Maurice's wife was called Jeannette, but everybody called her Nenette. She was blonde. Everybody in the family loved her. I say the wife of Maurice, but in fact, they were never married, though they lived together. Nenette was Catholic. The reason she was accepted in the family was because, unlike Jean and his Catholic wife, Maurice and Nenette never married. So in the mind of my grandmother, that did not affect her Jewish religious belief. She thought that Maurice and Nenette had not married out of respect for her. But not so Jean. When I was a boy I never understood why Nenette could come to the family gatherings and not Jean's wife.
Maurice and Nenette didn't have children. They also owned a truck and sold toys at the
marché.
On Sundays when they came for lunch they would always give little toys to the grandchildren, either a yo-yo, or a jump rope, or a spinning top, or a game. The toys would occupy us while the grown-ups sat around the table drinking hot tea in glasses with pieces of lemon floating on top. Unfortunately for me, my uncle Maurice did not sell tin soldiers.
I never knew my aunt Rachel during my childhood. As I've told in
Aunt Rachel's Fur,
she escaped at the age of fourteen from the orphanage where she was with my mother. For many years she lived in the French colonies, in Asia and Africa. So I cannot say anything about her in relation to my childhood, except that she sent money regularly to my grandmother. All the aunts were saying that she was a dancer. But Leon kept saying that she was a prostitute.
I met her for the first time after the war when she came to France for a few weeks to see if her brothers and sisters had escaped deportation. At that time she was living in Senegal where she owned two hotels in Dakar. When I first saw her, I was struck by her resemblance to my mother, only much prettier. During her stay in Paris, she was very nice to me and generous. She would buy me things. My first wristwatch. She also had a suit made for me, not by Leon, but by one of the tailors on the
grands boulevards.
Everyone in the family wondered how rich she was because she spent money so freely. She wore a lot of makeup on her face, and even false eyelashes. She had expensive clothes, including an elegant fur coat. I became very fond of her, and she of me. I was only sixteen then. She would take me dancing in night-clubs. She wanted me to come with her to Senegal. She would say to me, You'll have a good life there in my hotels, I'll take care of you. I was sixteen then and so romantic. I had just returned to Paris from three miserable years on the farm. I was confused. I didn't know what to do. I think she thought of herself as a replacement for my mother. Though I was tempted to go with her to Senegal, and live a wild adventure, instead I went to America, to live a different adventure. So far as I know, she was never married and never had children. When Senegal became an independent country, she sold her hotels and she moved to Paris, where she died at the age of seventy-seven. She left all her money to the orphanage where she and my mother and her brother Maurice were raised. I thought it was a beautiful gesture. Her sisters and brothers were furious with her for having done that.
I don't remember my aunt Sarah's husband. I was still very young when he abandoned her and their daughter Solange, who was less than a year old then. Solange was the youngest of all the grandchildren. After she was deserted, Aunt Sarah lived alone her entire life, whining all the time and depending on her brothers and sisters for support. My cousin Solange was very cute. I liked her, but she was too young to play games with us when we saw her. Solange now lives in Ivory Coast. She married an African whom she met when he was studying in France. I admire her a great deal for having had the courage to escape from a mother who was stifling her with attention rather than affection. She did well in Ivory Coast. Her daughter Animata is a doctor in Abidjean, and her son Alain a pilot for Air Africa. When it was known that Solange had married a black man, her mother and the rest of the family rejected her completely, and even refused to see her children. A few years ago I went to visit my cousin Solange and her husband Johnny in Ivory Coast. I found a woman of great beauty and courage of whom I am very proud.
Well, that's it for the family on my mother's side. Except for my mother who had three children, it was a rather sterile family. Only four cousins, from seven brothers and sisters.
On my father's side three of his sisters and one brother lived in Paris. I've written quite a bit about them in my other books. Especially in
To Whom it May Concern.
So no need to tell more. The rest of my father's family who stayed in Poland all died in the concentration camps. They
Federman, tell the truth. The reason you're constantly referring to your other books is to have your readers buy these. A clever way of self-advertisement.
No, that's not the reason. It's to avoid repeating what I've already told elsewhere. Otherwise, I'll be accused of self-plagiarism.
But enough about the family. Now I want to tell something about my sisters.
I've never succeeded in writing much about my sisters, except for their names which I often repeat.
I have only one photo of me with my sisters. The photo I found in the small box in the bedroom closet. It's from this photo that I can say something about them. I have no other real memories of our playing together, or arguing as children always do.
I don't usually like to look at old photographs. They are supposed to show a real moment, but in fact they falsify that moment. Photos are fabricated objects. The photo I have of the three of us looks like it was taken by a professional photographer who had no idea who we were. But I like looking at it.
It is difficult to say how old we were at that time. I'll guess Sarah was about nine, Jacqueline five. There were four years' difference between them. Me, I was exactly in the middle. Two years younger than Sarah, and two years older than Jacqueline. In the photo I am also between my two sisters. That's how I remember them, always one to each side of me, as if they wanted to protect me. Though they have been absent for more than sixty years, even today I feel their presence. And yet, I have never been able to write anything of substance about them. I only remember a few words that passed between us.
I was half asleep that July morning when I saw my sisters for the last time. From behind the door of the closet, I heard them go down the stairs. In my head I have a blurry image of them. But in the photo I see them clearly.
It's a black-and-white photo. A bit yellowed now. My sisters are both wearing dresses. Sarah's hair is short. Jacqueline's is long and curly. Jacqueline is smiling. Sarah has a more severe smile. Me, I am wearing a jacket and a beret. I am smiling more than my sisters. There is nothing behind us. We must have been posing in front of a wall or a curtain when this photo was taken, probably in the photographer's studio for a special occasion. I don't remember. But that must have been why we were wearing our nice clothes. I wonder how my mother paid for this occasion.
