The occupation trilogy, p.5
The Occupation Trilogy, page 5
Debigorre was smiling and clasping my hands in his. He said to me:
‘Schlemilovitch, you are a scholar and patriot! If only the native French lads were like you!’
Debigorre often invites me to his home. He lives in a room cluttered with books and papers. On the walls hang yellowing photographs of various oddballs: Bichelonne, Hérold-Paquis and admirals Esteva, Darlan and Platón. His elderly housekeeper serves us tea. At about 11 p.m. we have an aperitif on the terrace of the Café de Bordeaux. On my first visit, I surprise him hugely by talking about the Maurras’ mannerisms and Pujo’s beard. ‘But you weren’t even born, Raphäel!’ Debigorre thinks it is a case of transmigration of souls, that in some former life I was a fierce supporter of Maurras, a pureblood Frenchman, an unrepentant Gaulois and a Jewish collaborator to boot: ‘Ah, Raphäel, how I wish you had been in Bordeaux in June 1940! Picture the outrageous scenes! Gentlemen with beards and black frockcoats! University students! Ministers of the RÉ-PU-BLI-QUE are chattering away! Making grand gestures! Réda Caire and Maurice Chevalier are singing songs! Suddenly – BANG! – blond bare-chested youths burst into the Café du Commerce! They start a wholesale massacre! The gentlemen in frockcoats are thrown against the ceiling. They slam into the walls, crash into the rows of bottles. They splash about in puddles of Pernod, heads slashed by broken glass! The manageress, a woman named Marianne, is running this way and that. She gives little cries. The woman’s an old whore! the slut! Her skirt falls off. She’s gunned down in a hail of machine gunfire. Caire and Chevalier suddenly fall silent. What a sight, Raphäel, for enlightened minds like ours! What vengeance! . . . ’
Eventually, I tire of my role as martinet. Since my classmates refuse to accept that Maurras, Chack and Béraud are their people, since they look down on Charles Le Goffic and Paul Arène, Debigorre and I will talk to them about some more universal aspects of ‘French genius’: vividness and ribaldry, the beauties of classicism, the pertinence of moralists, the irony of Voltaire, the subtleties of psychological novels, the heroic tradition from Corneille to Georges Bernanos. Debigorre bridles at the mention of Voltaire. I am equally repulsed by that bourgeois ‘rebel’ and anti-Semite, but if we don’t mention him in our Panorama of French genius, we will be accused of bias. ‘Let’s be reasonable,’ I say to Debigorre, ‘you know perfectly well that I personally prefer Joseph de Maistre. Let’s make a little effort to include Voltaire.’
Once again, Saint-Thibault disrupts one of our lectures. An inopportune remark by Debigorre, ‘The utterly French grace of the exquisite Mme de La Fayette’, has my classmate leaping from his seat in indignation.
‘When are you going to stop talking about “French genius”, about how something is “quintessentially French”, about “the French tradition”?’ bellows the young Gaulois. My mentor Trotsky says that the Revolution knows no country . . .
‘My dear Saint-Thibault,’ I said, ‘you’re starting to get on my nerves. You are too jowly and your blood too thick for the name Trotsky from your lips to be anything other than blasphemy. My dear Saint-Thibault, your great-great-uncle Charles Maurras wrote that it is impossible to understand Mme de La Fayette or Chamfort unless one has tilled the soil of France for a thousand years! Now it is my turn to tell you something, my dear Saint-Thibault: it takes a thousand years of pogroms, of auto-da-fés and ghettos to understand even a paragraph of Marx or Bronstein . . . bronstein, my dear Saint-Thibault, and not Trotsky as you so elegantly call him! Now shut your trap, my dear Saint-Thibault, or I shall . . .’
The parents’ association were up in arms, the headmaster summoned me to his office.
‘Schlemilovitch,’ he told me, ‘Messieurs Gerbier, Val-Suzon and La Rochepot have filed a complaint charging you with assault and battery of their sons. Defending your schoolmaster is all very commendable but you have been behaving like a lout. Do you realise that Val-Suzon has been hospitalised? That Gerbier and La Rochepot have suffered audio-visual disturbances? These are elite khâgne students! You could go to prison, Schlemilovitch, to prison! But for now you will leave this school, this very evening!’
