‘Don’t pay any attention,’ Marceline said when they were in the street. ‘They argue endlessly. Every time he opens his mouth she contradicts him. It’s worrying her sick that her son’s a prisoner. I’ve known her a long time. When Monsieur Michette and I took over the Sirène, it was her last year there. She was in a bad state, her legs were giving her trouble from climbing the stairs, and she was going to confession all the time. The priest married her off to Paul. He was working for the post office. They came to live in Paris because people were gossiping and they’d had a son, a handsome boy who’s been scaring them this last year. He’s too clever and he despises them. I’ve got a hunch that they decided to be brave so he’ll despise them less. Did you see? Not one question.’
Jean learnt a great deal that day. He decided he would never laugh at Marceline again, who carried out her clandestine duties with the effective authority and discretion that she had acquired when managing the Sirène. She took control of everything, going to see Palfy who gave her the money Jean was owed, collecting his false papers. From now on his name was Jules Armand. He chose ‘Jules’ in homage to the nickname Nelly had invented. ‘Armand’ made the task of the producers of false papers easier. He kept the same initials and date of birth. The following day he was at Moulins, and that night a guide led him through fields and forests to a French army post south of the line of demarcation. Stationed in a barn which no longer smelt pleasantly of hay but of boots, uniforms and rifle oil, the section was keeping the man on guard duty supplied with wine. Another was cutting bread and distributing a piece to each man with a sardine. On the whitewashed wall the section’s artist had drawn a red devil and written in black letters ‘152nd RI, France’s finest regiment’. A staff sergeant entered. A soldier shouted, ‘’Shun!’, triggering a lazy line-up, the men embarrassed by the wine and bread. The staff sergeant stood in the doorway, hands on hips, looking annoyed.
‘What’s that?’ he roared, pointing at Jean.
‘He’s just crossed the line,’ the corporal said.
‘Have you got papers?’
Jean handed over his new identity card. The staff sergeant read out his details.
‘Well, well, class of ’39 … You’re eligible for service. You’ll stay with us, in the armistice forces. Your lot hasn’t been demobbed yet. Go and get yourself some kit.’
‘Thank you,’ Jean said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of a rest. I’ll get the kit later.’
‘I’m not interested in what you wouldn’t mind. An orderly will escort you to the command post.’
He summoned a bewildered-looking private, squeezed into his tunic, his jaw pinched by his chinstrap.
‘Take this man to the command post.’
‘Yes, staff.’
‘Yes, sir!’ the staff sergeant yelled. ‘Sir, you ignoramus. It’s a gold stripe, can’t you see that? I’m in the cavalry, not the infantry. Nothing to do with you horrible lot. About turn … right wheel.’
Jean followed, dismayed. Behind him the section was laughing, restoring the staff sergeant’s good humour.
‘And when you go through the woods, be careful of the wolf!’
Was he falling out of the frying pan into the fire? The memory of his army experiences made bile rise in his throat. He would not be part of that company of clowns.
‘He’s a nasty bastard!’ the soldier said as they plunged into the undergrowth, whose delicious smell, heightened by the dew, enveloped them.
‘And he doesn’t care who knows it!’
‘Find a way not to be in his section. He’s always like that. I call him “staff” on purpose. Just to hear him scream that he’s in the cavalry.’
‘What’s the captain like?’
‘The cap’n? No better. There’s no escape here. What’s it like in the occupied zone?’
‘So so.’
‘The Fritzes all right?’
‘More or less.’
‘Given the choice, I still prefer it here. I’m from the Ardennes.’
Jean got out his cigarettes.
‘Do you smoke?’
‘Do I? They don’t call me the locomotive for nothing.’
He pulled on his cigarette with relish and attempted a smoke ring in the still air. A squirrel crossed the path and bolted up a tree, disappearing immediately in the foliage. A little further on, in a clearing, some young people in battledress khaki were chopping wood and piling it up in a stove.
‘They’ve got a cushy number, those Chantiers de Jeunesse,’31 the private said. ‘Reselling charcoal on the black market. Their mess tins’re always full. And ciggies, you want ’em, they got ’em!’
Jean saw his chance.
‘Do you want the packet?’
‘Do I want it? You bet.’
His hand was already greedily outstretched.
‘Not so fast! Maybe we can come to an agreement.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To get away.’
‘Oh yeah! And I’ll be on a charge. Two weeks, one in solitary. Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re right, that would be shitty of me. Let’s keep going. Is the CP far?’
‘Another two kilometres, on the edge of the forest. Just outside Varennes-sur-Allier.’
Coming towards them rapidly, with a supple stride, was a young man in blue shorts and a short light-coloured jacket and white socks, his beret pulled down over one ear.
‘He’s one of the chiefs,’ the private said. ‘They’re all chiefs there.’
The young man stopped.
‘You’ve just crossed the line! I can tell without asking. Good: we can always use another pair of hands to rebuild France. Are you Chantiers age?’
‘I suspect I may be a bit too old.’
‘In that case it’s the Armée de l’Afrique for you. You’re in luck!’
He shook Jean’s hand and strode away to rejoin his group, who could be heard singing in their clearing.
‘They’re funny, that lot. Roll up their sleeves. Salute the colours. Sing songs: “Avec mes sabots …”, “Maréchal, nous voilà”. Roll on demobilisation! So what about those fags?’
Jean turned round. The young Chantiers leader was disappearing through the trees. The soldier held out his hand. Reluctantly, Jean drew back and punched him on the chin as hard as he could, muttering, ‘Sorry, mate,’ as the private crumpled to his knees, his eyes staring, a trickle of blood flowing from his split lip.
At Varennes-sur-Allier he caught a bus that took him to Clermont-Ferrand, where memories of Claude came flooding back. He felt ilclass="underline" there was Rue Gounot where she had stood with the sunlight shining through her dress, Place de Jaude where they had met again, thanks to the net cast by the girls at the Sirène. He wanted to cry. He could not stay. At the Sirène Monsieur Michette did not recognise him, but Zizi threw her arms around his neck.
‘Where’s your friend?’
Palfy had left a lasting impression. Zizi no longer ‘went upstairs’. She deputised for the patron and shared his bed. Business was not what it had been, but they could not grumble. Other trades had been worse hit by the restrictions. No, Jean did not need to stay. He was leaving for the Midi, where he planned to spend a few days before returning to the occupied zone. He had brought a letter from the patronne. That afternoon they found him a suitcase and a change of clothes that made him look like an ordinary traveller. A train took him to Lyon and another stopped the next morning at Saint-Raphaël, from where he telephoned Théo.
‘Jean! We hoped you’d find a way to get down here, but we didn’t expect you so soon. Where are you? Saint-Raph? Raining there, is it?’