Julius (8 page)

‘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 the 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.’

Julius strolled away, his hands in his pockets. ‘At two o’clock it will be dark,’ he was thinking, ‘and no one would be foolish enough to search every wagon that leaves a station. Besides, people do not travel in goods trains.’

He went and told his father what he had heard. ‘We shall be discovered and arrested, little love,’ said Père. ‘It is one chance in a million.’

‘The first time I caught a rat during the siege I had only a crumb of bread and a heavy stone; that was a chance in a million too,’ said Julius.

At half-past one on Thursday morning they crouched in the shadow of a deserted signal box amongst a mass of intricate lines, just outside the Gare d’Orléans. It was dark, the lights of the station loomed dimly in the distance.There were trucks blocked everywhere. It was impossible to distinguish letters on any of them. Some might be moving that night, others might be shunted there to remain for weeks. Paul Lévy felt his way along the lines in the direction of the station, Julius creeping at his heels like a dog. There was something a little further on that might be the train destined for Dijon, a line of trucks but no engine. Père dared not strike a match for fear he should be seen. He looked up and down the line, there were no other trucks to be seen on the same line. These must be the Dijon trucks. Suddenly there came a blast of a whistle from the station, and the shriek of steam from a funnel. An engine was coming towards them. Père hoisted Julius on to his shoulder and threw him into the nearest truck, following himself, climbing hand over hand. Julius fell on to his face amongst a heap of stones. They lay side by side, listening for the approach of the engine. In a few minutes it came, striking the last of the line of trucks with a rude jolt. A voice called out from somewhere: ‘We shan’t be leaving until half-past two, there is a delay.’ And another voice answered: ‘Who is certain whether we go at all? Anyway, we shall be stopped at Châtillon by the Prussians.’

The voices grumbled, they became fainter, and then moved away up the line.

‘Lie still,’ whispered Père. ‘At any rate we are due to leave some time. We must stay where we are.’

They tried to make a position of comfort among the stones, but it was impossible. They were not hard bricks, they were the ordinary small road stones, rough-edged and multitudinous. The minutes passed, interminable, and suddenly there was a grunt and a jolt, a voice called from somewhere, and the trucks began to move.

They could only have gone three hundred yards or so when the train stopped. Another whistle blew and then there was silence. The delay lasted for twenty minutes.

‘What’s happened?’ whispered Julius. Père did not answer, it was useless. How should he know what had happened? And the trucks jolted and clanked, and then moved on again. They were going slowly, making no pace at all. Every few minutes they would stop, the line being blocked. A thin drizzle began to fall and it was cold. Julius was glad of his shawl, but even so the rain trickled down his neck. They were not yet past the Prussian lines. After over two hours of jolting and shunting they came to a stop once more, and here there must have been a station, for they could see lights reflected, and there was much noise and movement.