Revolution Baby (6 page)

I had a new friend at L'Avenir Social, a girl. Her name was Geneviève. She was one of the instructors. She was funny and kind, but she also knew how to be strict and demanding. Every time she saw me she would exclaim, “Look at his periwinkle eyes! He's so sweet!” There was a rumor going around that she and Arnold were in love. It was Roger who was behind the rumor—Roger Binet, to whom we'd given the nickname Robinet (which means water faucet in French, and much later I'd be sorry I'd called him that so often, just to annoy him). I was no expert on love, but it was true that you could often see them whispering together, maybe that was how you could tell when people were in love.

It was fun talking to Geneviève. For a grown-up she listened to me very attentively. One day she told me that “my mother” would be coming to visit later that day. She was surprised when I showed no enthusiasm.

“I know this is the first time she's coming to see you, but she's been very busy since she brought you here. She must be very eager to see you again.”

“She's not even my mother.”

“What do you mean?”

Well, it was now or never. I'd finally found the right person to confide in, and my French was good enough. So in I went.

“She kidnapped me from my real parents, Hugo and Fruzia Kryda, in Warsaw. She said she was my mother, but I know that was just a trick so that I wouldn't run away during the trip. I want to go home to my real parents in Warsaw. I miss them a lot.”

Geneviève was not the sort to say anything just to break the silence, so she looked at me without saying a word. Her eyes went moist, her cheeks red. I waited for a long time.

“Jules, my little Jules . . . I beg you to believe me, Lena is your real mother . . . She had no choice, when you were a baby, other than to leave you with those people who looked after you as if they were your parents. And she had no choice, later on, but to take you away from them again. She has done it all for your own good . . . You have to believe me.”

I couldn't speak.

“I would like so much to convince you. One day you will see them again, those people who brought you up, but for now it's better for you to stay here, my sweet. Lena loves you very much, you know. Be nice to her, please. You will, won't you?”

I still didn't speak.

“Think about it then, a little, all right? I have no reason to lie to you, you know that, don't you? Think about it and we'll talk again after your mother's visit. Come on, it's time to eat, go and join your friends at the refectory.”

I wasn't hungry. I didn't feel like joining anyone. I went out into the park and I walked, somewhat aimlessly, until I reached the rabbit hutches. I was cold and it felt good. Smartie came over to me, all happy, but I had nothing to give him. All I had for him was my own story, and it didn't make sense to me anymore. He looked at me with big sad eyes. He wouldn't want to be in my shoes. I knew that Geneviève hadn't been lying to me. I could tell. She would never have done such a thing. But for all that, it didn't necessarily mean that Lena's story was true; Tobcia surely told them this version when she brought me here, and no one had any reason to question it. That was my one remaining hope. And yet for some reason I felt that Geneviève knew a lot more about my life than she was letting on—and about Lena's. Smartie nudged his little nose against my hand, as if to say he agreed. But why would Hugo and Fruzia have lied to me? I didn't feel like seeing Lena. I wanted to run away, and go far, far away.

 

“Julek, come on, wake up.”

Arnold was speaking to me. I didn't understand why he had come to wake me up in the middle of the night.

“Your mommy is waiting for you in the lounge. She doesn't have a lot of time.”

It took me a few minutes to get my wits about me. I was lying among the dead leaves just next to the rabbit hutches. There was a pebble under my left buttock and it hurt. I stood up and followed Arnold, docilely; I hadn't quite emerged from my dream. I had been playing with my friends in Warsaw. Each of us had a big black box which we used as a house, with only one little window drawn onto one of the walls. It was very small and dark inside, but I loved it there, and I no longer existed, for anyone.

“
Julek! Mój kochany! Opowiec mi, jak tu ci idzie?
”

“I'm fine.”

