without any “terrorist” intentions.
I denied nothing, I only refused to answer; I thought of my comrades Legris and Costes, from the Espoir network, who had refused to speak under torture: if a few slaps and punches could wring a confession out of me, I’d be short on memory for the first time in my life. So I took the thumping, smiled gormlessly, and pretended to sink into a dumb stupor, which discouraged the policemen considerably.
My uncle swore that I had not left my bed for a week; Dr. Gardieu drove eighteen miles in his cart — to the great displeasure of his horse, Clémentin — to confirm this affirmation; but the authorities were set on “the act of a madman” and the questioning resumed the next day, this time in the presence of two Germans in plainclothes.
I was seated on a chair, my back to the door. Suddenly, I saw the two Germans stand to attention, their arms raised, and Hans walked past me, without a glance in my direction. His face was tense, his jaws clenched; one sensed the effort he was making to master both his contempt and his irritation. He did not respond to the heil-Hitler salutes of Grüber’s men and addressed the commissioner in French.
“I do not comprehend this arrest. I fail to see how Ludovic Fleury, whom I know well, could have been present at Le Manoir des Jars on the evening of the fire, since I was with him at the time, in the home of his uncle in Clos, and I left them only quite late in the evening, after a long discussion on the subject of kites with the master craftsman Ambrose Fleury. It is therefore totally impossible that he set the fire, since, according to witnesses, the flames were visible from several miles away starting at eleven o’clock that night.”
My first impulse was to refuse this help and protection from the stronger man, and I nearly jumped up and yelled out, “It was me, I set fire to the manor.” In the tumult of my thoughts, the one that initially prevailed was, yet again, my
boorish resentment of his gesture; at first I saw more disdain and aristocratic superiority in it than generosity of spirit. But, just in time, another intuition dispelled this old antagonism: Hans was keeping faith with what united and separated us at the same time — Lila. He truly loved her and, in helping me, was coming to the aid of the very thing that gave meaning to his own life. I could detect the signs of his devotion to remembrance in his haughty air, in the supercilious glance he cast over the faces of my accusers: it wasn’t me he had come to defend, it was our shared memory.
He didn’t even wait for anyone to ask a question before departing: the testimony of a German officer was indubitable. I was released immediately. My uncle, Dr. Gardieu, and Clémentin brought me back home. No one has ever seen three men more silent in all they had to say to one another. Only after we had been seen home, and Dr. Gardieu and Clémentin had set off over the Cléry road again, did my uncle demand: “Why did you set fire to the place?”
“To keep it intact,” I answered him, and he sighed, for he knew that thousands of Frenchmen were already dreaming of setting fire to the place “to keep it intact.”
No one in the region doubted my guilt. Some people — the ones who had begun hearing the first calls to “unreason,” and not just the ones coming from Radio London, but also the ones transmitted on a different frequency altogether — showed me a kind of timid sympathy. The others avoided me: the ones who, by “playing their cards right,” or “putting their heads down till it blows over,” were ennobling madness. Few people then believed in an Allied victory: at the very most people spoke of the possibility of a separate peace, piggybacking on the Russians.