Valois’s thin sallow face flushed. He opened his mouth, realized he was going to say something pompous about duty, bit it back and said instead, ‘Thank you.’
The two young people smiled at each other. Sophie Simonian noted this with approval. She liked young Christian and it had always seemed a shame that he and Janine didn’t get on. A man’s first loyalty was to his family, but he needed his friends too, much more than a woman did.
As they sat and drank their tea, Janine told her story once more. Valois frowned as she told of the German planes attacking the refugee column.
‘Bastards!’ he said.
‘It’s war,’ said Sophie. ‘What do you expect? Stop the war is the only way to stop the killing.’
‘You think so? Perhaps. Only the war will not stop, will it?’
‘But the Marshal is talking with the Germans about a truce,’ cried Janine. ‘It was on the wireless.’
‘Truce? Defeat, you mean. Is that what you want?’ demanded Valois.
‘No! I mean, I don’t know. I hate the Germans, I want to see them thrown out of France, of course I do. But the only way for Jean-Paul to be safe is for the fighting to stop! I mean it’s stupid, he’s out there on the Maginot Line somewhere and all the Germans are here in France behind him! I mean it’s just so bloody, bloody stupid!’
She was close to tears. Sophie put her arm around her and frowned accusingly at Valois.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You know I’m worried about Jean-Paul too. Listen, there will be a truce, an armistice, something like that, I’m sure. He’ll be safe. But that’s not what I mean when I say the war won’t end. De Gaulle’s gone to England, a lot of them have. I heard him on the British radio saying that he would fight on no matter what happened back here.’
‘De Gaulle? Who’s he?’ asked Janine.
‘He’s a general, a friend of the Marshal’s.’
‘But the Marshal wants a truce, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And everyone says the Boche will be in England soon too. There’s nothing to stop them, is there? What does this de Gaulle do then? Go to America?’ asked Janine scornfully.
‘At least there’s someone out there not giving up,’ said Valois.
He finished his tea and stood up. Janine saw his gaze drift round the room coming to rest on the large silver menorah on the window sill.
‘Are the other apartments still occupied?’ he asked casually.
Sophie said, ‘A lot went. Soon they’ll be back when they see it’s safe, no doubt. Madame Nomary, the concierge, is still in the basement. Like me, too old to run. And Monsieur Melchior is still upstairs.’
‘Melchior?’
‘You must have seen him,’ said Janine. ‘The writer. Or artist. Or something like that. At least he dresses that way, you know, flamboyantly. I think he’s…’
‘He likes the men more than the ladies is what she doesn’t care to say in front of silly old Bubbah,’ mocked Sophie. ‘But he’s a gentleman and very quiet, especially since the war. I think he’s been hiding up there, poor soul. Why so interested in my neighbours, Christian?’
‘No reason. I must go, Madame Sophie. Take care.’
‘I’d better go too and rescue maman from the kids,’ said Janine, jumping up. ‘Bye, Bubbah. I’ll bring Pauli and Céci next time.’
‘Be sure you do, child. God go with you both.’
Outside in the steepsided canyon of the Rue de Thorigny they walked in silence for a little way.
Finally Janine said, ‘What’s worrying you about Sophie, Christian?’
He shot her a surprised glance then said, ‘I thought I was a better actor! It’s nothing. I was just wondering how I could suggest that it might be politic not to, well, advertise her Jewishness…’
‘In the Marais? Don’t be silly. And why would you say such a thing?’
‘You must have heard how the Boche treat Jews. Some of the stories…’
‘But that’s in Germany,’ protested Janine. ‘They wouldn’t dare do anything here, not to Frenchmen. The people wouldn’t let it happen!’
‘You think not? I hope so,’ he said doubtfully.
‘I’m glad you didn’t say anything, though. It would really have worried Bubbah.’
‘It wasn’t just her I was concerned about,’ said Christian gently.
‘Me? Why should it worry…oh my God. Jean-Paul, you mean? If they capture Jean-Paul…’
She stood stricken.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It probably won’t happen. And he’ll be a prisoner-of-war in any case, under the Geneva Convention…where are you going?’
She’d set off at a pace that was more of a trot than a walk. Looking back over her shoulder she cried, ‘I’ve got to get back to the children, see they’re all right. Goodbye, Christian.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’ll call…’
Already she was out of earshot. He headed west, frowning, and in a little while turned on to the Rue de Rivoli. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his head down, and did not see, or at least did not acknowledge seeing, the huge red and black swastika banners which fluttered everywhere like prospectors’ flags to mark out what the Germans were claiming for their own.
3
‘Hey kid, what’s your name?’
Pauli looked up at the man who’d just appeared in the doorway of the little courtyard behind the baker’s. He was a big man with long red hair, a longer beard and a strong curved nose. He looked as if he’d been living rough and as he moved nearer, Pauli realized he smelt that way too.
‘Pauli,’ he said. ‘Well, Jean-Paul, really. But maman calls me Pauli.’
‘Pauli, eh? Maman, you say? Would that be Janine?’
‘Yes, that’s maman’s name,’ said the boy.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed. And look at the size of you! Little Janine’s boy! Well, I’m your Uncle Miche, Pauli. Not really your uncle, more your half-cousin, but uncle will do nicely till I’ve stood out in the rain long enough to shrink to your size.’
This reversal of the usual adult clichés about growing up into a big boy amused and reassured Pauli. He stood his ground as the big man moved forward and rested a hand on his head. He noticed with interest that this new and fascinating uncle did indeed seem to have been standing out in the rain. His shapeless grey trousers and black workman’s jacket were damp with the moisture which the morning sun was just beginning to suck up from the high roofs. Here in the confined yard, it was still shadowy and chill. Michel Boucher shivered but with a controlled shiver like an animal vibrating its flesh for warmth.
‘Why don’t we go inside and surprise Uncle Claude?’ he said. ‘I bet it’s nice and warm in the bakehouse!’
It was. There were two huge ovens, one down either side of the vaulted ochre-bricked building and both were going full blast. Claude Crozier was removing a trayful of loaves from one of them to add to the morning’s bake already cooling on the long central table. Boucher looked at the regiments of bread with covetous eyes and said, ‘Morning, Uncle Claude. How’s it been with you? Christ, there’s a grand smell in here!’
The