‘If these gentlemen want to press charges,’ I said, ‘I am prepared to defend myself once and for all. I’ll get a lot of publicity. Paris is not Bordeaux, you know. In Paris, they always side with the poor little Jew, not with the brutish Aryans! I’ll play the persecuted martyr to perfection. The Left will organise rallies and demonstrations and, believe me, it will be the done thing to sign a petition in support of Raphäel Schlemilovitch. All in all, the scandal will do considerable damage to your prospects for promotion. Remember Capitaine Dreyfus and, much more recently, all the fuss about Jacob X, the young Jewish deserter . . . Parisians are crazy about us. They always side with us. Forgive us anything. Wipe the slate clean. What do you expect? Moral standards have gone to hell since the last war – what am I saying? Since the Middle Ages! Remember the wonderful French custom where every Easter the Comte de Toulouse would ceremoniously slap the head of the Jewish community, while the man begged ‘Again, monsieur le comte! One more, with the pommel of your sword! Batter me! Rip out my guts! Trample my corpse!’ A blessed age. How could my forebear from Toulouse ever imagine that one day I would break Val-Suzon’s vertebrae? Put out the eye of a Gerbier or a La Rochepot? Every dog has his day, headmaster. Revenge is a dish best served cold. And don’t think even for a minute that I feel remorse. You can tell the young men’s parents that I’m sorry I didn’t slaughter them. Just imagine the trial. A young Jew, pale and passionate, declaring that he sought only to avenge the beatings regularly meted out to his ancestors by the Comte de Toulouse! Sartre would defend me, it would take centuries off him! I’d be carried in triumph from the Place de l’Étoile to the Bastille! I’d be a fucking prince to the young people of France!’
‘You are loathsome, Schlemilovitch, loathsome! I refuse to listen to you a moment longer.’
‘That’s right, monsieur le proviseur, loathsome!’
‘I am calling the police this instant!’
‘Oh, surely not the police, monsieur le proviseur, call the Gestapo, please.’
I left the lycée for good. Debigorre was upset to lose his finest pupil. We met up two or three times at the Café de Bordeaux. One Sunday evening, he did not appear. His housekeeper told me he had been taken to a mental home in Arcachon. I was strictly forbidden from seeing him. Only monthly visits from family members were permitted.
I knew that every night my former teacher was calling out to me for help because apparently Léon Blum was hounding him with implacable hatred. Via his housekeeper, he sent me a hastily scrawled message: ‘Save me, Raphäel. Blum and the others are trying to kill me. I’m sure of it. They slip into my room like reptiles in the night. They taunt me. They threaten me with butcher’s knives. Blum, Mandel, Zay, Salengro, Dreyfus and the rest of them. They want to hack me to pieces. I’m begging you, Raphäel, save me.’
That was the last I heard of him.
Old men, it would seem, play a crucial role in my life.
Two weeks after leaving the lycée, I was spending my last few francs at the Restaurant Dubern when a man sat down at the table next to mine. My attention was immediately drawn to his monocle and his long jade cigarette holder. He was completely bald, which gave him a rather unsettling appearance. As he ate, he never took his eyes off me. He beckoned the head waiter with an insolent flick of the finger: his index seemed to trace an arabesque in the air. I saw him write a few words on a visiting card. He pointed to me and the head waiter brought over the little white rectangle on which I read:
VICOMTE CHARLES LÉVY-VENDÔME
Master of Ceremonies, would like the pleasure of your acquaintance
He takes a seat opposite me.
‘Excuse my rather cavalier manner, but I invariably force an entry into other people’s lives. A face, an expression, can be enough to win my friendship. I was most impressed by your resemblance to Gregory Peck. Aside from that, what do you do for a living?’
He had a beautiful, deep voice.
‘You can tell me your life story somewhere more dusky. What do you say to the Morocco?’
At the Morocco, the dance floor was utterly deserted despite Noro Morales’ wild guarachas blasting from the loudspeakers. Latin America was decidedly the vogue in Bordeaux that autumn.
‘I’ve just been expelled from school,’ I explained, ‘aggravated assault. I’m a young hoodlum, and Jewish to boot. My name is Raphäel Schlemilovitch.’
‘Schlemilovitch? Well, well! All the more reason that we should be friends. I myself belong to a long-established Jewish family from the Loiret. My ancestors were jesters to the dukes of Pithiviers for generations. Your life story does not interest me. I wish to know whether or not you are looking for work.’