I didn't have much to tell her. She asked how my French was coming along. I told her,
Bien.
In French. She asked me whether Arnold was still speaking to me in Polish so that I wouldn't forget my language; I said yes. She asked me whether I'd made friends, whether I was having fun, and whether I was eating well.
Oui, oui, oui.
And so on. Then she told me that she had been on vacation in the mountains, where she did a lot of walking, and she was very tired, but the scenery was beautiful. Just before she left she took a little box out of her handbag. Inside there were pink bonbons and white bonbons, shaped like eggs. And she left me a suitcase with clothes and asked me if there was anything I needed.
Non.
She kissed me hard on both cheeks and left.

I had lied to her. Ever since I'd started to get on in French, Arnold had stopped speaking to me in Polish. And I was very grateful to him. I was ashamed of that language that reminded me of Lena and made me different from the others. And now I had yet another reason not to speak Polish: I was beginning to understand that the only people for whom I'd want to continue speaking Polish—Hugo and Fruzia—had betrayed me.

All through the years I spent in France, the only thing I remembered of my mother tongue were the few words I taught the children not long after I arrived at L'Avenir Social, when they asked to learn to speak dog language. Four little nothing words:
tak, nie, gówno
and
krolik.
Translation: yes, no, shit, and rabbit. I was too young when I arrived to teach them anything more vulgar.

In the weeks that followed my meeting with Lena and my discussion with Geneviève, the truth quietly worked its way into my mind. Before long the theory of a conspiracy would be consigned to the deepest recesses of my memory. In any event, my new life was with the other children at L'Avenir Social, I was finding it harder and harder to understand Polish, and I didn't want to go back to Hugo and Fruzia anymore. Even though, at night, I often dreamt about Fruzia, and I could feel her warmth, and her fingers stroking my hair.

Several months went by before my mother came back to see me, in the summer of 1937. By then I was a regular boy at L'Avenir Social, with my friends, my habits, my world—in short, my life. I was no longer one of the little boys—affectionately known as the brats—because I was seven-and-a-half years old. When one morning Geneviève came to tell me that Lena was there to visit me, my initial reaction was to refuse to see her. The fact was, after several rainy days the weather was fine again, and we Cowboys would at last be able to take our revenge upon the Indians, who had won the two previous wars. Geneviève had to search for a long time before she found me, because I was tucked away inside my favorite hiding place, ready to attempt an ambush. But she had a loud voice, and after pretending not to hear her repeated calls of, “Jules, where are you?” I finally relented and turned myself in, making sure no one saw me climbing out of my lair. But when she broke the news, I replied that my mother had to let me know in advance when she was coming, because I had other things to do—“And who does she think she is?” This last sentence was, obviously, a grave mistake from a strategic point of view, and I knew it even before Geneviève replied, very calmly, “Your mother?” then went on to add, “And she wants to take you to the movies. But if you don't feel like it, I'll tell her to forget about it.” Well, the movies . . . and besides, at the movies you didn't have to talk.

It was disconcerting to see Lena again. First of all, she came in, all happy, gave me a big hug, and then began talking very quickly . . . in a language I didn't know. To my great surprise, I could no longer understand Polish. At all. I didn't recognize a single word pouring from my mother's lips. Although one word did stand out in the middle of all the gibberish:
Tarzan
. That must be the film she wanted to take me to see. I was astonished to find out that my mother had such good taste in movies, but I didn't complain, because it was excellent news.

Off we went on the bus. I told my mother about my friends, our games, the newborn baby rabbits . . . She always answered saying, “
Oui
,
oui
,” or “Hmm.” In the beginning I thought it was strange: after all the time she had been in France, my mother must surely speak French. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and told myself she was probably embarrassed because of her accent.

 

After the movies, we stopped to eat ice cream. I was excited and completely swept up by the movie, by this Tarzan who lived in the jungle with his friends the apes. I had trouble sitting still and eating calmly. I wanted to talk about the film.

“I wish I could make Tarzan's jungle cry.”

I made a first attempt. Which left something to be desired.

“Yep, I'll have to practice.”

Lena laughed.

“I want to go to the jungle. Do you know where they have monkeys, which country?”

“Yes, yes . . . ”

“So where is it?”

“Hmm . . . ”

“I asked you, where do they have monkeys, which countries!”