It is difficult to make out the color of my sister's hair and eyes. I believe Sarah's hair was black, Jacqueline's brownish. Sarah resembled my mother. Jacqueline looked more like my father. So Sarah must have had dark eyes too like those of Maman, and Jacqueline grey eyes like Papa's. Mine are dark like Maman's.
Every time I look at this picture, a scene from our childhood comes to me. Especially when I look at Jacqueline. A distant moment engraved in my mind. It was the day when Jacqueline and I were playing doctor. I often replay that scene.
It was the end of summer 1939. September 3
rd
to be exact. The day France declared war on Germany. That day my sisters and I were on vacation on a farm, sent there by the city of Montrouge. Every summer, schools would select children of poor families to be sent on vacation for two weeks. Not to the
Côte D'azur,
but to some remote corner of the countryside so that the poor children would not bother the rich children who were sunbathing and swimming in the Mediterranean.
Toward the end of that summer, a group of children were sent, to a little village of the
Poitou.
The children were lodged on different farms for the two weeks of vacation. There was always lots of food on farms. And we were able to help with simple chores. Like feeding the animals.
I'll skip the description of the farm. It was just a typical French farm of the period. An old dilapidated farm house, a dark and dusty barn, lots of domestic animals, cows, horses, pigs, chickens, rabbits, and lots of manure. Two old tires were hanging from a tree for the children to swing on. Behind the farm house there was a meadow next to a little stream where the children could go wading.
As for the weather, on that memorable day, let's say hot and humid. The scene I remember vividly takes place in the barn. Old rusty farm tools everywhere. In a corner of the barn there is a huge pile of hay. The big double door is open. There are a few cows on one side of the barn tied with chains behind mangers. One can hear the noise of the chains clanking around their necks, and the sound of their mastication as they ruminate. One also hears the noise of the cow-dungs falling on the straw. In another corner of the barn two horses are sniffling and farting. There is dust in suspension in the sun rays that filter through the planks of the walls. But in spite of the heat and humidity, a nice day, and ...
Federman, you said you would skip the description of the farm, and here you are doing ultra-realism.
I'm not doing realism, I'm just staging the scene I'm going to relate. I know that descriptions are boring, but from time to time they are necessary. Otherwise you're going to say that what I'm writing is not fiction. So I'm describing the decor.
And now Federman takes himself for a theater director. Well, well.
To tell a story always demands some staging, and this one is like a little drama.
So, I continue.
In spite of the heat and the humidity, this farm is an ideal setting for a vacation. All the children are outside playing, some on the swings, others running around in the meadow, some plucking wild berries along the hedgerows, others chasing the chickens in the farm yard or climbing up the trees.
Raymond and Jacqueline are not outside with the other children, they are playing in the barn. The game they are playing must be funny because one can hear them chuckle. They are playing doctor. Raymond is the doctor examining the anatomy of his little sister. They are both laughing happily. Jacqueline is eight years old, Raymond ten.
Their sister Sarah is not playing with them. She is not in this scene. She will be later. And also their mother. Sarah thinks of herself too grown up to play with them. Especially your stupid games, she tells them. She is sitting in the shadow of a tree reading. She's always reading books she never shows to her brother and sister. Today, if she was still alive, she would certainly be a poet.
So Raymond and Jacqueline are playing doctor in the barn when, after a long journey from Montrouge, their mother arrives in the late afternoon. When she learned that war had been declared, she immediately left to take her children home. Maman was a real
mère poule
always protecting her little chicks. Especially her little
poussin
Raymond.
Before going on, I must make a correction concerning the date. The scene I am describing did not take place the day war was declared, but the next day, because Maman could not have traveled from Paris to the farm in
le Poitou
the very day war was declared.
The French declared war on Germany at 5:00 p.m. September 3
rd
. I know this because once I had to verify the exact date and time for something I was writing.
Because the war was declared so late in the day, Maman must have come to fetch us the next day to bring us home, where Papa was waiting. She was worried. She wanted to protect us.
It must have taken her almost a full day to come from Montrouge because first she would have had to catch a train and travel for several hours from Paris to Poitiers, then take a bus to the little village near where the farm was located, and then walk to the farm, and ...
Federman, you would do anything to delay telling us what happened that day with you sister. Are you ashamed to tell us?
No, I'm not ashamed. Besides, I'm not going to go into the details of what Raymond and Jacqueline were doing. I simply want to say as much as possible about my sisters. So I'm adding details to make this moment with my sisters last longer.
I don't remember the name of the village, but it's not important. In any case, I am sure now that what I am about to tell happened on September 4
th
. The day after the declaration of war.
So here is Maman arriving at the farm late in the afternoon after a long journey. Still breathing heavily from the long walk on a dirt road from the village to the farm, she worriedly asks the farm lady where her children are. The farm lady tells her that the two young ones are playing in the barn with the cows. They love the animals so much. The older one is so serious. She must be somewhere reading a book. She loves to read. She'll surely be a school teacher when she grows up.
As I already indicated, the door of the barn is open. In the semidarkness one can barely see the cows and the horses. The dust is still whirling in the fading sun rays. Jacqueline is lying on the hay in a dark corner of the barn, her skirt pulled up. She is being examined by Doctor Raymond. Jacqueline is chuckling gently.
Outside one can hear the noise of the children chasing the chickens in the farm yard.
Suddenly Maman appears in the entrance of the barn looking intensely into the darkness. She calls out, Raymond! Jacqueline! Are you in there, children?
Raymond and Jacqueline jump to their feet and together, with a voice full of surprise and apprehension they call back, Yes, we're here, and they emerge from the corner where they were playing brushing the hay from their clothes.