‘I am looking, monsieur le vicomte.’
‘Very well then. I am a host. I host . . . I conceive, I develop, I devise . . . I have need of your help. You are a young man of impeccable pedigree. Good presence, come-hither eyes, American smile. Let us speak man to man. What do you think of French girls?’
‘Pretty.’
‘And?’
‘They would make first-class whores!’
‘Admirable! I like your turn of phrase! Now, cards on table, Schlemilovitch! I work in the white slave trade! As it happens, the French girl is particularly prized in the market. You will supply the merchandise. I am too old to take on such work. In 1925, it required no effort; these days, if I wish to be attractive to women, I have them smoke opium beforehand. Who would have thought the sultry young Lévy-Vendôme would turn into a satyr when he turned fifty? Now, you Schlemilovitch, you have many years ahead of you; make the most of them! Use your natural talents to debauch your Aryan girls. Later, you can write your memoir. It will be called The Rootless: the story of seven French girls who could not resist the charms of Schlemilovitch the Jew only to find themselves, one fine day, working in brothels in the Orient or in South America. The moral of the story: they should not have trusted this Jewish lothario, they should have stayed on the cool mountain slopes, in the verdant groves. You will dedicate your memoir to Maurice Barrès.’
‘As your wish, monsieur le vicomte.’
‘Now, to work, my boy. You leave immediately for the Haute-Savoie. I have just received an order from Rio de Janeiro: “Young French mountain girl. Brunette. Husky.” From there, you will move on to Normandy. This time the order is from Beirut: “Elegant French girl whose ancestors fought in the crusades.
Good provincial landed gentry.” The client is clearly a lecher after our own hearts! An emir who wants to avenge himself for Charles Martel . . .’
‘Or the sack of Constantinople by the crusaders . . .’
‘If you prefer. In short, I have found what he requires. In the Calvados region . . . A young woman . . . descended from a venerable aristocratic family! Seventeenth-century château! Cross and Lance heads with fleurs-de-lis on a field Azure. Hunting parties! The ball is in your court, Schlemilovitch. There is not a moment to lose. We have our work cut out for us! The abductions must involve no bloodshed. Come, have one last drink at my place, then I will accompany you to the station.’
Lévy-Vendôme’s apartment is furnished in the Napoleon III style. The vicomte ushers me into his library.
‘Have you ever seen such exquisite bindings?’ he says, ‘I am a bibliophile, it is my secret vice. See, if I take down a volume at random: a treatise on aphrodisiacs by René Descartes. Apocrypha, nothing but apocrypha . . . I have single-handedly reinvented the whole history of French literature. Here we have the love letters of Pascal to Mlle de La Vallière. A bawdy saga by Boussuet. An erotic tale by Mme de La Fayette. Not content with debauching the women of this country, I wanted to prostitute French literature in its entirety. To transform the heroines of Racine and Marivaux into whores. Junia willingly copulating with Nero as a horrified Britannicus looks on. Andromache throwing herself into the arms of Pyrrhus at their first meeting. Marivaux’s countesses donning their maids’ uniforms and “borrowing” their lovers for the night. As you can see, Schlemilovitch, being involved in the white slave trade does not preclude being a man of culture. I have spent forty years writing apocrypha, devoting myself to dishonouring the most illustrious writers of France. Take a leaf out of my book, Schlemilovitch! Vengeance, Schlemilovitch, vengeance!’
Later, he introduces me to his henchmen, Mouloud and Mustapha.
‘They are at your disposal,’ he says, ‘I shall send them to you the moment you ask. One never can tell with Aryan women. Sometimes one has to make a show of brute force. Mouloud and Mustapha are peerless when it comes to taming even the most unruly spirits – they’re former Waffen SS from the Légion nord-africaine. I met them at Bonny and Laffont’s place on Rue Lauriston back when I was secretary to Joanovici. Marvellous fellows. You’ll see!’
Mouloud and Mustapha are so alike they could be twins. The same scarred face, the same broken nose, the same disturbing rictus. They immediately show me the greatest kindness.
Lévy-Vendôme accompanies me to the gare Saint-Jean. On the station platform, he hands me three bundles of banknotes.
‘For personal expenses. Telephone to keep me up to date. Vengeance, Schlemilovitch! Vengeance! Be ruthless, Schlemilovitch! Vengeance! Ven . . .’