“Oh, okay!”

“Rats, I don't believe it!”

I did a fairly successful imitation of a monkey, shrieking and scratching under my armpits.

“Where do they have monkeys?”

This time I spoke very loudly, articulating and exaggerating every syllable, as if I were addressing a half deaf old woman.

“Hmm . . . I do not know.”

I didn't even feel like talking about Tarzan anymore. I finished my ice cream in a hurry and stood up. On the way home, we hardly spoke. I put my nose to the window in the bus and watched the countryside go by, and I pictured myself running through the tall grasses with my friends the apes, climbing the tallest trees, swinging from branch to branch as I clung to the hanging vines.

 

When we got to the orphanage, the children were all lined up outside with packs on their backs, as if they were getting ready to go on an expedition. As soon as we were through the gates, I took off at a run. I was afraid I was too late and was going to miss something. Arnold stopped me.

“Hey! Where are you going, running like that?”

“Well, I don't know, where are you going?”

“We're going swimming in the canal. If you hurry and fetch your swimsuit and a towel you can come with us. And your mother, too, if she wants.”

“I'll let you ask her.”

I ran up the steps four at a time, into the dormitory, rummaged through my clothing, took out a pair of underwear that was cleaner than the others, grabbed my towel, trying to fold it the way the others did, didn't manage, never mind, it didn't matter; I ran back down the stairs, and not even five minutes later I was lined up with the other children.

To get to the canal, we had to take the main road that led from L'Avenir Social to the village of Villette-aux-Aulnes. We were walking in file two by two, like good little soldiers, with one instructor in the front and two bringing up the rear. No running off to the side would be tolerated, that we knew, and apart from Fabrice, who was a hothead and kept dodging off to climb fences outside the houses we passed, no one left their place in the line. From time to time one of the little ones would get a clout, or someone would shout something stupid to make the others laugh, or one of the big kids would say, “Hi, gorgeous,” to a girl passing in the street, but we knew we had better behave if we didn't want to be excluded from the excursion and be forced to stay all alone at L'Avenir Social under Henri's surveillance.

We walked across a field belonging to the Dumoutiers. They were nice people; they had a very old granny you had to lead home whenever you found her wandering around the field. She always smiled. Whenever she saw us, she would hurry over, usually to the youngest girl, and she would pinch her cheeks and scold her for some reason known only to her.

After the field, a narrow little path led through the woods, and then down the slope to the canal. As soon as we got there, everybody rushed to put on their swimsuit, the boys in plain sight, the girls using their towels as a screen. Those who knew how to swim rushed into the water, splashing about as much as they could. I wasn't one of them. Never mind, it was fun by the canal all the same, but when it was fine weather and hot like it was that day, I would have given my entire collection of pebbles to be able to jump into the water and swim with the others. Arnold took me discreetly by the elbow and led me over to Lena: “Spend some time with your mother, she has to go back to Paris soon.” Lena said something to him and seemed to be scolding with her index finger, surely a reproach for having lapsed in his role as guardian of my Polish. She should have just left me in Poland if she wanted me to speak Polish. It served no purpose here.

She went on speaking to me in Polish, and I would reply in French, while my mother went, “
Oui
,
oui
.” Same old refrain.

“Do you know how to swim?”

“
Oui
,
oui
. . . ”

“Well, why don't you go into the water?”

“Hmm . . . I do not know.”

If she knew how to swim, there was no reason for her to go on sitting next to me carrying on this dialogue of the deaf. I stood up, made a gesture to Lena to do like me, and . . . I shoved her in the water.

Well. The truth was that she didn't know how to swim, not even a smidgin. Lena's fall into the water caused quite a commotion. First of all she started screaming, then when she was in the water, she began waving her arms in distress and splashing everywhere. Then people ran towards us, some of them yelling at me, and others shouting contradictory instructions; two or three girls burst into tears, and finally Arnold, the only one who kept his wits in all the commotion, jumped into the water, grabbed hold of my mother and dragged her over to the ladder to get her out of there.