‘As you say, monsieur le vicomte.’
III
Lake Annecy is romantic, but a young man working in the white slave trade must put such thoughts from his mind.
I catch the first bus for T., a market town I have chosen at random on the Michelin map. The road rises steeply, the hairpin bends make me nauseous. I feel ready to abandon my fine plans. But before long, my taste for the exotic and the desire to air my lungs in the Savoie win out over my despondency. Behind me, a few soldiers start singing ‘Les montagnards sont là,’ and I immediately join in. Then I stroke my wide-rib corduroy trousers, stare down at my clumpy shoes and the alpenstock bought second-hand in a little shop in old Annecy. The tactic I propose to adopt is as follows: in T., I will pass myself off as a young, inexperienced climber who knows of the mountains only from the novels of Frison-Roche. With a little skill, I should quickly ingratiate myself. I can introduce myself to the locals and furtively scout out a young girl worth shipping off to Brazil. For greater security, I have decided to take on the unassailably French identity of my friend Des Essarts. The name Schlemilovitch sounds dubious. The local savages doubtless heard about Jews back when the Milice were overrunning the area. The most important thing is not to arouse their suspicions. Suppress my Lévi-Straussian ethnological curiosity. Refrain from staring at their daughter like a horse trader, otherwise they will sniff out my oriental ancestry.
The bus pulls up in front of the church. I sling my rucksack over my shoulder, make my alpenstock ring against the cobbles and stride confidently to the Hôtel des Trois Glaciers. I am immediately captivated by the copper bedstead and the wallpaper in room 13. I telephone Bordeaux to inform Lévy-Vendôme of my arrival and whistle a minuet.
At first, I noticed an unease among the natives. They were unsettled by my tall stature. I knew from experience that one day this would work to my advantage. The first time I crossed the threshold of the Café Municipal, alpenstock in hand, crampons on my shoes, I felt all eyes turn to size me up. Six foot four, five, six, seven? The bets were on. M. Gruffaz, the baker, guessed correctly and scooped the pot and immediately struck up a keen friendship with me. Did M. Gruffaz have a daughter? I would find out soon enough. He introduced me to his friends, the lawyer Forclaz-Manigot and the pharmacist Petit-Savarin. The three men offered me an apple brandy that had me coughing and spluttering. They told me they were waiting for their friend Aravis, a retired colonel, for a game of belote. I asked permission to join them, feeling grateful that Lévy-Vendôme had taught me belote just before I left. I remembered his pertinent remark: ‘I should warn you now that working in the white slave trade is not exactly exciting, especially when one is trading in young French girls from the provinces. You must cultivate the interests of a commercial traveller: belote, billiards and aperitifs are the best means of infiltrating these groups.’ The three men asked the reason for my stay in T. I explained, as planned, that I was a young French aristocrat with a keen interest in mountaineering.
‘Colonel Aravis will like you,’ Forclaz-Manigot confided. ‘Stout fellow, Aravis, used to be a mountain infantryman. Loves the peaks. Obsessed with climbers. He’ll advise you.’
Colonel Aravis arrives and looks me up and down, considering my future as an alpine chasseur. I give him a hearty handshake and click my heels.
‘Jean-François Des Essarts! Pleased to meet you, sir!’
‘Strapping lad!’ he says to the others, ‘perfect for the force!’
He becomes paternal:
‘I fear, young man, that we don’t have time to put you through the rock-climbing exercise that would have given me a better sense of your talents. Never mind, another time. But I guarantee I’ll make a seasoned climber out of you. You seem hale and willing and that’s the important part!’
My four new friends settle down to playing cards. Outside, it is snowing. I engross myself in reading L’Écho-Liberté, the local newspaper. I discover there is a Marx Brothers film playing at the cinema in T. There are six of us, then, six brothers exiled in the Savoie. I feel a little less alone.
On reflection I found the Savoie as charming as I had Guyenne. Was this not the homeland of Henry Bordeaux? When I was about sixteen, I read Les Roquevillard, La Chartreuse du reposoir and Le Calvaire du Cimiez with devotion. A stateless Jew, I hungrily drank in the rustic redolence of these masterpieces. I cannot understand why Henry Bordeaux has fallen from favour in recent years. He had a decisive influence on me and I will be forever loyal to him.
